Water from My Heart (6 page)

He turned to Brendan. “Brendan?”

Brendan had developed a habit of pretending to shoot an imaginary six-gun when he spoke about stocks or decisions involving money. He'd practiced the whole routine: draw, cock, shoot, blow smoke off the barrel muzzle, and then holster. He thought it made him look like a gunslinger, which became his self-adopted nickname—because he didn't like “Oz Brown.” Brendan brandished his finger pistol. “It's a loser. Close up shop. We've accomplished what we set out to do.” He blew the smoke off the barrel. “Cut our losses and run.”

The words
“We've accomplished what we set out to do”
echoed in my mind.

That's when it struck me how perfectly Marshall had played this hand. It was never about the coffee. In the last six months, he'd successfully removed me and inserted Brendan. My limited experience with Brendan told me that Brendan loved Brendan and would sell his soul for Marshall's money. Which he did. And it didn't take a genius to realize that while I'd been gone making them money, Brendan had been dating my girlfriend.

Overnight, Marshall called in the loans on the remaining family members of the Cinco Padres. Penniless and coffee-less, they and their families lost everything. The farms were foreclosed on and became the property of the bank. If the hurricane had set that region back two decades, Marshall's business tactics would set it back five more. Then, like a man who'd slept with the town whore, he took a shower and walked away. As was his right given him by his money.

Entire villages, dependent upon the plantations for work and sustenance, lost everything. And all for what? His money? His daughter? His entertainment? As the bitterness settled in my mouth, I realized it was about none of that. Marshall's life had one overriding urge—power. And this game he was playing, in which I was imprisoned and little more than a pawn, was how he wielded it.

The following week, I returned to Nicaragua to deliver the papers Marshall and his lawyers had signed and to clean out the hotel room in León, which I'd converted into an office and had served as my home. The night I left, I rode out of town on a rented motorcycle up into the mountains. Until then, I'd spent some time examining warehouses in town where the coffee was stored once it had been harvested, cleaned, and brought to town for sale, but I'd never actually made my way deep into the mountains—onto the plantations—where the coffee was grown. Where the people lived who grew it. Never gotten my hands dirty or talked to a single family working in the plantations. I can't tell you why I did. I just did.

Entire families were walking down. Mothers and fathers with three, four, or five kids. No shoes. No shirts. No food. No nothing. They carried their lives in sacks on their shoulders. I didn't know them because I hadn't tried. I didn't speak Spanish, nor had I attempted to learn. But something inside me, what might have once been called a moral plumb line, told me that I'd helped orchestrate their misery. No, I didn't create the hurricane, but they could have survived that. Rebuilt. What they could not survive was Marshall. Me. The empty and gaunt eyes told me that we'd broken these people.

One woman in particular still comes to mind. She was pregnant. Wore a black scarf that matched her black hair, her face ashen. She looked like she'd just lost everything that ever mattered. She stared down the road, numb to the tears shining on her cheeks. I cut the engine, crossed my arms, and watched as the line of people filed down the mountain like ants. Most didn't know where they were going. They were just walking until they got tired, then they'd sit down and sleep for the night. I cranked the engine, idled down the mountain, and put that place, those people, and that country behind me. I didn't want anything more to do with Nicaragua, its coffee, or the people who grew it.

I stepped onto the plane, buckled in, and within minutes we were climbing past ten thousand feet. I looked around me. Plush leather. An air conditioner control nozzle above my head. Food on the table before me. Drinks in the bar. In three hours, I'd touch down in Boston, where I'd eat sixty dollars worth of sushi—by myself. I stared out the window and down upon the lush, green landscape of Nicaragua still raw with a thirty-mile scar down its heart. I shook my head. I hadn't just robbed these people—I'd held them down while the classroom bully stole their lunch money and shattered their hope.

Sitting in Marshall's plane at forty thousand feet, I realized that Marshall's money was not worth what it was costing me. His daughter was, but by his own design, the two were inseparable. I couldn't have one without proving my worthiness of the other.

And I had not been found worthy.

