Part 3 (1/2)

”Was who?”

”The girl in your dream. Anyone we know? I a.s.sume you didn't have an o.r.g.a.s.m dreaming of Madame Curie.” The h.e.l.l of it was, he felt like he did know her. As if he had a dream about her before many times, but had forgotten everything when he woke up. And now suddenly she had surfaced again. But this time he was remembering her during his waking hours. In fact, he felt he couldn't have forgotten her if he tried. Some fragmented image of her emerged either in the front or the back of his mind for most of the day. ”You ought to be careful,” Beatrice said wryly. ”You don't want to have another stroke.” ”No, I think this is good for the circulation,” replied Peter with a smile. Afterward, with Peter in the shower, Beatrice placed a call to Wolfe. ”How's our patient doing?” Wolfe asked.

”h.o.r.n.y as a toad,” Beatrice said. ”What are you putting in his orange juice?” Wolfe's answering laugh had, as always, a touch of the grotesque. ”Not a d.a.m.n thing. His glands are pumping away, his vascular system's unclogged. He's a stellar example of the male body in its prime! It means he's healthy, which is terrific news for us. And for you specifically,” he went on hastily. ”It's time to count your blessings. You would have been devastated by his loss. Instead you have a new husband, a stunning breakthrough in genetics and a man functioning to his full capacity, happy once more in his work.” ”Off and on.”

”He's bound to have his doubts. He's got an enormous adjustment to make. He'll be just fine.” ”From your lips to G.o.d's ears,” she said, but secretly she didn't think G.o.d was listening anymore. If He was, she was beginning to feel, there might well be h.e.l.l to pay some time soon.

An hour later Peter was on the treadmill in the medical lab, wired to heart and lung monitors by Emilio Barrola. Gradually Barrola increased the machine's incline, adding more and more stress to Peter's system. The problem was that Peter wouldn't limit himself to rapid walking. Despite Barrola's protests, he soon broke into a trot. His heart seemed to handle the added stress without any trouble-no arrhythmia, no extra systoles, and nothing that could be traced to clogged cerebral vessels. Barrola was tempted to throw caution to the winds and simply marvel; the prior day's test, an ultrasound Doppler of the carotid arteries, had indicated that the flow of blood to Peter's brain had vastly improved. But there was no reason to tempt fate-Peter had been saved from certain death to perform mental, not physical, miracles. And so over his patient's objections, Barrola switched off the treadmill. Nevertheless, Peter's excitement remained high. Buoyed by the days results, he dressed hurriedly and reported to the lab, where his team awaited him eagerly-especially Rosemarie Wiener. Braless, brus.h.i.+ng his arm with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as they all crowded around him at the blackboard, she clearly was offering herself. Peter wondered whether Rosemarie was the Angel of Eros, transformed by his dream into a vision of perfect happiness. Not a chance, he decided. As a matter of fact, the notion had clung to him all day that his dream woman and her attributes were real. He knew she was a fantasy, but it gave him a thrill just to think of her as real, a thrill that seemed only to accelerate his genius. ”My father was employing the Purcey Protocol for this procedure,” he told them, as the chalk flew and Rosemane's eyes sparkled. ”That was the foundation of his work until his death, so we'll continue that way. However,” he said, luxuriating in the flood of ideas coursing through his brain, ”let's experiment with gamma rays doing the switching of the core generator. And let's reverse the circuitry polarity of the epsilon switches. According to my calculations that should greatly enhance transmission rates at the same time it cools core temperature. If this proves to be true, the overheating problem will be solved and we'll have nearly twice the power in the strike beam.” Day after day. he continued with a string of plans, theories and instructions for the realization of the new version of the hammer. By week's end, it was clear to the team that Peter Jr.'s proposals were not only as stunningly original as his father's, but practical as well. The brainwork for the new weapon, now code-named Grand Slam, moved toward completion at a pace that elated Oscar Henderson. Peter Jance had become his own brilliant successor. It was time to begin the first stages of actual construction. Even Wolfe was dazzled. Later that night, as Peter and Beatrice moved toward their separate beds, Peter, for the first time, felt how heavy a burden this newness must be for her. He noticed she took pains to change into nightclothes out of his sight, and had slipped into bed while he was brus.h.i.+ng his teeth. ”I've been an idiot, haven't I?” he said. ”Oh, I don't know.”

