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  * * *

  29

  Christopher was the first one to the hospital. He found a woman sitting in a chair outside of Patrick’s room. She was thin and frail and covered in filth. She glanced up at him and Christopher realized who she was.

  “You must be Jane.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Christopher.”

  “Oh, hi. Yeah, Patrick was talking about you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s all right. He’s getting some stitches in his hand right now.”

  “What happened?”

  “He almost died in quicksand but your men found us and pulled him out.”

  “I heard he was shot. You sure he’s all right?”

  “It was in the hand. He’ll be fine.”

  Christopher collapsed into a chair and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Fucking country. They took him right out of our room.”

  “He saved my life.”

  “What?”

  “He saved my life.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Yes.”

  Christopher shrugged. “When can we see him?”

  “I was just in there. You can probably go if you want to. He’s in the last room on the right.”

  He rose and turned down the hallway. The hospitals here were not the hospitals back home. In several of the rooms he passed he saw dried bloodstains on the ceilings and the floors looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. The nurses threw bloodied bandages on the floor, assuming the cleaning staff would get to them later, and the doctors seemed to rarely wear gloves.

  He got to the room and looked in to see Patrick sitting up in bed, a doctor stitching closed a small hole in his left hand.

  “Quicksand?” Christopher said, stepping into the room. “What are you in a fucking Tarzan movie?”

  “If it helps I think I shit myself in the quicksand.”

  “Well you look good now. How’s the hand?”

  “Hurts like a son of a bitch. But no tendons were torn or anything. Just went right through my palm so I should be good to go in a few weeks as long as it doesn’t get infected in this place. So I guess I owe you one? Thanks, Chrissy. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Wish I could take all the credit but Taylor was the one that hired those men. He was really concerned about finding your dumb ass. Who gets so drunk they get kidnapped? Seriously?”

  “I think I’m done with booze for a while. Is Jane out there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I told her to go home. She’s been sitting with me the whole time.”

  The nurse finished the stitches and then spoke ultra-fast Spanish that Patrick didn’t understand. She left without saying goodbye.

  “Did you understand any of that?” Patrick said.

  “I think she said kiss your ass goodbye cause that fucker is getting infected.” Christopher rose and walked near him, lifting up the bandage to look at the stitches again. “I think we should get you stateside and to a real hospital.”

  Patrick sighed and looked up to the ceiling. A TV in the corner was playing a Spanish soap opera. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. I think you’re right; I’m gonna call my dad and tell him I want to come home.”

  Christopher bit his lower lip and stared down to the floor.

  “What?” Patrick said.

  “What?”

  “I know you too well. What is it?”

  “Well, it’s just . . . I mean, I totally didn’t intend for this to happen, but . . . Taylor offered me a job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Personal assistant.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “Get this, he and your dad know each other. Some geezer club where they go golfing twice a year in Florida. Says your dad has said some nice things about me.”

  “My dad? Are you sure?”

  “Surprised me too.”

  “My dad once killed our dog because he barked too loud at a mouse in the yard.”

  “He’s a bastard of an old prick but I guess he said some things. Taylor wants to hire me, with a raise.”

  “You gonna do it?”

  “I think so. He’s not so bad, actually.”

  “I don’t trust any of them, Chrissy. Be careful.”

  “I know what I’m doing.” He put his hand on Patrick’s forearm. “I’m gonna come check on you tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  Patrick was alone again and he reached for the remote and turned the television off. There was a single window in the room and he stared out of it at the sun beginning to break through gray-black clouds that slowly drifted across the sky.

  He heard yelling down the hall. It was Jane. He jumped out of bed but before he got to the door two police officers stepped in.

  “Senõr Russell, you are under arrest,” one of them said.

  “For what?”

  “Attempted murder.”

  * * *

  30

  “Bob, honey?”

  Bob stepped off the transom of the boat and walked to the door leading below deck. The sun was hot on his face and he had to squint. He checked his pockets and then cursed at himself; he’d lost his sunglasses again.

  “Yeah?” he shouted.

  “Can you get the beer out of the cooler and bring it down here please? Lunch is almost ready.”

  “Let’s eat up here.”

  “It’s too hot up there.”

  He cursed again and walked over to the cooler that was near the bow. The boat was dipping low and then coming high on the waves; the ocean was violent today though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  “Fucking Chile,” he yelled.

  “What?”

  “I said, fucking Chile.”

  “You want chili?”

  “No—nevermind.”

  He took out a six pack of beer and walked it below deck to the small kitchen. His wife was standing near a sink cutting vegetables as meat fried on a Foreman grill. Her friends, Jeff and Suzanne Milton, were sitting at the table that was bolted into the vessel and playing checkers.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” his wife said. “Lunch is done in five minutes. Can you last?”

