Anaconda Among Us

By Al Newman

Are you ready for a story about an eighty-eight foot, seven thousand pound anaconda? No, no, no — don’t shred this yet. Be a Brazilian literary agent or film producer for a moment. Tales of constrictor snakes almost twice that size appear in Brazilian newspapers with sobering regularity. Websites are devoted to the sucuriju, the off-the-charts anaconda. A 49-foot reticulated python was reported in Indonesia a few years ago.

Anaconda Among Us is a story of just such a leviathan. The novel is 172,600 words long. It is heavy on dialogue, much of it profane and obscene, as befits the prototypical American drifter, devoid of hope, who ends up in a remote, foreign seaport with scant resources, an appalling personal history, and few moral compunctions.

The five misfits in Anaconda Among Us, four of them veterans of various American conflicts, are coerced by a pretentious and corrupt, black Belizean police superintendent into mounting a secret expedition to capture a gigantic snake that is not even indigenous to Belize. The Americans conspire to cut the official out of the deal and keep the snake for themselves. They enlist a jungle-wise American woman – who makes her living dealing in illicit Mayan artifacts – to serve as their guide. One of the Americans gets drunk and tells a white Belizean con artist about the safari. The con artist, in turn, recruits a group of Guatemalan renegades to kill the Americans, capture the snake, and smuggle it into Guatemala. The police official, mistrustful of his American hunters, has three black Belizean criminals released prematurely from prison to follow the Americans and kill them once they have contained the anaconda. The Americans, not having the funds or contacts to transport the snake out of Belize once they capture it, form a partnership with a Mafia-connected, exotic animal dealer who lives in Costa Rica. The five plan to double-cross him, as well. Mistrustful of the Americans, the Mafioso comes to Belize with confederates to protect his interests. Much of the story deals with conditions and perils in the jungle as the safari tracks the anaconda. There is much, much more in the way of bizarre characters, intrigue, murder, disease, bloodshed, and treachery piled on treachery than I can describe here. At the climax, the anaconda has the Americans trapped in a cave. Two of them die — one of snakebite and the other with necrotizing fasciitis. The police official arrives and is devoured by the anaconda.

A category 5 hurricane strikes Belize, exacerbating the agony, tension and hopelessness as the story approaches its climax. The cyclone’s impact is described in painstaking detail.

In the epilog, the anaconda ends up bringing wealth to the surviving “good guys,” who have built a resort in the remote Venezuelan llanos where tourists can view the creature.

This meticulously researched story pushes accepted science up to — but not over — the edge. It is scientific fiction, not science fiction. I guarantee you that my novel is nothing like the anaconda movies of a few years back.

My credentials insofar as depicting the soldiers of fortune and the terrain in which the action takes place: I am an aging American male, but I know the language of the young. I am widely traveled and am actively multilingual. I lived in a squalid Guatemalan seaport town for four years in the company of drifters much like my primary characters, and am all too familiar with corrupt Central American officials. I have spent six months in Costa Rica in recent years, much of it in the rain forest. I also spent almost two months crawling around Belize and the Guatemalan jungle so I’d know what I was talking about when I wrote Anaconda Among Us. I have experienced first-hand the anger, extortion, discrimination, fear and despair that my characters suffer.

By the way, watch your back if you go to South America – there are gigantic anacondas out there. Waiting.

Al Newman

• Language: English
• Publisher: Al Newman
• Release date: Apr 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370346998

Al Newman

I was born in the seaport city of Portsmouth, NH, in 1932. Son and grandson of sailors, my association with the sea goes back several generations. After graduating from Portsmouth High School in 1950, I served on a destroyer 1951-1954. I graduated cum laude in economics from the University of New Hampshire in 1958. I was a bookkeeper for a laundry supply company in Durham, NH, and was an accountant at the Shell Oil refinery in Martinez, CA, 1960-1963. Too late, I discovered that I found economics tedious. So, without ever having taken an education course, and with only one semester of French Literature and one year of Italian in college, I was hired out of the oil refinery to teach French and Spanish at an elementary school in Placerville, CA. Oh, and at half the pay. I was weighing oil trucks on a Friday and teaching school the following Tuesday. Since taking freshman English in 1954, I had never taken any classes that might prepare me to be a writer. When the inspiration hit me, I just jumped in. I had rambled through life – first a cook, then a US Navy sailor, then an accountant, and finally a teacher. Writing was still over the horizon. I retired from teaching in 1988, sold off what I owned, drove to Puerto Barrios, on the east coast of Guatemala, and became a partner in a used clothing business. I bought a concrete shell of a house on a muddy road with jungle outside my bedroom window. Got rid of the gigantic roaches and the scorpions, and prepared for life in the tropics. But – I soon became uncomfortable making money on the backs of people whose income averaged a tiny fraction of my own. So, I used my equity in the clothing business to pay off what I owed on my home. No longer working, I sat staring at the breadfruit trees and bamboo across the road. A troop of feral pigs would occasionally storm down the road to gnaw at my date palm stump that produced dates at ground level. A boa constrictor managed to get up under my tin roof and take up residence on my drop ceiling. My yard man discovered it when we became curious as to why I was no longer troubled with rats, mice and bats. So the snake and I had a symbiotic relationship. But, I was bored to distraction. There had to be more to life than sitting on my front steps, drinking Gallo beer, and swatting insects. Then, one glorious day – an epiphany. I had never been at ease with my house’s location near the Motagua River. An earthquake there in 1976 had taken 23,000 lives, and I really didn’t want to be part of the next inevitable statistic. Another interesting thing – Guatemala is ringed with active volcanoes. You know what? I had to write that novel that just about everybody intends to write someday. My novel would be about earthquakes and a volcano. I started looking for research materials, but I never found a place where I could buy a book – any book – in Puerto Barrios. And this was before the Internet, by the way. I drove to Guatemala City, 180 miles distant, and found a bookstore near the university, but it didn’t have what I needed. I couldn’t let my exciting plan wither on the vine, so, I sold my house and drove back to California. I became a virtual recluse for the eighteen months it took me to write Golden Gate Volcano. I did take time to ride my bicycle 60 miles on my 60th birthday, though. I was never able to get my novel published – but I was a bona fide writer, and that was all that mattered. And I had an idea for my next novel. Soon after I arrived in Puerto Barrios an employee at our clothing store had killed a 12-foot boa constrictor in the weeds out back. We gutted it to check on a curious lump, and discovered a very large, partially digested iguana. The experience stayed with me. OK – I’d write about a snake. A big snake. Big-big, even. Hmmm. Why not a snake that ate people? I took a Greyhound bus from Sacramento to Brownsville, Texas, switched from bus to bus in Mexico, and finally arrived in Belize. For six harrowing weeks, I rode all over the country in sputtering buses with crates of chickens on the roof, crawled jungles, climbed pyramids – even had my life threatened. But I survived, amassed vast quantities of photographs and research material, flew home, and wrote Anaconda Among Us. OK, so there are no anacondas in Belize. I explain this paradox in the story. Well, I’m a genealogist, too – I have been since 1946. Even as a teenager, I faithfully kept all of my correspondence and identified every photo given to me by elderly relatives. I zeroed in on my favorite ancestor – John Pio, my great-great-great grandfather, an immigrant sailor from Madeira. I researched his descendants and compiled pedigrees for everyone researchable who married into the blood line. The result is not for the casual reader. John Pio Came to Maine incorporates every scrap of information I could find on John and his descendants. It contains hundreds of photos and genealogical charts. Google the title to be taken to a free website that has the book in its entirety. From 1998 to 2002 I spent six months, off and on, in Costa Rica. I seriously thought about relocating there. But then, at age 70, I met a fascinating lady, Cecilia, a professional clown. All thoughts of a life in Costa Rica evaporated, and we took our vows in 2004. It’s never too late. Now, at age 79, I am in denial about my age. I hit the gym about four times a week, work out on the heavy bag, and run three miles about once a week. Cecilia and I have a wonderful life together. She remains very active as a clown and I am gearing up for my next novel. I have always been interested in the US Supreme Court, but I’ve never heard of an adventure novel about that august institution. I believe its time has come. I have accumulated and studied two dozen books on the court and I keep current with its decisions. I have the plot in mind. There’s no working title yet. And, how about you? Don’t just talk about it. Secure your place in literary history. Write that book! Al Newman

