Dan couldn’t argue with that. Finally, he did reach up and nonchalantly wipe his brow, then reached for a swallow of beer as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“So what can I help you with, Agent Winthrop?” he asked with hinted annoyance, “now that we know each other’s names, that is. I’ll confess to you right now I haven’t done anything in your purview since college. But then, it was the sixties. Everyone was doing it. And you could never arrest us all.”
The man nodded sagely. “That’s true. Still, things are different today, Mr. Proctor. Trust me. The crap that’s making its way to our streets and schools are things folks like you and me could only dream about. It’s not just pot anymore, or cocaine, or even heroin. There’s all kinds of new stuff out there, like methamphetamine and crack cocaine. Have you heard about that? It’s about as addictive a substance as we’ve seen. Cheap, too. And more of it is showing up in American cities every day, almost like it’s being funded by someone with very deep pockets. If that isn’t stopped, I’m telling you, it’s going to tear our society apart, ruin a lot of lives, and kill lots of people. It’ll breed gang violence and murder. I mean, just look at what’s happening down here.” He motioned with his chin toward the dead reporter. “Get used to that, because it’s coming our way.”
He stopped to snag his briefcase off the seat beside him and opened it. Pulling out a collection of photos, he handed the topmost to Dan and went on.
“Anyway, take a good look at this man. Have you ever seen him before?”
Dan took a hard look at the picture, a black and white eight by ten of a Hispanic man with black hair and a thick mustache.
“Can’t say I ever have, Agent Winthrop,” he replied, handing back the photo. “And I have to ask, what makes you think I would have?”
The agent raised his eyebrows. “I’m asking you, Mr. Proctor, because we have reason to believe that the man in that photo visited Senor Esquinaldo’s estate a few days ago. He has not been seen since.”
Dan took that in, deducing now at least why their paths had crossed. The man then handed him the rest of the photos.
“Take a look through these, if you would.”
Dan waded through the dozen or so other pictures, these of hard looking men with scars, and tattoos that appeared to be of the amateur jailhouse variety. Not recognizing a single one of them, he handed them back with a shrug.
“Sorry,” he said honestly. “Can’t help you with these either.”
The man pursed his lips and took back the photos, returning them to his briefcase. When the bartender chose that moment to come by, the DEA man waved his palm and the bartender took the hint.
“Look, Mr. Proctor,” the agent said. “I admit I have no idea how you got yourself mixed up with Esquinaldo or why you’re at his house. In any other circumstance, I might even say it’s none of my business. You’re clean as a whistle, as far as the U.S. government is concerned. There’s nothing in your record or background to indicate you’re involved with any illegal activities. You are current on your taxes. Near as we can tell, you live about as cheaply down here as anyone can.”
Dan’s mind whirled at the time and effort they’d made to check up on him. He also bookmarked the fact the man had said he came up clean with the government. It revealed instantly what he had always suspected, that his months of incarceration were totally off the books. It revealed as well that he could go home at any time.
The man closed his briefcase and arose from his chair. Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a business card and set it on the bar in front of Dan.
“Well, Mr. Proctor, it’s been nice talking to you. I will ask you this, though. Should you happen to see any of those men, do me a favor and call that number at the United States embassy. Just tell whoever picks up, ‘Forecast says rain,’ and I’ll get the message. Do you understand?”
Dan gawked stupidly at the man for a time, before answering with the first thing that came to mind. “Forecast says rain,” he replied, thinking it was about the dumbest thing he ever heard.
Hefting his briefcase, the tired man sent a parting nod his way before turning and heading toward the door. Dan watched him leave, having a thousand other questions, but understanding implicitly that the agent had told him everything he wanted him to know.
Left alone with his thoughts, Dan puzzled over the curious encounter, staring absently at the business card and forgetting all about his beer. When he finally did down the rest of it, he motioned the bartender for another, and while he was at it, he’d have another shot. In fact, make it a double.
