Buried At Sea (37 page)

recuperating.' Here in BA, of course, there is much English, so mine has been exercised. I am called Stallone, by the way—my 'surf tag.' May I ask what happened to your legs?" Jim felt Shannon stiffen. He laid his hand on her shoulder and she grabbed it. Throwing the word cripple around like a hard-won badge could never erase her loss. She had told him only once the horror story of her accident and made him swear they would never speak of it again.

"I asked, what happened to your legs?"

"An accident," she answered at last. "And yours?" "An accident." Shannon and Stallone stared at each other for what seemed to Jim a very long time. Then Shannon said, "Skiing."

"Surfing," said Stallone.

Shannon looked at him, clearly surprised.

Stallone broke another silence with a loud laugh. "You're asking yourself how does a man get roasted to a crisp in the ocean. Train surfing. Do you know about train surfing?" Shannon shook her head.

"Surfistas ride on the train's roof, dance in the wind. It feels wonderful, especially when you are going home to hell. In Rio we had shantytowns that make this one look like your Plaza Hotel. Where you shot the cops—for which, in a better world, you would be rewarded, if this were only a better world."

"Who is paying you for us?"

"There are problems with train surfing. Falling off is one problem. The train runs over you. Or you land on your head at a hundred kilometers per hour. The other problem is electrocution. The electric cable that powers the locomotive is

just above the roof. Four thousand volts. You start to fall, you grab the cable. You can't help it."

He flashed white, even teeth, which, like his beautiful arm and hand, had survived intact.

" 'Shocking,' they say. But they never say how the electricity burns you. It burned the fat right out of my legs and this arm. This one—the funny one." Shannon said, "My father is a very wealthy man. He will pay you for us." Stallone shook his head. "Sadly, your father is not nearly so wealthy as the people Eduardo is dealing with. Nor is your father here, while these people have gone to the trouble of coming all the way to Buenos Aires. All week they've been asking for you. All over BA. They tell the police, the mafia, the gangs of the villas miserias: whoever finds the pretty blond girl who can't walk, whoever finds her muscle man—name your price. Jim and Shannon are a very popular couple."

"Double your money," Jim said. "It's me they want. Not her. Sell Shannon to her father. Sell me to the—"

"No," said Shannon.

Stallone said, "Be quiet, pretty woman. Your muscle man has a good idea."

"Just get her away before they come," urged Jim. "They're only using her to get to me:"

"I won't leave you."

Stallone started stroking his twisted hand with his good one. "You will leave him if I say so."

"Then please don't say so."

Stallone laughed. He shook his head, clearly intrigued by Jim's suggestion. His eyes glittered as Shannon said to Jim, "Please don't leave me."

"You'll be okay."

"Not without you."

Stallone jabbed his finger at Shannon's crutches. "Tell me, how did skiing do that to you?" Jim started to speak in her defense, but Shannon's hand bit into his and he listened in fear and wonder, thrilled by her spirit. She challenged their captor.

"I did something as stupid as you did."

Stallone's twisted body seemed to swell up. Blood suffused the skin on his head. He gripped the table and Jim thought he was going to throw it at her. He rubbed his face and shouted, "What did you do?"

"I sneaked onto the ski mountain at night. When it was closed . . . I climbed in from the next mountain—with skins on my skis.'

Stallone nodded, though it was doubtful he had ever seen skis, much less climbing skins.

"You didn't pay?"

"Not a peso. It was free."

"And you felt free."

"All alone racing down the mountain."

"In the dark?"

"The snow glowed blue."

"Enough to see?"

"I thought I could see."

"Fast?"

"Fast as a train."

"The air was good?"

"The air was beautiful. Clean and cold. Stinging cold. Pure as ice."

"You feel yourself start to fall."

"No. I don't fall."

"You skid into a tree."

"I don't skid."

"You fall from a cliff."

"I jump from a cliff."

Stallone flashed another smile. "You crash."

"I soar like a bird."

"You crash to the ground."

"I float to the ground. My knees bend to take the shock; they cushion the landing and I make a magnificent turn through a blue-glowing curve. . .."

"Then?"

"There, in front of me, is a snow cat."

"What is a snow cat?"

"A tractor they drive up and down the mountain to groom the snow trails."