”That's a yes. I'm sorry. I've been so wrapped up in myself. And in getting back to work.” ”Can't blame you for that.”

She had been sleeping on a small folding cot. Peter went over and sat on its edge. Beatrice looked up at him with a wan smile. ”It's still me, Beatrice.”

She nodded. ”It's just going to take some getting used to.” ”I still love you.

She didn't answer, but her eyes welled up with tears-not at his words, but at his obvious need to say them. She could count on the fingers of one hand the times they had actually rea.s.sured each other of their devotion, and the word ”still” had never come into it. Love went without saying. To speak was to lie. ”I know you do,” she said. He caressed her hair. He could smell her breath. It was a bit stale, but even so he eased in beside her. ”I don't know if this is right,” she said. ”How could it not be?” he asked.

He took her in his arms and kissed her. Beatrice felt the warmth of his lips, the remarkable fullness, the warm hardness of his belly and the ever-warmer prod from further down. She giggled nervously, ”How about it?” he whispered. ”You game?” ”I'm not that old,” she said quietly.

”You'll never be old to me.”

”Won't I?”

”No, ” he said firmly. ”You're wonderful, B. The loveliest woman in the world. An angel.” ”In that case . . .” she said, looking up at him from a well of sadness and love and understanding. Gently he lowered himself toward her, and she turned out the light.

8.

PUERTO RICO.

Within three hours of getting the fax confirming IslandMan's e-mail Message, Elizabeth left Zurich. She was able to hook a seat on the 10:20 A.M. Swissair flight to Boston and arrived at almost the same hour, local time, as when she had left. Despite her American pa.s.sport, she was detained and searched by customs, evidently because she had no luggage except for her shoulder bag. The search revealed a change of underwear, a T-s.h.i.+rt from the Brussels Film Festival and a pair of jeans. ”Traveling kind of light,” remarked the customs officer. ”Just a spur-of-the-moment trip, I guess.” They took her to a curtained-off booth where she was subjected to a full-body search by a bright-eyed female agent with big hair. ”Back in the U.S.A.,” Elizabeth said sourly. The woman's head came up.

”We could X-ray you. Make you take laxatives.” ”Why would you want to do that?” Elizabeth demanded. She was ready to throttle this woman. ”We've found as many as thirty condoms full of heroin in people's intestines. How long have you been in Switzerland?” ”I've lived there five years.

”Nature of your business?”

”I'm a model. Helvetica International Agency.” If customs checked, she knew, they'd be told she had been fired for trying to have a corpse exhumed. They'd probably lock her in a room and throw away the key. Instead the agent took a step back. Apparently being a model carried some peculiar weight with her. ”My daughter's tried to get into modeling,” she said. ”Maybe you could help her.” ”I could try,” said Elizabeth, sensing an easy out. ”She's got the three Bs. Beauty, brains and business sense. I've read that's what it takes now.” ”How old is she?”

”She'll be fifteen next July.”

Elizabeth scribbled her name down on a pad, along with Helvetica's U.S. number. The agent waved Elizabeth through with her rubber-gloved hand. ”It was just procedure. No offense.”

