Saving an Innocent Man

by Robert E B Wright

  "No problem."

  DiSantis turned to go. "Oh, and if anything turns up, you'll let me know right away, right?"

  "You'll be the first to know, Lieutenant. Got your number right on your business card." Mulholland quickly retrieved DiSantis’ business card from his shirt pocket, snapped it between his fingers and gave the departing Lieutenant a toothy, Cheshire cat grin.

  • • •

  In the darkness, the orange-red sparks rode currents of air above the small campfire. Malcolm sat in the warm glow, staring into the flames and embers.

  In the consuming fire, he saw his mother lying on her deathbed. He heard her words, He'll be here. He won't fail me. I know he'll come to say goodbye.

  Malcolm's already moist eyes filled to overflowing. He didn't whimper. He didn't sob. But a single tear ran down his cheek.

  He would be safe in this spot, he thought, far from any threat. He could be isolated, alone with his sorrow. With his pain. With his loss.

  He'll be here. I know he will, his dead mother said again from out there in the darkness. The fire crackled and a stream of sparks leapt up toward the heavens.

  Far above, in the black sky, the blinking lights of an airliner and its accompanying low roar invaded the evening. The face of Detective Lieutenant Tony DiSantis filled one of the windows. His eyes gazed into the blackness below.

  He's down there, he thought to himself.

  He's down there somewhere, I know he is. And I'm gonna get him.

  • • •

  In the blackness, the only sounds were kisses. Wet, succulent, lip-smacking kisses. Numbers of them. Then, moans. Light feminine moans. Deeply satisfied moans that said, Yes. And there were masculine moans. The kind that said, That felt so good.

  There was a thin rectangle of light seeping around the edges of the drawn shade. On the chair by the window, a man's pants were tangled with a woman's blouse. A bra had been thrown atop a red Hawaiian shirt.

  "Want some breakfast?" he said.

  "I thought we just had breakfast."

  The bed was a rumpled mess. A pair of hairy masculine legs were intertwined with a pair of smooth, shapely feminine ones.

  “Hungry for more?” Craig Mulholland said in the ear of his attractive young lover.

  "Ummm."

  Mulholland propped himself up on an elbow and looked down on the face of the girl he had known for two months. She looked irresistible even in the morning.

  He dove into her neck and they rolled over one and a half times, taking the sheets with them. She wound up on top.

  "I am starving," she said.

  "Yeah, so am I. Hey, I know of a great place for brunch. We could be there in twenty minutes."

  "Can we make it in fifteen?”

  "I guess so. Why? Wanna fool around for another five minutes?"

  "No, I just wanna get there five minutes sooner. My stomach's talking to me. Can't you hear it?" she said.

  "Yeah, I can hear it. But I thought it was telling you to spend the day with me today, instead of going home to your lonely apartment."

  "That depends. What do you have in mind?"

  "I want to drive out toward Naples. Get out of the city. Let the cobwebs clear out. Maybe go to the beach in Naples and get some dinner there before driving back."

  "Sounds good."

  "OK. Why don't you go jump in the shower? I've got to make a phone call. If I'm fast, I'll join you in there."

  "I'll go extra slow."

  Naked and unselfconscious, she padded across the dim room to the bath. She flicked on the light and it spilled into the bedroom. She didn't bother to close the door. Mulholland punched the buttons on his cell.

  The beige kitchen phone in Armando Diaz's house rang loudly. It was a nice but noisy, lively place. Three children chased each other through the living room. Several older Spanish speaking relatives sat at the dining room table, involved in an active debate over their espresso coffees. The women scraped the last of the breakfast dishes and Latin music played on the radio.

  "Hello," Armando Diaz answered over the healthy noise.

  "Boy, do I feel sorry for you."

  "Why do you feel sorry for me on this beautiful Sunday morning, Gringo? 'Cause you know I had to get up early and go to church?"

  "It's that Cuban Grand Central Station you live in over there. I'm glad us Gringos don't have any relatives."

  "Hey, you only wish you had what I have." Diaz gave his eight-year-old a pat on the head.

