But they still failed to catch him.
“He’d become famous the way certain serial killers become famous. The peasants in Nicaragua called him ‘the Man-Burner.’ Some variation of that. He terrorized that country. Then Jorge paid cash or maybe political favors to get Nicaragua to drop the charges against him, and Lourdes came to Masagua and terrorized our country.”
I said, “Praxcedes. That sounds like an Arawak name. An Indian name.”
“Yes. He’s from the Moskito Coast. Moskito Indio country, but he behaves more like a Carib Indian. The crazy violence.”
“You heard his accent. He’s not Nicaraguan, and he’s no Indian. Where do you think he’s from originally?”
The woman shook her head. “A padded cell. Or hell, as far as I’m concerned. That’s where he’s taken me.”
I had to ask: “His nickname, ‘the Man-Burner.’ Does he really—?”
She was already moving her head in affirmation, still looking at the octopi, her expression numb. “There are so many stories . . . I won’t tell you. They say he enjoys it. He’s the reason our people are afraid to leave their homes at night. The psychological effect of what he does, always at night . . . incredible . That one sick person can change the political momentum of a country is incredible . . .”
She let the sentence trail off into silence. Tomlinson gave her several seconds to finish before he asked, “But why would Balserio have someone like that kidnap Lake? You’re well known and well liked in your country. A popular figure. Your son has to be just as well known. I’d think the public would be outraged. It’d be political suicide to be associated with something like that.”
Pilar turned to him, her expression soft, private; an expression that seemed to share uncertainty. Once upon a time, she’d exchanged such looks with me.
“I agree,” she said. “But I can’t think straight. Since I found Laken’s bed empty, I’ve been in shock. So I’m trusting in you to help me understand this. Jorge is shrewd, that much I can tell you. He wouldn’t have chosen Lourdes to abduct Laken if he didn’t have a plan.”
She hesitated, seemed to wince with distaste before she added, “Our police dug out a little more information on him.” She leaned and, from her purse, she took a manila envelope, then handed it to me.
“In the files, they found old photos taken of Lourdes when he was a teen. They were part of his medical records when he was in the burn ward of the indigents’ hospital in Managua. They’re the only known photos of him without a mask or a scarf over his face. I can’t stand to look at them again. Even be in the same room when they’re out, so I’ll go outside for some air while you look.”
WHEN the screen door had closed behind Pilar, I removed two glossy black-and-white photos and handed one to Tomlinson. One was a close-up of Prax Lourdes’ face. The other was a wider head-and-shoulders shot.
He had suffered second- and third-degree burns over most of his face. In medical terms, a third-degree burn is called a “full-thickness” burn because the outer layer of skin is destroyed along with the entire layer beneath. Often, there is also damage to subcutaneous tissue, muscle, and bone. Lourdes had been burned to the bone on the right cheek area, much of his chin, and on the top of his head. The man’s mouth was a wedge of skeletal teeth that suggested a dental schematic—something to be used in medical schools, like a cadaver.
Tomlinson whistled softly and said, “I guess I should feel sorry for him. But I get such a bad vibe, man . . .”
I said, “Pilar said the Nicaraguan authorities had a warrant out for this guy’s arrest, but never caught him. How can you not find someone with a face like this?”
I looked at Tomlinson. “Does that make any sense to you? He was sentenced to time in an insane asylum, then to die by firing squad, yet he somehow manages to blend in with the general population? How?”
Tomlinson shrugged.
I slid the photograph I was holding back into the envelope. “At least now I understand why he wears the mask.”
“FAST forward. I’ll tell you when to stop,” I said.
Several short sections of the video interested me. The first was the silence that was punctuated by the bird’s call: a hushed, two-toned whistle that was distinctive.
Pilar had returned. We listened to it several times before I turned to her. “Do you recognize the bird?”
At first, she seemed puzzled, but now her expression brightened. “Nine or ten times I’ve watched this nightmare, and I completely missed it. A quetzal bird. It’s singing in the background. Maybe it’s because I’ve forgotten how rare they are in other countries.”
To Tomlinson, I said, “The quetzal is a really beautiful green bird with a long tail. You find it in the high mountains, the cloud forests—only in Central America.”
He said, “I know, I know, I saw one once. A bird with, like, these emerald crystals for feathers. I love the way your brain is working today, Dr. Ford. A little bird could tell us something. It’s already telling us they’re still in the mountains. And it might tell us more.”
I said, “Some birds are time specific.”
“The time of the day or night when they sing, you mean?”
“Exactly. Let me check my library. While I do, find the section where the camera gets a clear shot at the lamp beside the bed. There’s a moth on the lampshade. See if you can freeze it and zoom in.”
I returned a few minutes later with my Field Guide to the Birds of Mexico and Central America, along with Daniel Janzen’s Costa Rican Natural History—an excellent primer on the flora and fauna of the region.
