Lockestep

by Jack Barnao

  "I didn't expect it, not really. I was thinking maybe I should charter something fast and go looking for him. We told his wife to lay in food and drink enough for days. He could head right down to Colombia the way he's provisioned."

  Thurlbeck backed up and turned his van. “This guy a good sailor, would you say?” he asked over his shoulder.

  "Sailor?” I realized what he was getting at and brightened. “No mention of it in the briefing they gave me in Toronto. And all I've seen them do is motor."

  He eased back out onto the cobbled street, waving at the cop on the corner. “Well, if he's a sailor, he could make Colombia okay, but if he's just motoring, he won't be that far. Likely gone into one of the bays lower down the coast. He's gonna need fuel, diesel, likely."

  I slapped my hands together. “Then he'll have to stop in some town farther down the coast. Great, we can chase him down."

  Thurlbeck cleared his throat. “It's fifty miles to the next town. He wouldn't motor all that way. My guess is he'd put into the next bay down the coast. There's no town, but the locals have a truck, they'd go get him gasoline if he paid them."

  "Where would that be? La Playa Blanca?"

  Thurlbeck glanced back at me over his shoulder. “Yeah. You know the area pretty good."

  "I know that place, I was there once.” La Playa Blanca, the white beach, a small bay with an island covered with birds and guano. A group of locals lived on the beach in typical back-country houses, fishing the brackish lagoons and catering to the very few gringos who got that far, bird-watchers mostly. They were remote enough that none of them spoke English at all. I had spent a day there once with my family as a kid, when my mother was going through her short-lived bird-watching phase.

  Thurlbeck turned left down a side street past the church with its open front. “Just be a minute, sit tight,” he said.

  He got out, leaving the door ajar. I wondered if he was religious, looking for peace before setting out to tackle Amadeo, but he was back within moments carrying a big brown paper bag.

  "Dulces,” he explained. “Candies. Terrible garbage, y'ask me, but this stall by the church does land-office business, the local kids love ’em."

  "Who're they for?"

  He slammed the door and drove off, picking up speed down the quiet street and turning right at the end, heading back up through town toward the highway he had driven the day before. “The niños up at Playa Blanca. Fay always made a helluva fuss of ’em. They're living on fish an’ hope, they never see treats.” He cleared his throat. “She was big on kids. We had three of our own, got five grandchildren now. Just give me the chance, an’ I'll bring out the photographs."

  I said nothing, and he glanced back at me and laughed. “Got you worried, huh? Young buck like you. Likely makin’ out with everything that moves."

  I didn't answer, and he shook his head and laughed. “You need to be married to know what it's all about. Living it up is good. I did a lot of that.” He paused and added, “A helluva lot, in France and Germany. Then I got back to Britain, and Fay was waiting, so we got married and that was it. Forty good years."

  Abruptly he realized where his thoughts were leading him, so he shut up and turned on the radio. I sat and listened to the mariachi beat while he drove north, then turned off on a small side road, not much bigger than the trail Amadeo and I had walked the previous day. He had to slow down to about ten miles an hour, and still we bumped and heaved over rocks. I called out. “Okay if I come up front?"

  "Sure. Just lay low again if we see any strange cars in there. I'll know, watch me."

  It was more comfortable in front, and I looked around at the barren fields that had been slashed and burned. Now they were fenced in with two strands of barbed wire between the odd-shaped posts that are the only thing available in Mexico, where they can't grow conveniently straight cedars like we do at home. And then we came out into a coconut grove with piles of yellow husks under all the trees and splashes of white insect repellent around the boles, and at the end of it saw a cluster of rough shanties and a small area covered over with thinly laid thatch.

  "That's the bar area. You can rent a hamaca an’ kick back, or you can swim and fish and drink beer. Nice place,” he said. He looked all around. “Their old truck's gone, no other cars. Good."

  We pulled up under the shade and a crowd of kids ran up, the tiny bright-eyed Mexican children that fill you with their energy just by watching them. An elderly woman came out from behind the low brick barbecue that was burning with a row of good-sized fish on it. She smiled a toothless smile and held out both arms. Thurlbeck got out of the car and embraced her, chatting rapidly in Spanish. Then he turned back to the van as I got out. “Mi amigo, Juan,” he said, and the old lady smiled and shook hands.

