Torreno stared at him darkly. “None of it can be proven.”
Driscoll finally broke his silence then. “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Torreno.” He was staring down, his hands clasped in a thoughtful manner. When he glanced up at Torreno, his face seemed avuncular, reassuringly wise. “But, you see, we’re here to help you, and unless you’re willing to speak frankly with us, we’re not going to be able to accomplish what’s necessary.”
“And what is that?” Torreno asked. It was less a demand than a question. Please, let this work, Deal found himself praying. He waited, almost afraid to breathe, for Driscoll’s reply.
Driscoll waved his hands in a placating gesture. “Mr. Torreno, I deal in security.” He gave him a reassuring smile. “There are none of us, all the way to the top, who are exactly what you’d call naive. We understand what’s involved in achieving a position of power, and in maintaining that position.” He glanced over at Deal. “We also understand that people in a desperate situation may be forced into actions that those in more comfortable positions find it easy to criticize.”
Deal tried not to stare. He’d never heard Driscoll approach articulate status before. “But what’s most important to us,” he cut in, “is that there be a smooth transition in your country once Castro is gone. Given your position within the exile community, you can be of tremendous help to us. You’ll control the most important cash resource in the country. You’ll lend stability to the political process.”
Torreno watched them carefully, his eyes going back and forth from Deal to Driscoll, his expression beginning to soften as Deal larded it on.
Driscoll nodded in tune to Deal’s speech, stepped in adroitly on his pause. “But you know all this, Mr. Torreno. What we need to know is what you’ve actually done. So we can make sure nothing—I mean nothing—ever sees the light of day. You’re our man. We want you to be absolutely safe.”
His moon-shaped face was absolutely benign as he stared into Torreno’s eyes. Here was the protector everyone dreamed of, Deal thought, the wise and kindly uncle who only wanted the best for you, the man with the thick fingers to chuck under your chin…and the strength to kick the living shit out of the baddest bully on the block, reach into his chest and tear his heart out bare-handed, if it came to that.
Driscoll’s whole being seemed to radiate that promise: Come on in close, let me put my great big arm around you, you won’t have to worry about a thing. Deal marveled at the transformation. Every fiber in the big cop’s body had to be steeped in loathing for the man in front of them, and yet somehow he’d transformed that energy into a beam of radiant goodwill.
“We can discount much of what’s in here,” Deal said, indicating the manuscript. “But if there are records that support the charges of financial irregularities…”
Torreno broke in. “I destroyed them myself.”
Deal stared, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. He forced himself not to look at Driscoll.
But then Torreno gathered himself. “They were forgeries, of course. The foundation had employed an accountant, a traitor. He came to me with documents he’d created, accused me of embezzling funds meant for la revolución.”
“What did you do?” Driscoll asked. Something splashed in the water behind them. Deal heard a sucking sound, like something being pulled down a clogging drain.
“I paid him,” Torreno said. “A foolish mistake. He delivered what he said were the only copies of these documents, disappeared, and then, later”—he waved his hand dismissively at the manuscript under Deal’s arm—“this assemblage of lies came to my attention.”
He was either incapable of telling the truth or was determined to protect himself to the bitter end, Deal thought. Whichever it was, he was like some slithering creature it was impossible to catch. The moment you thought you had him, he twisted away.
“There’s another problem,” Driscoll said. “There’s an intelligence operative who’s mentioned in the book; he makes allegations that you actually cut a deal with Castro…”
“Outrageous lies.” Torreno’s eyes were flashing. “There is no such operative. He’s a figment of a madman’s imagination…”
“His name is Anthony Everett,” Driscoll said. “At least that’s the name he used when he worked with you.” Driscoll’s demeanor had shifted suddenly. He’d gone from good cop to bad cop in an instant.
“Don’t bullshit us, Mr. Torreno. We know who Anthony Everett is, for Chrissakes. We sent him to you. The question is, where is he now? If you know the slightest goddamned thing, you better speak up now.”