New Year's Eve, Pickering and Sons met for their annual party. It was also the night Marshall handed out bonus checks. The week prior, Marshall had me off “assessing” an oil exploration company in Texas, so I flew into town and Amanda was noticeably distant. Cold. Her eyes were red. We'd spent no real time together in months. Whenever I'd come home, she'd been busy. Or her dad had her off traveling. The “face of Pickering.” Part of me hurt and I didn't understand why. It would take a few weeks for me to figure out that that painful aching place in my gut was my heart breaking.

My days with Pickering were numbered. I wasn't sure where I'd go or what I'd do, and I was pretty sure Amanda would not go with me. She loved me, but there was one thing she loved more.

I walked in the door and Marshall was warm as ever. Hugged me, introduced me to all the older guys as “his eyes and ears on the ground.” An hour into the party, he put his hand on my back and invited me to share a cigar. Just the two of us.

After he shut the door, he offered and I once again refused. After emptying his lungs, he set an envelope on the table between us. A smile. “You've earned it.”

I had a feeling it was a good bit of money. I also had a feeling it was more than a bonus. I was right. His tone changed. A glance out of the corners of his eyes. “Think of it as a ‘going away' p
resen
t.”

I folded my hands, saying nothing.

I let him continue. “After tonight, you'll be seeing less of Amanda.” I sat with my hands in my lap. He wanted me to reach for the money. To take his deal. The problem with Marshall was that at the end of the day, I didn't want his money. Never had. That's one lesson he never learned. And the only card I had left to play.

A pause. “How so?” I asked.

He scratched his chin. One of his “tells” that he was about to lie. “She and Brendan are looking at dates now.”

I smiled and nodded. “Does Amanda know this?”

He lit his cigar, drawing deeply. Exhaling, he spoke. “She knows her role.”

I waited.

He stared at me through a cloud of smoke. “Brendan will make the announcement in an hour or so.” He eyed the envelope and then me.

I stood, lifted the lid of his cigar box, took one, and cut the tip. I lit it, drew deeply, and stared over the end, catching a glimpse of Amanda in the mirror. She stood beyond the window just outside the room. I could see her; he could not. I turned the cigar down and placed the burning tip on the felt top of his table. The cigar burned through, curling up the edges where they rolled back. “Marshall, you're going to die an old, angry man.” I turned and began walking out. When my hand reached the doorknob, I stopped. “Unlike you and unlike Brendan, it was never about your money. It's always been about a girl with emerald-green eyes.”

I could hear the smile when he spoke. “Then I have chosen wisely and you're a fool.”

I turned and returned to the table, leaning in. My face inches from his. Amanda's reflection still showing in the mirror. “Yes.” A long pause. “But whose fool are you?”

No job, no girl, and no future, I walked out, bumping into Brendan, who'd been standing behind the door. I stopped close. I wanted him to feel my breath on his face. “One of these days, you're going to discover that the bull's-eye you're shooting at is a moving target…and—” I glanced over my shoulder at the old man. “He'll never let you hit it.”

I exited through the kitchen to my car, cranked it, and sat, letting the windshield defrost. Through the cardroom window, I could see Amanda standing in front of her father, envelope in hand. Shaking her head. She was screaming at him.

I pushed in the clutch and slid the stick into first. As I began easing off, Amanda appeared in my rearview. I stopped. Stepped out and brushed her hair out of her eyes. She was shaking her head. Lip trembling. Whatever cards she was now playing, Marshall had dealt her a long time ago. I wanted to make it easy on her.

To curb further losses, the best cardplayers know when to walk away. And I'd already lost a lot. What little remained lay in tatters. I kissed her on the cheek, said, “Call me if you ever find yourself lost at night on the streets of London. I'll always help you find your way home.”

She nodded and a tear trickled down her face. It paused on her lips where I kissed it. Then her cheek.

It was the last time I saw her.