  “Sure.” He turned to Jeff. “Wanna help me take the poles down?”

  “Yup.”

  They climbed back up to the deck and then went to the stern. Two fishing lines were held in place in swivel holes and Jeff sat down in one of the deck chairs near them.

  “I don’t want to go down yet,” he said.

  Bob joined him, putting his feet up on the transom. “Me neither. Grab us some beers, will ya?”

  Jeff rose and got two bottles and came back. He popped them open and squeezed half a lime into each bottle and handed one to Bob.

  “The fishing here is terrible,” Jeff said. “Worse than Cuba.”

  “Cuba wasn’t so bad. We got that marlin.”

  “That was in Cuba? I thought that was off San Diego?”

  “No, that was Cuba. That thing wiggled in the boat and cut Betty’s ankle, remember? We had to go to that little hospital in Havana where the doctor was like fifteen.”

  “Oh yeah. That was Cuba.”

  One of the fishing poles bent slightly. Bob leaned forward and grabbed it, feeling the tension, and then leaned back. The pole went straight.

  “Probably got caught on something.”

  They talked for a few more seconds and the pole bent again, dipping down farther this time before coming back up. Bob handed his beer to Jeff and stood up. He went and looked over the transom into the dark water. The fishing wire was twisting in a slow circle; they had hooked something and it was flailing and trying to get away.

  “Think we got a bite.”

  Jeff walked over and put his hand on the pole. He leaned it back as far as it would go and it bent forward. He pushed it toward the water, letting the line go slack, and then grabbed it w
ith both hands and pulled back as hard as he could. The pole bent nearly in half and then whipped out of his hands and into the water.

  “What the fuck, Jeff?”

  “Oh shit. Sorry.”

  “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “It wasn’t like I did it on purpose, it flew outta my hands.”

  “Fucking shit. That was a Scott bamboo. It was like thirty-six hundred bucks.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  The rod jutted from the water behind the boat. It was bobbing up and down and then would get sucked under the surface and then come back up. Bob went and got his net. It had a ten foot aluminum pole and he leaned over the transom and flung it out.

  It landed just a foot or so short of the fishing rod and he pulled it back and threw it again and missed. He stepped up to the transom, spreading his legs for balance, and threw it out again, catching the tip of the rod in the net.

  “Hey, I got it!”

  There was an explosion of foam and water and Jeff was thrown backward and hit the deck hard on his head and lost consciousness.

  Bob saw only water, streaking blue and gold reflections of sunlight. He was pulled into the ocean face first and felt the sting of impact across his body.

  There was only darkness around him and his lungs ached. Bubbles escaped from his mouth and he looked upward to blinding light as he began to kick. He broke through the surface and sucked in air before coughing up sea water. He vomited clear liquid in front of him and began to tread water, wiping his face with his hand.

  He looked for the boat and saw it to his right. He was easily thirty feet away.

  Jeff stood and stumbled to the transom, holding his head. Blood was leaking down over his neck and he held his hand to the back of his head. He was shouting but Bob couldn’t hear what he was saying as a large wave engulfed him and pulled him under. He kicked to the surface again when the wave had passed and began to swim toward the boat.

  Each stroke was more painful than the next and he realized that one if not both of his shoulders were injured. He could feel several of his fingers going numb and knew the impact had flared up his arthritis. But he kept swimming; his legs growing weak.

  Jeff ran to the upper deck and started the motor. His wife ran out from below and Jeff pointed to him and said something and she screamed. The boat began to swing around and Bob stopped kicking.

  He leaned back as another wave swept over and dragged him underneath the surface. He opened his eyes under the water, and something was there.

  It was off in the distance, near the boat. A red glow.

  He came to the surface and watched as the boat was speeding toward him. And then, it stopped.

  The motor roared and smoke began to billow, but the boat didn’t move. Jeff looked down at the motor just as the back of the boat dipped under the surface.

  Jeff was thrown from the upper deck into the water and the boat went upright. His wife screamed as she held on to the railing and as if it had fallen into a hole, the boat was sucked under the surface.

  Bob treaded water, horrified and going into shock. He shouted for his wife and for Jeff but no one responded. Above him he heard a plane as something wrapped itself around his legs. He looked up to the sky, and then disappeared into the sea.

  * * *

  31

  Seba Calderon circled in the small twin-engine plane over the churning ocean. He had spotted something below but as he swung around he saw only the waves, a few schools of blue fish casting a moving shadow through the water.

  He did one more circle and then decided to head back. He looked back to Alexis. The cameraman was yawning and rubbing his chest, his camera pointed at the ocean. The stock footage they had been asked to take was due in less than an hour if it was to make the news tonight and he asked Alexis if they had enough.

  “Yes, let’s go back. I’m very hungry.”