”None taken. Cook luck with your daughter's career,” said Elizabeth, b.u.t.toning her jeans. She had to run to make her connection- American Airlines was as far from International Arrivals as you could possibly get and still be in the same airport. She barely made the plane. American Flight 97 took her into Puerto Rico's San Juan International, the airline's Caribbean hub, east of the city, touching down at 8:30 P.M. With no luggage to retrieve, she was in a cab by a quarter to nine and in the lobby of the local Hyatt by 9:15. The flight to Vieques didn't leave until the following afternoon, so there was time to kill. She immediately placed a call to the Puerto Rico tourist bureau on the off chance that they hadn't closed for the day. By dumb luck it was not only open for another fifteen minutes, it was also located on the second floor of her hotel. Elizabeth told the clerk, who had a round, smiling face marked by acne, that she had come to collect her complimentary voucher. To which the woman responded by saying she didn't know what Elizabeth was talking about. Elizabeth showed her the faxed confirmation. ”Vieques Island? I don't think so. What hotel again?” She squinted at the paper. ”Inn on the Azure Horizon.”

”I'm sorry, miss. I don't think they offer things like that.” Elizabeth could feel her heart accelerate. ”First off, this isn't one of our faxes, see? Ours would have our own letterhead.” She produced one of their fax forms with a letterhead displaying palm trees and gulls against a beach. ”This one, see, is blank.” She reread the letter. ”...won a complimentary stay at the Inn on the Azure Horizon... in celebration of our 20th anniversary.. . No see,” she said, ”even that. Azure Horizon's been out there, oh, maybe ten years tops. So that part's wrong. I'm not even sure they're still in business-” Elizabeth was already out the door.

At the Hyatt front desk she found there was a 10:30 P.M. ferry to Vieques from a town called Fajardo. Fajardo was nearly forty miles by the coastal road-a fifty-dollar cab ride with no guarantee she would even make the ferry. Upstairs was a room with a shower, room service and a soft bed. Couldn't it wait till morning? Of course it couldn't. What were the odds of getting a fax from anybody from Vieques Island? The place was a microdot on the map, known, among the people she knew, only to the mother of Hans Brinkman, orCould it possibly have been... From the moment she had laid eyes on the email, she hadn't dared to complete the thought for fear of jinxing it. No, the thing to do was to get to the island as soon as possible, then investigate carefully, methodically, keeping her wits about her. She would refuse to think that she was rus.h.i.+ng headlong toward a fate she had been avoiding all her life. Or that someone or something who knew her more completely than she even did herself was giving her an opportunity to use all those talents Hans had once accused her of squandering, just to reach this fate. This destiny. This man. Sure, she would Beauty, brains and business sense...

She went outside, booked the most roadworthy cab and the youngest driver she could find and told him there was a hundred dollars in it for him if he could get her to Fajardo in time to make the 10:30 ferry. The cabdriver got rid of his cigarette and opened the back door of his 85 Cougar. For the next hour she hung on for dear life as the cab careened down the coastline of Puerto Rico. To distract herself from what she felt would be her sure demise, she turned on the flickering dome light and read what little she had been able to pull off the Internet about Vieques.

Vieques is a small volcanic island lying just off the east coast of Puerto Rico. About three thousand years ago, the first humans reached the place by moving up the island chain. Dating from about 200 B.C. there are records that remarkable Indian cultures lived there. Finally a Frenchman, Le Guillou, clamped a Western colonial hand over it, converting the place to the cultivation of sugar in the name of Spain. Within a short time the trees were gone and the island was planted with cane from coast to coast. It then was traded and raided from hand to hand between imperial powers. In 1898, control of the island pa.s.sed from Spain to the United States. Conditions remained unchanged on the island until the Second World War.

In 1941, the U.S. Navy took over three quarters of Vieques Island for training and the testing of ordnance. Much of the native population was summarily displaced, and instead the island rocked to the sound of shouted orders and the thunder of bombs, rockets and artillery sh.e.l.ls from both aircraft and s.h.i.+ps. It was listed as an adjunct to the ma.s.sive Roosevelt Roads Naval Station on the main island, and hosted Camp Garcia for the Marine Corps, as well as seventeen NAVSTAR departments and twenty-four tenant commands for the Navy, Army and Marines.

