That silenced him.
'Think natural,' she extrapolated. 'Natural!'
And so, in turns prodded, cajoled, pushed, bullied, worn down, and threatened, the team found itself stymied in attempting to impose its signature stamp of polished steel and towering glass and soaring atriums upon the project, and had ended up giving her what she had demanded—a bravura creation as breathtaking as it was architecturally daring.
Situated at the very tip of the promontory jutting out of the bay known locally as Bahia Cahue, the completed Huatulco Hale Hotel and Resort fit perfectly into the dramatic landscape of plunging emerald hills and verdant cliffs, fit in so naturally with its geographic habitat that it was virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding flora and looked, once one became aware of it, as if it had been there, gently guarded by the jungle, for untold centuries.
Which was exactly the way Dorothy-Anne had envisioned it. Small wonder that it instantly became her favorite among all the Hale Hotels.
On this fragrant morning the day after her arrival at Huatulco, she awakened from a deep sleep, the most satisfying sleep she had enjoyed in almost half a year. For a while she permitted herself the sheer pleasure of just lying there, luxuriating on the smooth cotton sheets inside her sumptuously veiled, mosquito-netted bed.
Had anyone ever slept so soundly, she wondered blissfully, or felt this surprisingly rejuvenated and not the least bit jet-lagged? It was truly a miracle, especially considering the daunting paces she'd been put through just yesterday.
First, there had been the swarm of reporters who'd been camped out at the Santa Cruz airport in anticipation of her arrival. When they descended on her en masse, she had been required to hold an impromptu press conference, if only to keep them at bay.
Naturally, it was almost identical in tone, content, and mood to the press conference she'd endured earlier in White Plains. These reporters, too, had been far more interested in her private life and the Hale Companies' state of finances than in the tragedy that had brought her here.
Then, after being whisked to the Huatulco Hale Hotel and Resort, she had spent countless hours making the rounds, visiting each of the 236 recovering salmonella patients.
It was a task she did not relish, and wished she could have postponed. But duty called. She felt a moral obligation to see this through.
Somebody has to be held accountable, she told herself grimly. And somebody is. Me.
And she reminded herself: This is my company. The buck stops here.
The first patients she visited, Jim and Moira Kelso, were retirees in their sixties. Dorothy-Anne pulled a chair up beside their beds.
'I'm ever so sorry,' she said softly. 'I'm afraid I've ruined your vacation.'
'Only a few days of it,' Moira, a chirpy Midwesterner, piped up cheerfully. 'Other than that, this is still our favorite place on earth.'
'And hopefully it will be again,' Dorothy-Anne replied. 'That's why I've come—to get to the bottom of this. I don't like it when things aren't up to snuff.'
'Oh, but they are,' Jim Kelso assured her. 'These things happen. You should have seen how sick the little woman got in Egypt—'
Moira slapped his leg and hooted. 'Oh, yeah? That was nothing compared to you in Kenya!' She turned to Dorothy-Anne: 'Jim here was as green as a Martian! I wish you'd seen him. All he needed was a set of rabbit ears . . . .'
The next couple, the Bentons, were attractive young newlyweds from Raleigh, North Carolina. Despite still feeling under the weather, they couldn't stop touching and hugging each other.
'This place is sensational,' the blushing bride told Dorothy-Anne. 'You just wait and see. I don't care how sick we were, we're coming back!' She wrapped her arms around her husband and smiled. 'Aren't we, hon?'
'We sure are, sug,' he replied, nuzzling her affectionately.
Dorothy-Anne cleared her throat. 'Well, if there's anything, anything at all that I can do, you'll let me know?'
The young husband winked. 'We sure will.'
Next were the Kitamuras, a Japanese family with two beautiful pre- teens. They graciously invited Dorothy-Anne to partake of tea.
'We would be much honored if you joined us,' Mr. Kitamura told her. 'It is no trouble. You see, my wife is making some now.'
Mrs. Kitamura, kneeling on the floor, smiled up at Dorothy-Anne as she poured boiling water into an earthenware cup and then used a reed whisk to mix a pale green froth.
