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  A long minute later, a voice returned.

  “Mr. Coleman, we don’t have any reason to believe the Escobars or their proxies are operating illegally within the borders of the United States. In fact, outside of the Spanish-speaking countries in South America, their operation is largely shut down.”

  Hmm, no introductions provided. The speaker wasn’t taking any chances that Cale might be recording the call. That’s one player with his cards on the table, the rest of the players with their cards in their hands. The voice was hiding behind ubiquitous plural pronouns—they, we, us; never me, I—the buck stops here (at least since Truman made that statement famous). This was the problem with government bureaucracy: You must understand, it’s for the public good, just not yours, but, by happenstance, it is for mine.

  Cale dissected the answer. He was pretty sure only one country in South America didn’t speak Spanish. That left—guessing now—a couple of hundred million potential customers. Cale let the silly statement pass—not out of deference, but because he wasn’t confident in his South American census knowledge.

  “OK. How about my records’ status?”

  “Your mission work files are classified. We have no reason to suspect this status has been breached. In fact, it took no small amount of effort to get them in preparation for this call. Upon reading them, I thank you for your patriotism.”

  Patriotism? So it was a political attaché speaking. Someone from law enforcement would have laced the compliment with doing your duty. Politicians used patriotism. Nothing good would come from this call, but Cale asked anyway.

  “So what have the investigators found in Radcliffe’s death?”

  “Nothing to report, Mr. Coleman. We have yet to receive the report.”

  No pause before answering that one. Cale wanted to quote Shakespeare, The lady doth protest too much, methinks, but let it slide.

  “OK. Another question comes to mind.” Sure, sure, don’t poke the bear. But maybe a firm nudge to the belly wouldn’t hurt. “If there is nothing to report, and you think I have nothing to worry about, why are all of you on this call?”

  More behind-the-muted-phone-line conversation. Sheila answered this time.

  “Cale, I wanted to make sure you knew I took your concern seriously. I brought in all the interested parties to see if anyone knew something I didn’t.”

  After a brief pause, another anonymous man came on the line. “Mr. Coleman, it is not uncommon for agents who have been involved in on-the-job fatalities to later need psychological counseling. In the military and now in the media, they refer to it as posttraumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. Sometimes, people who have been through incredible strain begin to weave stress-filled fantasies into everyday realities. Particularly if there is a trigger, like the death of a coworker or a natural disaster, like a hurricane. May I recommend you consult a psychologist that a grateful country will pay for?”

  Grateful country, was it, you son of a string of bad words that Cale kept himself from using to keep from getting himself further riled up? This felt like they were building a case. If something happened, like he stopped breathing, suicide would be a likely cause of death. Given that the way Colombians handled personal retribution was traditionally up close and messy, it might pan out for them: If he ended up with his throat slit, they would already have noted in the files that there had been signs of PTSD. And what was with the need to define PTSD? Did they think he was Rip Van Winkle? You couldn’t unplug enough from society not to know what PTSD was after fourteen years of the country being at war.

  Sheila’s voice again. “Cale, I will keep you updated when we hear about Radcliffe’s investigation. In the meantime, take care.”

  They said thank you and good-bye, and everybody clicked off.

  29

  CALE PUT THE Whaler in forward and headed toward the marina. The clouds had almost fully dispersed. A good rain on land made the earth glisten. A tropical storm in the Intracoastal Waterway made the water an obstacle course of floating debris. Cale trimmed the engines higher than normal to avoid hidden flotsam and ran two-thirds of normal cruising speed.

  Saturday’s Caribbean-clear water was now Mississippi murky. You know who likes murky water? Bull sharks. This is when they swim into rivers. Their kidneys function highly enough to switch from processing salt water to processing fresh water. The bulls were mostly blind. The murky water reduced their preys’ eyesight advantage.