Book preview

ANACONDA

AMONG US

by

Al Newman

 Copyright 2002, 2007, 2011 Al Newman

This book may not be reproduced in any form without the written consent of the author

PROLOGUE

1:30 A.M., Wednesday, September 14th, 1988

To call the São Francisco a rust-bucket would have been a euphemism. The tiny, superannuated, Brazilian-flag freighter out of Macapá at the mouth of the Amazon River was never intended for withering punishment of this magnitude. Carried high on the crest of Hurricane Margarita’s waves, then plunged, shuddering, into its troughs, the ship fairly screamed wherever bolt met deck or stanchion, wherever sheets of steel competed for the same space. The 180-foot veteran of gulfs now turned to bogs and ports long crumbled was poised to join them in oblivion.

Skipper Wellington Wood out of Glace Bay, Nova Scotia, would barely recollect this storm. Fact of the matter is, he could barely recollect hundreds of earlier storms, having spent the last 44 years in an alcoholic haze. He did have the presence of mind to follow the shoreline westward along northern Honduras, and to bypass Puerto Santo Tomás in eastern Guatemala where his cargo would likely have been checked against his cargo manifest. When the cargo and the manifest failed to match up, his vessel would be seized and held until an appropriate bribe could be arranged. The captain was lucid enough to stay within sight of land as he proceeded north along the coast of Belize en route to Tampa, Florida. He’d been aware that Margarita was gaining on him, but he was surprised by the ferocity with which she pounced on him. From tropical storm to Category 2 hurricane in just two days? God damn the rain gods! Captain Wood, his first mate, his crew of seven, and the precious but illicit cargo that would let him turn his back on the sea for the last time, were all at risk. But, the dedicated drunk was, under tonight’s menacing circumstances, as alert and communicative as a belly full of whiskey would allow. The latest empty bottle skittered back and forth across the wheelhouse deck as though it were on watch.

First mate Pablo Medeiros clung tenaciously to the chart table as he stared into the raging, Caribbean night, trying to make out what lay ahead, beyond the blinding ropes of rain, beyond each succeeding mountain of water. Fear in the wheelhouse? Yes, but a mariner masters fear — puts it to work as though it were one of the crew. Medeiros could make out nothing beyond the ship’s railings, but he could hear the grinding of metal, could hear various of the ship’s appendages being ripped away and carried off into the night. He could hear Captain Wood alternately cursing when the raging sea bested him and ho-ho-ho-ing when he performed an astute maneuver that kept the São Francisco from being swamped. In a state of high psychic receptivity, Medeiros could hear the night, could feel the freighter’s agony, could smell the terror of the Sri Lankan crew below decks.

As the hurricane’s screeching reached crescendo, the São Francisco rode up on the crest of the highest wave yet and never came down again. Or, so it seemed. When Hurricane Margarita’s premier wave finished its salacious fondling of the freighter’s keel, its rudder and its screws, and hurled it into a yawning abyss, Captain Wood and first mate Medeiros threw each other the rarest of all glances — the one that said, Adeus.

But the Adeus didn’t happen. The São Francisco neither crumpled nor sank. It came to a sickening, shuddering halt, throwing the captain over the helm and smashing the first mate’s face into the bulkhead. Inured to the battery that a ship can inflict on sailors, the men were on their feet and assessing their situation in seconds. The ship had run hard aground. Its prow lay buried deep in the mud near Monkey River Town in southern Belize.

Although the main deck remained awash during the peak of the hurricane, the hatches were tight. Ship, crew and cargo were safe. Sadly, with the arrival of dawn and the departure of the storm, a hasty inspection revealed that the keel and main shaft — the spine and heart of a ship — were bent. The São Francisco would never put to sea again.

Rather than celebrate his survival, Captain Wood dropped into his bridge chair in defeat. Medeiros! he roared, come up here!

Sim, capitão, the first mate called from the foc’sle, and ran up the ladder to the wheelhouse.

We’ve lost this one, Pablo. He sighed audibly. Get them off the ship. Get them all off. Now.

But, capitão, they are so valuable. Are you sure? Medeiros scanned the shoreline. Couldn’t we hide them?

See it for what it is, the captain said. We’ve lost the ship and the cargo both. Want us to lose our freedom as well? He was alert this morning, of sound and disposing mind, like many professional alcoholics emerging from binges. We don’t know whether we’re going to have the Belizean authorities, the British marines, or both coming aboard. Our cargo manifest reads canned Uruguayan beef. Nothing about live cargo — live, prohibited cargo. If we get caught with these animals on board, the coast patrol will seize the ship, throw our arses in the brig, and toss the key overboard. So, no! Goddammit! Get to it! Get every last one of them off the ship. Our clients in the States will help us get another ship, and our people in Brazil will be delighted to furnish us with more cargo.

Também Branquita?