'I am highly honored by your kind invitation,' Dorothy-Anne replied politely. 'Unfortunately, my duties require I visit all who fell ill.'
'Ah, duty. Giri.' Mr. Kitamura nodded. 'I quite understand.'
Dorothy-Anne told him to feel free to summon her personally, day or night, if necessary. 'The concierge will put you through to me immediately.' She paused and lowered her gaze. 'I am truly sorry for this outbreak. I feel personally responsible.'
'No, no,' Mr. Kitamura assured her hastily. 'There is a limit to giri. It is we who are sorry for inconveniencing you.'
And so it went. The hours Dorothy-Anne spent visiting the stricken passed with remarkable speed. She was amazed at how good-humored the guests were about the outbreak. Almost without fail, they seemed genuinely pleased to see her. The fact that she had taken the trouble of showing up herself, rather than sending an emissary, was obviously appreciated.
What's more, the reception she received was so warm she felt humbled.
But what really threw her, what Dorothy-Anne found almost beyond all comprehension, was that most of the patients blamed neither her nor the hotel—some, like Mr. Kitamura, actually apologized for falling ill!
As if it had been their fault!
She couldn't believe it. After steeling herself to bear the brunt of highly justifiable anger and outrage, her guests had ended up comforting her—and singing the praises of the staff!
It was the last thing she had expected, and it renewed her faith in the human race. People, she realized, could be absolutely amazing. And incredibly decent.
But most surprising of all, she discovered that she enjoyed—yes, genuinely enjoyed—these face-to-face encounters with her guests, ill though they might be. There was something satisfying about taking a hands-on approach and dealing with real-life people instead of so many faceless statistics and sheer numbers.
For the first time, Dorothy-Anne understood exactly what it was that had driven her great-grandmother to build the hotel empire.
It's more than just about corporate expansion and the amassing of wealth and power, she realized. It's the people business. It's making strangers feel at home away from home!
This awakening made her wonder why she had always shied away from personal interaction with guests. Good heavens, they were nice people! What was there to be afraid of?
Why had she always left that to Freddie or various underlings?
Buoyant from her experience, she decided a nap before a late dinner was in order. Repairing to her own suite, she hung out the Do Not Disturb sign and stretched out in bed for a quick snooze.
The next thing she knew, it was morning. Such had been her exhaustion—or else so welcoming, cocooning, and soothing was this quiet paradise of adobe walls, thatched roofs, and rooms open to the sea.
Having awakened to the soothing sounds of water, a sound as ever present as the seductive breezes that rustled the tropical foliage and wafted, fragrant, invisible, and caressing, through the open-walled rooms and shady terraces, Dorothy-Anne couldn't think of a place she'd rather be.
Sitting up, she stretched languorously and yawned, then parted the mosquito netting.
She literally gasped at the spectacle of cascading water, overflowing pool, big sky, and endless ocean, an ocean that proved that blue was far from a single identifiable color, but rather covered a vast spectrum ranging from palest turquoise to darkest indigo.
Getting out of bed, she padded barefoot over cool, unglazed tiles to the shaded terrace, where teak chaises with canary yellow cushions were invitingly arranged
facing the free-form pool.
She spread out on one, wondering whether she should ring for breakfast and coffee. Maybe just lounge here for a while, gorging her eyes on this unparalleled feast of a view, with the day's first windsurfers skimming the waves on the Pacific with sails like huge butterflies? Or, if she felt so inclined, she could always enjoy a lazy prebreakfast dip before taking the funicular either up to the cliff top restaurant or down to the beachfront terrace far below.
Well, there was no rush. Later, she would check up on the ill guests once more. In the meantime, she could do what she pleased—or nothing at all, even if it took her half the day to decide exactly which wonderful act of doing absolutely nothing it would be.
Hmmm, she thought blissfully, no wonder people go on vacations. Just the idea of a total change of scenery and getting away from it all . . . of being somewhere and unwinding and leaving all one's troubles and cares behind . . . now, that was heaven. Oh, yes, pure unadulterated heaven . . .
