dog island

by Mike Stewart

  epilogue

  Bright sunshine filled the bedroom. A cool spring breeze floated through open French doors, softly ruffled the sheets, and lifted me out of a deep, satisfying sleep. I smiled and reached over for Susan. She was gone, and my heart missed a beat before I realized Carpintero, Leroy Purcell, and—thanks to New Cuba—the rest of the renegade Bodines had gone on to their rewards, if the kind of afterlife that was likely to greet them could be called a reward. I plumped my pillow and leaned my back against it. I didn’t look at my watch or the clock on the bedside table. Judging from the sun, it was somewhere around midmorning, and that was close enough.

  Sounds of Susan piddling in the kitchen drifted up the staircase.

  I rolled out of bed, and, after brushing my teeth and splashing a little water on my face, I lifted the terry cloth robe off the hook on the bathroom door and wandered out onto my second-floor deck. And that’s where I was, leaning against the railing and watching a tanker headed for the Port of Mobile, when Susan appeared in the doorway with a large glass of orange juice in each hand. And, only two days after being rescued from root-cellar imprisonment, she looked pretty damned good.

  Lying in bed last night, Susan and I had talked long past midnight, and now I understood most of what had happened.

  It looked as though Purcell had dispatched Rus Poultrez and Sonny Teeter to grab Susan from Seaside while Joey and I were busy on Dog Island looking for Carli. Purcell had wanted Susan as a hostage. Poultrez, on the other hand, wanted Susan to help him find Carli. What neither of them counted on was Susan plugging Sonny with her little snub-nosed .38 when he broke into the Seaside cottage where she was manning our listening equipment. That’s where the hole in Sonny’s side and the blood at the Seaside cottage had come from. Unfortunately, Susan only got off one shot before Poultrez grabbed her from behind after coming in the back.

  Apparently, Poultrez and Sonny had spoken freely in front of Susan—probably because they planned to kill her later. Susan heard Poultrez say that he knew Carli had headed for Meridian, and, after finding Susan’s address in her purse, Poultrez and Sonny just sat Susan in the backseat and headed for the farm. She had waited for a chance to get away, but none came.

  When they arrived, the house was empty. So, Sonny—just having been gut shot and all—decided that killing Susan right then was a hell of an idea. Poultrez disagreed and finally snapped Sonny’s neck to drive home his point.

  What I didn’t know and couldn’t figure out was the sequence of events at the farm. When did Carli get to Coopers Bend and why was Susan in the root cellar unhurt…?

  “Hello?”

  I came back into the present. “Oh, hi.”

  Susan smiled. “I’m here bearing gifts.”

  I took a glass in my good hand; my right fist was locked in plaster and suspended from a sling. “Orange juice is a gift?”

  “Yes. From Minute Maid. What were you thinking about?”

  “Poultrez and Sonny and the rest of it.”

  Susan set her glass on the railing and plopped down in a redwood deck chair. “You’re not still worried, are you?”

  “Oh. Hell, no. I’m just trying to piece it all together. You mind if we talk about it a little?”

  “I told you last night. I’m fine.”

  I thought maybe she was a little testy about the subject for someone who was fine, but I let it go. I said, “I just didn’t know if you wanted to mess up a great morning like this by talking about it.” Susan looked at me, then picked up her glass and sipped some juice. So much for my stab at sensitivity. “Okay. Here’s what I don’t understand. I know Carli didn’t get to the farm until after you and Poultrez and Sonny were already there. But I don’t know how long Carli was there with her father before I showed up.”

  Susan rose out of her chair and came to stand beside me. “I guess a couple of hours. Poultrez locked me in the bomb shelter just after Carli got there. I didn’t have a watch, but about two hours or so is my best guess. And Poultrez killed Sonny before I went in. So…” Susan put her elbows on the railing and leaned out to look down the beach. “In case you’re wondering, you probably saved Carli from being raped by showing up when you did. She told Sheriff Nixon in Coopers Bend that, when her father heard you outside, he had just ‘started on her.’” Susan made a face. “God, what a way to put it.”

  “Better than most of the alternatives.”

  “I guess. Anyway, he’s gone and she’s going to make it.” I shrugged, and Susan said, “Really. I believe that. Loutie’s going to take care of her for a while. Get her some counseling, whatever she needs. Like I told you from the first, there’s more to Carli than meets the eye.”

  “What about her mother?”

  “It’s pitiful. Carli says not to worry. Apparently, the mother’s kind of… well, she’s just about what you’d expect to be married to her father.”

  I drank some orange juice and said, “Oh.”

  I was thinking about Carli and watching three slack-jawed pelicans drift over the bay when the phone started ringing. I set my juice back on its round wet spot on the railing.

  Susan said, “Let the machine get it.”

  “Turned it off.”

  “Well, then just let it ring.”

  As I turned to walk inside, I said, “I stabbed a guy in the throat two days ago. They know it was self-defense, but it wouldn’t be a great idea for the cops to think I had sneaked off somewhere. I’ll be right back.”

  I walked around and sat on the bed before picking up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom?” It was Carlos Sanchez—known in political circles as Charlie Estevez—and he apparently had decided that we were on a first-name basis.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure which name to use. So, all I said was, “Yes?”

  “Carlos Sanchez.”