  "Oh yeah, you only wish you had what I just had. And speaking of action…" Diaz was distracted by the kids and didn't get the double entendre from Mulholland, "I just wanted you to know I'm going out on the Tamiami Trail today to find out what DiSantis did out there for three days."

  "Good idea. I'd go with you, but I got a house full of people and..."

  "Hey, no sweat buddy. I just wanted you to know I was going out there today that's all. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

  "Well, I hope you find out more than DiSantis did."

  "I'll give it my best shot, partner. I'll give it my best shot," Mulholland said as he eyed the girl in the shower.

  Twenty-Four

  It was a stifling morning. The air was heavy with humidity. The trees were leafy and wet where Malcolm stopped for a moment to check the position of the hazy sun.

  He took one step forward in the heavily wooded stand of trees…

  WHOOSH!

  Malcolm toppled over and simultaneously shot up into the air feet first, as if lassoed by someone, something above!

  He hung there, feet up, head down, more than four feet off the ground. One of his ankles was caught in a snare, a booby trap, the kind he had seen pictures of in a magazine about the Vietnam War. His other leg was free of the snare and made his dangling, upside down body writhe and spin in jerky movements. He was like a caterpillar at the end of a silk thread.

  Malcolm tried hard to bend his body upward to reach his tether, but it was no use. In moments, with his blood and three masticated baby alligator’s tails rushing to his head, he began to bellow like a heifer going to slaughter.

  It didn't take long. Before he knew it, they were there, encircling him. He could tell what they were even upside down. A dozen swarthy guys in military jungle clothing. He could see the sadistic amusement in their dark eyes. He could tell that the black weapons they held were stubby machine guns, rectangular automatic pistols and machetes.

  They didn't say a word. Malcolm didn't say a word either. And he was beginning to taste alligator tail all over again.

  Malcolm was on his feet now. There was no need for handcuffs. No need to tie his hands. There was a thin wire looped around his neck. The other end was held by one of the men. Six of them tromped ahead of Malcolm and six of them behind. At all times during the harrowing fast pace to their camp, he could feel a gun barrel jab him in his buttocks or back.

  They made hand movements and gestures to each other, but still not a word was spoken. Their twenty-four boots pounded noisily against the ground as they hurried their prisoner forward for the next ten minutes.

  Their camp contained no permanent buildings, just four good-size camouflage-colored tents at the edge of an open gathering spot. There were a dozen smaller tents to one side. Scattered around the area was an array of military-type vehicles, from jeeps and trucks to an armored personnel carrier. There was a variety of military equipment everywhere – large green garbage cans with kerosene heaters atop them to wash mess kits, a lister bag filled with fresh water hung from a tripod, a collection of gasoline cans and ammo boxes. But nowhere did Malcolm see an American star. Nowhere did he see an American flag. In fact, nowhere did he see an American. Now, he was scared.

  Two dozen men were gathered in the central mustering spot. They encircled him. Malcolm's necklace of tree snail shells and rattlesnake tail still hung around his neck. Someone threw his string of turtle shell bowls at his feet. He stood there, the legs of his gray work pants in tatters at his calves.

  A
man of about fifty with dark hair and a graying short beard stepped forward. The sleeves of his khaki shirt were rolled up and he held his hands on his hips. He wore a baseball style khaki cap. He was furious before he even spoke. He didn’t speak to Malcolm. He spoke to his men. In Spanish.

  "Stupido! Stupido! How stupid can you be to bring an intruder into our camp without killing him first or blindfolding him! Not one of you had the brains to think? Not one of you? You put every one of us at risk. You put our entire mission at risk. Did any of you say anything?"

  They all answered in unison, in Spanish, "No Sir! Not a word, Captain! No one said a word, not even the prisoner, Captain!"

  Standing there stock still, Malcolm's mind was racing. "God! The only Spanish I learned was in high school! But I do know he's pissed that I wasn't blindfolded!"

  "What did you find on him?"

  "Only this knife, Captain, and what you see on him." The man who responded to the Captain's question held up Malcolm's kitchen knife. Malcolm knew what he said. "No identification, just a kitchen knife."

  "Umpf. Maybe he's somebody’s housewife." The Captain said, the words in English this time. The men laughed and snickered.

  A housewife, huh! Malcolm thought. Smart ass!

