Randy White - Tampa Burn

Pilar explained that, instead, she’d gone to an old and trusted friend for help, her country’s wealthiest jeweler. Like Colombia, Masagua is famous for its emeralds. Pilar had inherited stones from her family estate, and she’d also collected emeralds since childhood. She’d asked her friend to spend the weekend liquidating her collection on the international market.

“It’s all the savings I have, and I loved those stones. I mean, I really loved some of them. But what choice did I have? I hate those bastards for putting me in this position!”

She was furious.

Trying to calm her, Tomlinson told her that money, jewels, and other such things were nothing more than symbolism.

“They’re trophy collections,” he said. “But when someone you love is in danger”-he made a poof noise with his lips-“the trophies, your collection, it becomes meaningless.”

Nodding as if agreeing, she said, “Yes, but I had so many superb stones… I just hope there’s enough.”

I said, “You’re not alone in this. I’ll put up at least half. I can get the cash in-” My main account is on Grand Cayman Island. I took a moment to calculate how long it would take to transfer money to my bank on Sanibel… how much I could borrow, and how quickly my broker could sell off most… probably all of my stock portfolio. “By tomorrow afternoon late. Or I’ll just reimburse you. That’ll be easiest.”

I live so simply, have so little interest in the things money buys, that I’ve saved quite a bit over the years. Emeralds I’d taken from Masagua had contributed to my pile.

“No,” she said, “you don’t have to do that.”

Her tone told me more. It said to accept my offer equated to indebtedness, and she preferred not to be indebted to me. She didn’t want my help.

I said, “I insist.”

Pilar made a noncommittal gesture that dismissed the subject, then told us that her friend was going to pack the money in a heavy-duty photographer’s briefcase addressed to her. He’d make certain it got into the consul general’s diplomatic pouch and on a flight in time so that it was in Miami by tomorrow morning, Wednesday.

Clever. It’s illegal to bring more than ten thousand dollars cash in or out of the U.S. without declaring it, so it would have been idiotic to try and sneak a half-million through Miami customs. Diplomatic pouch-which, by international law, could not be searched-was the only safe, legal way to get that amount of money into the country.

I asked, “Before you told the two feds to drop the case, did they happen to make any comments about the video?”

Pilar hesitated. “They did. But what I’d prefer first is for you to tell me what you think. Maybe you saw something they didn’t. I don’t want to bias your thinking. Does that seem reasonable?”

It seemed more than reasonable. So Tomlinson and I batted it back and forth.

For starters, I’d gotten the impression that Masked Man may have spent many years in Central America, but he wasn’t a member of the two most common ethnic groups. He was neither Mayan nor of Spanish descent.

It wasn’t just the accent, either. His sentence rhythms had a white-trash crudeness. Same with his tasteless, honky-tonk comedian shtick. There are degrees of inappropriate behavior that raise hackles on the back of the neck, and Masked Man exceeded the limits. His pornographic rant, the mood shifts, his showy behavior, all pointed to either a personal viciousness or pathology. The line is sometimes fine, and difficult to decipher.

Tomlinson said, “Just from the few scars that were visible, his face has gotta be a mess, man. Normally, I’d feel sympathy for someone like that. But I’ve got a very strong vibe that this one’s got snakes crawling around up there where his brain should be. He was all messed up on the inside long before he got those scars on the outside. That’s my read.”

Tomlinson and I were sitting on lab stools, the laptop between us. Pilar stood listening, letting us talk even though our words hurt her-her expression was not difficult to interpret.

Something else we agreed on was that only two people were in the room. Just Lake and Masked Man, although for some reason he wanted us to think there were more. The way he consistently referred to “we” or “us.” It seemed intentional.

“Maybe it’s a power trip,” Tomlinson guessed. “The more people he’s got behind him, the more power he has. He wants us to see him that way. He’s in control, man. A force. But it’s bogus.

“The same with his political tirade. The pro-Indian stuff. More schools, jobs, and hospitals. He didn’t mean any of it; complete bullshit. I agree with the whole power-to-the-people philosophy, but that’s not where that dude’s head was at. The vicious ones, the really bad dogs, they manufacture excuses for revenge. Politics, injustice to the Indians. I think that’s his excuse.”

I’d been watching Pilar’s reactions. Now I said to her, “You know a lot more about this guy than you’ve told us. I’d like to hear it.”

Years ago, when Pilar was nervous or upset, she couldn’t stand still. In that way, at least, she hadn’t changed.

I watched her move across the lab and pause by a tank that held snappers, then cross to another that held octopi. She stopped and stared at octopi that were peeking out from their rocky ambush holes, focusing on her with golden, glowing cat eyes.

Without turning, she said, “You two are good together. Maybe it’s the combination, one of you analytical, the other intuitive. You’re right on most points. Maybe all points. I don’t know enough about him to say. What I do know is, out of all the mercenaries that Balserio brought into the country, the criminal you just saw is the worst.

“Our federal police identified him right away. Everyone in Masagua knows him by reputation. Not by his name. His reputation. His real name’s Praxcedes Lourdes. He’s a Nicaraguan. During their revolution, he was a death squad assassin. But when the war ended, he kept on killing. The police tried to catch him, but they never did, so the courts tried him in absentia. They found him guilty and sentenced him to time in a psychiatric prison. When that didn’t bring him in, they finally sentenced him to death by firing squad.”

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.”