Before she was aware of it, Dorothy-Anne's eyelids fluttered shut, and she must have nodded off again, because the next thing she knew the sun was high in the sky and flooding her pool with rays.
Glancing at her watch, she realized it was a few minutes past noon.
Noon! Holy guacamole! She jumped to her feet. If she didn't get a move on, she would miss the best part of the day!
Now that she was wide awake she no longer had to agonize over her destination. The beach, she decided, instinctively and without conscious thought, her mind no longer encumbered by indecisiveness. She would head down to the only sensible spot at this hour of the day, the water's edge.
Getting her tush in gear, she changed into a black maillot with an open, black net shirtdress over it, and put on black sandals and sunglasses. She would enjoy a casual, leisurely lunch under one of the palapas, those thatched palm sunshades along the beach. After all, what good was being in paradise if you didn't avail yourself of its splendors, she rationalized with the laid-back, pleasurable guilt of a kid playing hooky from school.
'Criminal charges! Goddamn criminal charges!' Hunt Winslow roared, jumping angrily to his feet and brandishing the official letter in his hand.
Shaking his interpreter's hand off his arm, he glared down at the chief of police in outrage. Whoever still thought policemen south of the border were fat and slothful had obviously never crossed swords with Fernando Davalos Zuniga. The man's imperviousness to pleas, threats, and bribes, combined with his impeccable, starched tan uniform, neatly trimmed little mustache, steel-rimmed glasses with round lenses, and a propensity for going by the book, only added to Hunt's anxiety and annoyance at all things Mexican.
Whatever had happened, he wondered nostalgically, to the good old days when you could at least count on the insufferably torpid, greasy- fingered local authorities with their attitudes of manana, manana, everything being able to wait until manana—but who nevertheless snapped to whenever they heard the unmistakable rustle of yanqui greenbacks?
Gone the way of the Edsel, Hunt told himself, with an inner sigh. This new breed of dedicated young law enforcement professionals, a group to which Chief Zuniga obviously belonged, not only proved that the policia could be above such schemes as petty racketeering and extortion but made it clear that any attempt at bribery would result in the appropriate judicial action.
Pox on all civil servants! Hunt cursed silently, the heat of his anger causing him to forget, momentarily, that as a state senator back in California, he fell into that very same category.
'As I have told you repeatedly,' he enunciated icily, speaking slowly for the sake of the official interpreter, although why one should be necessary, since the chief of police could speak perfectly adequate English, was beyond him, 'the boy has only turned fourteen.'
'Catorce,' the interpreter concluded.
'Fourteen!' Hunt emphasized, with an accusatory stare.
'Catorce!'
Unperturbed, Fernando Davalos Zuniga, slight, fastidious, and not about to let some well-dressed gringo politico stomp on his turf, sat back and politely offered Hunt a cigarette.
'Thanks, but no thanks,' Hunt said, pulling a grimace of distaste.
Shrugging, Chief Zuniga selected a cigarette in that delicate manner peculiar to many Latin Americans and lit it. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled. 'Please, senor.' He gestured. 'Do continue.'
Hunt smiled, but it was a mirthless smile. 'It would seem obvious,' he said coldly, 'that just by looking at the child, anyone in his right mind would realize he is not your average teenager. My God'—he rested one hand flat on the desk and leaned forward—'surely even you have heard of Down's syndrome!'
Chief Zuniga smoked in stony-faced silence.
'The poor child can barely communicate, let alone commit the crime of which he's accused! But all that aside, this document'—Hunt waved it and tossed it on the desk with a flourish—'signed by the governor of this state of Oaxaca, clearly states that Kevin Whitman is to be released. At once!'
'Si, senor.' Chief Zuniga puffed delicately on his cigarette. 'That is what it says.'
'Then what, for the love of God, is the holdup?'
The chief sighed out smoke and tapped a length of ash into a scallop shell. 'As I, too, have repeatedly tried to explain, I have no choice, senor. Until I receive official notification, I am duty bound to keep the boy in prison—'
'Prison!' Hunt scoffed. 'You call that stinking hellhole a prison?'