A military base, thought Elizabeth. Of course, Rose-Anne Brink-man had told her that. So why was she suddenly feeling so uneasy? In the years following the Cold War things had calmed down according to the article, and a certain amount of tourism had spilled over from Puerto Rico to help replace the vanished sugar industry. But mostly the island was quiet, best known for its mangrove swamps, deserted beaches and wildlife. So what had happened to the military? What had they been up to for the last ten years? When the bulb in the dome light blinked out and refused to come back on, Elizabeth resigned herself to watching the foliage flash by and counting the number of gigantic bugs that smashed against the winds.h.i.+eld. She just made the ferry bought a two-dollar ticket and went aboard. Built to accommodate four hundred, the craft was carrying only a few dozen party animals returning to their inns from San Juan's casinos. Elizabeth left them to their revelry around the Formica bar and went out on deck. The sky was ablaze with stars, the sea smooth as gla.s.s. She stayed on deck until the ferry pulled into its terminal in Isabel Segunda. Ahead were the seven-story ruins of a lighthouse and, high on the bill across from the dock, the dark silhouette of a Spanish fortress. The air was warm, nearly 80 degrees, and alive with a high, sweet chirping sound. In her heightened awareness, the sound a.s.saulted her senses. She could still hear it from the terminal rest room, where she had hastened upon docking-the facilities on the ferry had been completely out of the question. ”Tree frogs,” said a voice from the next sink. ”Coquis,” nodded Elizabeth, a little startled by her own knowledge. ”You've been down here before,” the woman said. She had metallic red hair, an open, friendly face and severely plucked eyebrows. ”No, I haven't.”

”Let me guess. You work for a zoo? Or you just watch a lot of Animal Planet.” ”I don't know how I knew,” said Elizabeth uneasily, drying her hands. The word coquis had come out of her mouth as though she had heard it a hundred times. ”I must have read it on the Internet or something,” she said without conviction; suddenly she realized she had left the Web printouts in the cab. ”You work for American?” she asked, noting the airline insignia on the woman's lapel. ”Uh-huh. Puerto Rico's our hub, and Vieques is my favorite place to escape to. Why?” ”Ever heard of the Inn on the Azure Horizon?” The woman frowned. ”Doesn't ring a bell. Is that where you're staying?” ”I thought I was,” said Elizabeth, holding open the door as they left the rest room together. ”There seems to be some doubt whether it even exists. You think I'll be able to get a room tonight somewhere else?” ”Here in Isabel? You didn't make a reservation?” ”I kind of took a flyer.”

The woman grinned. ”He must be gorgeous.” Elizabeth managed a tight smile. ”He is,” she said. He is, he was, he is. ”I'm sorry;” said the flight attendant, noting the unease in Elizabeth's expression. ”Really none of my beeswax. It's just that, you know, it's usually why women come to the island.” She stuck out her hand. ”Mary Blanchard.” Elizabeth hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook it. ”Elizabeth Parker.” Five minutes later, she was sharing a cab with Mary Blanchard and two of her colleagues, one of whom was dead certain she had seen Elizabeth in an in-flight movie just the other week. She wouldn't take no for an answer. ”I know I know your face,” she kept insisting. The three flight attendants amiably rattled on about men and c.r.a.ps tables and a.s.shole pa.s.sengers, and Mary Blanchard offered to let Elizabeth sleep on the couch in her room at their hotel, a revamped turn-of-the-century French sugar plantation called Casa del Frances. It proved to he a pleasant enough place overlooking the ocean and the town of Esperanza. The owner, Ivor Greeley. a crusty New Englander with a fond-ness for antediluvian slang, realized there was now an extra member in their party and took twenty dollars for his trouble. ”I'll have a unit free tomorrow,” he told Elizabeth. His eyes were lively and brown and he had graying blond hair brushed over a s.h.i.+ning bald patch. ”You can pay in advance or you can take it on the arches.” Then, in welcoming his new guest, he sent them a complimentary bottle of rum. For the first time in weeks she slept straight through the night. To- ward morning, she dreamed she was floating in a sea of stars. It was heaven, she realized, liquid, oceanic and salty, and then Hans was there with her. The gently rolling water glowed with a million pinp.r.i.c.ks of light as he entered. Then he was gone and she was chasing him up a flight of ancient stone stairs, to the heights of El Fortin, where he managed to disappear into a sudden crowd of angry farm animals. Goats were bleating outside her window, a rooster was crowing and she realized she was awake. El Fortfn?