  "Or maybe he's crazy." The Captain's hand made a circular motion while pointing to his own head. The men didn't laugh. They seemed to signify their agreement with the Captain.

  "Or crazy with the CIA, yes?" All conversation was in English now.

  "No! No CIA!" Malcolm blurted out. "No CIA! I'm just lost! I..."

  "Quiet!" the Captain screamed at Malcolm. Then he said very quietly. "Get him inside. Let's squeeze some answers out of this overstuffed bird." Some of the men shoved him into one of the tents and threw him into a wooden chair.

  The tent was dark and hot. A few men stood behind him. The Captain stood in the front, between Malcolm and the open flaps of the entrance. Malcolm sat there, like a little boy, but with a heavy growth of hair on his face, a dark tan, matted, greasy, bleached-out hair, slippery slathered skin and flab hanging loosely all around him.

  "What is your name?" the Captain said in near perfect English.

  Malcolm stuttered out his name. "M-M-Malcolm. My name's Malcolm."

  "What a nice name. Malcolm." The Captain was smiling. “Well, Malcolm, what are you doing running around in the Everglades without your clothes on? You an alligator poacher, Malcolm?"

  "No, I told you. I'm...."

  "A wild man, Malcolm?"

  "I crashed. In a plane."

  "You escaped from jail, maybe?"

  "I'm a college student. From New York."

  "Oh, from New York. A college student."

  "Yes."

  "You a drug runner, too, Malcolm, in your spare time?"

  "No. I'm not a drug runner. I told you, I'm lost. I crashed in a plane. A long way from here. I survived, the other guy didn't."

  "You crashed, huh?"

  "Yeah. We crashed."

  "How far from here, Malcolm?"

  "Very far."

  "Just how far?"

  "I don't know."

  "Guess." The Captain was losing his patience.

  "Ah, maybe twenty-five, thirty-five miles."

  "And you walked? Or did you take a taxi?"

  Malcolm paused. "I couldn't find a taxi."

  "And you survived but someone else died?"

  "Yes."

  "And you just walked away from it all and kept on walking until you stepped into our trap, right?"

  "Yes. More or less."

  "And nobody came to rescue you when you crashed?"

  "Well yes, they did, but..."

  "But what?"

  "But, ah, you see, they thought I was one of the guys who was running the drugs." The Captain's eyes averted to the three men standing behind Malcolm. "And when they found me, I heard them say I didn't have a chance. That they'd be heroes if they brought me in."

  "But you don't have anything to do with drugs, right Malcolm?" Malcolm just looked up. "And you thought they wouldn't believe you, right Malcolm?"

  "Damn right. I've heard of lots of cases where someone who's innocent goes to jail because the police are desperate."

  "Well, that would be a shame, because you had nothing to do with the drugs, right?"

  "No, I mean yes. Nothing. I had nothing to do with the drugs."

  "What kind of drugs, Malcolm?"

  "Black Tar Heroin."

  "Black Tar Herio...I thought you said you had nothing to do with the drugs, Malcolm?"

  "I didn't. I overheard these two guys talking about what they were picking up, that's all."

  "Well, Malcolm. If they were picking something up, then they must have been dropping something off, right?"

  Malcolm's face stammered. His eyelids fluttered.

  "I, ah, I..."

  "Something like...money? Dinero? Mula?"

  "I dunno. I, ah, didn't hear anything about that."

  The Captain took a step closer to Malcolm and looked directly into his eyes. The three men from behind stepped closer. They stood right at Malcolm's back. "Come, come now, Malcolm! Everybody knows that when you pick up drugs, you drop off money. Isn't that right, Malcolm?" Malcolm didn't answer.

  "How much money, Malcolm?" Still no answer.

  The Captain slowly put his hand down to his side and pulled a stainless ten-inch dagger from its sheath. It glinted in front of Malcolm's sweating face. Two of the men grabbed Malcolm's slippery shoulders from behind. One grabbed his hair and yanked his head back exposing his throbbing throat.

  "I don't know!" Malcolm squeezed out the words. "I don't know! I didn't see any! Maybe it burned up in the crash, I don't know!"

