East is East (43 page)

“Denver omelet, yes?” Hiro said.

Julie Jeffcoat smiled, and it was a beautiful
Amerikajin
smile, uncomplicated and frank, a smile that belonged on the cover of a magazine. “Sort of,” she said.

Half an hour later, Hiro watched Jeff Jeffcoat steady the canoe as first Jeff Jr. and then Julie eased themselves into the narrow trembling envelope of the vessel. It was heaped to the gunwales with the neatly stowed paraphernalia of their adventure in the wilderness, with their cooler, their charcoal and starter fluid, their binoculars and fishing rods and mess kit, their tents and sleeping bags and changes of clothing, their paperback books, flashlights, lip balm and licorice. There was no room for Hiro. Jeff Jeffcoat had assured him that they would paddle straight back to the boat launch and get a ranger to come rescue him. He looked pained—
he
was
pained—because they couldn't take Hiro with them. But Hiro—or Seiji, as they knew him—wouldn't be forgotten, he had Jeff's word on that.

Before he shoved off, Jeff Jeffcoat had impulsively sprung from the canoe to shuck his loafers and hand them to Hiro. “Here,” he said, “I've got another two pairs in my backpack, and you're going to need these more than I do.” Hiro accepted the shoes with a bow. They were Top-Siders, the sort of shoes the blond surfers wore in the beer commercials on Japanese television. Hiro slipped them on, feeling like a surfer himself in the cutoffs and oversized T-shirt, as Jeff Jeffcoat eased back into the canoe and shoved off with a mighty thrust of the paddle. “So long,” he called, “and don't worry: they'll be here to get you by noon. I promise.”

“ 'Bye!” Jeff Jr. cried, shrill as a bird.

Julie turned to wave. “Bye-bye,” she called, and her voice was like Ruth's, and for a moment it stirred him. “You take care now.”

They'd left him food, of course—six sandwiches, a Ziploc bag crammed with marshmallows, three plums, two pears and a sack of tortilla chips the size of a laundry bag, not to mention the two-liter bottle of orange soda with which to wash it all down. “Sank you,” Hiro called, “sank you so much,” wondering if
on
could be calculated in the negative, for what wasn't done as well as what was. He owed them a debt, an enormous debt—but then they owed him too. He hadn't bludgeoned them to death, hadn't stolen their food, their canoe, their paddles and fishing rods and charcoal briquettes. When you came right down to it, he'd sacrificed himself for them—and wasn't that something?

He stood there on the platform a long while, watching them as they threaded their way up the narrow channel, paddles flashing in perfect harmony, father, mother, son.

There were two motels in ciceroville, “gateway to the Okefenokee Wilderness,” and both were on the order of refugee camps as far as Detlef Abercorn was concerned. The first, Lila's Sleepy Z, featured a miniature golf course in the middle of the parking lot and a café with a hand-lettered sign in the window offering breakfast for 990, with unlimited refills of coffee and grits. It was booked solid. The other place, the Tender Sproats, enticed the weary traveler with a swimming pool filled to the coping with what appeared to be split pea soup. Abercorn thought of all those billboards along Interstate 80 touting homemade split pea soup, as if anyone in any condition would ever actually want split pea soup beyond the first spoonful. This was an improvement: here you got to swim in it. He shrugged and pulled into the lot.

It wasn't as if he was planning to spend much time in the swimming pool anyway. His job was on the line here—his whole career. Forget the le Carré, the six-pack and the air-conditioned room alive only to the soothing flicker of the color TV; from here on out it was more like James M. Cain, a cup of piss-water doused with iodine, sweat, sunburn and aching joints. He'd had a call early that morning from Nathaniel Carteret Bluestone, the regional head in Atlanta. Real early. Six-thirty A.M. early. He was never at his best
at 6:30 A.M., but he'd been out past two tramping all over the island with Turco and the sheriff and about six hundred yapping dogs on the lukewarm trail of Hiro Tanaka and when he picked up the phone he was so exhausted he could barely think.