  I said, “Buenos días, señora, cómo está usted?” Good day, how are you? My whole store of Spanish courtesies spent in one sentence.

  "Muy bien, gracias, señor.” She smiled again. The kids had all clustered around her, and Thurlbeck reached into the car and came up with his bag of goodies. They started chattering instantly, and he handed the bag to the woman, who thanked him and started handing out the sticky candies to the kids, who jigged from foot to foot waiting their turns.

  "Makes me feel like Santy Claus,” he said cheerfully. He grinned, a big happy copper out of uniform. I wondered what I'd done to deserve his help. Fate only favors fools and drunks, I thought. Maybe I'm more of a fool than I'd figured.

  He talked to the woman for a couple of minutes more. She asked him about his wife, I made out the word “esposa,” and he broke the news. She wept briefly, and he patted her on the shoulder and spoke to her, and she went over to their cooler and pulled out a Tecate beer and a soda. He handed the beer to me and then said, “There's a pair of good glasses behind my seat, go get ’em, see if the boat's around."

  I got the glasses and walked out almost to the edge of the clearing. There was no need to go all the way. Out in the bay, between us and the white rock, a sailboat was rocking at anchor. A catboat. I focused the glasses and checked the stern. Bingo. Juanita.

  Thurlbeck looked up over the old woman's head as I came back, and I nodded. He grinned and then started speaking rapid Spanish to her. She answered, and he beamed and then asked her another question and she left.

  "She's gone to find us a boat an’ one o’ her grandsons to take us out there. Looks like your boy got in at first light, lay at anchor for a while, then came ashore and asked to be driven to the gas station."

  "How far is it? And how long ago?"

  "It's back at the edge of town. First one you come to the other way is twenty miles."

  "You think he'd risk going back to town?"

  "I'd doubt it.” His accent made the ou sound a soft coo. “Last thing he needs is people on his trail. My guess is he'd go farther on, away from trouble."

  "Did you ask the señora if he was carrying a straw bag, like yesterday?"

  "She said he was. A beach basket like los Indios sell on the beach at Zihua."

  I frowned. “Then maybe he's not coming back. He could just take the truck and make a run for it."

  Thurlbeck pondered that one. “Could be you're right. The best thing we can do is check the boat, talk to his lady. That's why I asked Consuela to get us a boat."

  "Makes sense. If she wasn't expecting him back, she'd be long gone. She's a capable woman, handles the boat just fine on her own."

  Consuela came back through the trees and chattered to Thurlbeck, who thanked her. “Boat's coming out to the edge of the lagoon. Let's get over there."

  We waited at the water's edge, and a young man came down the lagoon in a broad old flat-bottomed rowboat. He grinned when he saw Thurlbeck and pulled up to us. We got in and Thurlbeck shook his hand. “Luis? Sí?” he asked, and the young guy grinned and nodded. Then I was introduced as Juan and shook hands, and the boatman shoved his oar into the sand and pushed us away from the beach.

  The boat ducked and dipped as we r
ounded the corner of the lagoon and moved into the bay, rolling on the incoming tide that was curling up onto the beach. I sat back in the stern, keeping low, as much behind the rower as I could. If Maria had any fuel left, she could start up and motor away before we could row two hundred yards. And I kept my glasses on the boat, staring at the ports on our side, checking for anxious faces looking out. Nothing. Maybe they had spent the night making up for lost loving and Maria was still sleeping. Maybe.

  She didn't come up on deck as we approached the boat, but I kept my hand inside my jacket, resting on the handle of the Colt as the boatman pulled up to the stern and Thurlbeck reached up and grabbed the steel line that served as a rail. “You first, an’ keep your eyes open,” he said.

  I stood up and stepped past the boatman, who had shipped his oars and was also holding the rail. It was a longish heave up to the deck but I sprang and pulled myself up and over the rail in one move and down onto the rear deck. Still nobody moved, and I stood for a moment, staring down into what I could see of the cabin, drawing the .38. Then I vaulted down the steps and inside. And I saw why Maria hadn't been looking out for us.