He gestured at Deal, who held his breath as he listened to Driscoll running their bluff. “This man here says the word back in Washington, you’re history. You understand me? Your whole frigging deal is history.”
The two men stared at one another for a moment. Deal heard an unearthly howl from somewhere deep in the forest that stretched out beyond the lake.
“He is dead,” Torreno said finally.
Deal flinched at the words. He was finding it hard to concentrate as Torreno continued.
“He died off the coast of Cuba, assisting the valiant efforts of a band of freedom fighters.”
“Excuse my French, Mr. Torreno, but you’re full of more shit than a Christmas turkey,” Driscoll said. “We have it on good authority that this Anthony Everett’s right here in South Florida, ready to blow the whistle on your whole operation.”
It stopped him, all right. Driscoll had played their last card, and it had stopped him. But the question was, would it carry? Torreno had turned to stare off over the water in the direction of the echoing howl.
“What did this man know about you, Mr. Torreno?” Deal persisted. “Tell us what he’s got, so we can make a proper evaluation. Otherwise”—Deal shook his head—“I’m afraid…”
Torreno turned upon him, his face composed. “What this man knew is of no consequence, Mr. Ferrington.” He glanced bitterly at Driscoll. “In fact, he was here, threatening me, threatening all of us. But now he is dead.”
“He’s in a hospital…” Deal heard himself say.
“No, Mr. Ferrington,” Torreno said flatly. “He is dead. Trust me.”
Deal swung his gaze to Driscoll. Driscoll ignored him, his own eyes on Torreno.
“How do you know this?” Driscoll said, his voice thick, resolute.
“It is done,” Torreno said. “You must trust me.”
Deal stared at Driscoll, waiting for some sign of confirmation. Was it enough? Had the man said enough?
Torreno picked up a phone mounted near the bar, punched a few buttons. “Coco,” he said into the receiver.
“Is he returned?” He paused, staring at Driscoll. “Good,” he said finally. “Send him to me.”
As Driscoll turned to him, Deal could see the old self mustering itself, ready to burst through the façade of their playacting. Deal’s mind was reeling. Tommy. They’d left him lying there in a hospital bed, helpless.…Deal felt himself swinging between rage and guilt, his hands knotting as he stared at Torreno.
He heard a door close softly somewhere behind them, then the sound of footsteps moving along a gravel path. He turned as the man stepped out of the shadows and came toward them. He was tall and gaunt, moving with the lope of a rangy animal, like a dog that had been beaten into a permanent cower. And those are the dangerous ones, Deal found himself thinking as the man moved into the circle of light that the flickering lanterns threw.
When he saw the ruined face, he knew his thought was true: it was a ruin, unsightly enough in its cadaverousness, made worse by the years of disdain the world must have reflected back at it. And the eyes. The eyes were the worst. They stared at Deal with the same impersonal calculation an animal might cast on its prey. Deal had seen bigger men. He had seen violent men. He had never seen a more frightening man.
“The man who would not die, Coco,” Torreno said. “Tell them what has happened to him.”
Coc
o had not taken his eyes off Deal.
“It is all right, Coco,” Torreno said. “We are among friends.”
Coco still did not answer. He lifted his hand, pointing a long finger at Deal. “I know this man,” he said.
And then Deal knew they were lost.
“Excuse me,” Torreno said, sudden concern on his face.
“It was his building,” Coco said. “The apartment building…”
Torreno turned, astonished. “Deal?” he said. “Your name is Deal…?”
He lunged toward the bar, and Driscoll’s hand went into his jacket. In the same instant, Coco spun toward Driscoll, a blade flashing in his hand.
Without thinking, Deal snatched up one of the flickering kerosene lanterns from the bar and heaved it at Coco. The glass shade shattered and flames exploded, flames that rolled down the length of Coco’s back.
