A pause.

She was small. A child. She knelt, lifted her shirt to cover her nose against the stench, and with one finger lifted my eyelid. A larger shadow fell across me, and then I felt a finger, stronger and more purposeful, on my carotid. Another pause. The voice belonging to the large shadow said, “How long have you been like this?” Her English was as good as mine, but her accent was thick.

“Last night.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yes. A café.”

“You remember the name?”

“No.”

“What’d you eat?”

“Beans, rice, and meat.”

“Was it steaming?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you drink?”

“Bottled water.”

She paused another second. “You eat any chips?”

“Two or three bowls.”

I could hear her smile when she spoke. “You eat any salsa with that?”

That’s about when the truth hit me. Salsa is made with fresh and often uncooked vegetables. “Two or three bowls.”

She covered her nose with her hand. “Wow. You really stink.”

She pulled out a cell phone, called someone who responded; she spoke in Spanish, and within a few minutes a truck pulled up next to the sidewalk upon which I’d soiled and sprawled. The truck backed up, a man exited and lowered the tailgate, and the woman said to me, “You want my help, get in the truck.”

I crawled along the street, pulled myself up on the tailgate, and was physically unable to get myself inside, prompting the driver to lift me in.

I lay down in the back of the truck; the engine whined, clutch slipped, and I fell asleep beneath the smell of spent fuel and the heat of a rising sun.

During my sleep, I remember cold sweats and fever. More vomiting and diarrhea. Then I vaguely remember a sting in my arm, and later someone telling me to roll over and relax and then shoving something up my rectum to which I was powerless to object.

*  *  *

I woke to the soft light of evening. Above me, in the gap between the concrete block walls and the tin roof, I could hear dogs barking, a pig grunting, several birds singing farther off, kids playing what sounded like soccer, someone chopping wood, a fire crackling, and the sound of a passing car. I could hear food simmering close by and could smell the wood fire and coffee, which helped leverage open my eyes.

My room was hot, ninety degrees or better, and my skin was painted in my own sweat. I lay naked beneath a sheet, but I was clean. I could smell soap. The oscillating fan to my left clicked, paused, and began its return in my direction, pushing the wave of heat across my skin. An IV bag dripped over my left shoulder, running down a clear tube that ended in a needle that had been inserted and taped into my arm. I reached to touch it, but a hand rested gently on mine. “Antibiotics.”

It was the same voice I remembered hearing on the sidewalk beneath the bells.

She spoke again. “Think you could hold down some water?”

“I don’t want to put anything near my mouth. Ever again.”

Her laughter was easy and quiet. She held a cup to my lips. “Come on. Sooner you start drinking, the sooner you get that needle out of your arm.”

My stomach felt better and I was very thirsty. I lifted my head and sipped.

She had black hair tied up in a bun. Dark skin, toned muscles, and sweat on her top lip. She wore a long skirt to her ankles, sandals, and a loose short-sleeve shirt. She said, “It’s water, lemon juice, honey, and a touch of salt.”

I swallowed and sat back, coming to grips with the realization that such a small effort required so much of me. I was exhausted. My tongue felt thick as I licked my lips. “Tastes like bleach.”

She held the cup again to my lips. “Least we know your taste buds still work.” A pause. “It kills bacteria. In the water and in you.”

I sat back and closed my eyes. “What happened to me? And where am I?”

“Amebic dysentery. You’re in Valle Cruces.” She held out her hand. “Paulina Rodriguez Flores.” The way she said Paulina sounded like “Pow-leena.” “You’re in my uncle’s house.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Nurse. But around here, those two occupations are a bit blurred.” She crossed her legs. “Want to tell me what you were doing out there? I’m assuming you were mugged because your pockets were empty.”

For the first time, I noticed my left wrist. There was no watch on it. Again. “You didn’t happen to notice a watch on my left arm, did you?”

She shook her head.

“I remember someone tugging on me, but it’s all a little hazy. I’d had a bite and went out for a walk after.”

“What are you doing in León?”

“Your English is good.”

“College in Virginia. Studied medicine at the University of Miami. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s a long story, but I’m looking for a kid.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“If he’s not, he will be.” I continued, “And not to be indelicate, but did you shove something up my butt?”

She laughed. Easily. “Suppository. I was tired of cleaning up your mess.”

I tried to counter with humor. “You do that with all your guests?”

“Nope. You’re the first.” She stood and walked to the curtain that acted as the door. “Get some rest. You’ve been asleep for over two days.”

I pointed out the single window. Several miles in the distance sat a volcano. It stood three to five thousand feet above us. Its shoulders were green, lush, and a second smaller volcano sat off to its right. “What’s that?”

Her Spanish accent was thick when she spoke the name, proving that she moved fluidly between English and Spanish. “San Cristóbal.”

“It’s smoking.”

“He does that.”

“Why?”

“He likes to remind us.”

“Of what?”

“The fact that he’s in control and we’re not. Life around here is like that.”

“Why do you call it a ‘he’?”

She laughed easily. “’Cause a ‘she’ would never do that to these beautiful people that she loves.”

“Are you one of those women who doesn’t like ‘hes’?”

“No, I like ‘hes’ just fine. Used to be married to one, but if you look closely enough around here, you’ll find that the source of ninety nine percent of our problems are ‘hes’ and that’s not just the ‘she’ in me talking.” I decided to shut my mouth before I got myself in trouble with a woman who had no problem shoving something up my butt.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She continued. “You should sleep. You were pretty close to being in a real bad way.”

Sleep fell heavy on me, but my mind was spinning. I couldn’t help but think of the time I’d lost. Any trail I’d had that might have been hot regarding Zaul had long since grown cold.

Before I dozed off, I heard the sound of a young girl speaking Spanish with Paulina. I also heard the sound of water being poured over someone, which suggested she was bathing just beyond the wall. Later, maybe early morning, I heard the deep tone of a man’s voice whispering with Paulina. And while I didn’t understand a word he said, his tone toward her was tender. Almost fatherly.

Chapter Twelve

In the beginning, most of my drops were South Florida. Eventually, Colin stretched me to the other islands and points south. Given my stellar six-month record, Colin called. “You mind making a few pickups? You can say no, but…the money’s pretty good.”

Like it or not, and despite my denials, money had become the carrot. As had getting away with something few were willing to risk—and every time I hopped in that boat, I was risking my freedom. As much as I denied and tried to act like it was not, money gave me the one thing nothing else did. Control. It allowed me to trust and depend on no one.

“A pickup is just a delivery in reverse. I’m in.”

He laughed.

I had also become an adrenaline junkie. I knew more about boats than the people who made them, and given my rather advanced woodcrafting skills after working with Hack, I got pretty good at retrofitting boats with compartments that were almost impossible to detect. Soon I was driving drug-laden boats real fast between Miami and Cuba, the Cayman Islands, Jamaica, El Salvador, Honduras, Puerto Rico, and Nicaragua. Sometimes as far north as Savannah and Charleston. Colin kept a fleet of about ten boats. Give or take. And he was always trading. Always buying and selling. Seldom, if ever, did I drive the same boat a second time to any location. His entire fleet was seaworthy, and most were worth a half million or more, averaged forty-fifty feet, carried a lot of fuel, and were deceptively fast. As in, when fully fueled, which they were, they could maintain 100 miles per hour for several hours. The trick—and it was why I stayed in the game so long at such a high level—was never using all that speed. Look like you’re out for a Sunday stroll, and people believe you are. It was just one more bluff.