  Seventeen

  She'd been beaten, pistol-whipped by the look of it. Both eyes were swollen closed, and her fine black hair was matted with blood, but she was alive. Just. I knelt and found the pulse in her throat. It was faint but regular.

  "In here,” I shouted, and Thurlbeck pattered down the steps and joined me.

  I guess cops are used to violence; he didn't gasp or swear or do anything unproductive, the way most people would in the same circumstances. He just stooped down and looked at her injuries. “She alive?” was all he asked.

  "Yes, the pulse is still in business."

  "Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin',” he said. “We better get her to a hospital, pronto."

  I lifted her head, gently, checking that her neck was uninjured. It seemed to be, so I picked her up in my arms and carried her out onto the deck.

  "This is gonna be tricky,” Thurlbeck said. “I'll get in the boat an’ you lower her over the rail. Be easier if you keep her vertical."

  "Right.” I lowered Maria to the bench beside the wheel and then put my arms around her chest, one hand behind her head, and stood her up as if we were going to dance. She wasn't heavy, but her body was lifelessly limp, and it was difficult to step up onto the bench, then to the deck, then over the rail.

  Luis stared at her in horror and almost lost his grip of the yacht rail, but Thurlbeck spoke to him comfortingly, and he swallowed hard and hung on while I lowered Maria into Thurlbeck's arms, then vaulted down beside him and helped him lower her to the flat bottom of the boat.

  Thurlbeck said, “This is getting complex. We gotta take her to the hospital, but that bastard could get away on us while we're gone."

  "I can fix that.” I pulled myself back aboard and dropped down to the cabin. The boat was a Nonsuch, and I knew where the fuel filter was located, behind a panel under the cabin steps. I removed them and unscrewed the nut that held the filter in place. A gout of diesel fuel ran out into the bilge, then stopped. I took the glass bowl of the filter with me. Amadeo was stranded without it. I climbed over the gap where the steps had been and jumped into the boat. Luis pulled on the oars like an Olympic hopeful, and we hurtled toward the beach like a landing craft. As soon as we hit the sand, he jumped out and towed us up as high as the incoming wave would carry us; then he hovered at my elbow as I cradled Maria again and Thurlbeck jogged ahead to his van. He drove it closer to the beach, as far as the edge of the trees, where the footing was still firm. Then he opened the side door and lowered the bed. I put her on it, smoothing down the hem of her dress that had flopped up, uncovering her brown thighs.

  Thurlbeck spoke to Luis, who nodded grimly and turned away to talk to the old woman. “I've warned them about your good buddy,” Thurlbeck told me. “They have a gun somewhere, an old shotgun, they'll keep it handy in case they need it, but I've told them to go along with him, not to argue, he's a mean bastard.” He reversed the van and spun around. “Keep her as comfortable as you can, I'm gonna get us out as fast as I dare."

  "If you see their truck coming back with Amadeo in it, just pull over and let him go,” I said, then sat on the edge of the bed, ready to make sure Maria didn't bounce around when we hit the rough part of the track.

  "He ain't coming back.” Thurlbeck shook his head without looking around. “He'll likely hijack the truck, or buy it, maybe, if he's feeling generous, and he's gone. We're too late."

  Maria groaned as if she was taking her cue from Thurlbeck's gloom. “She comin’ ‘round?” he asked, not turning his head.

  "Could be. That's the first sign of life we've had out of her."

  "I hope the hell she does,” he said. “We could be in a mess of trouble, two gringos bringing in a pistol-whipped girl. They're liable to think we did it."

  "I thought of that, but we couldn't leave her aboard to die."

  "I know,” Thurlbeck said. “Should maybe have brought Consuela along. She could tell them about Amadeo, keep the local yokels from snappin’ at our ass."

  He slowed to pick his way over a deeply rutted spot in the trail, then said, “Maybe the best thing is I go in there. I still got accreditation from Flagstaff. It's bullshit, they gave me my badge to keep when I retired. That and a new set of birding glasses. But it makes me look legit. Meanwhile, you take the van an’ head up the highway to the gas station."