N. Carteret Bluestone had wanted to know why Special Agent Abercorn was bent on making a mockery of the INS. Had he seen the morning papers? No? Well, perhaps he'd find them instructive. The Nip—Japanese, Bluestone corrected himself—was front-page news all of a sudden. Abercorn tried to explain that the papers were a day late at Thanatopsis House, but Bluestone talked right over him, quoting the headlines in an acidic tone: “‘At Large 6 Weeks, In Jail 6 Hours'; ‘Score 1 for the Japanese, 0 for the INS'; 'Jailbreak on Tupelo Island: Alien Makes It Look Easy.' ” And what was this about Lewis Turco attacking some woman and making wild—and litigious—accusations? It was a mighty sorry way to run an investigation, mighty sorry.

Abercorn couldn't argue with him there, except maybe to add that “sorry” was far too tame an adjective. He could have offered excuses—it was the sheriff's people who'd let the suspect go;
be
hadn't attacked anybody and couldn't answer for Turco; everybody down here talked like Barney Fife and had an IQ to match—but he didn't. All he said was, “I'll do my best, sir.”

Bluestone opined that his best seemed to fall short of the mark. Far short.

“I'll do my damnedest, sir,” Abercorn said.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You do that,” Bluestone said finally. “And this time, handcuff the suspect to your own goddamned wrist. And do me a favor—”

“Yes?”

“Swallow the key, will you, so it comes out with the rest of your shit.”

News of the second call, the one from Roy Dotson, didn't reach him till nearly four in the afternoon. And why not? Because he was out in the boondocks, sifting through the mudholes of Tupelo Island, as if anybody believed it would do any good. If they were
looking for frogs they would have been in heaven. Or mosquitoes. The temperature was up around a hundred, the sun had ground to a halt directly overhead and he thought he was just about to die from the stink when one of Peagler's deputies came sloshing toward them with the news that they were wasting their time. The suspect had fled the island. And where was he? In a sharecropper's shack? Hitchhiking to Jacksonville? Digging his chopsticks into a plate of shaved beef and onions at a sukiyaki joint in downtown Atlanta? No. He was in a swamp, another swamp, a swamp that made this one look like a wading pool.

And so here he was at the Tender Sproats Motel in Ciceroville, Georgia, Gateway to the Okefenokee Wilderness. It was seventhirty at night and the neon sign glowed against the darkening sky in a halfhearted imposture of civilization. Lewis Turco was asleep in the passenger seat, reeking like a sewage plant. Mud encrusted his boots, clung to his fatigues, caked his beard and hair. They'd had a falling-out over the Dershowitz incident and hadn't spoken more than ten words to each other all day. The moment the bulletin came through on Tanaka, Turco had dropped his stick (he'd been beating the bushes, literally), and without a word turned and stomped back to the big house, where he flung his gear into the Datsun and settled into the passenger seat. By the time Abercorn got there he was unconscious.

Abercorn pulled up to the motel office and shut down the wheezing engine. He figured he would check in, have a quick shower and a cup of coffee, coordinate with the local sheriff and interview Roy Dotson at his home. Then he would get a couple hours' sleep and start the chase again in the morning. That was the plan. But he was tired, bone tired, and he didn't smell too great himself.

The man behind the counter was short and dark, with the narrow shoulders and fleshless limbs of a child. He had the gut of an adult though, and a well-fed one, and he wore a caste mark beneath the greasy bill of his feedstore cap. His glittering dark eyes went directly to Abercorn's face—he'd burned out there in the swamp, he knew it, and the burn made the dead-white discolorations of his
condition stand out more than ever. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. “I need a double,” he said.

“Y'all mean a twin?” the little man drawled.

“Double,” Abercorn said. “Two beds. One for me and one for—for him.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the car, where Turco's head and upthrust beard could just be made out over the dashboard.

The little man broke into a grin that showed off the bright red stubble of his teeth. He ducked down to spit something into a wastebasket under the counter, and then bounced back up again. “A twee-in, like Ah said. For a minute there—y'all ain't from around Clinch County, am Ah correct in that assumption?”

