I could see the pain in her eyes. I moved closer, held her in my arms. Try to think of what's good, I said, hoping that she wouldn't notice the way I hadn't really answered her question.
I felt like a hypocrite. There I was, telling Mom to think only good thoughts, when for fifteen years I hadn't been able to purge my own heart.
Ironically, the physical separation caused by the kidnapping had made me realize how stupid I'd been to let things fester all these years. The emotional gap between my father and me wasn't exactly oceans wide, but it was definitely born of the sea. Dad had always taught me to respect the ocean, but he'd pushed me to conquer all fears of it as well. Perhaps it was somehow connected to the loss of his sister in that boating accident, which I'd known nothing about until Jenna had told me just a couple of weeks before. Whatever the root, it had always seemed somewhat irrational to me. When he drank, it could get downright ugly.
Alone in the family room, I felt my mind drifting, but I didn't want to go there. I had to follow my own advice and think only of the good times.
I grabbed the remote control and started to channel-surf, lying on the couch. A hundred stations of nothing to watch, as usual. I switched off the set, and my gaze drifted toward my father's big saltwater aquarium across the room. The angelfish were fighting as always, chasing each other around the submerged plastic shipwreck at the bottom. As a child I used to imagine myself diving around that wreck and pulling up treasure. I could see myself in mask and fins knifing through the depths, the world's greatest diver who didn't even use tanks. A diver was what I'd wanted to be - before my worst day ever with my father, our last on the water together. I was twelve years old. Dad and I had joined a group of other fathers and sons on a boating trip to Biscayne Bay, skindiving for lobsters. I tried never to think of that day, and I didn't want to think about it now. But I was getting lost in that aquarium, lost in my past
Gulf stream waters felt warm all around me, caressing my skin, making me almost giddy. Though completely submerged, I could glance up and see the sun. So clear was the water that intermittent clouds were actually casting shadows across the bottom of the bay. I was skin diving at a depth of fifteen feet with a mask and snorkel, no scuba tanks, poking around some rocks.
Other boys around me were gathering lobsters into sacks. We'd come upon a huge colony. The floor was moving with crustaceans. I saw a big one scamper over a grassy hump, then behind some rocks. I swam right to the hole and reached inside.
Suddenly an eel lunged from a crevice. I immediately pulled back, but its powerful jaws locked on to my forearm. I struggled to get away, but the rear half of the eel was coiled around a large rock. My diving gloves extended up to my elbow, so the bite didn't break the skin. But the eel was too strong, and I couldn't shake free. I needed to surface for air, but it was holding me under. In my panic I was taking in water, a little at first, then huge mouthfuls.
My father swam over to help. He poked at the eel with a stick, but it only tightened its grip on my glove. My father grabbed a rock and hit it. Its tail uncoiled from the rock that had anchored it, but the snakelike head was still staring me in the face, locked to my arm. It was at least three feet long - monstrous to me. Dad grabbed the eel and me, pulling us up. We broke the surface, and I gasped for air. I wasn't even sure what was happening. My arm felt numb, but the eel was still with me. Dad pushed us to the dive platform at the stern, then climbed up and pushed us into the boat.
I was screaming, more shocked than in pain. The eel was flopping on the deck, refusing to let go. My father was screaming, too - at me.
I told you never to poke your hands in those rocks. Use a stick!
Get it off me!
If I hadn't been there to pull you up, you could have drowned!
I'm sorry!
I just wanted this awful thing off me. Even as a boy, I knew that an eel would never let go. The only way to get free was to cut off its head.
Cut it off! I cried.
You do it!
Dad handed me the knife. But I was too afraid, too shaken.
Do it, Nick!
I can't, I can't!
He grimaced and grabbed the knife, shouting, Damn it, Nick! For one lousy day in your life, can't you just act like your father's son!
He lopped off the head. The long body fell limp to the deck.
I rolled away sobbing, more stunned by my father's words than by the bite of the eel. I was lying on the deck, holding my arm, my lips quivering. I'd have a bad bruise, for sure, but the diving glove had protected my skin.
I looked up and saw immediate contrition in my father's eyes. He knelt beside me and took me in his arms. Tears were streaming down his face. God, I'm so sorry, Nicky!
