A King's Ransom (15 page)

Por favor. He'll bleed to death!

The stump was soaked in red. Will was holding his bloody hand between his legs. You animal! You didn't have to do this to me!

JoaquAn gave a signal to AAda, who then allowed Matthew to pass. Another guerrilla tossed him an old gray scarf, which Matthew wrapped around Will's hand to stop the bleeding. The hand felt cold. His whole body was like ice, his face pale.

He's going into shock! said Matthew. We need more blankets.

No one moved.

If he dies, you get no ransom, said Matthew.

JoaquAn seemed torn, as if giving the man a blanket might undermine the point he'd been trying to make in front of the prisoners. But Matthew could see in his face that his own point about the ransom was hitting home. JoaquAn finally gave the order, and one of the guards disappeared into the hut for some blankets.

Will was shivering in Matthew's arms. It's going to be all right, Matthew said quietly. Just hang in there.

JoaquAn took the knife and gave it one last flick. The tip stuck perfectly into the tree stump. Then he picked up the severed thumb and held it up for the other prisoners to see.

No need for Don William to write a letter now, said JoaquAn. His wife gets this.

The prisoners stood silent. Finally the young mother in the group began to weep. JoaquAn started to walk away, then stopped and addressed the group in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

Soon I'll ask each of you to write another letter home. Not just to prove you're alive but, more important, to urge your families to pay your ransom. Write it. Write it with conviction. He turned away and headed for the smoky hut.

Matthew kept pressure on Will's bloody stump to control the bleeding. Part of him wanted to grab the knife and tell JoaquAn that the Rey family would never pay either, but this man was evil, perhaps even psychopathic. There was no telling what he'd do to keep his prisoners in line, to squeeze a ransom out of their families.

Thank God I bought insurance, he thought as the Canadian groaned once more in pain, his body growing colder in Matthew's arms.

Chapter 19

I wanted to see Grandma before going to BogotA. Maybe I was dreaming, but I was truly hopeful that the kidnappers would let me speak to Dad on the telephone once I got to BogotA. I wanted to be able to pass along at least one lucid thought from his mother.

On the day before my scheduled departure, I woke early and drove south to the Florida Keys, knowing that Grandma was better early in the morning. The Keys were better in the morning, too. Here, a ride down U. S. 1 in a topless Jeep was the next best thing to boating. A series of bridges connected one small key to the next, with turquoise waters to the east and west. Sunrise was like a starting pistol for fishermen, though they moved out to sea at the pace of the tortoise, not the hare. The boats - some large, some barely big enough for a man and his catch - dotted the waters for miles. Another world. My normal A. M. commute would have found me stuck in traffic on my way downtown, car exhaust instead of fresh sea air.

As I approached the old Red Cross cement home in which my father had been raised, I saw a young boy and his dad putting their boat into the water. It made me think back to my own childhood. My father and I had done that once. Once. One time in my whole life, my father had taken me fishing, just the two of us. We'd never fully recovered.

I was still hoping that someday we'd sort that out.

Grandma was around back on the patio, seated at a cast-aluminum table beneath a broad, shady umbrella. She invited me to join her for orange juice. That was a better start than last time, when she'd thrown me out of the house. Better, though not perfect. She still called me Matthew and obviously thought I was her son, but the nurse had a plan. She'd found an old photo album filled with pictures of Grandma and my father. My walking her through it might help clear her memory. I liked the idea. Grandma's mind was sharpest when trained on the distant past. For me, it was definitely an education. Some of the photos I'd never seen before.

You were such a cutie, said Grandma, beaming. She was speaking of my father at a childhood birthday party.

How old there? I asked.

Four. That was the year I gave you that fire truck. It didn't make it to your fifth.

So strange, I thought, this Alzheimer's disease. She could remember a gift given almost a half century ago, but she was too confused to realize that I was her grandson.

Did I not take care of my things?

I wouldn't say that. You were just a boy. All boy.

A regular troublemaker, huh?

She looked at me with sad eyes, laid her hand on mine. No, honey. You didn't have to make trouble. It found us.

I wanted to follow up, but I was beginning to feel guilty about pretending to be my father. Was I being deceitful? Or was it an act of kindness toward an old woman who for the first time in months was holding a conversation that she could enjoy, that she could at least think was normal?

Who's that? I asked as I pointed to another photo.

Your sister, of course.

Sister? I didn't have an aunt. I'd always thought Dad was an only child. Are you sure?

I know my own children, she said sharply.

I didn't point out the irony. At the same time I didn't dismiss her claim that this was her daughter. Where is she now?

Her eyes turned misty. Her hands began to shake. Why do you do these things to me? she said, her mouth tightening.

Do what?

She slammed the photo album shut. Playing with me that way. Do you enjoy this? Where is she today?' she said, mocking my question. What kind of nonsense is that? I have a good mind to crack you across the head. No, both sides of the head.

I'm sorry, I -

Like hell, sorry. I don't give a damn if you're sorry.

The nurse appeared, having overheard the shouting. Maybe we've had enough photographs for one morning.

We've had enough Matthew, that's what we've had enough of. Who invited you here anyway? Go away. Get out of my yard, out of my house, out of my sight!

I couldn't move, neither my mouth nor my feet.

Go! she screamed.

The nurse took my elbow, and I rose from the chair. Grandma folded her arms angrily across her bosom and looked away. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

My mind was awhirl as I walked alone to my Jeep. Her confusion had made it impossible to talk about the kidnapping, but strangely, the outburst had made me realize the true purpose of my visit. I hadn't come to tell Grandma about my father. I was hoping she might tell me something about him.

