Tampa Burn by Randy Wayne White Page B

safely.”
    â€œBiologically, you have taken the role of his father. Of course. I’m also aware that in the last two years or so, you and Laken have developed a . . . well, at least a friendship through your correspondence. But let’s be clear about one thing, Marion. When it comes to Laken’s well-being, I make the decisions. ¿Claro? I welcome your advice, your input. But I have final say.”
    She’d stopped in the mangroves where the boardwalk exits onto the edge of the gravel parking area near the gate to the marina. Mosquitoes had been trailing us in an orbiting veil, and now they began to vector, flea-hopping off clothing, seeking skin.
    I took half a step toward her. I watched her take a full step back as I said, “I’m well aware that the FBI has no jurisdiction in Central America. That’s not what I meant by professional help. There may be other options. I know people who are military types—covert extraction experts—who might be willing and able to help us find and free Lake.”
    She said, “You don’t think I’m already aware that you know those kind of people? Apparently you never realized that I’m not stupid. Why do you think I came to you looking for help? It’s not because you’re his father. And it’s certainly not because I think you’re a nice person.”
    Her tone was so bitter, so accusatory, that I was momentarily speechless. She’d never spoken to me like that. I’d never heard her speak to anyone like that.
    â€œWhat in the hell is wrong with you, lady? You’re furious at me, and for no reason. You’ve been treating me like I’m poison. Why? ”
    When she tried to turn, I caught her arm and pulled her to me, my face looking down into hers. “I’m not going to let you run away. If I’ve done something, if I’ve said something to hurt you, get it out. Let’s talk about it. But no more of your passive-aggressive crap. You’re too good for it, and so am I. Plus, you’re the one who said it—we don’t have time.”
    Her face was shadowed in the mangrove dusk. She looked into my face, then looked at her arm until I took my hand away, freeing her. I watched her straighten her blouse, her slow, deliberate gestures telling me that I should feel like a bullying ass because I’d stopped her.
    In a voice that was maddeningly aloof, she said, “All right. Maybe I should have told you months ago. When I first found out.”
    I didn’t like the sound of that. I could feel my pulse in my neck and the side of my head.
    â€œFound out what?”
    â€œAbout you. Who you really are. What kind of man you are. In Masagua, when we met, when . . . when I began to have feelings for you, thought I fell in love, it was with a man who I believed was a marine biologist. A scientist. A good and decent man, a researcher dedicated to his profession—”
    I said, “I was. I still am.”
    She held up a palm— quiet. “I knew there was also a possibility that you were working for the American State Department. Or military. I’d heard the rumors. I’m not stupid. But most such agents are simply abroad to gather data, to make quantitative analysis. They’re observers. I had no problem with that. But you did more, Marion. That’s what I discovered. Far more.”
    I stood silently, breath shallow, fists clenched as I listened to her add, “A person brought me the files. Someone showed me the photos. A person who became interested in your background and did the research. I couldn’t believe what I read. What I saw. I didn’t want to believe.
    â€œYou did illegal things in my country. And in Nicaragua, too. Unthinkable things. The worst, though, was what you did to a man named Don Blas Diego.” Her voice became harsh, emotional and accusatory, as she added, “You knew. You had to know who that kind and decent man was.