I could smell the liquor on him. I didn't know which to believe, the outburst against me or the tearful apology. But it was too late for forgiveness anyway. I looked up and saw the stunned faces aboard the boat that had anchored beside us.
I'd been utterly emasculated in front of my five closest friends and their very sober fathers
The chiming clock on the wall roused me from my memories. It was 9:00 P. M., and time was marching toward a deadline we might not be able to meet. But mercifully, time also had a way of healing. I had long ago gotten over the embarrassment of that diving trip, and Dad had won his battle with alcoholism. What had yet to be laid to rest, however, was the underlying fear that Mom had verbalized earlier tonight - that his drinking had perhaps unleashed his true, inner feelings. In all honesty, I didn't always act like my father's son. But I was still his son, always would be.
I vowed that when he came home - just as soon as he walked through the front door and sat down for dinner at the place Mom had set for him - I'd say those exact words to him.
Finally we'd be past it.
Nick! my mother called.
I shot bolt upright. It was almost eleven, and I'd dozed off on the couch.
Come here!
The urgency in her voice propelled me down the hall. I found her in the living room holding an envelope.
I just took out the garbage and saw this tucked under your wiper blade.
It was a plain white envelope, no addressee, no return address, no markings of an international courier service. It was unlike any of the past deliveries from the kidnappers.
I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
What is it? asked Mom.
I read it, but the point didn't register. Just a guy's name and address. Jaime Ochoa.
Sounds Hispanic. You think he works for the kidnappers?
I started to answer, then stopped. The name was suddenly familiar to me. I checked the back side. Oh, my God.
What?
I don't think Mr. Ochoa works for the kidnappers. Check this out.
She read aloud. Nick. Ask why he got fired. A friend.' She looked up at me and asked, Who's a friend'?
It was just a guess, but the only person who came to mind was Duncan's secretary. I smiled thinly and said, Thank you, Beverly.
Part Four Chapter 58
I was in Hialeah before the morning rush hour. I hadn't bothered with a phone call before starting out on the road. From what I remembered of my last meeting with Jaime Ochoa, hitting him cold was the way to go.
The note was cryptic, but it was just enough to set my thoughts in motion. Jaime was the so-called psychic who'd sent me the e-mail a little more than a week after my father's kidnapping, claiming to know his whereabouts. I'd thought it was a total scam. With this latest note, however, I had a compelling sense that Jaime really did know something and that his knowledge was linked to the vague question of why he got fired.
I knocked twice before he came to the door dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, no shoes.
Hey, Mr. Nick, I knew you'd be back.
A predictable greeting from a guy who'd claimed to know everything. I wanted to follow up on some things. Got a few minutes?
Sure. He opened the door and led me back to the kitchen. I entered carefully, checking for that Doberman pinscher that had pinned me against the wall last time. I heard barking outside, looked out the window, and was relieved to see Sergeant chained to the doghouse.
Jaime went to the espresso machine on the Formica counter and measured out a scoop of ground PilA3n. Have you reconsidered my power package?
Let's not waste time with that psychic stuff again, all right?
I do know all.
But not because you're psychic. I was pushing it, but I had to pretend to know more than I did. It's from your other job, isn't it? The one you were fired from.
He placed his espresso cup beneath the drip and said, Jaime Ochoa has never been fired from any job.
I'm not talking about just any job, I said, still fishing.
I know exactly what you're talking about. Jaime Ochoa never worked for Quality Insurance Company.
My heart raced. He was in denial, but at least he'd confirmed my suspicions that we were talking about Quality Insurance. That's not what I hear, I said, bluffing.
Then you heard wrong. Jaime Delpina was fired from Quality Insurance. Not Jaime Ochoa.
Who's Jaime Delpina?
The little espresso cup was full. He downed it in one swallow, then said, Yours truly.
You changed your name?
They made me change it.
The company?
Claro.
Why would you let them do that?
Because they gave Jaime Delpina a choice. Go to jail or disappear.
I'm pretty sure I know the reason, but you tell me. Why did they want you to disappear?
He smiled thinly. Sorry, my friend. For the rest of the story I must tap into my inner clairvoyance.
Huh?
That's all you get for free, Jack, he said flatly.
You expect me to pay you money?
Absolutely.
That's extortion.