4
The plane slipped soundlessly beneath the muddy water seconds after they abandoned it, abruptly silencing the screams of the doomed man and taking with it any evidence they’d been there at all. Dugan gauged they were about fifty yards from the nearest shore. The two started swimming toward it, and only then did Dugan realize via the force of the current that it wasn’t a lake they’d fallen into, but a river.
At about the halfway mark, swimming with mostly a clumsy one-handed dog paddle because of his bag, Dugan slowed to slip off his now sodden woolen coat which had become a sea anchor dragging him down. Even so, the water was as warm as the air above. Maybe, warmer. He found it almost comfortable. He smiled inside while spitting out some water to think that maybe he and his uncle had stopped too soon.
Dugan soon saw that Richards wasn’t swimming toward the clearing that might have provided them a less than disastrous landing strip, but was headed instead toward a crop of trees and thick foliage farther down the bank. When they were nearly upon it, Dugan understood why. With a rumbling thunder of heavy engines, a military jeep followed by a troop carrier screamed into the clearing and drove onto the bank of the river. A dozen uniformed, gun-wielding men stormed out of the vehicles just as the two reached that section of riverbank that would provide them cover.
Richards pursed his lips and raised his index finger to his mouth in the universal gesture of “Shh.” Dugan nodded his understanding.
From about twenty yards away, they heard clearly the shouted commands in Spanish from the military commander. Daring to lean forward for a better view, the two saw a mustached, bereted man in khakis standing knee deep in the water peering through binoculars across the river. Apparently, their arrival had not gone unnoticed.
Richards grabbed Dugan by the shoulder, and the two began moving as quickly and quietly as they could through the chest deep water, away from the clearing and the soldiers, using as handholds and for balance the jutting branches of trees and other plant life that stretched their way above the river.
It was slow going, and not just because of the water. The river bottom itself was ankle deep and above in a quicksand blend of gooey mud and decomposing plant life, relentlessly pulling at their legs and sucking them under, making every footstep an arduous slog. The two traveled about a mile this way, beneath a silvery luminant moon and a glittery starlit sky, until the water level lessened and they found themselves bestride a rocky, pebbled beach. Dugan followed Richards from the water, where only a few footsteps on the hard jagged stones revealed something each already suspected: they both had lost their shoes somewhere in the muck of river bottom.
Rushing toward the thicket of jungle beyond the beach, the two attempted to make up for time lost in the river by breaking into a half trot, keeping the river on their right while wending their way through wooded undergrowth and featureless jungle, leaping over and around the trunks of fallen trees. More than once Dugan heard an audible “Ouch” or worse expletive from the man ahead of him, from treading on a sharp root or other hazard. Dugan didn’t care about that. His superior vision and animal-like instincts helped ensure he maintained a proper footing. And any cuts or abrasions he might suffer from their nighttime run would all be healed as soon as tomorrow as if they’d never happened.
There was one thing on his mind, though. The past few days of travel, in conjunction with this evening’s grueling plod t
hrough the river, had taken its toll. Though he had made certain to feed well in the hours leading up to their visit with Esquinaldo, unsure what the dining arrangements might be in Mexico City, it was a fact that the more energy he expended, the more he needed to replenish himself. Typically, he fed every five to seven days, which was less often than those of his breed should take sustenance. He told himself he did it as an exercise in self-discipline.
Of greater concern, because he did not often avail himself of the proper source of nourishment truly needed to keep those of his kind in top condition, he needed to feed more often than the norm. And so, as Richards yet again issued a string of pungent epithets a few feet ahead of him as a result of stepping on something sharp, Dugan’s mind began fixating on just one thing. He was starting to get hungry.
About an hour later, they stumbled onto a small ravine surrounded by a thicket of low trees and shrubby undergrowth. The river was about twenty yards to their left. There seemed nothing but boundless jungle on their right. Spying a secluded burrow overhung by fallen logs and thick brush, Richards turned to Dugan and said, “We’ll stop here.”