She picked up a guidebook that was on the television, leafing through it until she found the ill.u.s.tration she was looking for. El Fortin was the fortress she had seen from the ferry, the last Spanish stronghold, according to the picture's caption, in the New World. I must have glanced thought this last night, she thought, tossing the guidebook aside. Unless-Unless what? Unless Hans had talked about Vieques. No, but he never did. Never spoke of his childhood, never mentioned it once. And Rose-Anne had given her no such details. Then how did I know?

She knew Annie would say she was channeling Hans. The thought was ridiculous, but then why think it? Did it mean that in her heart she believed he was dead? No, she said to herself-he's alive. That wasn't his body in the coffin, that's why you're down here, that's why you're putting yourself through this craziness. Fine, okay, just keep telling yourself that. But then how did you know? Her father, the Navy man, had done more than his share of traveling, uprooting his family from one base to another. Could he possibly have been stationed here? I would have remembered, she thought, or I would have been told. She had no answer. Absolutely none.

Outside the window, the light was clear, the air fresh and filtered through an abundance of greenery. She left a note for Mary Blanchard and slipped outside. Sh.o.r.e birds flashed against an azure sky, their cries exotic. The air was warm against her skin, too warm for the clothes she was wearing. Ivor Greeley was on the terrace drinking coffee and working a crossword puzzle as she walked past. ”Java?” he asked, and when she nodded, fetched it himself. ”I need to buy some clothes,” she told him. ”Absolutely. You're going to roast in those. Don't you got any shorts?” She shook her head. ”I left kind of suddenly.” His eyes narrowed. ”You on the lam? Got the heat on your tail, in trouble with John Law, price on your head?” Not yet, she thought wildly. ”No,” she said. ”Too bad. Nothing exciting ever happens around here. How's the coffee?” ”It's wonderful,” she said politely. She had only had a sip of it. ”Cuban,” he said with pride. ”It isn't legit, that's why it tastes so good. I hate someone telling me I can't buy somebody else's coffee just because they don't have the same politics as Uncle Sam. Back where I'm from we tossed a whole lot of British tea into the harbor for the same reason. ”You're from Boston.”

”Very good. I have a niece goes to Emerson, she thinks World War II and Vietnam were the same war. So how come a bright girl like you travels with no luggage?” She was saved from having to answer the same question again by a deep rumble rolling over the trees beyond the terrace. ”Sounds like it might rain,” she said.

He nodded. ”We get rain sometimes, in the mornings. But that's not rain.” ”Just thunder?”

”Not thunder neither. The Navy's bombing this morning. Five-hundredpounders, I'd say from the sound of it. Got to keep those land crabs in their place, you know.” There it was again-the Navy. What had all this to do with the Navy? The bombing lasted for another hour, through breakfast, which she ate at a nearby restaurant, fried snapper over rice and arepas, a delicious fried dough that brought back more vague, untraceable memories. Clearly she was overamping, perhaps compensating for her anxieties about who had invited her to this unnerving paradise by pretending everything was oddly familiar. The food soothed her nerves, and when the shops opened she bought shorts, T-s.h.i.+rts and a well-worn work s.h.i.+rt at a secondhand shop patronized by locals. In another store, she found sungla.s.ses and a small nylon backpack that would hold it all. Her old tennis shoes would do just fine. Next stop was the tourist bureau. The woman at the desk, a sunny octogenarian with snow-white hair, was also skeptical about the fax. But she confirmed that the Inn on the Azure Horizon was real enough, and suggested that Elizabeth head over there. When she finally located the place, she was surprised by its elegance and charm. It was an old country inn right on the beach, its lobby filled with wicker and bamboo. She checked with the desk clerk, a handsome woman with a paper rose in her hair who was entering bar receipts into an adding machine. Indeed, there was a reservation in the name of Elizabeth Parker, but she was there a day early. ”I caught the ferry,” said Elizabeth. ”So did I win a free stay here?” The woman c.o.c.ked her head. ”Free?”