It's just business.
Not when the business is kidnapping. Maybe I'll call the state attorney and see what she thinks it is.
You'd be a fool to do that.
Watch me. I started for the door.
Hold it.
I stopped.
He said, Let's be reasonable about this. The policy limit is three million dollars. You'll probably deliver the ransom by pack mule through two or three intermediaries. Do you honestly think the kidnappers will even notice that you slipped a little something to me?
You've seen the policy, haven't you? That's how you know it's three million.
I told you, I know all.
And you're going to tell all, too.
Surely, for fifty thousand dollars, cash.
I don't have to pay you fifty cents. I'll subpoena you.
And I'll forget everything I know.
With that, something snapped inside me. I was tired of being extorted by kidnappers and scumbags like Jaime. I started toward him and said, Maybe I'll just beat it out of you.
Bad move, he said as he grabbed a big kitchen knife from the counter.
I stopped cold, then took a step back. Take it easy, pal. I wasn't serious.
You looked serious.
There's no need for a knife.
I don't see any other way to keep you from walking out that door.
Just let me pass, all right?
Can't let you go to no state attorney. I changed my name to stay out of prison.
No one's talking about prison.
I seen what they did to my brother in his cell. Guys like us don't do well in prison. Somebody's boy.
You don't have to explain. Just put the knife down.
He was grimacing, almost whining, slowly unraveling before my eyes. Damn you. Why did you have to go and threaten me like that?
Let's forget it, okay?
A little money. That's all I wanted. Just a small percentage, and you turn around and threaten to put me in jail.
Just put the knife down. I won't say anything to anyone.
He laughed mirthlessly. You expect me to believe that?
I promise.
Promise,' he said in a sissy voice, mocking me.
Slowly all traces of sarcasm drained from his expression. In his rage-filled eyes I could see that he felt abused, perhaps more by his former employer than by me. At that moment, however, I was the only target in front of him. In a weird way, he must have seen himself as the victim.
Please, Jaime. Don't do something stupid.
You're the stupid one.
He charged across the kitchen and came at me, leading with the knife. I dodged out of the way. He fell but sprang right back. I had my hands in front of my body defensively. A perverse smile came across his lips as he began to toy with me. We moved strategically in a circle, like two boxers looking for an opening. He kept lunging at me and pulling back, taunting.
Blood oozed from a cut over his right eye. He'd apparently injured himself in the initial fall. He wiped it away, then suddenly seemed to realize that the blood was his own.
You son of a bitch! he shouted as he lunged toward me, swinging wildly.
The knife cut through my shirtsleeve, and I felt the sharp metal against my skin. It was just a glancing blow, but it sparked my survival instincts. Somehow I found the strength and quickness to grab his arm. Locked together in a struggle for the knife, we whirled across the kitchen and slammed against the sink. I hammered his wrist against the basin, hard. Once, then again. The third time I heard bones pop. He cried out in pain as the knife fell to the floor. He gouged my eye with one hand, but his injured limb was hanging limply. Still pinned against the sink, I grabbed the good arm and twisted it behind his back in a half nelson, then wheeled him around and shoved the broken hand down the opening to the garbage disposal.
He screamed as his knuckles met the sharp, still blades. I shoved even harder, jamming his hand deeper into the disposal. Finally he was in up to his elbow. His arm was stuck and he couldn't pull it out, not even after I let go. I kept his other arm locked behind his back as I reached for the switch.
I'll turn it on!
No, not my hand!
Then talk!
Let me go, I'm begging you, man. I'm your friend.
The word friend made me think of the note. Maybe it hadn't come from Beverly. Are you saying you're a friend?
I'm your only friend, man.
I wasn't sure what he was saying, but I wasn't backing down. The cut on my arm was throbbing and bleeding. He'd sliced it deeper than I'd thought. Tell me what you know, or I swear I'll grind your fingers to the nub.
He grimaced, shaking his head defiantly. No, no, man! Not for free!
Don't make me do this.
Please!
You got till the count of three. One. Two -
Okay, okay, he said, his whole body shaking. I'll tell you anything you want to know.
I took my hand off the switch and prepared to listen.
Chapter 59
I had everything, but in effect I had nothing. That was the legal conclusion Jenna and I reached in her office that afternoon.