Yes, Branquita, too, unless you want to share a Belizean prison cell with her.

Sim, capitão. Medeiros assembled the crew and had them fling open all of the hatches. One at a time, they winched the cages up to the main deck. The birds were no problem. The Mato Grosso antbird, the barefaced curassow, the chacho chachalaca, the scissor-tailed nightjars, and a dozen other bird species self-evacuated the moment their cages were thrown open. The first mate sadly reflected that most would fall prey to hitherto unknown predators and that others would interbreed with local populations. In any case, all trace of them would vanish from Belize in five years.

The mammals posed a more tricky logistical problem. The three-toed sloths had to be carried ashore by hand and deposited on low hanging tree branches. The cages containing the jaguars, pumas, and maned wolves were opened facing the gangway, and the occupants were then startled by bursts from a fire extinguisher. They fled their cages in a heartbeat and vanished into the nearby forest. Capybara, giant anteaters, bare-eared marmosets, giant river otters and all the rest paraded ashore with the quiet, inquisitive dignity of animalkind departing Noah’s Ark.

That left Branquita.

Medeiros, with the help of four crewmembers, lovingly carried Branquita ashore and deposited her at the forest’s edge. He kissed the top of her head and stepped quickly back. Adeus, minha querida, he said. Está livre. Boa sorte.

CHAPTER ONE

22 years later and 50 miles to the northwest

The pickup truck snaked through the endless arbor of bamboo at breakneck speed, fishtailing through mud, banana leaves and coconut husks, squeezing the moisture out of rotted, fallen logs as though they were sponges. Flynn gunned the engine one last time, applied the brake and spun the wheel. The rear end sluiced around a full 90º, coming to a halt parallel with the Macal River gorge.

Harry looked out the passenger side window and his face lost all expression. There was roughly twelve feet between him and the precipice. He turned and stared at Flynn for a full fifteen seconds before taking a deep breath and saying,

Flynn, you’re a major league asshole.

Better a major league asshole than a minor league pussy. How many times have I ever tossed you over a cliff? He chuckled at his own humor and tried to one-up himself. You could count ‘em all on one hand.

Well, it sure ain’t because of your drivin’ smarts. More like shit luck. Man, I think you got a fuckin’ death wish. He looked at the drop-off again, shuddered, and looked back at his nonchalant companion, wondering if he’d ever stop playing cowboy. The main problem was that people didn’t listen attentively to Harry. When he opened his mouth to speak, a broken and jagged incisor hijacked the listener’s attention. Harry ran his forearm across his forehead. His curly, auburn hair was thinning evenly, giving the impression that someday the loss of one critical hair would render him bald.

Belize wasn’t the best working environment for the Oregon native. Genetically programmed to break into a sweat at five degrees above room temperature, he was perspiring furiously today. Christ, it wasn’t even 10 A.M. But the moisture-laden, jungle air wouldn’t let his sweat vaporize. He waved a hand in front of Flynn’s face to get his attention. Man, you’ve changed big time since you got back from New Hampshire, he said. It’s like you’re freakin’ out. You been takin’ looney pills or somethin’? Uppers? I don’t know what the fuck happened up there but, man, you turned into a dyed-in-the-wool nut case.

Tighten your sphincter, will you? I got you here, didn’t I? We’re safe, we’re sound. So, cool it with the New Hampshire shit. How about if I butt into your life? Yeah, maybe Beth would like to know about all the chicks you’ve been romancing down here.

You ain’t got a clue, do ya? Harry sighed, shaking his head in resignation. OK, forget it. Let’s jus’ get this fuckin’ show on the road. No sense trying to explain his survival worries to Flynn. The son of a bitch wouldn’t understand, anyhow.

Tom Flynn and Harry Burton were engineers with Trans-Global Construction, Ltd., a small firm specializing in bridge construction. The title of engineer was fluid, a stellar example of awarding titles instead of raises. On smaller projects in remote areas, the two had to double as electricians, welders, carburetor repairmen or anything else that TGC might require of them. On this particular outing, the job description was expanded to encompass geology and photography.

TGC had recently landed a contract with the Belizean government for two two-lane bridges over the Macal River in western Belize, barely a dozen miles from the miniature nation’s border with Guatemala. The first bridge had been finished a month ahead of schedule and well within budget. Applause resounded and bonuses flowed. But that project had been little more than ten miles south of San Ignacio, administrative center of the Cayo District. With genuine, all-season roads, ready availability of supplies and equipment, medical care only minutes away, access to recreation, no communication problems, and nothing resembling a gorge, that job had been a bridge builder’s dream. The remaining bridge would be the no-nonsense kind of project that dried up an ironworker’s humor.

Flynn and Harry got out of the pickup and approached the swaying structure that currently served as the only way over the gorge. Flynn was tall, angular and graying, hard muscle clinging to strong bone. Fierce, pale blue eyes dominated a face that was a clash of horsey and handsome. He was quickly closing in on the big 5-0.

This reminds me ‘a one ‘a them old black and white jungle movies, Harry said, tugging at one rope of the swinging cord-and-plank bridge that was clearly years beyond any useful life. Remember them flicks? Every kid in the movie house would be crappin’ his pants ‘cause he knew the scrawny bridge was gonna separate soon as the people got halfway across — throw everybody into the fuckin’ ravine. He chuckled at the recollection. ‘Cept the hero an’ the girl, naturally. Look here, he went on, fingering some of the bridge’s features, pointing at others. Boards missin’, an’ them that ain’t missin’ is rotten. See here? — anchors all rusted. An’, looka this shit, he said, picking at one decomposing guy rope. I think they got this rope second-hand from Egypt after they built the fuckin’ pyramids. He took a symbolic step backward to appraise the bridge in its entirety. Sure can’t fault Belize for wantin’ to replace this rotting son of a bitch."

But, what do they need with an automotive bridge? Flynn pondered. This piece of shit does need to go. He flicked his head contemptuously toward the shuddering bridge. But, all they really need to do is round up a few Indians to throw together a modern version of what they have already. Why build a two-lane bridge way the hell out in the wilderness? Look back at the road we came in on, Harry. What do you see? Right. A mud trail ten feet across. Nobody ever comes out here. Now, look across the gorge. Shit, I don’t even see a cow path over there, do you?

Not a path, not a cow, not a pattie, Harry agreed. What’s the sense ‘a drivin’ over a new bridge only to bump into solid jungle? Plain, fuckin’ stupid, that’s what it is. An’, I ain’t heard nothin’ about buildin’ no new roads aroun’ here. Ain’t Belize got nothin’ better to do with its money?