"No lights? No warning?"

"It had broken down. It was a dark, silent mound of steel. I couldn't stop. No one could have—that was my last thought. No one could stop. Not even me." Stallone stared at Shannon and a deep silence descended on the room. Finally, he whispered, "I know. I know. I knew I was reaching for the cable. I couldn't stop myself. I was afraid to fall."

He looked sharply around the cramped, dim room, stared into the faces of his gang. Children and teenagers gazed back impassively and Jim could not figure out whether they understood English. Stallone shrugged. "Who cares who knows? I went soft. I was finished."

"How did you end up here?"

Stallone shrugged. "What do these people want from you?" he asked Jim.

"Something I don't have."

"They'll expect a better answer than that."

"I don't have it."

"They will 'ask' until you give it to them. Or die. Her, too." He cocked his ear to a sound Jim couldn't hear. Those who had gone out earlier had returned with those who would be doing the asking. Two Americans by the look of them, soldiers or cops, the leader not that tall but plenty wide, with arms and a chest that said he could bench-press four hundred. Andy Nickels?

His backup was taller, but just as wide, with a swimmer's chest and shoulders. Buzz cuts, smooth-shaven hard-planed faces. Definitely military types. Special Forces or SEALs.

"Where's Will Spark?"

Jim squeezed Shannon's hand lightly with his fingers, warning her not to speak, praying that they wouldn't notice that he was trying to beam a million-volt thought into Shannon'

s brain: Don't tell them Will is dead. If they think we have Sentinel they will torture us to death to get it.

They had one hope. The McVays would chase Will, believing him to still be alive. But that demanded a Will Spark

answer. Details, details, details. Smoke and mirrors. And a thousand "facts."

"Last I saw he was headed east."

"Where?"

"Ten miles off Montevideo."

"Where were you?"

"I was on the ferry to Buenos Aires. We had already said good-bye. I went out on deck and suddenly I saw his boat. Close enough to wave. He was really tramping, a broad port reach on that north wind. Good point of sail for that boat."

"What ferry?"

"Will didn't want to come into Buenos Aires. So he dropped me at Montevideo, in Uruguay, on the other side of the Rio de la Plata, and I caught the boat. What is all this about?"

"How long did Will Spark stay in Montevideo?"

Jim built his answer from the truth—after three months at sea, the boat was low on everything. "Will bought diesel. I helped him fill the water tanks. He picked up a sack of rice and coffee, a couple of cases of ultrapasteurized juice and milk, and a heap of frozen food, and he was out of there."

"No one saw him in Montevideo."

"What do you mean?"

"No one saw him there."

"So?"

"So you're not telling me the truth."

"It's a big port. I don't know where you were looking, but we were there. He dropped me right at the ferry. The main dock, for God's sake."

"Where is he headed?"

"I told you. East."

"For where?"

"I don't know. What the hell is this about?"

"Why didn't he tell you where he was headed?"

"He claimed somebody was chasing him and that it would be better if I didn't know. I'm beginning to believe him."

Andy Nickels turned a sudden cold eye on Shannon. "Is that true?"

"Absolutely."

"Honey, you don't want us to catch you lying."

"Fuck you. How dare you threaten us? What are you, some kind of mafia?" Was this the one who had bungled kidnapping Angela? Jim wondered. Or had they hired locals? Or bought cops to do it?

"You're lying. If Will Spark had sailed east like you say our people would have stopped him."

"It's a big river," said Jim. "A hundred miles wide. You'd need a lot of people on a hell of a lot of boats to spot one little sailboat."

"We have both." He turned to Stallone, who was hunched at his table, eyes flickering back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. "All right. We'll take them."

"Take us?" yelled Shannon. "What do you mean, 'take us'?" Stallone said, "He doesn't mean take. He means buy."

STALLONE SAID, "SHOW me the money."

"Greg!"

Greg opened his windbreaker, pulled out an orange and blue FedEx mailer, and tossed it on Stallone's table. Stallone moved back as if fearing it would explode. "Open it." Every child in the room eyed hungrily the switchblade that Greg flicked open to slash the envelope.

"Empty it."

Greg dumped the contents on the table. "Dollars," said Andy Nickels. "Like you asked." Stallone nodded at the banded stacks of twenty-dollar bills.