Jenna was seated behind her desk. I was in the silk wing chair facing her. She'd listened to my detailed recount of Jaime's confession without much apparent amazement, as his story jibed with our own theory: It was an inside job.
We have the same problem we've always had, I said. How do we prove it?
You think Jaime's long gone?
Absolutely. He was happy to sell me information on the sly, but he wasn't about to walk into a courtroom and testify against Quality Insurance Company under any circumstances. He's terrified of them.
The way they strong-armed Judge Korvan into recusing herself from our case, I guess he has good reason to be afraid.
Even if I could somehow corral him, could you imagine the cross-examination?
Jenna was right with me, breaking into role. Mr. Ochoa, exactly how close did your hand come to being ground into a Quarter Pounder before you spit out the lies that Mr. Rey wanted to hear?
Her saying it made me wince. I wouldn't have actually done it, you know.
Done what?
Flipped the switch.
I wouldn't have blamed you. The creep handed your father over to kidnappers.
I stared out the window, thinking. Jenna said, Have you thought about making good on your threat to Jaime? Why not go to the state attorney?
I need three million dollars by Sunday. Can you think of anything that would make a company circle the wagons and pay me nothing faster than the threat of a criminal investigation?
I suppose you're right.
I rose and started pacing across the Oriental rug. There has to be something we can do.
I don't know what, short of finding another witness.
I stopped. A wry smile came upon me as I looked at her and said, Now that is a great idea.
Chapter 60
Matthew smelled rum. He was in the slow, disorienting transition between dreams and the dark reality of life behind a blindfold, and he thought surely that his mind was playing tricks as he woke. His last cocktail had been more than fifteen years ago, but he could have sworn that a strong Cuba Libre was right beneath his nose.
He raised his head from the floor and sniffed the air. Giving up the sauce hadn't robbed him of his memory. The place definitely smelled of rum and Coke.
A screech pierced his darkness, the shrill sound of a chair sliding away from the table on a hard tile floor. He heard footsteps, and it finally registered that he was no longer in the van. He had no memory of being moved into a building, and he couldn't possibly have slept through that. The throbbing pain behind his eyes made him guess drugs.
As the footsteps drew closer, he instinctively raised his hands for protection. Chains rattled. The slack quickly disappeared, and metal handcuffs pinched his wrists. His wrists were cuffed in front of his body, rather than the more restrictive behind-the-back method. But the range of motion was still only about a foot.
Buenos dAas. The slurred Spanish had sounded like bad Castilian, Buenoth, dAath. The voice was definitely Cerdo's, but the inescapable breath was Bacardi's. As hot as this room was, Matthew surmised that the sweat oozing from his captor was about eighty proof.
Matthew answered in Spanish. Man, how much have you had to drink?
Enough to make me wish you were Nisho.
Just the smell of this pig had him pitying poor Nisho. You're gonna wish you'd never laid a hand on her.
Where are we?
Can't tell you.
How long was I asleep?
A while.
How long do I have to wear this blindfold?
As long as I say.
As stupid as he was, Cerdo could handle questions with the skill of a politician. Just take it off, would you? I already know what you look like.
True, he said. Cerdo's thick fingers fiddled with the knot behind Matthew's head. The blindfold fell from his face.
His eyelids fluttered in the sudden burst of light. The room was dimly lit, but the adjustment from total darkness came slowly. It seemed to take forever for him to focus, and even then he had to alternate eyes, closing one and then the other to alleviate the discomfort.
Images slowly began to materialize. He was on the floor, chained to the frame of a metal bed with a lumpy mattress and no linens. The small room had no other furniture and no window. The walls were filthy, paint peeling away, graffiti everywhere. He could only guess at the original color of the floors, they were so dirty. The only source of light was a low-wattage bulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling. The door was open, and in the hallway outside were a chair and a small table, Cerdo's guard post.
His eyes turned back to his captor, settling on the hideous paisley-pattern tattoo that covered the left side of his face. This close, Matthew got a full appreciation of the tattoo's purpose. It did a fair job of hiding a ghastly scar that started at the corner of Cerdo's mouth, curled back across the cheek, and then up over the ear. It looked as though, years ago, someone had tried to remove the skin from his skull with dull scissors.