  "Oh, it burned up. But you didn't?" The Captain laid the flat side of the dagger blade against Malcolm's skin and slowly inserted it through the necklace of snail shells and snake tail. Malcolm inhaled, deeply scared, and pulled back in the chair. The Captain pulled the necklace taut against the razor-sharp edge of the knife. The necklace severed and fell into Malcolm’s lap. The Captain paused for a few seconds waiting for Malcolm to respond. They looked in each other's faces. But there wasn't a sound.

  Then the Captain put the sharp point of the blade against the side of Malcolm's throat. Malcolm pressed further back in the chair. His shoulder's strained against the hands of his captors.

  "Where's the money, Malcolm? Where are the drugs?"

  Malcolm's face tightened. His whole body shuddered.

  The Captain screamed in his face. "Where's the money, Malcolm?" A large drop of blood welled out of Malcolm's neck and dribbled down the steel blade of the knife right to the hilt. Malcolm saw it.

  And he went wild.

  He kicked the Captain solidly with both feet in the stomach, hurtling him out the door of the tent onto the dirt. The chair rocked backward on its two hind legs. The three men let it fall and pounced on Malcolm. They punched him in the face and chest. They stomped him into the floor of the tent. Others, seeing the Captain ejected from the tent ran in and wrestled with Malcolm's kicking legs.

  "Don't kill him! Don't kill him!" the Captain screamed, rushing back into the tent. "Don't kill the bastard. We need him!"

  Malcolm was pinned to the floor by six men. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth and from one of his eyebrows. The Captain, covered with dirt, stood over them all. He was the picture of shaking, controlled fury.

  "We're going to be extra nice to Malcolm. And then Malcolm's going to be extra nice to us."

  • • •

  Malcolm stood silent and soggy-limp, like a Halloween pumpkin left outside by the front door well into December. His hands were tied behind his back and he stood beneath the branches of a large tree.

  He became as alert as a finch when he saw the man with the rope come to stand in front of him, uncoiling the loops with sneaky, smirking glances.

  "It's not easy, is it, Malcolm?" Malcolm snapped his head slightly to the left. El Capitan was still brushing hims
elf off about five paces away. His voice was soothing and sweet. "It's not easy to remember where the drugs are. Or where the money is."

  The man with the rope threw a few coils straight up, to a high, thick bough above their heads. There was already someone there to catch the end. Malcolm looked up.

  "All that walking in the sun. It fried your brain, maybe." The Captain paused for just a moment as Malcolm refocused his eyes on him.

  "You had a lapse of memory, shall we say? What's the word? Amnesia."

  Malcolm’s eyes looked just past the Captain. Six men formed a line from left to right behind the Captain. Each carried a black, high-powered military issue rifle.

  "But there are ways of curing amnesia, I'm told. A shock, they say. Sometimes a shock or trauma can actually bring back things that we have conveniently forgotten."

  Malcolm didn't know if he was going to be hung or shot. Or both. He guessed both.

  There was a man in front of him who seemed to be tying a big loop at his end of the rope. The pressure had been building inside Malcolm. Now his chest began to heave. His head movements became quick. He made a false start in saying something. Then he erupted.

  "Now wait a God damned minute! You can't do this to me! I am a citizen of..."

  "So we're going to do you a favor, Malcolm."

  "...the United States of America!"

  "We're going to give you an opportunity."

  "Who the hell are you?" Malcolm was screaming. The Captain was calm.

  "We're going to give you an opportunity to do something good for yourself."

  "Who the hell are you people, anyway?"

  "...and something good for America."

  "I told you I don't know a goddamned thing about any drugs or money!"

  "And something good for us, too!"

  "Not a fucking thing!”

  "We're going to help you remember."

  The man with the rope crouched behind Malcolm and tied the rope tightly around Malcolm's ankles.

  The rope from high in the tree was drawn tight immediately. Then it was yanked with a jolt and Malcolm fell over like a bowling pin. The rope groaned as it pulled taut over the bough dragging Malcolm's body along the ground, feet and legs following the rope upward. Malcolm's face was smushed against the earth. He got dirt up his nostrils and in his mouth, but he kept on screaming. "You must be crazy if you think you're gonna get away with this. You hear me? You won't get away with this!"