”I mean, well, look at this.” And once again Elizabeth pulled out the fax. The woman read it and grinned. ”You must have a boyfriend on one of the bases, huh?” Elizabeth tightened. ”Why do you say that?” Delving into a frayed ledger book, the clerk ran her finger down some handwritten notations until she came to one that included Elizabeth's name. ”See here? The room was booked from Roosevelt Roads. That includes both bases and goodness knows what-all branches of service. But it came from the base, no question about it. Paid by credit card and open-ended. Must want to see you pretty bad, huh?” Elizabeth felt a sharp twist of fear.

”What's the name on the credit card?” she asked. The woman peered into the ledger and shook her head. ”Just an account. Some kind of letter and a code number. We get a lot of that. Military tricks for security. you know. Lots of secret stuff going on over there on those bases. Local kooks think they're breaking down an alien s.p.a.cecraft, what's that called again?” ”Reverse engineering,” said Elizabeth, trying to maintain a semblance of calm while she shoved the fax in her backpack. ”n.o.body from there will ever talk about what goes on. It's two worlds, really. Us who live here, and they who do whatever the h.e.l.l they want to, do it whenever the h.e.l.l they want to. Want to see the room?” Elizabeth shook her head. ”No.”

”You're checking in, though, right?”

She turned on her heels. ”No. I'm afraid I'm not.” ”It's a beautiful room!” the woman called after her. Elizabeth was out the door, halfway down the walk, when she heard the door fly open behind her and the woman cry out again. Elizabeth wheeled, as if bracing for an attack. ”Ma'am, I found a telephone message. I'm sorry I didn't see it, it was in the back of your box.” Elizabeth stopped, frozen in her tracks. ”What kind of message?” ”You won't be able to read it, the night girl took the message.” The woman squinted at the pink square of paper in the sunlight. ”It says he'll meet you at the airport.” ”Who?”

”I don't think there's a name.” The woman studied the note again. ”I'd a.s.sume the guy who sent for you, no? So do you want the room now?” ”No, I don't, not right now.” Elizabeth grabbed the message. It was, in fact, illegible. ”But you can tell me something.” ”Anything. You came all this way, I'd hate to lose your business. Elizabeth unfolded her tourist map. ”Where will the plane be coming in?”

The Vieques civilian airport was a sun-drenched asphalt strip not far from Isabel Segunda, where the ferry docked. Elizabeth had rented a Honda Civic and was hunkered down in the front seat drinking a c.o.ke and listening to the radio. There was informal chat about the weather, which came from Roosevelt Roads Naval Station on the main island. Temperature 78 degrees, humidity 68 percent, dew point 68, wind from the east at eight miles per hour, conditions slightly overcast, visibility ten miles. She glanced at her watch: 6:45.

The news about the weather was suddenly drowned out by an aircraft roaring overhead. She turned the radio off. The plane was already banking out of its downwind leg and making its final approach. It was a Cessna Navajo twin, flown by Caribair. Elizabeth watched as it stopped at the end of the runway, then picked up the binoculars she had borrowed from Ivor back at the hotel. ”For bird-watching,” she had told him. She was a safe hundred yards from the parking area, where a half-dozen cabs and rental cars waited. She watched the plane taxi to the small terminal with its pilot's door open for ventilation against the heat. In the parking lot, people started getting out of their airconditioned cars. Everyone except for one. Like her, he was sitting low in his seat in a Range Rover with a license plate unlike any of the others. U.S. government, she bet.

Wisps of cigarette smoke were wafting from a crack in the window. As the pa.s.sengers disembarked from the Cessna, she watched the person behind the wheel crush out his cigarette and sit up tall. Not Hans.