I read silently from both books before saying, “The male quetzal begins a round of territorial calling just before dawn. He usually calls until a couple of hours after dawn, then goes silent during the day. So there you go. It does tell us something. It suggests this video was shot in the morning. Probably very early morning, because the window blinds don’t seem to be that bright. Not much light at all.”
To Pilar, I said, “Lake was abducted late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning of last week.”
“Yes.”
“What time did they find the package outside the convent gate?”
Sounding eager, as if a bulb had just gone on in her brain, she replied, “I see where you’re going with this. It was around ten A.M. on Thursday. The same day the newspaper he was holding was published.”
“Do you have any idea what time the Latin edition of the Miami Herald arrives in Masagua City?”
“It comes on the first direct from Miami. A LACSA flight that arrives at the international airport at seven-twenty A.M. I’ve flown it enough, I should know.”
“This time of year, sunrise in Florida is around six-forty. In Central America—”
“We’re an hour earlier. We don’t use daylight savings time. But sunrise is nearly an hour later because of the volcanic peaks to the east.”
I said, “I remember it being about a forty-minute drive from the airport to downtown Masagua City. I’m talking about how long it took the kidnappers to drive from the airport to the convent, and deliver the package after shooting the video.”
She replied, “About forty-five minutes if it’s early in the morning, because the traffic’s light, yes. Sometimes an hour.”
“Your people found the package around ten, but it could have been dropped off an hour or even two hours before.”
Pilar nodded.
Looking at the screen, Tomlinson interrupted, saying, “O.K., here’s the moth.” Then he turned his blue, weary prophet’s eyes on me. “A very savvy piece of reasoning, Doc. I certainly wouldn’t have caught it. Mind if I try to nail it to the wall? To make sure I’m thinking independently and not just following your lead?”
“Go right ahead.”
“O.K. First, let me verify something before I try to distill this little gem into a couple of sentences. Pilar, am I correct in assuming that Masagua City is high enough in the cloud forest that you might hear quetzal birds?”
&
nbsp; “We hear them often. It’s the only capital city in Central America where the bird is found.”
“Do you know of any other airports that are at an elevation high enough to find quetzals?”
“No. None.”
“Are there any other major cities at a similar elevation where the Herald is delivered early in the morning?”
Pilar said, “All the major cities in Central America get the Miami Herald, but only Masagua is high enough.”
Tomlinson was twisting a frazzled end of his hair, concentrating. “Then here’s what we know: This video was shot within a few minutes’ walking or driving distance of the international airport in Masagua. The room has to be nearby because the time window is so damn narrow. They buy the paper in or near the airport, return to the room, and start the camera going while it’s still early enough for a quetzal to be calling. Unless the bird’s behaving unusually—which birds sometimes do. Even so, it seems a reasonable conclusion.”
I said, “That’s the way I read it. I think the data’s strong enough to hold up. I think we can say with some certainty that slightly more than four days ago, Lake was being held in a building that was within a few minutes of the international airport in Masagua.”
Tomlinson added, “They also have to be in a structure near trees, don’t forget. Almost certainly tall trees. A cloud forest bird? A combination like that—all near an airport?” He sighed, pained by what we’d discovered. “Even stoned out of my gourd, if I’d had half an hour, even I coulda found him.”
OUTWARDLY, I was calm. Inside, though, I was seething. The Masaguan feds had seen this same video on Thursday morning, shortly after the CD was delivered. If they’d realized the importance of the bird call, figured out the significance, they could have sealed off all the likely housing around the airport, sent in a hostage rescue team, and my son might be safe right now.
In any hostage situation, abductors are at their most vulnerable in the earliest stages, before they’ve had time to calm down, reassess, and reorganize.
It would have been an ideal time to hit them.
I know because I’ve become a reluctant amateur expert not only on kidnapping, but kidnappings that take place in Latin America. I’ve been forced to learn because of events in my life, and because I’ve spent so much time living near equatorial lines.
Latin America is the most dangerous place in the world when it comes to that particular crime. More than six thousand people are abducted annually. In Colombia, it’s a tax-free, $200-million-a-year business. In Mexico, there are as many as two thousand kidnappings a year, with ransom demands ranging from five thousand dollars for common citizens up into the multimillions for bankers and businessmen.
Foreign executives who work in the oil and energy industries are favorite targets. Insurance agencies such as Chubb, Fireman’s Fund, and Lloyd’s of London now offer policies that underwrite ransom payments, medical treatment, and interpreters, and even continue to pay the salaries of the missing.
Premiums are not inexpensive.
Business? Kidnapping has become an international industry.
It was in Guatemala that kidnappers started a chilling, profitable trend. They began to abduct and ransom the children of wealthy locals and foreign workers. Payoffs became bigger, negotiations easier. The practice spread through Ecuador and Venezuela, where each country suffers about two hundred kidnappings a year.
Pilar’s country, Masagua, soon followed.
I’d heard and read so much about it and become concerned enough, slightly more than a year ago, to warn Lake in an e-mail. I told him why he was an obvious, high-risk target. Of far more value—now, at least, it seemed—I’d also included advice on how best to survive an abduction. The tips had been assembled for him by a friend of mine, a hostage negotiator who works for the State Department.