  Alligators liked murky water, too, and it made them blend in easier with all the debris. They were just one more log. After a storm, alligators got flushed toward a river’s mouth, the water there not quite salty enough to impair their vision. Cale imagined that the Cape Fear River’s mouth today was a Nile Delta of carnivores. He and Ashley would definitely not be swimming on the inside of the barrier islands. If the ocean was stirred up, too, maybe they’d just cruise around for the day.

  Framed floated in an outside slip and was docked stern-to. The captain was hosing her down. Ashley sat on a small cooler, with a knapsack resting on her lap. She held her flip-flops in one hand and a magazine flipped open and folded back in the other. The hose’s pressurized water, searching for exit, crossed her feet. A prism of light reflected in the water. Cale decided the captain was using soap.

  The Whaler pulled along the dock’s butt end, and Cale looped a bowline around a cleat, backed up, and put a half-hitch knot on a stern cleat. He killed the engines but left them in the water, hopped on the dock, and approached Framed‘s gangway steps. Ashley reached the steps from above as Cale reached them from below. She handed over the cooler and descended, holding her flip-flops and magazine in one hand and the flimsy cord rail down the steps in the other.

  At the greeting hug, Cale enjoyed the smell of her suntan lotion. She introduced him to the captain, and they exchanged pleasantries before saying good-bye. Cale held Ashley’s hand as she climbed aboard the Whaler. Jimmy came up for a rub, then laid back in the shade. The engines turned over, and they cast off, pointed roughly south. They passed the state park where their paths first crossed, which had a significantly smaller flotilla today.

  Cale still ran at two-thirds speed. The pair stood in the center console. Their shoulders bumped occasionally, slightly more than the chop necessitated, which Cale noted favorably. Ashley held the tubular aluminum rod holder overhead to steady herself. They passed the outlet of the Cape Fear River. The water was browner and full of more debris, but there were no visible monsters in the water. Visible or not, Cale wasn’t stopping for a dip.

  They darted out into the open ocean and continued south. At a big, round, bald beach peninsula, they looped back into a protected marina.

  A decorative replica lighthouse overlooked the sheltered water. The marina had fuel pumps beside the harbormaster’s hut. Nobody was inside, but there was a leathery-skinned man in Vans resetting boat fenders whom Cale assumed was the harbormaster. The Whaler bypassed the fuel pumps and passed the big slips with shore power and water plug-ins. At the farthest dock, where there were no slips, a menagerie of small boats were tied to pylons and cleats. Most of them had six inches of water in them. Cale found a clear path and backed the Whaler to the dock and cleated it. He floated it forward and looped a bowline over a pylon. He and Ashley then climbed onto the dock.

  No bridge connected the island to the mainland. Cale knew this place and liked to come here for dinner, especially in late October, just before it closed for the season. The island’s homeowners’ association documents allowed only service vehicles and golf carts, which was pretty cool. Vacationers didn’t have to worry about their kids getting hit by a car when they were out biking. The deer loved the island without their main predator roaring down the asphalt. Of course, coming with a minivan full of kids and missing the ferry wasn’t super awesome. Nothing started a vacation better than ending an eight-hour drive from Pennsylvania by watching a ferry depart without you.

  They walked over a series of decks. The storm damage looked minimal. There were no
missing boards and only a few shingles off the roof of the harbormaster’s shack. Several boat fenders either hung on by one end or floated untethered around the marina. The harbormaster would rectify these items today.

  A two-story building sat several feet behind the seawall, with a neon light in the window that said OPEN. The first floor was a polished restaurant. Cale loved its air conditioning. There were white tablecloths, grass cloth walls, and soft carpet. Cale knew they would do a Sinatra sound track until seven thirty, a Coltrane from then to close. The lighting from the floor-to-ceiling tempered-glass windows with slightly tinted frames was dim but clean. The windows faced southeast, with a view of the marina below to the left, the mainland to the right, and the short channel to the ocean straight ahead. It was a perfect restaurant for a romantic date.

