Free Tampa Burn by Randy Wayne White Page B

destroys us —one of Tomlinson’s favorite sayings.
    Pilar felt the guilt, too. Of that, I was certain. And for good reason.
    When I’d sent my warnings to Lake, I’d sent the same warnings to her. Our son was an obvious, high-risk target. Serious measures needed to be taken.
    She’d never responded.
    I’d yet to mention that to her.
    I never would.
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    OH yeah, she was feeling it.
    Pilar pressed a blinding hand over her eyes, moaned softly, and then I listened to her say, “I’m so sorry, Marion. It never crossed my mind that a noise in the background could be important.”
    The bird call. She was still punishing herself for not zeroing in on the quetzal.
    She added, “That morning, while I was watching this awful thing, Laken was just a few miles away? We could have sent in soldiers and saved him. Oh dear God. I feel terrible I didn’t understand . . .”
    Tomlinson reached and put his big hand to her shoulder, communicating with touch— Don’t blame yourself. Victims should never blame themselves —but stuck to business, saying, “O.K., O.K. We’re done with the subject. There’s nothing more to learn from background noise. Let’s discuss other elements in the video.”
    He watched me nod before saying, “So far, we both agree that Lourdes videoed this by himself. But I’m still thinking he had to have one or more accomplices.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œBecause the way Pilar describes it, your son was kidnapped from a place that’s downtown in a busy city. And from a building that was guarded. There almost had to be a driver. Don’t you think? Or a chopper maybe. Someone waiting to get away fast.”
    I said, “O.K, I’ll go along with that.”
    He turned to Pilar. “Do private planes fly in and out of the international airport?”
    â€œYes. Of course.”
    I was looking at the moth on the screen, comparing it with photos in the book. The insect’s wingspan was massive—more than six inches. Finally, I found it: Ascalapha odorata, the Bruja Negra or Black Witch moth. An insect common to Central America—further confirmation that the video had been shot in the region.
    I said, “That’s what I’m asking myself. Why would someone kidnap the son of a popular political figure, then head straight for a hideout close to the airport?”
    Tomlinson was now allowing the video to play in slow motion—an eerie thing to watch—as he asked, “Does your ex-husband have enough political juice in neighboring countries to get passports for Lourdes and your son? Visas, I.D.s? I’m talking about credentials good enough so they could hop on a private plane and take refuge in another country. No way you can fly a kidnapped child out on a commercial plane, so that leaves military or private.”
    I leaned close to study my son’s haunted eyes staring back at me, then focused upon the red welt that snaked up his arm. I’d dismissed the possibility of it being a burn. Now, though, I reconsidered.
    As Pilar replied, “Yes, documents, passports, Balserio could get anything he wanted,” I looked across my laboratory sink at the Bunsen burner. I pictured the scalpel-blue flame it produced, then reviewed variations of propane torches.
    A portable welder’s torch came to mind. They were cheap, easy to use, readily available even in Third World countries, and intimidating if used as a weapon—something that would appeal to a sociopath who liked fire.
    I remembered Pilar saying that the fish in Lake’s main aquarium had been killed. Stick a welder’s torch in an aquarium, and the swim bladders of fish would soon explode, expanding in the super-heated water.
    Son-of-a-bitch.
    Lake had been burned. The wound seemed a defensive variety. People under attack throw their forearms up to protect their face.
    It told me something that I