‘Belize’s money, your ass! Italy’s funding this project.

Well, it’s a paycheck, Harry muttered in dismissal of Belize and Italy, an’ my family don’t care whether it’s in euros or dollars, jus’ so long’s it keeps comin’.

Flynn peered into the boulder-filled, frothy water 150 feet below, gritting his teeth when he realized that he was standing too close to the edge. Wanna know what I think, Harry? — nobody from the government ever checked this site out. Some goddamned bureaucrat just took a look at the Italian aid proposal, saw a chance to skim a little off the top, threw a dart at the map — and he-e-re’s Flynn and Harry! Well, Flynn summarized, we’ve come this far. Time to have a look at the other side. You wanna go first?

Cross that fallin’-down motherfucker? You shittin’ me? Do you see ‘stupid’ written across my forehead?

Getting chicken in your old age? Flynn taunted. Harry said nothing, just stared apprehensively down into the gorge, seeing it as a raging white monster, waiting to swallow him up.

OK, stay here, Flynn said, but you’ll be kicking yourself in the ass if I find a tribe of beautiful Amazons on the other side.

Harry tried to come up with a joke in response but failed. Forget it, Flynn, he said. There ain’t nothin’ on the other side that can’t wait. Why chance it? He stared at the bridge, then shook his head forcefully. That fucker’s too goddamned rickety. Besides, soil samples and photos from the other side ain’t gonna be that much different from what we can get over here.

Much you know. The Macal River has been gouging out this gorge for a million years — ten million. Flynn considered reminding Harry about Darwin’s observations in the Galapagos Islands, about how separated life forms could evolve differently over time, but decided that the science would be lost on this colleague whose sophistication had eroded mightily over the years. Besides, Flynn wasn’t certain that the same rules applied to dirt and rocks as applied to life forms. Well, maybe it did to the microscopic shit that lived in the dirt.

We can get a crane out here next week, Harry suggested. They can lay us down a good footbridge in no time. Then, if one of your Amazons starts blowin’ kisses at us, we can be across the ravine and bangin’ her in five minutes flat.

Uh-uh, Flynn said. Can’t afford the time with all of this rain we’ve been having. You’ve seen what rain does to construction timetables, so we have to save all the time we can on the preliminaries. Remember bonuses? They can spell the difference between your kids going to Berkeley or some half-assed college that turns out dipshitadictorians like you. Only way to get good pictures of the cliff face on this side is from the other side. Gotta keep the architects happy, don’t we? And the geologists will be pissed if I only bring back soil and rock samples from one side. No, I’m going over. Flynn slipped the camera strap over his head and attached a sample collection kit to his belt.

OK, you do that. I’ll stay here and hold a prayer service for ya.

Suit yourself, but this bridge is fucking safe. He gave one of the guy ropes a good shake, setting off a ripple effect that made the bridge vibrate along its entire length.

Like I said before, Harry mumbled, ‘death wish’ and ‘asshole.’

Gripping both guy ropes, Flynn made his way cautiously onto the suspension footbridge, testing suspicious planks with the toe of his boot before trusting them with his full weight. An occasional plank did shatter, and he paused to watch the debris float and flutter down to the churning water fifteen stories below. He looked back at Harry, forcing a toothy smile. He noticed something not to his liking and shut down his smile. Wanna do something useful? he called, extending his arm and shaking his hand at the truck. Pull the pickup a little farther away from the drop-off. Ten feet oughtta do it. From this angle, I can see the son of a bitch really is too close to the edge. I’ve had that mother slip out of gear before. If it pulls shit like that here and goes into the gorge, we’re screwed. It’d be a long, shitty walk home.

Harry hopped into the driver’s seat, depressed the clutch, put the truck in gear and stepped warily on the gas. Even so, the pickup was on spongy ground and the rear wheels gouged little cradles in the mud and spun uselessly. He threw the stick into reverse and gunned the engine. Nothing. Alternating forward and reverse, he tried to rock the truck out of the hub-deep mud. When the wheels finally got purchase, the truck zipped backward. Years earlier, a landslide had carried away a portion of the edge of the gorge, leaving a semicircular cutout about twelve feet in diameter. The rear of the truck came to rest a mere seven feet from that cutout. No more wisecracks — time to get serious. The pickup was now sitting on — and stressing — a triangle of real estate, two sides of which were cliff.

Man-n-n, Harry whispered, this is totally fucked up. I’m gettin’ my ass outta here. Flynn could figure it all out when he got back. Fucker thinks he’s the Evel Knievel of the pickup circuit? Then let him deal with this. Harry felt a sudden settling. Oh, Christ! Not a flat tire. Not now, not here. Then, a more insistent sensation. Were all of the tires going flat? A sinkhole? Earthquake? What the fuck. . .?

Flynn heard a sound like a sudden rush of air and turned to see what it was. The cliff face was collapsing. Although the action sequence took place with blazing speed, it wasn’t quick enough to avoid being burned into Flynn’s memory, frame by frame, for all time. He could see Harry’s face through the windshield, now disbelieving, now terrified, now vanished in a hundred-ton avalanche of mud, grass, rock and brush. In a split second of eye contact he thought he saw Harry mouth the words, Help, me, buddy! Maybe not.

Flynn could only look on helplessly as the pickup was ripped apart by a protruding rock formation before plunging into the raging waters of the Macal River, where it disappeared from view. Thereafter, Flynn would accuse Flynn in the courtroom of his mind. Flynn would be the one-man jury that found Flynn guilty. Flynn would sentence Flynn to a lifetime of remembering his guilt.

Flynn reached instinctively for his hip, but realized belatedly that his cell phone lay somewhere in the foam at the bottom of the gorge. Help him! Help him! an internal voice commanded, but the voice was being ridiculous. There was no way down the gorge wall. And, if he got there, what could he do? There was no sign of Harry or the pickup. Harry was dead. Gone. Really, truly dead and gone. Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!

Turn back the clock! Turn back the clock! the voice within implored.

Help me, buddy! The plea ricocheted from wall to wall in a distant compartment of his mind.

With communication impossible, Flynn could see no choice but to backtrack along the trail that had brought them here. He thought he remembered a cabin four or five miles back. Maybe they had phone or radio contact with the outside world. One more time. Just maybe. He took a few tentative steps onto the bridge and gazed into the chasm. No. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Harry was gone. Help me, buddy! It was clear that the collapse of the land mass had now made the area around the bridge supports unstable as well. Flynn scrambled off the bridge, expecting to see it disintegrate and follow the pickup into the ravine, but it didn’t. He set off down the jungle trail at a trot.