Chief Zuniga smoked calmly, the very picture of serenity.
Hunt, realizing that his anger was getting the better of him, took a deep breath and counted to ten. The air-conditioning buzzed, but not loudly enough to drown out the drone of a large fly that hovered and scrabbled furiously, first at one shut window, then streaking across the room and flinging itself angrily at the other.
'Look,' Hunt said quietly, 'can't we clear this up reasonably? You have a copy of the governor's letter right in front of you. Surely you are empowered to act on it. What more notification could you possibly need?'
'If you will kindly forgive me, senor, but letters have been known to be forged.' Before Hunt could get hot under the collar, Chief Zuniga held up a pacifying hand. 'Please, do not get me wrong, senor. I am not suggesting this document to be anything other than genuine. However, I have made it the policy of this office never to accept anything at face value, or from third parties.'
'So what,' Hunt asked wearily, 'are we supposed to do in the meantime?'
'The only thing we can, senor.'
Chief Zuniga stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. Then he glanced up at Hunt.
'We wait, senor. As soon as a copy of this letter is transmitted from the governor's office to mine, the child shall be released to the custody of his parents.'
'In other words, the extenuating circumstances don't matter?'
'Extenuating circumstances?'
Zuniga turned to look at the window where the fly was droning. Sunlight flashed off the round lenses of his glasses, making them opaque. He turned back to Hunt.
'Circumstances such as what, senor?'
'The age and mental incompetence of the child.'
'I am sorry, senor. This is not your California. Contrary to popular belief, all Mexicans are not soft on drugs. Remember, the cocaine was found on the child's person.'
'And what about the sworn statements of the three eyewitnesses?' Hunt asked tightly. 'They all saw those two teenagers thrusting a package at him as they ran away from your men.'
'Unfortunately, those witnesses were tourists. They have since returned to their own countries.'
'In other words,' Hunt said, 'their sworn statements are meaningless . . . because they were foreigners and not Mexican nationals. Is that it?'
Zuniga shrugged.
'Sounds like reverse discrimination to me.'
'Senor, please,' the chief said. 'Try to understand. I am doing what I can.'
Hunt nodded stiffly, the fly's droning sounding louder and m
ore furious. 'You know where to find me,' he said thickly. Then, clearing his throat, he said, 'I'll be at the hotel.'
Zuniga nodded politely. 'I will keep you informed, senor. In the meantime, might I suggest you take advantage of our scenic wonders? Natural beauty is said to be therapeutic.'
Hunt's cheeks smarted with anger. But most of all with failure, he thought, keeping his temper in check as he turned around and crossed to the door with all the dignity and military posture he could muster. As he opened the door, he heard more than saw the fly streak back across the room.
He glanced over his shoulder. Almost lazily, Zuniga reached up, caught the insect in midair, and closed his fist around it.
That's right, Hunt thought grimly. Get your cheap thrill and squash it to death.
Actually, he wouldn't have put it past Zuniga to play with it first, slowly pulling off one wing at a time.
Instead, Zuniga rose from behind his desk, crossed to one of the windows, and opened it. He put his fist outside, released the fly, and then shut the window again.
That small act of mercy only enraged Hunt all the more.
What sort of man, he wondered, gives freedom to a fly while incarcerating a helpless, hapless child?
Zuniga's gaze met Hunt's. The message in his eyes was as taunting and unmistakable as if he were speaking aloud.
It's one of ours, the look said. Yes, one of ours, this lowly fly, not some rich norte americano we're forced to put up with and pretend to welcome. Not one of those louts in their shameless string bikinis and thongs who invade like locusts and stay just long enough to litter and pollute. Who think everything is theirs! That everything was put here solely for the benefit of their pleasure, like in some vast oceanic amusement park. Entertain us, wait on us, scramble for our tips!
Hunt broke the malevolent eye contact, stepped out into the hallway, and shut the door quietly. A couple was seated on the hard wooden bench by the opposite wall. The instant they saw him, they looked at him searchingly.
He shook his head in reply and went over to talk to them.
'I'm sorry,' he said softly. 'I did what I could.'
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