Abercorn could feel the weariness settling into him like a drug, like the tingle of a good double shot of tequila on an empty stomach. Japanese. He should have stayed in Eagle Rock, busting Mexicans. “Savannah,” he managed. “L.A. originally.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” The little man was nodding his head vigorously. “Ah coulda sworn it. Thought you was a Yankee—and for a minute there maybe a little, you know, funny. Wantin' a double for two grown men …”

Abercorn was dragging, worn thin, but a tiny knot of inspiration flared in his brain. “Punjabi, right?” he said.

The little man beamed. “Chandigarh.”

“A twin. I need a twin.”

“Good,” the little man said, beaming still, beaming till he could have lit the room all by himself. “We take all kinds here.”

Turco was in a communicative mood the following morning, chattering on about the suspect as if they'd grown up together, as if they'd shared a bed in the orphanage and married sisters. “He's a cagey one, this Nip—a whole lot cagier than we give him credit for, that's for sure. He got this bitch to feed him—two bitches, if you count the old lady—and then he has the balls to bust out of jail and make for the last place on earth we'd expect to find him.”
He paused reflectively and scratched at his newly washed beard. “Still, they don't take to nature, the Nips—they're a city people, subways and pigeons and that kind of thing—and ultimately he's going to defeat himself, I'm about three-quarters sure of that.”

They were in the Datsun, heading into the swamp. It had rained the night before and the road was slick, but the sun was up already and burning it off in a dreamy drifting haze. Abercorn had gotten about four hours of fitful sleep, while Turco, who'd strung a hammock over the second bed, had snored blissfully through the small hours of the morning and well into the dawn. They'd passed on breakfast, nothing open that early but Hardee's and a truck stop so full of potbellied crackers Abercorn couldn't handle it and ordered a coffee to go. It was no loss to Turco, who seemed to have an infinite supply of roots and jerky tucked away in the folds of his rucksack. At the moment, he had a plastic bag of what looked to be dried guppies in his lap. From time to time he'd dip a hand into the bag and crunch them up like popcorn.

“And if you're thinking disco and designer shirts, it ain't going to work on this character,” Turco added, as if the ghetto blaster and Guess? jeans had been Abercorn's idea in the first place. “No: we're going to have to get a lot more devious than that.” He scratched his beard and a gentle drift of flaked guppy settled in his lap.

Abercorn looked away. Ever since the interview with Roy Dot-son, something had been troubling him. It was the question of Saxby. He liked Saxby, he did. And he didn't think Saxby would consciously aid and abet a criminal—and an IAADA, at that—but it did look pretty bad. Ruth was capable of anything—he knew that from personal experience—and she could have put him up to it. Easily. “What do you think of Saxby, Lewis—I mean as far as his involvement in this thing?”

Turco turned to give him a look. “Who?”

“Saxby. You know, Ruth's—I mean, Dershowitz's—uh—”

“Oh, him. Yeah. He's guilty. As guilty as she is. What do you think, it's just a coincidence that he brings this Nip out here and
lets him go like Br'er Rabbit in the briar patch? Are you kidding me? The guy's as guilty as Charlie Manson, Adolf Hitler—and if he's not, then what's he doing camping out in the middle of the Okefenokee Swamp?” He dug into the bag of flaked fish. “The whole thing stinks if you ask me.”

They'd passed the sign welcoming them to Stephen C. Foster State Park several miles back and yet there was no indication that anyone except a construction crew had ever been here before them. The road cut a straight and undeviating line through the wet and the green, a green so absolute that Abercorn had to glance up periodically at the sky to be sure what planet he was on. He supposed some people found this beautiful or inspiring or whatever, but to him it was just one more pain in the ass—they could make a parking lot out of the goddamned place as far as he was concerned. He couldn't stop thinking about Saxby and how embarrassing it was going to be to have to put the cuffs on him, if it came to that. And beyond Saxby, he was thinking of the Nip—and yes, he'd call a Nip a Nip and INS etiquette be damned—and wondering if he was going to spend the rest of his life getting sunburned three different colors and having his ears chewed off by mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. (And that rankled him too—why the ears, of all places? His own ears, never exactly small by any measure, were swollen to twice their normal size and looked like slabs of salami stuck to the side of his head.) He drove on, trying not to look at himself in the rearview mirror.