  That answered that. “Good morning, Carlos.” Two could play at that game.

  “How’s your friend? The giant with white hair.”

  “The giant with white hair is fine. He’s back in Mobile, and he’s got a beautiful woman to nurse him back to health. The doctors say a few weeks and he’ll be back to normal.”

  “That is good to hear.” Sanchez hesitated just as Susan walked into the room.

  She whispered, “Who is it?”

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Carlos Sanchez.”

  Susan whispered again. “Did you tell him you know his real name?”

  I kept my hand over the phone. “Hell, no.” Susan laughed, and I realized that Sanchez had been saying something. “I’m sorry Carlos, someone just came in. What were you saying?”

  “I was asking about your young client.”

  “Carli’s doing about as well as I guess anyone could under the circumstances.”

  “Yes. It is very sad.”

  As far as I was concerned, Carlos Sanchez was a pretty good guy. I formed this opinion after he rescued me from being kicked to death in the swamp by a bunch of tattooed, redneck smugglers. But I did not believe he had called my home to check on my friends’ health and well-being. He wanted something.

  “Why’d you call?”

  “Ah, we have a problem, and it could turn out to be your problem too.” He had my attention. “Someone is missing.”

  “Who?”

  “The Carpenter. With what happened to Leroy Purcell, well, I don’t need to tell you what kind of attention such a psychopath could focus on my organization.”

  “Then I take it Carpintero’s done this before.”

  Sanchez hesitated before answering. “Yes. I am afraid ‘the Hammer,’ ‘the Carpenter,’ whatever name you want to use, is quite famous among former political interrogators in Central America.”

  “I didn’t think that kind of thing went on down there anymore.”

  “Well, with the spread of democracy, it is certainly not accepted practice anymore, which is one reason El Carpintero was looking for a new, ah, venue.”

 
“And you were going to supply one?”

  “What? No. No, señor.”

  I decided I had jerked him around enough. “Carpintero is dead.”

  “You have seen the body?”

  “Sure. He crashed into a building out there in the compound. He was trying to make a run for it in an old Mercedes and one of the young Bodines, a guy named Willie Teeter, either shot him or just shot at him and made him crash. Whichever, he was dead.”

  Sanchez was silent long enough for me to wonder if we had lost the connection. Finally, he said, “You said Señor Carpintero died in a crash?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And his wife. What happened to the señora?”

  I could feel hair prickling on the back of my neck. “We found her in a cabin. She tried to shoot me. I managed to disarm her and ask a few questions. Then an old man and I left on an airboat. We left Señora Carpintero and her son—who she had hidden somewhere in the bedroom—we left them in the cabin. There was a four-wheel-drive parked outside with the keys in it.”

  Sanchez laughed, but there was no humor in it. “And you North Americans say Latinos are chauvinists. The man you call Señor Carpintero was an overweight, undisciplined political hack with a rich uncle and family connections. His wife, the mother of that chubby little boy, was a prison physician who was brought in years ago to revive political prisoners after torture. She developed a taste for it. And a specialty. In addition to her scalpel, she liked to use nails.”

  I opened my mouth to speak and nothing came out. Susan sat on the bed beside me and put her hand on my leg. “What’s wrong? What is it, Tom?”

  I shook my head at Susan and spoke into the phone. “Why did she kill Purcell?”

  “We don’t know the details, but it appears Leroy Purcell treated Carpintero and her husband like employees. I expect it doesn’t take much to set her off. Anyway, they were setting up some kind of lab out there in the swamp. And the word is that a disagreement arose.”

  “A disagreement.” It wasn’t really a question or a statement, and Sanchez let it lie there. I said, “What was it, a meth lab?”

  “I’m afraid not. As far as we can tell, it was some kind of biological hazard setup. That’s something this woman has tried her hand at before. I can only guess that Purcell planned to enter the weapons trade.” I cussed, and Sanchez added, “We burned her laboratory to the ground.”

  “If you didn’t, I’ll make sure someone else does.”

  “We set fire to the whole complex. Feel free to ride out there and check, but it shouldn’t be necessary. The fire rangers were all over it an hour after we pulled out. I’m sure there’s a report.”

  Pictures of Leroy Purcell’s corpse flashed through my mind, and one stuck. I couldn’t shake the image of his thick jock-neck spread out and nailed to the desk, the skin glistening like melted wax where it was stretched tight across his throat from neat rows of nail holes on each side.

  And, I thought, I had let the person who did that loose on America. I could almost see the señora, riding down a highway somewhere in the heartland in that harmless-looking, soccer-mom four-wheel-drive—a raven-haired beauty with a chubby little boy and a taste for evisceration.

  Sanchez was waiting for me to say something about the fire. I managed to say, “Okay. Fine.”

  “Tom, are you all right?”

  “No.”

  Some time went by, and he said, “So. If nothing remains to be handled, we will put this behind us.”

  I looked at Susan. All the color had drained from her face. She was suddenly frightened, and she didn’t even know why—except that she had seen the terror in my eyes.

  I said, “One more thing. Who was the poor bastard who started all this? Who did Leroy Purcell shoot in the mouth in See Shore Cottage while Carli was peeking in the window?”

  “Tom,” Sanchez said, “I have absolutely no idea.”