Tom McInnes - Dog Island Part 31

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. "Carlos Sanchez."

Susan whispered again. "Did you tell him you know his real name?"

I kept my hand over the phone. "h.e.l.l, no." Susan laughed, and I realized that Sanchez had been saying something. "I'm sorry Carlos, someone just came in. What were you saying?"

"I was asking about your young client."

"Carli's doing about as well as I guess anyone could under the circ.u.mstances."

"Yes. It is very sad."

As far as I was concerned, Carlos Sanchez was a pretty good guy. I formed this opinion after he rescued me from being kicked to death in the swamp by a bunch of tattooed, redneck smugglers. But I did not believe he had called my home to check on my friends' health and well-being. He wanted something.

"Why'd you call?"

"Ah, we have a problem, and it could turn out to be your problem too." He had my attention. "Someone is missing."

"Who?"

"The Carpenter. With what happened to Leroy Purcell, well, I don't need to tell you what kind of attention such a psychopath could focus on my organization."

"Then I take it Carpintero's done this before."

Sanchez hesitated before answering. "Yes. I am afraid 'the Hammer,' 'the Carpenter,' whatever name you want to use, is quite famous among former political interrogators in Central America."

"I didn't think that kind of thing went on down there anymore."

"Well, with the spread of democracy, it is certainly not accepted practice anymore, which is one reason El Carpintero was looking for a new, ah, venue."

"And you were going to supply one?"

"What? No. No, seor."

I decided I had jerked him around enough. "Carpintero is dead."

"You have seen the body?"

"Sure. He crashed into a building out there in the compound. He was trying to make a run for it in an old Mercedes and one of the young Bodines, a guy named Willie Teeter, either shot him or just shot at him and made him crash. Whichever, he was dead."

Sanchez was silent long enough for me to wonder if we had lost the connection. Finally, he said, "You said Seor Carpintero died in a crash?"

"That's right."

"And his wife. What happened to the seora?"

I could feel hair p.r.i.c.kling on the back of my neck. "We found her in a cabin. She tried to shoot me. I managed to disarm her and ask a few questions. Then an old man and I left on an airboat. We left Seora Carpintero and her sona"who she had hidden somewhere in the bedrooma"we left them in the cabin. There was a four-wheel-drive parked outside with the keys in it."

Sanchez laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And you North Americans say Latinos are chauvinists. The man you call Seor Carpintero was an overweight, undisciplined political hack with a rich uncle and family connections. His wife, the mother of that chubby little boy, was a prison physician who was brought in years ago to revive political prisoners after torture. She developed a taste for it. And a specialty. In addition to her scalpel, she liked to use nails."

I opened my mouth to speak and nothing came out. Susan sat on the bed beside me and put her hand on my leg. "What's wrong? What is it, Tom?"

I shook my head at Susan and spoke into the phone. "Why did she kill Purcell?"

"We don't know the details, but it appears Leroy Purcell treated Carpintero and her husband like employees. I expect it doesn't take much to set her off. Anyway, they were setting up some kind of lab out there in the swamp. And the word is that a disagreement arose."

"A disagreement." It wasn't really a question or a statement, and Sanchez let it lie there. I said, "What was it, a meth lab?"

"I'm afraid not. As far as we can tell, it was some kind of biological hazard setup. That's something this woman has tried her hand at before. I can only guess that Purcell planned to enter the weapons trade." I cussed, and Sanchez added, "We burned her laboratory to the ground."

"If you didn't, I'll make sure someone else does."

"We set fire to the whole complex. Feel free to ride out there and check, but it shouldn't be necessary. The fire rangers were all over it an hour after we pulled out. I'm sure there's a report."

Pictures of Leroy Purcell's corpse flashed through my mind, and one stuck. I couldn't shake the image of his thick jock-neck spread out and nailed to the desk, the skin glistening like melted wax where it was stretched tight across his throat from neat rows of nail holes on each side.

And, I thought, I had let the person who did that loose on America. I could almost see the seora, riding down a highway somewhere in the heartland in that harmless-looking, soccer-mom four-wheel-drivea"a raven-haired beauty with a chubby little boy and a taste for evisceration.

Sanchez was waiting for me to say something about the fire. I managed to say, "Okay. Fine."

"Tom, are you all right?"

"No."

Some time went by, and he said, "So. If nothing remains to be handled, we will put this behind us."

I looked at Susan. All the color had drained from her face. She was suddenly frightened, and she didn't even know whya"except that she had seen the terror in my eyes.

I said, "One more thing. Who was the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d who started all this? Who did Leroy Purcell shoot in the mouth in See Sh.o.r.e Cottage while Carli was peeking in the window?"

"Tom," Sanchez said, "I have absolutely no idea."

end.