Coco straightened, a man suddenly bathed in fire, his hands flaring straight upward, his fingertips spitting molten blue light. He stood there, wavering, a beacon, a pillar of fire. Flames leapt from his outstretched fingers into the dry palm leaves that formed the low thatched roof of the pavilion.
Driscoll had his pistol out now, was backpedaling from the flaming creature that staggered toward him. He turned back to the bar just as a shot rang out. The ex-cop clutched at his chest, firing a shot from his own pistol. He gave Deal an instant’s hopeless look and went over backward.
To Deal, it all seemed to happen in slow motion. Coco tottered in an agonized circle, his hands waving out some semaphore message from Hell. Driscoll’s legs struggled, drew themselves up under him as if he might somehow rise, then fell slack. The servant who’d been behind the bar stared down at a widening circle of blood in the middle of his white vest, then slumped over.
Torreno stared from behind the bar, pistol upraised, as if he had turned to stone himself.
And that was the moment, Deal sensed. The moment where he might have acted. Might have vaulted over the bar in some hero’s leap, wrested the pistol from Torreno, ended things the way they should have been ended.
It wasn’t that he lacked the will. He would have done it, taken a bullet on the way, if that’s what it would have meant. But it was like being in a car skidding out of control, one part of yourself perched on your own shoulder, offering advice to a body that has gone as dumb as death itself.
As quickly as he had sensed it, the moment had passed him by. Torreno turned toward him then, bringing the pistol up, pointing it toward him, firing in the same motion…
Only the man’s urgency to kill, to shoot without aiming, had saved Deal’s life. Deal heard the explosion as he dove behind one of the tables. He slid across the cobbled floor of the pavilion, past Driscoll’s feet, another shot tearing a gouge in the pavement by his face. Fragments of tile tore into his cheek like buckshot. The flames were racing through the dry thatched roof now.
He saw Driscoll’s .38 on the rough stones a yard away and lunged out for it. Another shot rang out, and another, and he heard a groan above the roar of the flames. The shots, intended for Deal, took Coco squarely as he reeled blindly across the room. His back and head were still a mass of flames, the front of his shirt now soaked in blood. His feet stuttered aimlessly past Deal’s outstretched hand, kicked the .38 across the tiles toward the water.
Deal scrambled to his knees and dove for the pistol as it slid over the edge. He got his hand on it, fumbled at its stubby barrel. He felt its cold weight in his fingers, and for one brief second thought it was his. Then it slipped from his grasp and fell into the dark water.
Coco staggered past him, so tall he hit the wooden railing at thigh level. Out of balance now, he flipped on over in an acrobat’s move, disappearing in a whirl of fire. There was a hissing sound as his body hit the water. Then there was a frenzy as the lake’s surface came alive with thrashing fins and that terrible sucking sound.
Coco’s arm raised once, clawing toward the sky, then sank beneath the boiling water. Deal felt a searing pain in the back of his leg, felt his flesh erupt even before the sound of the shot echoed in his ears. For a moment he thought he would lose consciousness. He felt an iciness race through him, saw nothing but bright pinging lights and blackness.
Then he was on his side, his vision coming back, but bleary. Two Torrenos seemed to be coming at him: one tiny man who appeared very far away, along with another mirroring the tiny one’s movements. This second Torreno was huge, looming, and the pistol he was pointing at Deal seemed as big as a cannon.
Torreno was careful this time, planting his feet squarely, bracing his back against the railing, bringing his other hand to steady the pistol so there would be no mistake. Deal struggled to get his feet under him, but one leg stuck out at an odd angle, refusing to cooperate.
So this was how it would end, Deal thought. He wondered how it would all be explained. Janice and Isabel. What would they be told? Some lie that would make it seem like Deal and Driscoll were the true criminals? Or were they even worthy of any explanation? Maybe they would simply disappear, buried in the bowels of the Everglades forever?
Deal had drawn his good leg under him now, had struggled to one knee. He stared up, his vision wavering. The two Torrenos swirled farther apart momentarily, then rushed together into one. And that one was smiling, enjoying Deal’s efforts. He waited for Deal to bring his face up into the light, thrust the pistol forward, and pulled the trigger.