Rewind and replay. Rewind and replay. What could I have done? I couldn’t have done shit. Yes, I could — I could have driven like a sane person. I didn’t have to park so fucking close to the gorge. No, that’s over and done with. I did all of that dumb shit and now Harry’s dead and it’s my fault. Help me, buddy! The truck really went down. Harry went down. I have to take it from there. What the fuck do you do when you’ve just killed your friend? I’ve never done that before so I don’t fucking know. Maybe I could have gotten down the wall somehow. Yeah, like a human fly. Fuck, no! No way! I’d just have lost my grip and be down there beside Harry and wouldn’t have done anybody any good. No, but at least I wouldn’t be here, now, feeling this pain. Oh, God! Harry’s dead!

Flynn had to fight for every step as he pulled his boots from mud that didn’t want to let him go — mud that restrained him, telling him he had no business leaving the scene with Harry still unaccounted for. After three slogging miles he came to a junction with another primitive road. He looked down it, saw nothing but thunderheads forming above it, and continued in the direction of San Ignacio.

Minutes later, a van pulled up behind him, apparently from the road he had just passed. He didn’t need to flag it down. This deep in the wilderness it would be passive homicide not to stop for a white person on foot.

The driver, a scrawny man with graying hair and a ten-day growth of beard, stuck his head and elbow out the window and asked, Goin’ my way? When he smiled, his face developed laugh lines so pronounced they might have been applied with an eyebrow pencil.

Got a cell phone?

No, I got a van. You want a ride or not?

Yeah, thanks. Flynn clambered into the passenger seat. Had an accident back there. He flicked his head up and back.

Shit, I got a cable. Need a tow?

No. My truck went into the gorge. Under less tragic circumstances, Flynn would have asked how long a cable he had.

Fuck!

Yeah, and my buddy went with it. He’s gone. Gotta report it. Oh, Jesus!

You gotta be shittin’!

No, I. . . Flynn was about to confess his complicity in Harry’s death, then thought better of it. No, he was sitting in the cab when the ground gave way.

Well-l-l, shit happens. Sorry ‘bout your friend.

Yeah. Hey, you know where the police station is in San Ignacio?

Mm-hmmh. Near the bridge. Ground floor in the post office building. Take you there. Then you prob’ly wanna go to the phone company office, right?

Right. Thank you. You got time for all of this?

I’m my own boss. The driver jerked his thumb back. The van held an assortment of cages, ropes and cables, and latched containers. Flynn was too preoccupied to ask what his line of work was.

Great. I can walk back to my room from there.

Then, what are ya gonna do?

Haven’t gotten that far. Go back to the TGC office in Belize City, I guess. Fuck, I don’t know. Guess I need to pack up Harry’s passport and other stuff and get it to the embassy somehow.

So, you got business in Belize City an’ no reason for stayin’ in San Ignacio?

That’s about the size of it.

I’ll take you there. We can swing by the embassy in Belmopan on the way.

You don’t have to do that.

It ain’t outta my way none. I got a room in Belize City. Be good to have somebody to talk with on the ride home. Look, if you ain’t got a place to stay, there’s always room at the dump I’m stayin’ at. Got food, beer, bed an’ a toilet. Oh, yeah, an’ a pool table. ‘Bout all a guy could want.

You’ve got yourself a passenger. He extended his hand across his body. Name’s Flynn.

Chromy.

Flynn went silent for the remainder of the trip into San Ignacio. He stared, unseeing at the rain forest elements zipping by him. Help me, buddy!

CHAPTER TWO

Five months later

Nestled in the tangle of grasses, vines and palm fronds where the known world ends and the rain forest begins, they glistened like two highly polished rubies displayed on a bed of pale apricot silk in a deep green jewelry box.

Above, barely visible against the redundant green of the jungle roof where the sunlight peeked through like stars during a solar eclipse, an iguana went suddenly motionless and blended into its background. Then, a voice in the distance — a female voice singing an ancient Garifuna melody. The red objects glistened through the rising steam of the morning jungle, but didn't stir in response to the music. Neither did they react to the whisper and chuckle of the rippling Sibun River a few feet away. But, as the approaching footsteps sent faint vibrations through the earth, the ruby-like orbs retracted and vanished in an instant. Only the uncertain colors of the rotting vegetation remained.

Basket of laundry balanced confidently on her head, Iris knelt and let the squirming baby slip to the ground. She patted the girl’s chubby black bottom. Yu go fi play, Claudia, she said, . . . noh too far. Ah give yu chue gániesi bye ‘m bye. Iris moistened the morsel of sugar cane, rubbed it across Claudia's lips and returned it to the basket. Clad only in cotton shirt and sandals, Claudia cooed as she toddled off through the morning glories in search of the new and the wonderful. Soon, the only sound in this place where the fingertips of the rain forest stroked the outer edges of civilization was Iris’s steady slapping of tortured clothing against the washing rock.

As if on signal, a troop of howler monkeys, hardy sentinels of the jungle, let loose a flurry of siren-like hoots. Iris scanned the treetops, her ebony cheekbones glistening as soon as the sunlight found them. Baboon like fite tideh, she noted with a smile. Arguments among the howlers were frequent and raucous and could often be heard as far away as the village of Churchyard, two miles beyond the washing rock. The morning breeze brought a disgusting stench in its wake. Iris assumed that it must be from a dead animal decomposing nearby. A big animal. She hoped that none of her neighbors had lost a hog. The smell dissipated and Iris forgot about it. She never heard the faint Eee-uff! Uk! behind her. All she heard was the frenzied baboons, her own humming and the endless slap, slap, slap.

Iris wrung out the last item and tucked it into the basket. Claudia! Yu kohn, now! Claudia! Weh yu, gyal? Claudia? Clau-dia! Iris scanned the rain forest, nostrils widening as the scent of fear and flowers rushed in. She saw an unfamiliar mass and ran toward it, but the endless, orange-tinged white bolster was suddenly gone as the dense grasses and curtain-like lianas closed behind it. Her eye fell on the single sandal lying on an elephant leaf. As agony swept in, Iris searched the sky for God and tore her dress front away in despair. The baboons went quiet as a mother’s screams sliced through their howling. Seizing the sandal and clutching it to her breast, Iris staggered, wailing, unseeing, into the heavy growth to look for what would never again be a part of her life.

The rain forest was silent now, almost motionless, the only activity being a homeward-bound procession of leaf-cutter ants, each one waving its tiny green banner in triumph as it crossed the narrow path. Well beyond the washing rock, concealed among dozens of fallen banana trees that looked like waterlogged jellyrolls, the creature lay silent, satiated for the moment, muscles rippling, as the faint bulge began its long, sad journey.