He was at least ten years younger, maybe no more than twenty, with messy hair and a sharp face. Kind of scary, and really intense. And not Hans. Come on, Lizzy, she thought, did you really expect it to be him? And if you didn't, why is your heart sinking? The Range Rover didn't move. Elizabeth swung the binoculars back to the Cessna. The pilot and co-pilot were coming out of the plane; there were no more pa.s.sengers. She watched as the young man punched the dashboard in frustration, then pulled out of the parking lot. He drove slowly at first, then veered past her so quickly that she had to duck down in her seat. IslandMan, she thought.

She waited until it was a dozen car lengths away, then followed. He drove straight to Esperanza, following the line of cars and cabs that had picked up the tourists at the airport. Elizabeth put a truck carrying diving gear between her and the Range Rover and hoped to G.o.d the kid at the wheel was looking forward. Halfway down the main drag of Esperanza, he pulled to the curb. Elizabeth did the same a block back and waited. The kid got out and crossed the street. She followed him with the binoculars. He was heading for the beach and the Inn on the Azure Horizon. Her heart in her mouth, Elizabeth eased the Honda out of park and rolled by, stealing a glance. She could see the guy in the lobby; talking to the same woman she had spoken to earlier, the one with the paper rose in her hair. She was shaking her head at him and shrugging, and then Elizabeth couldn't see either one of them. After circling the block, she stopped where she had paused before. The kid came out of the hotel, plucking irritably at his s...o...b..-Doo T-s.h.i.+rt, got back into the Range Rover and roared away. Again she followed, taking care to keep at least two cars between them, although he was driving much faster this time and threatened to disappear. He drove back to the airport on a different road, then headed north. Fifteen minutes later, as they pa.s.sed El Fortfn, he hung a sharp right. Elizabeth had a sudden notion that the kid knew he was being followed. She glanced in the rearview, as if to gauge how far back she had to stay to remain un.o.btrusive, and caught sight of a second SUV, hanging back, slowing as she slowed. Its winds.h.i.+eld was catching the sun, so she couldn't make out the driver's face, but she was now convinced she was being followed, so she hung back even further. No, now the second SUV was turning off onto another road and she could glimpse a family through the side windows. She looked back for the Range Rover: it had disappeared from sight. Cursing herself for getting spooked and losing her quarry, she floored the Honda. Coming over a rise, she could see the road ahead for a quarter mile, but the Range Rover was gone. There were dirt tracks running off into the scrub everywhere. Which one the weird kid had gone down was impossible to tell. Well, Lizzy, she thought, you blew that, didn't you? She took a deep breath and realized she had been holding the steering wheel so hard that her hands ached. She was scared, wet with perspiration and definitely shaky. Pulling over to the side of the road, she lit a cigarette. Probably you're d.a.m.n well better off, she told herself inhaling deeply and forcing herself to calm down. The fact was that having lost the scent, she was now feeling something like sweet relief. She could go back to the hotel and shower, have a margarita, maybe look up the flight attendants. She started her engine and drove into a pullout to turn around. But as soon as she did, she found herself staring at a fortified gate and an armed U.S. Marine who was watching her, very carefully indeed. Her blood ran cold. Above his head was a simple sign in a concrete gate: CAMP GARCIA-U.S. MARINE CORPS. The Marine was walking toward her. When she tried to pull away, she stalled the car. s.h.i.+t. He was at her window.

”Help you, ma'am?”

”No, thank you, just turning around.”

He nodded and offered her a little salute. He looked all of fifteen but she guessed he was probably eighteen. When he had leaned over to talk to her she couldn't help noticing that the muzzle of his rifle swung right past her face. She felt her hands shaking again as she restarted the car and drove away, checking the rearview mirror. No, he hadn't jumped on the phone, and no, when she returned to Esperanza and her room at the Casa del Frances, there were no messages, no jittery kid waiting in the lobby, no soldier hiding in her closet, no monsters under her bed. Yes, Lizzy, she thought, you are the most paranoid idiot on this island. Either that or this time by sheer dumb luck you have picked the door without the tiger behind it.