Hawke’s eyes were brimming with anger.
He said, “Last night, Stokely. Your visit to the St. James Infirmary. Was there any trouble?”
“We were in and out of there in fifteen minutes.”
“It was Brock who told you she was there? And Brock who got you inside, too?”
“Right. Brock and five thousand U.S. dollars paid to a Major Rojales of the Military Police here in Manaus.”
“No names, right? Tell me you two didn’t use names last night.”
Stokely thought about it. “Damn. Ambrose called himself ‘Dr. Congreve’at Reception.”
“Then it’s the bloody letter they’re after. The Zimmermann Code,” Hawke said, barely keeping his anger out of his voice. How could Ambrose have been so bloody careless? A momentary lapse, probably because of his fixation with breaking that code book.
“We’ve got to help that poor woman,” Stokely said. “God knows what they’re doing to her out there.”
“Whatever it is, they’ve most likely already done it. They extracted information about the letter and the fact that Ambrose had it. The Zimmermann woman is probably dead, I promise you. And she didn’t die in her sleep.”
“Look in the bathroom,” Hawke said, furiously yanking open the closet door. His friend’s expensive clothing was still on hangers, although all the pockets had been pulled out and many of the jacket linings had been slashed. The beautiful shoes, normally a neat file, were strewn about the room. He’d never had time to pack. His mind was racing, but one thought was winning. What in God’s name am I to tell Diana Mars?”
“Alex. Come here.”
Hawke went instantly to the bathroom door.
“Oh, shit,” Stokely said.
“Where?”
“Come inside and close the door.”
Hawke did so. On the white tiled floor and on the wall, a bright spatter of red blood.
Hawke stared at the pattern for a second, then looked at Stokely and said, “He didn’t cut himself shaving.”
“No.”
“You didn’t see him at all this morning?”
“Said goodnight outside that door last night around midnight. Didn’t see or speak to him since.”
“Look at this,” Hawke said, holding up the black bowler hat he’d found in Congreve’s closet.
“A hat with a hole in it. That’s not Ambrose’s style.”
“It’s a voodoo calling card. From Papa Top, I’d guess. He’s half-Hatian and they’re big Voodoo worshippers.”
“I got it now.”
“Bastards have got my friend,” Hawke said. “Let’s go.”
64
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
A nother ghost truck,” Franklin said to Daisy, shaking his head.
“That’s what I’m telling you, darlin’. Another ghost truck. Only this one, we got cornered.”
“Who calls them ghost trucks?”
“Me and June. We got it from Homer.”
Daisy was driving the pickup. She had just picked up her husband outside the American Airlines baggage claim at San Antonio Airport. All he had was a small duffel which he heaved in the back before he climbed in. She handed her ticket stub and five bucks to the hourly parking attendant and popped the clutch, not waiting for change.
“Daisy. Since I’ve been gone, you’ve gunned down an armed man in the street, you’ve—”
“Excuse me—that was June shot the Mexican looter. Not me.”
“You were just driving the getaway truck.”
“Correct. Trying to deliver your videotape like you asked us to do. And we did.”
“And you did. I thank you for that.”
“What are you so upset about?”
“Nothin. I’m tired, honey.”
Daisy reached over and took her husband’s hand. “Didn’t all those Washington people appreciate June’s tape? Wasn’t it what you needed down there at the conference?”
“It was. I think it’s already on its way to the White House. The president might use it in his speech to the Congress tonight.”
“Well, there you go.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just whupped. I’m glad you’re okay, that’s all. I’ve been worried about you ever since I left.”
“Well, I’m tired and worried, too, Franklin. Haven’t slept much in twenty hours. June and me grabbing alternating catnaps on the bench seat at a McDonald’s is not my idea of beauty sleep. That’s why I look so awful. Don’t say anything sweet, either. Let’s just drive and try to enjoy the scenery.”
“Nice Wal-Mart,” Franklin said, gazing out his window.
That quieted things down, all right.
They were driving into downtown San Antonio. Going back to the McDonald’s on Commerce Street. When Daisy first picked up Franklin at the airport, she had told him they were driving directly downtown before heading home to Prairie. There was a suspicious vehicle she and June had staked out. June was there now, watching from their stake-out position across the street from the truck.
“Take me through all this, Daisy,” Franklin said after ten or so minutes. “From after you handed off the envelope and sent Buddy Shirley to Southwest Medical to see about his gunshot wounds.”
“He’s okay. I called his momma this morning. Already back at work.”
“So then what happened? Where’d you manage to pick up all the bullet holes in your truck?”
“Well, like I told you before, we had just outrun the outlaw moving van when we saw a big fire burning over in Dolores. Those fires were started by a bunch of local Mexican druggies and teenage banditos calling themselves the Reconquistas, you see, and we chased ’em back south of the the border.”
“You and June?”
“Well, we helped. Mostly, it was a couple of bikers called Zorro and Hambone and their gang. Even the great Re-Conqueros didn’t want to mess with those bad boys. So, it was a whole lot of bikers, plus a lot of folks from the neighboring towns, plus me and June who helped chased them home.”
“I’m starting to see it.”
“You know what they were yelling the whole time we were fighting with them? The Reconquistas?”
“Nope.”
“We didn’t cross the border! The border crossed us! That’s the new Mexican anthem.”
“Where’s the burning and looting now?”
“Moving west on down the line for the moment. I hear it’s pretty bad when you get past Laredo.”
“Then you saw this truck.”
“Yes, on the way back to Dolores, we had passed Homer going the other way. He was following this huge convoy of tractor-trailer rigs headed north on 59.”
“I got that part.”
“You said from the beginning and—”
“Daisy.”
“Sorry. Well, later, when we were headed back to Prairie, we came up behind another truck headed north. We figured it was a straggler from the convoy got left behind. Blacked-out windows and all, with a big fat orange painted on the back. Some citrus company called Big Orange Groves in Lakeland, Florida. Florida tags.”