I drove away with the sinking sense that there was plenty to tell.

Friday at lunchtime was a standing date with my buddy J. C. for basketball, and I needed to blow off some steam.

We met at Jaycee Park in the Gables, an outdoor court that J. C. fancied his home turf, given the similar-sounding name. Not to brag, but I was bigger and quicker than J. C., and whenever my outside shot was on, he couldn't stop me with a bazooka. Today I was firing up air balls.

We finished around one o'clock. J. C. had to get back to the office. As it was, he was one of the few stockbrokers I knew who would duck out for basketball before the market closed, but such was the level of commitment from a guy who'd told his clients to buy Heinz simply because he liked ketchup.

He toweled off his sweaty head at courtside and packed up his athletic bag. Not your day, huh?

Obviously not. The last time I lost three straight to you, I had a broken wrist from a skateboarding accident.

Sour grapes, he said, then chugged his Gatorade.

Normally another witty comeback would have been in order, but my heart wasn't in it. I was thinking about my trip. You mind checking in on my mother while I'm gone?

Sure. Be glad to.

Thanks.

He glanced at his watch, and I knew he was already late. We'd played longer than usual today, a nice gesture on his part to try to lift me out of the dumps.

He laid a hand on my shoulder, looking at me with concern. Have a safe trip. I mean that.

I will.

He turned and headed for his car. I stayed behind and rested at the picnic table beneath a shady royal poinciana tree. For a moment I was actually at peace, watching a giggling four-year-old on the swing set nearby, her toes pointed and aiming for the sun. Every third or fourth pump she'd throw her head back until her long, curly hair almost touched the ground.

Halfway through my Gatorade, I heard a voice behind me. Hello, Nick.

I turned, surprised to see FBI Agent Huitt. What are you doing here?

It's a public park.

You don't look dressed for the monkey bars. How did you know I was here?

It's Friday lunch, isn't it? Basketball's your routine. You know how easy it is to find people when they live their lives in routines. It's one of the things kidnappers look for when choosing their victims. I'm sure your consultant has explained all that to you.

I wasn't sure how he knew about Alex. I didn't answer. He seated himself across from me at the picnic table, meeting me at eye level.

Consultants are full of all kinds of information and advice, aren't they?

I suppose.

His gaze tightened. Have you given any thought to what you and I talked about?

There's nothing to think about. My dad's not a criminal.

Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. What I'm telling you is, he got mixed up with the wrong people. I'm giving you a chance to unscramble the egg.

Sorry. I just don't see it the way you do.

Maybe it's because you won't open your eyes.

I don't like the way you operate. My father's been kidnapped, and the FBI won't help unless I snoop around his business and try to find something to incriminate his partner. You haven't given me a shred of evidence to raise my suspicions about my dad, his partner, or anyone in any way connected to Rey's Seafood Company. Pardon the pun, but you're on a fishing expedition. And I'm not biting.

He drummed his fingers on the table and nodded, but not in agreement. I know your consultant. Alex is good, as far as she goes. But she's steering you wrong here. I'm sure she's told you not to worry about the FBI. She's probably gone so far as to say you don't even need us. He leaned across the table, looked me straight in the eye. Let me tell you something, Nick. You need us. More than you think. More than Alex knows. A lot more.

He rose and said, We'll be in touch.

I watched as he cut across the park to his car. He walked in a perfectly straight line, eyes straight ahead. He didn't even notice the cute little girl on the swing, didn't return her wave as he passed her, probably didn't even hear her say hello to him. The hard ass routine was evidently no act. Being a jerk came naturally.

I grabbed my bag from the picnic table and walked to my Jeep.

Chapter 20

Mom and I had a quiet dinner at home. She didn't ask much about my visit with Grandma, and I didn't tell her about my meeting with Agent Huitt. The last thing I wanted to do was add to her worries the night before my flight to BogotA.

We ate in the kitchen, a break with family tradition. When I was growing up, we always ate dinner in the dining room. That empty space at the head of the table - Dad's space - was something Mom didn't want to see. We sat on barstools at the granite counter, both of us picking at a tuna casserole one of her friends had brought over.

You and Alex all ready to go? she asked.

We're ready.

I figured as much. I'm sure she's done this many times.

Too many.

Mom sipped her sparkling water. Her obstetrician had told her to cut out the caffeine, so San Pellegrino with lemon was now her drink of choice. She doesn't think you'll be in the way, does she?

No.

Are you sure?

Why would I be in the way?

You're another person she has to worry about.

We've been over it a dozen times. Alex has told me what to wear, how to act, who to talk to, who not to talk to. She's handpicked our hotel, she's rented a car so we don't have to jump into taxis with strangers. Yesterday she sat down with me for an hour, going over what's safe and what's not safe. She even drew maps of the exact routes we'll travel. She used to live in BogotA. As long as I'm with her and listen to what she says, I'll be fine.

Mom didn't answer. It was her last shot at keeping me home, a feeble one at that. I decided to change the subject.

Did Dad have a sister?

She looked up from her plate, a little taken aback by the question. What?

This morning Grandma told me he had a sister.

Your grandmother has Alzheimer's.

I know. But she even showed me an old photograph of a girl about five or six.

Did she look like his sister?

Not especially.

Could have been anyone, then.

So he didn't have a sister?

None that he's ever mentioned to me. None that anyone's ever mentioned, including your grandmother for the twenty-five years I knew her before she started slipping.