CHAPTER THREE

Flynn chalked his cue tip and paused, gave it another three or four swipes and paused again to study the positioning of the few remaining balls. Shit! — he could clear this damned table blindfolded. He raised his head and stared stonily down his nose as though that perspective might give him advantage. He deftly pocketed the 9, 11 and 12 balls — only the 8-ball remained. Piece of cake. He rested his cigarette on the rail and tightened his lips, expelling the smoke through his nostrils. It wafted away toward the colorful, fake-leaded-glass Coca Cola light over the table. Pushing his crushable hat back on his head, he tapped the side pocket next to him and lined up his shot with the diamond on the opposite rail. At the instant before cue tip met cue ball, an apparition careened across his line of vision. Chromy, mouth bloody and nose askew, two-stepped across the room like a soft shoe vaudevillian, staggering backward and bowlegged through the swinging doors, and landed flat on his back in the whipped-up mud of North Front Street. Distracted, Flynn still pocketed the 8-ball — but scratched. He muttered the obligatory, Fuck, and threw ten Belize dollars on the table. Jeff scooped up the ten Belizean, kissed his winnings, re-racked the balls and signaled Luz for two more Belikin beers. She winked in acknowledgment and tried to find the two coldest ones.

Dynamite, shaking his bleeding fist, yelled out to Chromy, who was now unsteadily righting his scarecrow-like frame in the downpour, No more bullshit about my balls, ya hear? That’s the end of it! They’re none of your fuckin’ business! Dynamite’s ears, set low on his head and looking like shelves, rose and fell as he spoke. There were narrow collars of fat at the base of his skull and huge ones beneath his chin. His badly cut hair stood erect like shoots reaching for sunlight. The rotund man’s features were compressed into a small area of a rounded face that was never designed for anger. He wiped his bloody knuckles on his jeans.

It’s true, you fuckin’ numbnuts! Chromy persisted. A glob of mud clung to the back of his hair like a yarmulke. The lines in his lean face grew dark and deep as they always did when he became emotional. I knew a corporal in my unit who had three balls, he taunted, trying to salvage his dignity with a twisted smile. Got cancer in one ball an’ they had to cut ‘em all off — clip, clip, clip. Sent the poor son of a bitch back stateside tweetin’ like a fuckin’ canary. He spat blood. The sight of it ratcheted up his anger, and he continued, Yup, an’ I can jus’ see you now, pecker wonderin’ where your balls went, dancin’ around in some ‘a them eunuch pink panties!

Dynamite, a barely literate human tank, didn’t know about eunuchs but he did know about pink panties, so he charged. Flynn slammed his foot against the wall, blocking his way. I’m issuing an asshole alert, he intoned, his bass voice making the bar glasses shudder. Next son of a bitch messes up a shot of mine is going to be sitting on the bottom of Haulover Creek pulling my cue stick out of his ass. He flicked his head toward the rear of the bar to reinforce his threat. The Laguna Bar had no rear wall. Rotted boats rocked in disharmony alongside a makeshift dock in the creek that divided Belize City, north from south.

It wouldn’t be healthy, Dynamite decided, to be tossed into water that looked like draft root beer, complete with foam. He took a precautionary step backward. Goddamned Chromy’s always gettin’ on me about havin’ three balls, he protested, subconsciously slipping a pudgy hand over his privates. I don’t need to hear that cuttin’-off-balls shit, so I just popped him one — a little one, that’s all. He’s fine. He called to Chromy, You’re fine, ain’t you? Chromy didn’t answer — he was flexing his jaw to check for breakage.

You’re not hearing me, are you? a hovering Flynn demanded, going nose to nose with Dynamite. You want to fight over your balls, you do it outside. Next time you do it in here, I’m going to be racking up eighteen instead of fifteen. Dynamite squinted up at him, doing his calculations. That’s right. Even a day-care dropout like you can figure that one out. He flicked his head toward the quiet man behind the bar. And besides fucking up the game, you’re gonna have that dickhead calling the cops on us again. Meshak, Lebanese proprietor of the Laguna Bar and Guest House, white apron covering his commanding belly almost to chest level, smilingly polished his bar glasses, pretending not to hear. But he had already called the Central Station on Queen Street.

And you, Flynn called out to Chromy, you need to mind your goddamned mouth. You should tell Dynamite you’re sorry.

Don’t hol’ your breath, Chromy replied, spitting out little pellets of mud, I ain’t no fuckin’ apologician.

A Land Rover raced up North Front Street, great curls of mud in its wake. Mennonite street vendors had moved their children and handcrafted furniture under cover in timely fashion to escape the afternoon shower. Now they spread their hands in useless supplication and protested in their obscure Germanic tongue as the passing vehicle veneered children and dressers alike with mud. As the Land Rover skidded to a halt, Chromy, too, received another baptism of street pudding.

A crisp, black police officer, the only official in all of Belize who wore a uniform hand-tailored in London, stepped smartly from the vehicle and snapped his oversized umbrella open in a single motion. He elevated his nose slightly to establish what everyone already knew — that no one present was his peer. Grim, silent, moving nothing but his eyes, he took in the scene outside the Laguna. Two other uniforms remained in the Land Rover, staring officiously ahead. When he was satisfied that all attention was focused on him, Superintendent Trapp let his eyes come to rest on Chromy. He affected an instant change of mood.

Ah, Mr. Cromwell, how considerate of you to be waiting outside to greet us — and in this deplorable rain, at that. How ever did you know we were anxious to speak with you? Extrasensory perception? He flashed his perfect teeth in appreciation of his own quip. Hmmm, he reflected. In light of the reason for my visit, it might even be animal magnetism.

Superintendent Cecil Trapp was no stranger to Chromy. Me? Me? Chromy squealed. I’m the victim! You wanna throw someone in jail? Throw them fuckers in! he ranted, waving his hand at the faces peering wide-eyed over the swinging doors. He dropped his jaw, his cheeks becoming cadaverously hollow. Look at my mouth — it’s all fucked up! I been assault an’ batteried! An’ it’s me you wanna bust? What kinda upside-down fuckin’ country you runnin’, anyhow?

It might serve you well to be somewhat less acrimonious when referring to my beloved Belize, the superintendent said, raising his eyebrows in feigned nonchalance, underscoring his detachment by inspecting his sleeves for bits of lint that wouldn’t be there. You might soon need some judiciary good will. He made sudden eye contact with Chromy, who drew his head back in reaction. If you have a lacerated mouth, I am certain you must have earned it. But, I’m not here to referee your trivial disagreements. In point of fact, I’d like to talk to you about animals.