  But today, Cale bypassed the restaurant’s door, went around back, and took Ashley up an exterior stairwell to the second floor. Upstairs was a fish fry, where the days’ catch was deboned, seasoned, and flashfried in cast-iron pans. No breading. It was always fresh—whatever they bought that morning at the docks from the guides, charters, or enthusiasts who showed up. Was it a little risky not to use commercial crews? It was probably riskier to run multiple deep fryers on the second floor of a wooden building. It was a day after a hurricane, and they were stocked with fresh fish. The food was served in paper trays with sides of okra, corn on the cob, green beans, and slaw. No choices; you received them all. This was probably why the waitresses never delivered a wrong order. Cale always drank sweet tea there.

  Inside, the upstairs area was shallower than downstairs, with a long bar where you ordered, paid, and took your number. Cale looked past the cashier and saw the morning’s catch being filleted. Red drum it was. You could either sit at the bar or on the deck outside.

  They ordered and headed out to the deck. It was lined with rows of oversized picnic tables equipped with built-in benches and covered with waxy red-and-white checked tablecloths. Cale produced two cushions from the Whaler, which would provide a dry place to sit. Who said chivalry was dead? Ashley and Cale sat on the same side of the table facing the water.

  Ashley asked, “Is this big white pole behind the building an antenna?”

  “No, it’s the first part of a range.”

  Should he ask her whether she knew what he meant, or was that condescending? Did he continue on, assuming she didn’t know, or was that too pompous? So many decisions. And he was supposed to worry about narcotraffickers?! He didn’t truly sweat this decision, but his mind naturally channeled through the options and possible outcomes, which made him hesitate. Now that he was being tracked by narcotraffickers, he needed to stop hesitating.

  Ashley asked, “What’s a range?”

  See, things usually worked out.

  “It’s a way to find the deepest part of a channel. Look farther into the island, where there is an even taller pole.”

  They pivoted in their seats. Cale pointed toward the second pole in the range. She leaned into him. Her eyes followed where he pointed. She nodded. He again enjoyed the scent of her lotion, perfume, shampoo—whatever it was that made her smell so good. Reluctantly, when looking at the taller pole was no longer justifiable, they unwound and turned back to the sea.

  “When you want to come into the marina, you get your boat into position to where those two poles look like one long pole and head straight in.” He unrolled his napkin and demonstrated with the knife and fork. “Whenever the two poles are in line with each other, you should be in the deepest part of the channel.”

  “But there is no way we did that, coming around the bend so tightly.”

  “The Whaler doesn’t draw enough to worry about it here.”

  “Does ‘draw’ mean how deep it is?”

  “Basically. Joe’s boat draws enough to need to use the range.”

  Mentioning Joe made her smile. Even Cale got a kick out of him—sort of. That lovable old lug who came calling with a firm handshake and a pistol in his pocket, just checking to see whether his nephew was hit in the back of the head with a tire iron. He was probably all right when he wasn’t out of sorts. Tony was definitely all right. Despite Cale’s concerns that they were involved in organized crime, he figured the odds were they were the hardscrabble city boys who made good like they said. But he reserved the right to change his opinion and brain Joe if his hand found its way into his rain slicker again.

  When the food arrived, Ashley was impressed. Cale was impressed that she drank the island water without complaining. The volume of sugar in his sweet tea overcame the beach-water gravy for him. His paper cup was refilled several times without his asking.

  They lingered. The air felt good. Conversation came easy. It stayed in the present tense—not Some weather we are having, but not personal history lessons or religious debates either. It floated. Cale found himself enjoying this afternoon even more than the last two evenings with her. He only had to stop once from saying, My daughters think the same thing. Weddings always used that verse about love being blind; you never knew what could happen. He’d accept dim lighting; at this point, blind seemed too much to ask.

  His phone rudely began vibrating against his leg, and Cale pulled it out, looked at the screen. It was a 703 area code. He said, “Excuse me for a minute, Ashley,” and walked to the railing before she could grant or refuse permission.