"My father will pay you more," said Shannon.

He turned to her and again his straight white teeth gleamed. "When you get home, ski lady, perhaps he'll write me a check."

He looked up at Nickels. "I accept this money as ransom for you and your friend. A guide will lead you safely out of my barrio."

"What?"

Greg and Andy Nickels exploded into motion. Crouching, reaching down, spreading apart, each whipped a pistol from an ankle holster. Children scurried. A box cutter laid a deep, red track across the back of Greg's hand; his gun fell to the dirt floor. Two razors brushed his throat, two his face.

"Tell them to stop," said Andy Nickels. Blood was pouring from his hand, too, but he still held his pistol leveled at Stallone. "Now!"

Stallone spoke to the children in Spanish, then said, "I instructed them to cut your balls off if you shoot me."

"Won't help you," Andy replied coolly. Blood was splashing on his shoes, but he held the gun rock steady and ignored the blades at his groin.

Stallone said, "Check out the ceiling." Nickels's eyes never moved. "Greg, what is it?" Jim looked up and flinched. Children in the rafters were aiming short-barreled shotguns. Greg said, "They've got sawed-offs."

Shannon said, "Stop. They're children."

"Do you know who you're cheating?" Andy asked Stallone. Stallone pounded his chest. "Here, I am king. Here, you are nobody."

"They're little kids," said Shannon. "You want us all dead?" Nickels put down his pistol and squeezed his flowing cut with his fingers. Small hands fished his switchblade from its pocket, his money, his cell phone, his wallet, and another gun.

Raging, Andy turned on Stallone. "I'm warning you one last time. If you cheat us we will hunt you to the end of the earth."

Stallone shrugged. "This is the end of the earth. No one who enters leaves unless I say so—no cop, no gang, no Yankee foreigner."

Nickels turned to Jim. "Give me Will Spark. Name your price."

"I already told you, Will is sailing east. All we want to do is go home."

"We will help you go home. We'll protect you from the cops." Jim looked at Shannon. "Do you believe that?"

Shannon said, "No."

Stallone laughed. Then he said to Nickels, "My little friends will show you out—the long way."

He brushed aside their stunned thanks. "Surfers and skiers hang together. Besides, I keep the money."

"You saved our lives."

"Temporarily. I am king of a very small land. Outside my villa miseria, I am just another scavenger. You are safe only as long as you stay in my garbage dump. If you're going to leave, you must leave immediately. Ahead of those two. How will you get home to America?"

"We have a boat."

Stallone smiled. "The boat that sailed east?"

Jim nodded.

"Excellent. A criminal mind behind that baby face. Where is your boat?"

"A little north of San Clemente."

Stallone shook his head mournfully. "San Clemente is very far from my kingdom."

"It's about a hundred miles down the coast."

"I know where it is. . . . Have you any money?"

"I have cash," said Shannon. Jim displayed his slashed pocket. "I lost mine."

"It happens," Stallone replied distractedly, pondering the problem.

"I have some gold Krugerrands in my pack."

"Gold is good. . . . There is a person in La Boca who drives a van to Mar del Plata. For gold he might take you. San Clemente is on the way. The party season is ending, but perhaps he has a shipment going tomorrow."

"What kind of shipment?" Shannon asked.

Jim said, "We don't want to know."

"Correct," said Stallone. "But first, somehow, I have to move you across the city to La Boca."

At dawn, thousands of garbage trucks began their daily shuttle between the city's residential and business neighborhoods and the shantytowns where they dumped their loads. One that trundled into Stallone's barrio full left still carrying a cardboard refrigerator box it had found on a prosperous street of fine old houses in the Recoleta barrio. Laid flat, hidden by the wooden sides of the truck from pedestrians and automobile drivers, it was visible only to the commuters peering down from the early trains streaming into Retiro.

The truck slowed at the bus station. Bolivian Indians loped alongside, throwing full garbage cans up to the catcher, who tossed them back empty. As they passed through the Retiro barrio, the refrigerator box was buried under office trash and restaurant waste. Filled to the brim, the truck groaned on, carrying its reeking load through San Nicolas, San Telmo, and finally into the old working-class barrio of La Boca, where it disappeared into the dark loading bay of a vast city hospital.