  I looked at him and shook my head silently at my good fortune. I've worked with a lot of nationalities in my time, but the casual generosity of ordinary Americans is something that never fails to stagger me. Here the guy was willing to lend me his home while he dealt with a bunch of suspicious coppers in a strange country. “If you don't mind. I'll head up there and find out which way he's gone. I appreciate the offer."

  "Yeah, well, just don't leave me hanging by my thumbs. I live here,” he said and gave a short gruff laugh.

  Maria groaned again and opened her eyes, then stirred, moving her hand up to her face. “She's waking up now,” I said. “You want me to drive while you talk to her? She won't be talking English if she speaks."

  "No. I know the way to the hospital. You tell her ‘Vamos al hospital,’ that should hold her."

  Maria was struggling to focus, and she turned her head and concentrated her eyes on me. I noted that her pupils were both the same size. That was a good sign; it indicated that she didn't have a concussion. Then when she recognized me, she gave a little scream and covered her face with her hands.

  My Spanish isn't up to more than ordering a few beers or giving the courtesies. I couldn't tell her I wasn't the bogeyman and I hadn't come back from a watery grave, so I just repeated Thurlbeck's words over and over as if I were talking to a child, “Vamos al hospital,” until she started to believe me and lowered her hands and stared at me.

  "Lo creia muerto,” she said. I thought you were dead.

  "I'm a good swimmer.” I grinned at her to show it was all good, clean fun and made swimming motions. She shook her head and rattled out a quick sentence that included the word “manos."

  "I untied the knots with my teeth,” I said, and mimicked the action I had made so frantically the night before. I was starting to feel like a Limey tourist on his first trip overseas. Speak clearly and loudly, and the poor benighted heathens will understand. After a while she remembered that she spoke English, and she started asking questions just as I was about to ask her some.

  "Why did you come back?"

  "I want to take your husband back to Canada. He must speak in court about the drug business."

  She said nothing, closing her eyes slowly as if the action hurt her. After a moment I probed, keeping my voice soft. “Did he do this to you?"

  Still she didn't answer, and then she nodded her head, very gently, once. “I wanted to go with him, but he told me I was to stay with the boat, he would come back. But I did not believe."

  "Did he give you
some money?” I wanted to know. If he had, then a second part of this caper was over, all I had to do was find her sleazebag husband and take him home.

  "No. I asked him for money, to get back to my familia. And he called me a greedy puta and he beat me."

  Thurlbeck's voice came back from the front seat. “I'm gonna have a hard time not going up alongside his goddamn head when we get ahold of him."

  "You'll have to take your turn,” I said. I reached out and squeezed Maria's hand. “We will find him and make him pay you money. Do you know where he would go?"

  She shut her eyes again and said, “No. He tells me nothing."

  We were reaching the edge of town, and Thurlbeck spoke up. “You know, the best thing we might do is get the police after him. Just tell them he did this, plus he's carrying a bunch of money, and they'll find him like a shot."

  "Two things wrong with that plan. First, they're likely to shoot him and disappear with that cash. I think that would be pretty tempting for a lot of people, not just some underpaid Mexican copper."

  "Yeah, could be right at that,” Thurlbeck agreed. “And on the other hand, if we find the right cop, some dedicated true-blue Boy Scout, he's gonna want to slap Amadeo in jail right here, and you'll never get your evidence."

  "Exactly. We've got to keep them out of it and go it alone,” I said. “At least, we've got to try."

  Maria tried to sit up. I shook my head and put one hand gently on her shoulder, but she persisted, pushing my hand away. Then she spoke rapidly to Thurlbeck. He listened and said “Bueno,” and she lay back again.

  I looked at her but her eyes were closed again. Then Thurlbeck translated for me. “She doesn't want to go to the hospital. She knows a doctor in one of the little clinics in town, a Dr. Juarez on Calle de la Concepción. I'll take her there, it'll cut the risk of trouble with the police."

  "Anything for a quiet life.” I sat and watched her as Thurlbeck drove fast down the highway and into town. Her eyelids flickered painfully once or twice, but she didn't speak again. My guess was she had spent all her strength in talking and now realized how rough she was feeling.