Randy White - Tampa Burn

“I have served the General over many years, and in many ways,” Reynaldo said modestly. “When he has special needs, special assignments such as this, he calls on me. It is an honor.”

Then, because he could sense Lourdes was driving at something, maybe trying to extract confidential information, the driver added, “But we are not friends as neighbors are friends. I only do what he tells me to do, and he only tells me what I need to know.”

Prax said, “For this job, he told me he would send an amount of cash to cover expenses, plus my fee. He said that someone-you, I’m thinking-would deliver the money to me. And that this same person would arrange for a plane to take me and the kid to one of the General’s hideouts in Nicaragua. Do you have the money?”

Because Reynaldo had been ordered to give Lourdes the money-but only when he was safely on the General’s plane-he felt he could answer truthfully. “Yes. It’s in a briefcase. I will give it to you soon.”

“And the plane?”

“Yes. Everything’s arranged.”

Lourdes asked, “After the kid and I get to the General’s camp, do you know what his plan is after that? How’s it going to work?”

“I have no knowledge of anything once you get on the plane,” the driver said.

Prax Lourdes adjusted his mask and nodded. He believed that the man knew nothing else. But he was pretty sure of what General Balserio had planned. The entire population of Masagua was terrified of Incendiario. News that he’d kidnapped the son of Pilar Fuentes, the General’s former wife-and perhaps the mother of the General’s son, some still whispered-would make Lourdes the focus of a united, national hatred.

“I will then rescue the boy,” Balserio had told him. “It will be something to be done for cameras. But you will escape, Praxcedes. That I promise you! You will escape, and I will become an even more popular national hero. And you, of course, will be rich with the additional money I’ll pay you in my gratitude.”

That last part, Prax didn’t believe. What he believed was, Balserio planned to murder him during the boy’s rescue. Get that on film, and the people of Masagua wouldn’t just make him president, they’d make him king.

Lourdes used his big hand to pat the driver on the shoulder. Felt him shrink away as he said, “Tell you what: Show me the cash. Let me count it first-you’re going to give it to me in a couple of hours anyway. Then I’ll tell you what almost no one else knows about me. What the soldiers did, and what I’ve done to a bunch of those bastards since. All the juicy little details. Deal?”

The money was right there in the car. Reynaldo had it hidden in the space where the spare tire had been kept. He watched Lourdes count it-a little less than seventy-five thousand dollars-before they got back into the car.

Prax didn’t tell Reynaldo the whole deal. He’d never told anyone the entire truth. He just told him about the soldiers, and the hospital, and about how he’d dedicated his life to taking revenge for all the poor peasants.

Same old bullshit.

Just as he didn’t tell him he was going to double-cross that pompous asshole, Jorge Balserio. That he was going to steal the money and the kid, then split.

He had everything all set: A guy he’d bullied at the national library to do the Internet stuff for him, because he would need to have e-mails forwarded once he and the kid were in hiding. Plus, his own chartered plane, not Balserio’s. And a ship. An old freighter, but with an infirmary that was going to be very specially equipped once he got his hands on that money.

So he was tempted to tell the General’s little stooge that he was going to burn Balserio-but burn him in a different kind of way. It would’ve fed Lourdes’ ego to let an insider know that he was outsmarting the famous man.

But he didn’t. Didn’t say a word, even though he’d already decided that the driver would never get the chance to tell anyone.

The olfactory memory has no linkage in time, so reading e-mail over Pilar’s shoulder, our bodies so close, her familiar odor reconnected us across years. I might, once again, have been with the woman whom I believed to be my love.

The temptation was to rest my hand on her shoulder. But she no longer invited that kind of familiarity.

She read the kidnapper’s e-mail aloud, first in Spanish, then made a quick translation into English for Tomlinson’s benefit, her voice animated:

“On Wednesday, May seventh, at two in the afternoon, be at the Cacique Restaurant on West Flagler near Northwest Miami Court. It’s across from the Dade County courthouse in downtown Miami. You’ll hear from us. Don’t bring the money. If you contact the police, if you’re followed, your brat dies. Answer this so we know you got it.”

The e-mail was unsigned, the subject line blank. It came from an Internet address that seemed to be a random series of letters and numbers: xyxq37.

Because she was a mother, though, and because it was the human thing to do, she’d opened Lake’s e-mail first-which is why it was so difficult to control the emotion in her voice as she read aloud.

His note-if he’d actually written it-was distressing: Mother, Do what they say. I want to come home. Please help me. I’m afraid. He says if you cooperate, he’ll let me write to you again.

That Lake switched in reference from “they” to “he,” I noted, was suggestive.

Seeing his e-mail name, Chamaeleo@Nicarado, at the bottom of the note produced an unexpected surge of emotion in me.

Chamaeleo.

It was an unusual name chosen by an unusual boy. It’d taken some thought. Chamaeleon is the genus of wise-cracking lizards once used in popular beer commercials. Kinda funny.

Over time, though, I learned the name had more complex meanings. Chamaeleon is also the genus of certain sea iguanas similar to those found in the Galapagos Islands. Charles Darwin drew important inferences from the iguanas while aboard the HMS Beagle touring South America, making notes that led to his theory of natural selection.

Lake had finally told me that.

Impressive.

I’d added my own third interpretation: Chameleons adapt and change appearance fast-something that would appeal to a boy his age.

I think most parents come to learn what I was slow to realize: It is the unwise adult who assumes that youth automatically equates to an absence of depth and wisdom. Children are complicated.

Reading over Pilar’s shoulder, smelling the good odor of hair and skin, I said, “They want you to respond. What are you going to say?”

“I’ll write that I’m going to do exactly what they tell me to do. I don’t want them to hurt Laken. What do you expect?”

“I think you should add something like… well, that you aren’t cooperating with authorities, but you are bringing a male friend to Miami. Because I’m going with you. Big cities can be dangerous. Write something like that. Even if you aren’t carrying the money, you need protection. Say there’re no cops involved, but you have to watch out for your own safety.”

“And what if they write back and tell me to come alone?”

“Pretend like you didn’t get the e-mail. Don’t acknowledge it.”

Because she was shaking her head, not buying it, I added, “Look, Pilar, there’s something very basic you need to keep in mind here. You’re a target. What some might consider an easy target. Stop shaking your head and listen.

“You’re the one who told us there are people in the Masaguan government who know you’re picking up a half-million in cash from the consul general’s office. Two feds saw the DVD, heard the demands. So now maybe their entire office knows. Or staff members in dozens of offices. You can’t trust them. Your words.