  “This is Cale.” His practiced phone greeting was a bit singsong for such a big man. It was optimistic, suggesting he was looking forward to learning who was on the other end of the line and that he was ready to help. Cale could look gruff enough in person, and it was often a client calling.

  “Hey, Cale, it’s Sheila. Sorry about … the way the call went earlier this morning. I had higher hopes for that group. I should know better by now.”

  “Yeah, OK. Should I ask why you keep calling me on a disposable phone?”

  “Don’t be an ass, Cale. You know why. I’m trying to get you help.”

  “Mental help or guys with guns help?” He thought she was on his side, but best to clarify.

  Sheila, demonstrating part of the skill set that helped her achieve her rank, didn’t dignify the jab. “Radcliffe was dead before the fire.”

  Not earth-shattering news. The three guys who came to party at Cale’s house confirmed it without Radcliffe’s autopsy, but it was a step in the right direction and should speed up getting the various anonymous players bought in.

  “So now everybody will take appropriate precautions,” Cale said leadingly. “Locate the Escobars here in the States. Make sure they know they are under surveillance. Tell them they are suspects. That kind of standard operating procedure stuff, right?”

  “I’m working on it. But you should know: When we spoke this morning, everybody in the room except me already knew this information.”

  That was a mule kick to the gut. Cale’s response was an audible “Ugh.” Sheila stayed quiet while he searched for an unemotional response.

  “Sheila … come clean. Is there any set of circumstances where they will allow this to be pinned back to the Escobars, or are these treaties too big and too recent a triumph to have these details muddy it up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m working on it. The president really put his weight behind getting the deal with the rebels signed, and the other side has wanted the free-trade agreement signed for over ten years. I’m not sure where the sponsors are for bringing up any issues, but I’m looking. This was the grand bargain for both parties to get this done. They are trumpeting it as a blueprint for how they will tackle the bigger domestic issues next.”

  This was a detailed way of saying, “You are on your own.” But there was no reason to shoot the messenger (although she might be off the Christmas card list). Once the message was delivered and received, the perfunctory motions getting to good-bye happened quickly.

  The dice now bounced down the craps table. After twenty years of dormancy, the Escobars needed to complete their Old Testament eye for an eye ve
rsion of justice. Cale needed to find them to get on with his life. He couldn’t let them leave; he’d have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. And his daughters would have to look over theirs for the rest of their lives. But he was not a SEAL or even a bounty hunter. He wished the Escobars understood MLK Jr.’s words, about only light being able to chase dark and only love being able to chase hate and end this cycle of violence. But he knew that was not their code. The facts were simply that hate was chasing him, and his loving sidearm must be ready for that hate.

  But right now, the Escobars weren’t on the island, so nobody was murdering anybody this afternoon. Cale’s mind strategized most creatively when he was engaged in things he liked doing. It was a beautiful gift to compartmentalize future stress away and enjoy the present. So he’d enjoy his date, assuming it continued to be awesome, and hope some ideas floated up from the recesses of his brain. There was also a small part of him that was looking forward to the challenge the Escobars would present and the opportunity to complete some unfinished business.

  He looked toward Ashley, who politely looked out to sea rather than watching him. He wondered whether she thought he was talking to a girlfriend he conveniently hadn’t mentioned. The absurdity of trying to explain this development to her cheered him up. Gallows humor. He didn’t think he’d explain it. He wasn’t putting her in any danger here—at least, no Colombian danger, and he’d already fully disclosed the bull sharks. He knew his mind would keep processing how to handle his predicament, but he would hold off officially worrying about it until after he dropped her off. No matter how well the day progressed, he would drop her off this afternoon; it wouldn’t be kosher to invite her back to his place when he expected company.

  “Sorry I took that call. It was from my old boss when I worked for the DEA. A coworker died a few days ago, and she was giving me an update on the details.”