T
he Bertram is a sixty-foot sportfisher with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a stateroom, kitchen, a captain's perch, and stainless tower. All in, she cost Colin nearly a million dollars. The back deck contains a fighting chair, a couple of downriggers, room to move around, and access to the engine. The Bertram was powered by two Cat turbo-diesel engines producing more than a thousand horsepower each. At forty knots, both engines consumed well over a hundred gallons an hour, but at a more modest cruising speed of twenty-five to twenty-eight knots, she burned only sixty-five gallons per hour. Cutting my fuel cost in half and nearly doubling my range.

The captain's watch, or control deck, looked like something out of
Star Trek
. Everything I needed at my fingertips except warp speed. All the components were new and came complete with built-in redundancy. Two of every gauge. Two radios. Two radars. The only thing not redundant was the satellite phone.

As the crow flies, the distance from Miami to the Panama Canal is a little over 1,100 miles. The problem is Cuba—you have to go around. From the Panama Canal to Costa Rica is another 250 miles north up the coast. A flight from Miami to Panama is two hours. In a sixty-foot boat with a cruising speed of about thirty knots, it's closer to the better part of five days—give or take—depending on weather. Just south of Marathon, I crossed over into the Gulf of Mexico where, traditionally, winds and waves are less than in the Atlantic. I set a southwest course, careful to avoid Cuban intervention. Then I turned south, Havana to the east, Cancún to the west, and crossed just north and within sight of the Cayman Islands. I overnighted in Montego Bay and took on fuel. I had enough fuel to make the entire trip, but I needed to rest and taking on fuel was always a good idea. The following morning, I set a southerly course for the Panama Canal. It had taken me two days to cross the six hundred miles of the Caribbean Sea when I finally entered Panamanian waters. Needing sleep, I anchored in a hidden cove, dozed until daylight, and on the morning of the fourth day out of Miami, I entered the fifty-mile Panama Canal. Eight hours later, I exited the canal, turned northwest, and traveled another long day up the mountainous coast of Costa Rica.

I knew Zaul would be looking over his shoulder a few days. Follow too closely and I'd end up pushing him. He'd simply duck and run and we'd never find him. I needed to let him breathe, let his guard down. I knew Colin well enough that he wouldn't cut off Zaul's credit card, allowing him nearly unlimited funds. Colin was not a good man and he was not a good dad—what man is who sells drugs?—but he did love his kids. And in order to pay for his own sins, he'd keep giving Zaul money. Buying his own redemption. In a way, credit card charges would allow Colin and Marguerite to track Zaul's movements. And as bad as that sounds and as much as they enabled Zaul to continue being Zaul, it was the only way Colin would be able to “follow” his son.

I talked with Colin every day, checking in on Maria. They had kept her sedated to allow her to rest and give her face time to begin healing on its own. He said Shelly had been by several times a day and that circulation looked good. She was hopeful, but she continued to caution that the nerve that controls the ability to smile had been severed. While she had reattached it, she told Colin and Marguerite to prepare themselves.

Time behind the wheel of a boat with nothing but water ahead gave me plenty of time to think. And the thought that kept playing over and over inside my head was this: What did I have to show for my life other than the scars on Maria's face? Like, what was the impact or influence of me on earth? While my destination lay in front, something kept drawing my eyes back. To the wake. The more I studied it, the more I realized that the wake was a good image of me. Angry at present, but once it settled, it smoothed over. As if nothing was ever there. No evidence. No permanence.

I had nothing to hold me and nothing to show for my life. No job. No wife. No family. One friend. Bimini felt empty. I had moved to an island and become one. I had a four-decade track record of playing my cards close to my chest and running from everything that hurt me.

With smooth water, I climbed up on the tuna tower. Two stories above the boat, I sat for hours just staring at the water. Before me flying fish jumped up out of the water and flew a foot or so above the surface for two or three hundred yards before diving back in. My left wrist wore the watch Shelly had given me. One more reminder of an angry wake.

I took my time. Conserved fuel. Soaked in the horizon. By noon on the fifth day out of Miami, I sat rolling in the waves offshore, staring at Colin's pool deck through a pair of binoculars. The porch doors were open, curtains swung in the breeze. Music played. Smoke from a bonfire trailed upward. Someone, or someones, had been there. I waited until evening, but in eight hours of surveillance, not a soul moved about in the house or on the deck.