Animals? Chromy roared. Whattya mean, ‘animals?’ That’s ancient history. I settled all that crap a year ago. His lordship or whatever you call that old fucker in the red bathrobe said there wasn’t no evidence of me catchin’ or smugglin’ rare animals. He said it was all a bunch ‘a shit.

No, he didn’t quite say that, the superintendent corrected, shaking a vertical index finger in negation. He stepped back abruptly, frowning his disgust as the muddy man tried to slip under his umbrella. What he did say, the superintendent went on, was that if a certain Mr. Warren Cromwell were to be implicated in further illicit exploitation of endangered species, said Mr. Cromwell would likely spend some time in Hattieville Prison en route to whatever legal headaches might still await him in the United States. No-o-o, Mr. Cromwell, his lordship was, if anything, overly solicitous in your case. The faces retreated from the swinging doors as Superintendent Trapp entered, collapsed his umbrella, shook it, and left it swinging by its hook on the edge of the bar. Chromy followed, apprehension showing through the mud on his face. His tee shirt, ripped at the shoulder, revealed a tattoo of three cherries with stems joined, bearing the caption, Here’s mine — Where’s yours?

The police officer tapped the bar with his knuckle and a Belikin Light materialized. Impatient, he tapped even more urgently and Meshak produced a polished glass. I have a situation that is causing me no little embarrassment, Superintendent Trapp began, holding his beer at arm’s length and pouring it slowly to minimize the head, and I should like to resolve it today. He gave Chromy a Hollywood smile and continued. With your enthusiastic support, and hopefully that of your comrades or co-conspirators, as the case may be, Mr. Cromwell, I’m certain that I shall.

I ain’t been poachin’ no animals. Chromy, seriously attentive now, flicked his chin toward his onlookers. Them guys, neither.

No, no poachin’ — but he’s been pokin’ a few animals, though, Jeff offered, sighting down his cue stick, out at Naughty Norma’s. Jeff was, by a full generation, the youngest member of the quintet of Americans that called the dilapidated Laguna Bar and Guest House home. He suffered from acne which, at first glance, made him look like a late-stage alcoholic. His trademark was a swinging earring — a complete set of miniature, winged male genitalia in silver. This decoration did little to ingratiate him with the superintendent when he referred to it as his flying cock and balls.

Shut the fuck up! Chromy roared. Can’t you see he’s jus’ achin’ to throw my ass in the slammer? He turned to the officer. What am I s’posed to ‘a done, anyhow?

The Belize Zoo has an inventory problem, gentlemen, Superintendent Trapp said. It is apparently suffering incursions by thieves in the night. For effect, he stretched the word, thieves, out to three times its normal length. Composed amid the chaos he had generated, he produced a pocket notebook and began, One coatimundi, one miniature deer, two peccaries — that we know of. They are arguably the property of the Belizean people, and they have gone missing. He lowered his head and stared at Chromy as though he were looking over reading glasses. You are staying at home and behaving yourself at night, aren’t you?

Chromy was beside himself. You think I been jackin’ animals from the Belize fuckin’ Zoo? That’s fuckin’ crazy. No collector would give you squat for the scabby specimens you got out there. I got standards, I do. A peccary? A fuckin’ peccary? Shit, you can’t even give one a’ them sonsabitches away. Ever barbecue a goddamned peccary? The superintendent said nothing, hoping that Chromy might let some relevant detail slip. No, Chromy raved on, . . . didn’t think so. Raw or cooked, them things smell like shit. Hell, I’d rather eat rat meat. If I was lookin’ for animals to sell — which I never done in my whole life, he added sanctimoniously — I’d head for the jungle, the swamps or the mountains. I’d have to be crazy to burgalize that mangy, fuckin’ dog pound you call a zoo.

I admire your eloquence and adventuresome spirit, Mr. Cromwell, but your previous activities do put you in the spotlight — yes, and perhaps in harm’s way. Accordingly, I’d like you and your associates to come to the Central Station to give a statement as to your whereabouts during the past week. He noticed that one member of the inseparable quintet was missing. And — Mr. Poe?

Claymore? Dynamite offered up. Prob’ly gettin’ laid. His check came in today.

And, Claymore and friend are . . .? The officer slowly shifted his gaze toward the ceiling, jabbing his finger upward as he did so.

Chromy went to the staircase and yelled, Hey, Claymore!

A breathless voice. In conference!

Claymore! It’s the cops — Trapp.

An impatient voice. Ain’t he heard this is national romance week?

He don’t give a shit about who you’re humpin’. He thinks we’re stealin’ animals from his goddamned zoo. We’re goin’ to jail. Yup, you’re gonna be romancin’ your hand for a while.

Superintendent Trapp flashed a sour smile. My, Mr. Cromwell, but you do have a nasty flair for the dramatic.

Claymore bounded down the narrow staircase semi-sideways, trying at the same time to tuck in his shirt. The result was an exposed paunch and a triangle of wispy black hair showing above his dangling belt buckle. His unblemished cocoa skin and relatively smooth remaining hair suggested Caribbean heritage. He had never mentioned his ancestry to his Laguna comrades and none of them had ever inquired. Neither had they asked about his age, but they agreed he must be on the sunset side of fifty. A full mustache directed attention away from his well-established, male pattern baldness. His eyes flashed from person to person, hoping to find in someone’s face assurance that this was yet another example of Chromy’s sick humor. What do you mean, ‘jail?’ Well? Without giving anyone an opportunity to reply, he continued, Somebody gonna tell me? What are you — a bunch of goddamned statues?

Not to jail, Mr. Poe, the officer assured him, just to my office. Mr. Cromwell is overly imaginative — hmmm — perhaps even guilt-ridden. But for now, all I want is your formal statements. You’ll be back destroying the Laguna Bar again before dinner — I assure you. A disconcerted Meshak frowned behind his thick lenses and polished harder.

Superintendent Trapp inspected the sudsy residue in his glass, set it down firmly on the bar, retrieved his umbrella and, treating all present as though they were invisible, turned and exited the bar. As the Land Rover made its way through the crisscrossed mounds of mud on North Front Street, Trapp shared an instructive observation with his subordinates.