  Seba turned the plane around and headed to shore. They passed the beach, taking a quick look at the women in bikinis, and then headed to the private airport two miles inland. The runway was long and surrounded by thick vegetation and Seba landed the plane perfectly, gliding to a smooth stop as Alexis began gathering his equipment. They stepped off the plane and climbed into the van.

  Seba drove to the news station in Santiago. He was doing eighty miles per hour on the winding, narrow roads and Alexis said a prayer and crossed himself.

  They reached Santiago in forty minutes and sprinted into the building and up the elevator to the fifth floor. Production was gearing up and they ran to editing and threw the tape into the machine. Seba looked back to his friend and whispered to him, “We shouldn’t drink before a shoot.”

  “It is fine. We made it.”

  The editor was flipping through the tape, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, when he saw something on the lower right quadrant. He rewound and watched it again.

  “What’s this?” he said.

  Seba and Alexis stepped behind him and watched the footage. They could clearly see a man floating on the surface and in few seconds he disappeared.

  “I don’t know,” Seba said. “We didn’t see anything.”

  “I can’t use this if there’s somebody swimming on it.”

  “I told you, we didn’t see anybody.”

  The editor, swearing under his breath, rewound the tape and zoomed in on the lower quadrant, magnifying by four. The man was clearly visible, hovering in the water. He was white with a gold watch and no life vest.

  The next frame took the men’s breath away.

  A massive white tentacle looped around the man’s legs just underneath the surface of the water, and he shot into the depths like a bullet.

  * * *

  32

  Taylor Hamilton finished his morning exercises on the balcony of his hotel room. The Hotel del Mar was the casino’s hotel and one of the finest in all of South America. It was designed and built by the same architecture firm that handled several of the casinos in Las Vegas and there was a certain Vegas-like feel to it.

  The building was circular and at night it would be lit up a deep gold or blue. A topless pool was on the first floor and Hamilton only briefly glanced at the women before returning to his exercises.

  He finished his set with a breathing exercise he had learned in India, a quick succession of short breaths followed by a pattern of long breaths before he would still his mind, and focus on one thought. The thought, as he was taught the exercise, was supposed to be a number or a word. He instead liked to focus on things like money, believing that his thoughts would bring more of it near.

  Not that he needed the money, but one could always use more.

  There was a knock at his door and he swiveled around and went inside his luxury suite and answered. Stewart stood there, all nearly seven feet of him. He was red and sweaty from working out and seemed out of breath.

  “You need to turn on the television.”

  Hamilton had learned that Stewart rarely spoke, but when he did, it was always something that absolutely needed to be said. Without asking further questions he went and turned on his television.

  “What station?”

  “Channel six. It’s a recap of last night’s news.”

  Hamilton changed the station and there were three people at a news desk discussing something. In the upper right hand corner was a still photo of a man in the ocean; the photo blurry from being magnified. And underneath him was . . .

  “Call the president’s office.”

  “Of America?”

  “No, Stewart. Not of America. Call the President’s office here. They won’t patch you through unless you tell them that I’m an American investor looking to invest a lot of money. They’ll give you the direct line of the regional governor and he’s who I need to speak with.”

  Stewart nodded and walked out.

  The news played the full clip. Hamilton couldn’t suppress a smile. He ended his exercises early and went to go shower.

  * * *
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br />   33

  Patrick Russell woke in jail for the third time in his life. The first time had been for a drunk and disorderly charge in Turkey. The Turks were not as understanding as their more moderate politics would lead one to believe. There was talk of lashings and beatings and a full year in jail. In the end, a local commander in the military had heard he was a soldier and released him as a courtesy.

  Patrick rubbed at his eyes and sat up on the couch as there was no bed. A full breakfast of Chorizo and eggs and juice had been place through an opening in the cell on a table. He walked over and sat down and began to eat. Though his hand hurt and he was still as dirty as ever, he felt good considering where he had woken up in. But this jail was hardly a jail at all. He had stayed in less luxurious hotels.

  There was some commotion down the hall as Mayor Silva walked in. One of the guards shook his hand and said something about his reelection. Ignacio thanked him and continued down the hall to the holding cells. Another guard opened Patrick’s cell and Ignacio came in and sat on the couch.

  “You know I should set up a room for you here if you plan to make this a habit.”

  Patrick turned back to his food. “Does the mayor come and visit all of his inmates?”

  “Just the ones with rich fathers that have the American embassy call me at three in the morning.”

  “My father did that?”

  “I would assume it was your father. The man in the wheelchair, no?”

  “No, he’s not my father.”

  “Oh.” Ignacio brushed a piece of lint off his pant leg. “Do you know what you’re charged with?”

  “Attempted murder.”

  “You shot two men. One in the chest—and he still might die, you know—and one in the ass. There were body parts of a third found in the jungle but they were not sure what happened with him so you have not been charged with murder.”