I’d sent the paper along with a note from me that read:
During these screwy times, everyone in the world should be prepared, and they should damn well know that:
• During a hijacking or hostage assault, the most dangerous phases are the first few minutes and—if there is a rescue attempt—the final few minutes. Anticipate what you should do before it happens so that you won’t panic if it happens.
• In the first minutes, terrorists are adrenaline-fogged and prone to irrational overreaction. This is when most hostages die. Remain calm. Avoid eye contact. No sudden, threatening movements.
• Do not struggle or try to escape unless success or your own death are certain.
• Aspire to be inconspicuous. Do not give your captors the impression that you are memorizing their facial features or keeping note of their actions.
• Talk normally. Don’t complain, don’t show anger. Follow all orders and instructions.
• If questioned, keep your answers short. Don’t stand out.
• If involved in a lengthy hostage situation, the opposite becomes true. It’s easier to kill an object than a human being. Make sure your captors know your name, the names of your family members. Establish a rapport.
• Remember that you are a valuable commodity to your captors. It’s important to them to keep you alive and well. Find a way to survive. Others have. You can, too.
All good advice. The kind that can save a life or lives. Trouble was, I knew there was a possibility that Lake hadn’t even read the damn thing. He’d certainly never made any specific references to the data in a reply e-mail.
Boys his age are bulletproof. Or think they are.
But maybe, just maybe, it’d helped him.
Even so, I was immensely thankful that I’d made the effort. Thankful because it took a bit of the sting out of the overwhelming guilt I felt. It was guilt that any parent would have experienced.
My child had been taken. Even though I’d anticipated the possibility, I wasn’t there to protect him when it happened.
Unforgivable.
It’s guilt that destroys us—one of Tomlinson’s favorite sayings.
Pilar felt the guilt, too. Of that, I was certain. And for good reason.
When I’d sent my warnings to Lake, I’d sent the same warnings to her. Our son was an obvious, high-risk target. Serious measures needed to be taken.
She’d never responded.
I’d yet to mention that to her.
I never would.
OH yeah, she was feeling it.
Pilar pressed a blinding hand over her eyes, moaned softly, and then I listened to her say, “I’m so sorry, Marion. It never crossed my mind that a noise in the background could be important.”
The bird call. She was still punishing herself for not zeroing in on the quetzal.
She added, “That morning, while I was watching this awful thing, Laken was just a few miles away? We could have sent in soldiers and saved him. Oh dear God. I feel terrible I didn’t understand . . .”
Tomlinson reached and put his big hand to her shoulder, communicating with touch—Don’t blame yourself. Victims should never blame themselves—but stuck to business, saying, “O.K., O.K. We’re done with the subject. There’s nothing more to learn from background noise. Let’s discuss other elements in the video.”
He watched me nod before saying, “So far, we both agree that Lourdes videoed this by himself. But I’m still thinking he had to have one or more accomplices.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the way Pilar describes it, your son was kidnapped from a place that’s downtown in a busy city. And from a building that was guarded. There almost had to be a driver. Don’t you think? Or a chopper maybe. Someone waiting to get away fast.”
I said, “O.K, I’ll go along with that.”
He turned to Pilar. “Do private planes fly in and out of the international airport?”
“Yes. Of course.”
I was looking at the moth on the screen, comparing it with photos in the book. The insect’s wingspan was massive—more than six inches. Finally, I found it: Ascalapha odorata, the Bruja Negra o
r Black Witch moth. An insect common to Central America—further confirmation that the video had been shot in the region.
I said, “That’s what I’m asking myself. Why would someone kidnap the son of a popular political figure, then head straight for a hideout close to the airport?”
Tomlinson was now allowing the video to play in slow motion—an eerie thing to watch—as he asked, “Does your ex-husband have enough political juice in neighboring countries to get passports for Lourdes and your son? Visas, I.D.s? I’m talking about credentials good enough so they could hop on a private plane and take refuge in another country. No way you can fly a kidnapped child out on a commercial plane, so that leaves military or private.”
I leaned close to study my son’s haunted eyes staring back at me, then focused upon the red welt that snaked up his arm. I’d dismissed the possibility of it being a burn. Now, though, I reconsidered.
As Pilar replied, “Yes, documents, passports, Balserio could get anything he wanted,” I looked across my laboratory sink at the Bunsen burner. I pictured the scalpel-blue flame it produced, then reviewed variations of propane torches.
A portable welder’s torch came to mind. They were cheap, easy to use, readily available even in Third World countries, and intimidating if used as a weapon—something that would appeal to a sociopath who liked fire.
I remembered Pilar saying that the fish in Lake’s main aquarium had been killed. Stick a welder’s torch in an aquarium, and the swim bladders of fish would soon explode, expanding in the super-heated water.
Son-of-a-bitch.
Lake had been burned. The wound seemed a defensive variety. People under attack throw their forearms up to protect their face.
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