Pulled again. And again. He turned the weapon over, staring stupidly at it, wondering. He was still staring at the gun when Deal came up off the floor, ignoring the pain in his ruined leg, taking Torreno with his shoulder.
The blow caught Torreno by surprise, striking him solidly on the chest. He staggered back against the railing, the empty pistol skittering away as his hands fought for purchase. He balanced there for an instant, his face a mask of panic as he willed his weight back toward land.
Deal caught hold of the railing, threw himself forward with his last fragment of will. His fist caught Torreno’s cheek flush, just as he was coming forward, back toward safety.
Maximum resistance, Deal was thinking…and then he fell back, his own face cracking off the decking. He’d hit a golf ball like that once. One perfect shot. That seemed good enough for a lifetime. What were the chances of two?
Deal was prone now, sinking toward the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Torreno go over the rail, hit the water with a cry. The man flailed about, seemed to propel himself upward for an instant, headed desperately back toward the overhang of the deck. If he made it, Deal thought, there’d be nothing he could do. Already his senses were closing down. The heat of the blazing roof was fading, the sounds of Torreno’s struggles had gone dim, his own shattered leg was a numb memory.
Torreno had one hand at the railing now, was hauling himself up onto the deck, some awful eel-like creature thrashing at his face, its teeth locked into his flesh like something out of a nightmare.…
Goodbye and so long, the old college try, Deal was thinking, his vision going in and out…
And then he saw it—thinking it might be a dream at first—a hand rising impossibly up from the water. Coco’s grisly hand, Deal realized, a charred ruin risen up from the deep, and now there would be two men to finish him…
…when the charred fingers locked at Torreno’s throat, locked and squeezed and pulled Torreno over backward. And then there was nothing but frenzied water and darkness.
Chapter 46
“There’s somebody here to see you,” a voice said.
Deal blinked awake. He saw the smiling face of the nurse wavering into focus above him. She had the bed control in hand, her finger on the button that was cranking him to a sitting position, never mind if he’d said whether it was okay or not. For a moment he thought it might be the middle of the night, then saw a square of sunlight on the wall beside his bed.
“Who is it?” he managed, drawing a breath as a jolt of pain took him. They had cas
t his leg all the way from his toes to his hip, leaving cutouts for bolts at his knee and his ankle. A series of cables connected him to a traction machine that looked like it had come from a medieval dungeon. Sleep came rarely these days, and he was not happy to have it snatched from him.
“You’ll see,” the nurse said, cheerily disregarding his mood.
Deal stared out past the network of cables. There was a muffled clanking sound as a pair of hands clutching a walker appeared in the doorway…and then he saw her.
Janice stood in the doorway staring back at him, the bandages gone from her face. Her hair had become a bona fide crew cut by now, even edging over the bandages that still covered her ears. Her eyes, bright with fear, with anticipation, followed his gaze.
“They take a while, Deal,” she said. Her voice faltered. “The ears, I mean. The doctor says they’ll be fine, though. He’s going to do them like Debra Winger’s. She’s got the greatest ears, don’t you think?”
Deal swallowed. “Could you come over here?” he said.
She moved toward him hesitantly, the walker making skittish little sounds on the polished floor. She stood above him now, tears streaking her still swollen cheeks.
“This eye,” she said, pointing. “It has this little droop. I think it’s there to stay.”
“You’re beautiful,” he said, fighting the raspiness in his throat. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
She stared at him silently.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, lying here,” he said.
She nodded uncertainly.
“Did I ever tell you about my old man?” he said.
She looked at him strangely. “A million stories,” she said. “He was that kind of guy.”
“This is a different one,” he said. “Actually, it’s more about me. About us.”
She shook her head, still unsure. Her hand went absently to her face, traced the new skin there.
“But it can wait,” he said, struggling to raise himself. “I love you, Janice. That’s the important thing.”
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