Randy White - Shark River

He meant Sendero Luminoso, a terrorist organization founded by a Maoist university professor, Abimael Guzman, in Peru’s mountain state of Ayacucho. Sendero had exported murder and mindless violence throughout Latin America. Over the years, in a previous line of work, and in what now seems to be a former life, I’d had more than one run-in with Guzman’s unfortunate prophets.

I said, “The drug cartels, sure. They made a couple of movies about them awhile back, didn’t they? They’re like gangsters, lots of shooting. The other thing you mentioned, though, the Shining something? I don’t think I’ve heard of that, but maybe it’s because I don’t have a TV and I don’t read the papers.”

I was still sitting in the same wicker chair, feet propped up, in the main room of my rental bungalow. Behind me, at the lunch bar, Tomlinson sat listening. Lined before me, on the couch and in a kitchen chair, were two men and a woman, all of them staring at me as if from a panel or court bench. The woman wore a green deputy’s uniform, her leather gunbelt creaking each time she moved. Same with the guy from Florida Marine Patrol, only his uniform was black on gray.

The man in the gray suit said, “The reason I mention the cartels and the Shining Path is because the men who tried to kidnap Ms. Harrington this afternoon could’ve been from either one of those two groups. Or from a half-dozen other terrorist organizations that operate in South America. Tupac Amaru, there’s another example. There’re lots of them.

“We’re not sure yet who they are, but we’ll find out. The point being that Ms. Harrington’s father apparently does have some political influence in that region, so he’s bound to have powerful enemies. They’re not going to like the idea of someone like you screwing up their plans, which is why you need to cooperate with us. You need to tell us the truth, then let us help you.”

To Gray Suit, I said, “I don’t doubt that you mean it-offer me protection, whatever it is you think I need, I believe you. I understand. You don’t have an easy job, I understand that, too. But how can I make it any plainer? I don’t want your help. I didn’t do anything to need it. Or earn it.”

“You keep telling us that, Doctor Ford. So I’m going to try one more time. Maybe speak a little more plainly, lay it all out. Here’s the deal, doctor: You need to drop the act, come clean, and tell us what really happened out there. You don’t have anything to fear from us. We’re on your side, not theirs. I don’t care what you did. You’re the good guy, like the cowboy who came riding in on the white horse. You may have saved a couple of lives today. They’re the bad guys. The kidnappers. Four or five punks against you, and you ran them off. Hell, we’ll try to get you a reward, if you want. Why is that so hard to understand?”

I glanced at Tomlinson. “I guess he has to keep pushing, huh? Like those interrogators in the movies. Thing is, I’m getting tired of him implying I’m lying. It’s not my imagination, is it? That is what he’s doing.”

Tomlinson was right with me. “Big time, man. Absofucking-lutely.”

To the officer, I added, “The irritating thing is, you’ve done it several times in the last hour. We invite you in here, agree to cooperate in any way we can, and you keep pressing me to make up a story. Sorry. I’m not going to let you manipulate me into saying something that’s not true. You either believe me or you don’t.”

I watched him purse his lips, glancing at the others. Gray Suit’s ID badge, which I’d read carefully, said he was Doug Waldman, Special Agent for the FBI and a liaison to the U.S. State Department’s Office of Counterterrorism. The badge was clipped to his breast pocket, displaying a fingerprint, a voice/larynx print and a complicated hologram.

The woman deputy leaned forward, her belt making a saddle leather sound, and said, “Just for the record, what I’m going to write in my report is the individual in question, this gentleman I’m talking about, he may or may not have given a truthful account. But I get the impression he’s, you know, intentionally giving us an incomplete statement, which my captain in Major Crimes Division isn’t going to like. What I can’t figure out is, Why? Here he is, Joe Citizen, got a chance to be the big hero, get his picture in all the papers, see himself on TV, maybe even get paid by some magazine to tell how he beat off the perpetrators and saved the victim. But he refuses to submit full cooperation.”

Cop words and sterile cop sentence patters-“perpetrators,” “statements,” the “individual in question”-speaking as if I wasn’t in the room.

She turned to Waldman. “This individual’s behavior seems kinda suspicious to me.”

He nodded. “Very odd. That’s my point.” Showing his respect by listening to her.

The deputy said, “What I’m thinking is, maybe the interviewee had some trouble with the law before. Maybe doesn’t want his picture spread around, worried someone will recognize him, or it’s like a child support thing. I think we need to hold him ’til all our computer checks come back. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement is going to get involved.”

The Florida Marine Patrol had changed its name into the more complicated and meaningless bureauspeak: The Florida Fish and Conservation Commission, which almost no one acknowledges. Neither, apparently, did the officer investigating from that agency, a man named McRae, since he was wearing his Marine Patrol uniform. He hadn’t said much, but now he spoke. “Doctor Ford’s got a pretty solid reputation around the islands, almost anyone who works on the water can vouch for that. But look, I’ve got to agree with Deputy Walker, Doc, I think you’re leaving out big chunks in your story. You jog out onto the dock and see men wearing ski masks, at least one of them armed, and you just happen to knock the two women into the water and help them get away? That’s not easy to believe. I’m sorry.”

They were pressing pretty hard, but I had no choice but to keep stonewalling. Like I said, I couldn’t afford the scrutiny that would come with admitting my involvement.

I let them see how exasperated I was becoming. “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you all along? I didn’t save anyone. I’ve described what happened over and over. When I saw the guy fire his pistol, I panicked. Somehow, I knocked the women into the water when I tried to jump over the railing. Hell, maybe I did grab them. But it wasn’t intentional. I was trying to save my own life, not theirs. So then those guys keep shooting and the only thing I can think to do is climb in their boat and get the hell out of there. Which is just what I did.”

Waldman’s cell phone began to ring, and he left the room to answer it as I added, “I told the women to run to the mangroves, and I would’ve done the same thing if I could’ve. They were still shooting and it was scary as hell.”

“How many shots?”

“A couple. Several. Lots. I didn’t count.”

“All those rounds fired and you managed to dodge every one of them. You must be quick as hell.”

“I’ve already answered that question too many times.”

McRae said, “When you got in the boat, was there anyone else in it? How’d you get control?”

I said, “I just climbed in and hit the throttle and their guy went flying off the stern. I was in a panic. You ever have anyone shoot at you before?”

“And one of the rounds hit you in the arm.”

“No. Absolutely not. I’m not going to explain it again.”

“Um-huh. Your arm and your face, they both got cut up on the dock when you fell?”

I nodded. “Maybe I need to write it down so you’ll remember. I keep repeating myself, but you don’t seem to hear. The whole thing’s a blur. I’m not sure what happened when. I must have sliced my arm open when I crashed through the railing on the dock. Banging into the pilings with my face, that much I do remember. I was probably in shock. Probably still am in shock. Men in ski masks shooting guns like out of some crazy movie. It’s not the sort of thing I’m used to seeing.”