Dugan nodded.
The two sidestepped their way down the incline and headed to the V-shaped corner of the gorge where the shelter was located. Crouching low to get inside the tight, narrow space, finding the ground within dry enough, Richards collapsed to the dirt and closed his eyes while catching his breath. Dugan ducked in behind and sprawled out, tossing his bag to the dirt.
After another moment, Richards sat up on his elbows and looked Dugan’s way. “Whose idea was this, anyway?” he asked.
Dugan smirked and shook his head, peering out the entrance of their lair to see just a sliver of dark river flowing through the cover of a dense grove of mango trees. From his last glimpse of the moon, he made a rough estimate it was about three-thirty in the morning.
“What was it?” Dugan asked. “That brought down the plane, I mean.”
Richards rubbed his chin consideringly.
“I’m thinking it was a surface to air missile. Probably shoulder mounted, most likely a Russian-made SAM-7. Strela, they call them. Means ‘arrow.’ Didn’t quite hit the mark, though, did it?. Detonated too soon. Otherwise, we’d have been toast. Then again, we were a low target. Those things could take down a jetliner at cruising altitude.”
Dugan recalled the now dead Marine’s unshakable belief in the primacy of American weapons.
“I guess all their stuff isn’t shit, huh?” he asked derisively. When Richards let the remark pass, Dugan asked, “You think they saw us go in?”
“Well, they know we were here,” Richards replied. “Of that, we can be certain. As for us ditching, it doesn’t look like there was anyone around to see it. It could just be those soldiers got a radio call from further upstream about being on the lookout for us. It does seem probable someone might’ve heard something. They were close enough. Then again, the thick jungle might’ve muffled it some. Probably shielded them from seeing any explosions too. So I’d say, if luck is with us, they were just going through the motions back there, checking things out and looking busy before going on their merry way. That’s about the best we can hope for. Stepped up patrols will tell us for sure.”
Richards’ answer prompted Dugan to ask another question. “Speaking of that,” he said. “Where the hell are we?”
Before he answered, Richards gazed studiously at him as if taking his measure. When apparently satisfied, he reached into his bag and pulled something out. When he began unfolding it, Dugan knew it was a map.
Reaching once more into his bag, he pulled out a small flashlight and flicked it on. Sticking it in his mouth, he pointed it down onto the paper.
Dugan saw it was a color map of Central America. Richards grazed his flashlight across it before focusing its thin beam somewhere in the north central highlands of Nicaragua, about a hundred or so miles south of the Honduran border. The dense green shading where the narrow shaft focused revealed they had come down in a lightly populated area, if it was populated at all, Dugan thought. There were no towns or large cities anywhere within a hundred miles in any direction. However, Dugan did see a veiny blue streak running along their vicinity that he knew immediately was the river they had crashed in. The river seemed to go on a long, long way.
Looking up at him, Richards mumbled, “Welcome to Nicaragua, kid.” Taking the flashlight from his mouth, he shut it off and then started folding the map.
While contemplating that information, Dugan looked away. When he shifted his gaze back toward Richards, he noticed a red stain marked his lower right pant leg. The bottom of his khaki pants were ripped, no doubt a casualty of their recent jog. Inside the torn fabric he saw the man’s pale, white flesh, and noted he had cut himself rather badly. A long, nasty scrape ran down his leg. Fresh blood was even now seeping from the shin-high laceration, dripping down his ankle and being wasted on the earth below.
“Fuck, I’m starving,” Richards complained suddenly.
Unconsciously keeping his gaze fixed on Richards’ leg, Dugan answered.
“Me too.”
Realizing straightaway it had come out with perhaps too much longing, he lifted his head and found Richards staring back. His brow was furrowed. He had his head cocked to one side while staring inquiringly at Dugan, who understood then that he had heard it too. Plastering on a smile, Richards reached down without subtlety and closed up his pant leg.