He is to be found in every seedy bar in every seaport on earth — the quintessential American expatriate. He shook his head, ignoring the fact that his vocabulary was soaring far above the constables’ heads. Typically, he will have weathered and deeply wrinkled skin. His biography — a hodgepodge of tattoos no longer legible. Untidy beard, blond-going-to-gray. Tiny pupils in pale blue eyes that never seem to focus on anything. Index and middle fingers the color of iodine. And always — always possessed of a story that blames others for his present misfortunes. There will be a family, now lost in the mists of time. Your expatriate will be a veteran of one or two of America’s pointless wars, and will presently be at war with sobriety. In another century such a man would have been plied with drink, clubbed and shanghaied, and would have disappeared over the horizon, only to emerge as a victim to further shanghaiing in an even more derelict port on the far side of the world. Well, constables, as long as such human garbage remains no more than a few yards from the seashore in our own cherished country, they aren’t worth the bother of deportation.

*****

Curving beneath the Gulf of Mexico like an elephant’s trunk, southern Mexico ends its eastern foray by inching northward again. The Yucatán Peninsula, 650 miles due south of the Florida panhandle, is land’s end. Unfolding across Yucatán’s landscape are the ruins of a Mayan civilization that drew its last breath over 1000 years ago. Beneath its blue waters lies a dark history — that of the cataclysmic asteroid strike that extinguished the dinosaurs and reordered life on this planet. Modern beings who sprang from that reordering now flock with urgency to Yucatán’s Cozumel and Cancún resorts to validate sterile lives. They don’t succeed, of course, but at least they are mercifully unaware of their failure.

The more intrepid — the more driven — of these wanderers shun the decadence of beach frolicking, gluttony and pointless conversation. They yearn for the mystical, the macho, the mad. They hear murmurings of raw adventure only five hours down the road in an obscure country that is not on the tip of most American tongues. Belize, huh? they ask, to make sure they heard correctly. You don’t say. Formerly British Honduras and the size of Vermont, Belize is a thing apart — the only English-speaking outpost in Central America. That land is not for the faint of heart, a Cozumel desk clerk warns in a last-ditch attempt to deter a bored guest from checking out for Belize. In truth, most adventurers sample Belize and scamper safely away with inflated tales to enthrall the friends they left partying in Mexico. Others arrive, survey the frightening panorama, slam their suitcases shut in alarm, and scurry back to the sanctuary of the resort. For a handful, that tiny minority who roam the earth in search of the ultimate answer to questions they can’t even verbalize, North Front Street becomes the last stop — the tunnel at the end of the light. Belize doesn’t reach out to those who have exhausted life’s options — it is they who grab Belize in desperation and refuse to let go. Belize may inflict pain, but in so doing it dulls the expatriate’s greater agony.

*****

In its heyday, the ponderous military lorry had proudly shuttled troops back and forth between the Shankhill and the Falls Road in Belfast. It had later rumbled ashore briefly in the Falkland Islands where it could barely do more than drive in circles. Up in years and declared surplus, it found a final home in Belize, a gift from Her Britannic Majesty. Now relegated to assignments devoid of dignity, the lopsided lorry sighed to a halt in front of the Central Police Station on Queen Street. The shabby rear canvas parted and two black soldiers in jungle dress jumped to the ground and helped the young Garifuna woman down. She turned her head right and left as if loosening her neck muscles, threw her shoulders back and walked up the outside staircase, posture perfect, steps precise. Her face displayed a calm dignity, a near regal absence of concern or emotion. She might have been sculpted from the finest black, Italian marble.

Schoolgirls in immaculate gray and white uniforms emerged from the Angelus Press across the street and stared in disbelief. They snickered behind fingers that crept up to cover their mouths. Young men on bicycles held up traffic as they dismounted to marvel at the rare sight. The Chinese grocer discovered why his customers had turned their backs and he pressed his face to the steel grating across the front of his store so he, too, could witness the spectacle. Taxi drivers shouted obscenities, but only briefly. Oblivious to the commotion she was causing, the woman continued up the creaking stairway and entered the police station, nodding, noblesse oblige, to the soldier who held the door open for her. She was naked.

*****

It was perfunctory. Flynn and Claymore had rendered their statements to Superintendent Trapp’s satisfaction and were sitting on a termite-ridden bench in the corridor, waiting for the official to finish with the others. But John Claymore Poe was ill at ease. He could see a jail cell from where he sat, and the old terror came back. He tried to summon up saliva to lubricate his mouth, but it wouldn’t come. The ash-dry sensation prevailed. In his discomfort, he fidgeted, made faces, and tried looking down the corridor, hoping the door would open so he could glimpse the outside world. Pustules of perspiration appeared where mustache met lip, and his brown scalp glistened under the low-hanging ceiling lights.

A crack demolitions specialist in the army, he subsequently found high demand for his explosives expertise in the civilian arena, where he helped implode condemned skyscrapers. Exciting work, satisfying work, and a paycheck to die for -- figuratively. But the Lyman-Hamilton Casino in Las Vegas brought that segment of his life to a resounding close. At the count of zero, nothing happened. Misfire? It’s gonna be somebody’s ass, I promise ya! Fletcher, the supervisor, yelled. Fire the alternate system! Again — nothing. Which one ‘a you hung-over sumbitches forgot to make a connection this time? he roared. No answer. He summoned Claymore and the pair cursed their way down the ramp toward the subterranean parking garage. Claymore was halfway through an exquisite expletive when the electrical problem self-rectified and the charges went off. The snafu was supposed to have been technically impossible but the Lyman-Hamilton came down around the pair anyhow. Four days immobilized in rubble and face to face with a decomposing Fletcher altered Claymore for all time. He fled skyscraper demolition, but he couldn’t always flee the demons of confinement. And it was in circumstances such as today’s that those haunting forces began to converge on him. His eyes telegraphed a plea.

Flynn caught it and said, Steady, cuzz. Chromy’s the only one of us could end up in the slammer. Everybody knows he’s a poacher. But you’re safe, you hear? No way your ass could be on the line.

I know, I know, but I can’t beat it, I just can’t goddamned beat it, Claymore moaned. I think about being closed in and I’m instant pussy. Jesus!

Hey, just focus on something nice. Think beautiful sunsets. Think a six-pack of Belikin. Think of what’s-her-name — Tilda. Think tits and ass. Yes-s-s. Flynn’s rich voice began conjuring up a holographic image of Claymore’s sensuous Garifuna lover.

A commotion at the end of the corridor caught Claymore’s attention. Busy police officers froze in place as a soldier opened the door. Iris, wearing not a stitch of clothing, stepped through and strode down the hall. She approached Flynn as though she had legitimate business with him and bent forward, her breasts fanning his face. She smiled, rested her hand on his shoulder and said, "Yu wite. Yu noe wite snake eat mi pikni — mi ba-aby? Mi Claudia in snake belly,