Letting out a slight cackle, Dugan returned a smile of his own and then winked before getting up onto all fours. Lifting his head, he narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air a long moment. Within it were smells of the jungle: the saturated, dank smell of the river; rain soaked tropical leaves; the musk of nightshade; the swampy vapor of far off carrion. But enfolded within those delicate fragrances he detected another, and as soon as he had it isolated, he smiled.
Turning to Richards, he asked, “Can you light a fire?”
Richards nodded. Dugan returned the nod.
“Back soon,” he said.
Within the blink of an eye, Richards found himself turning his head left and right and then back to where Dugan had just been. He was alone.
Chapter Five
1
It took Dan only two more beers to finally work up the courage to get off his stool and make his exit from the lobby bar. As soon as he stood, he heard a shouted call from behind.
“Senor,” it said. “Un momento, por favor.” Turning, Dan saw the bartender coming his way. “I have been asked to give you this,” he said.
Dan’s antenna went up. “By who?” he asked, glancing around the increasingly crowded space.
The bartender pointed to one of the tables. “That gentleman sitting over–” He broke off when he saw the table was empty. Abashed, he looked Dan’s way. “I am so sorry, senor. He was only just there. Perhaps he has gone to the gentleman’s room?”
“Perhaps,” Dan replied icily, snatching the paper from the bartender’s outstretched hand and not sticking around to find out.
Christ, I should have just stayed home, he thought miserably, exiting the hotel by way of the same side door he had entered from. Not that side doors accorded any level of anonymity, he remembered. Jesus. I just wanted to have a goddamned drink like a civilized person and stare at the mural and suddenly I find myself in a Graham Greene novel.
Still stewing, once on the sidewalk he remembered the paper in his hand. He thought about just tearing it up and walking away. Then, he thought it might be something from that DEA agent, though what it could possibly have to do with him, he couldn’t say.
He took a few steps before, against his better judgment, he opened the folded piece of paper and glanced down at it. Written inside were the words:
846 Calle Ocho
It was an address, he understood, and one that was just around the corner. Eighth Street intersected the Zocolo only a few blocks away. He had passed it by just this morning. And hell, it was where he planned to go anyway to fin
d a taxi to take him home. He started walking in that direction.
At the intersection, he turned onto Calle Ocho, going past upscale restaurants with outside dining, a bakery, a coffee shop and a couple of bodegas, before finding himself at 846 and seeing it was a tiny, hole-in-the-wall bar. Taking a deep breath, wondering just what the hell he was getting himself into, he went inside.
There were only a smattering of people in the place, none of whom turned their head when he walked in. The fuzzy color television on the far wall was tuned to a soccer match. Glancing first toward the rows of empty tables, he looked next to the booths and saw a young girl standing beside one and looking his way. Peering around once more to confirm no one else had any interest in him, he walked toward her. Not more than twenty, she had auburn hair and expressive brown eyes and wore bookish glasses. Light-skinned, she appeared to favor her Spanish ancestry over her native heritage. She had a dead serious look on her face when he arrived.
“Thank you so much for coming, senor,” she said, seeming genuinely grateful while gesturing him to have a seat. “I wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t.”
“Almost didn’t,” Dan replied truthfully.
While sitting down, he noticed on the table beneath a stenographer’s notepad was a medium-thick, wrinkled and stained manila folder.
The girl slid into the seat opposite him, staring with open and perceptive eyes as if taking his measure.
Less annoyed than he had been, he still asked, “What the hell is this about?” Remembering something else, he took another sneaking glance around the place before asking, “And where’s the other guy? The bartender said a man passed the note.”
Chagrined, the girl looked down. “Forgive the ruse, senor. I asked a man who was leaving to give the note to the bartender for your attention. I thought you would take it more seriously if it were coming from someone other than me.”
Dan didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care.
Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between Page 8