doorway, looked both ways, then stepped out into the parking lot. I recognized him: triathlete muscles on a rangy frame, maple-colored hair, and close-set Bambi eyes. It was the man in the photos Cressa had e-mailed. All along she’d been misleading us, protecting her brother-in-law.
Tomlinson spotted him, too. “Christ A’mighty,” I heard him say. “It’s the spear hunter—freaking pig killer, man!” As he said it, Bambi scanned the parking lot, found my truck, then me, while Tomlinson muttered, “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
The man glared at us for a moment, then turned away.
“Stay here,” I told him, then hesitated. “Call Cressa—find out who that guy really is.”
“‘A quiet little warning,’” Tomlinson replied, mocking me. “‘The peaceful approach,’ he says. Marion, you try weathering this bullshit with acid in your brain!”
I went after Bambi who had turned toward the street, not the beach as I’d expected. He was carrying a camera case and an overnight bag—all packed and ready to go—leaving Dean Arturo to his fate.
Loyalty wasn’t part of their tribal code, apparently.
One glance over his shoulder, Bambi walked faster. So did I. After another look, he set off at a jog, taking long triathlete strides. Even though I wasn’t carrying luggage, I had to push to keep up.
22
DEANO’S PARTNER WAS TRYING TO ESCAPE ON FOOT? To where? Taxis don’t cruise the island, and the hotel’s main bike rack was empty.
On a run, I followed the man under the check-in canopy, where he veered right into a second parking lot, only a few vacant spaces showing puddles from a recent rain, and populated by a family of six, twin girls wearing Mickey Mouse ears, pillows in their arms.
When I hollered, “I want to talk to you!” the father looked up, correctly read the faces of the two strangers, and ordered his kids, “Get in the van—now.”
Bambi slowed, then sprinted into the cluster of children, shoulder-butting the father while the mother screamed. The move created a temporary shield that forced me to detour around a Winnebago while he beelined through the bushes toward an adjacent hotel, where there was a tennis court and another parking area.
A rental car, that was his destination. A white Jeep wagon, Florida plates, that Deano and Bambi had been smart enough to park a safe distance from their rooms. They’d also daubed mud over the plate. Bambi was in the Jeep, stabbing a key at the ignition, when I reappeared from an unexpected angle. Didn’t notice until I had a hand on the passenger door, which he tried to thwart by slamming his hand down on the electric lock button. But too late . . .
“I want to talk,” I said again. I was standing in a puddle of crushed shell, the door open, but then swung into the passenger seat when the engine started.
“Get out!” Bambi ordered.
I shook my head. “Your friend has some serious mental issues, you know that.”
I didn’t expect the rage the comment sparked. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me! Or about Deano. So shut your mouth! I’ll call the police if you don’t get out right now.” Didn’t expect a Boston accent, either, but it made sense.
“The two men chasing your buddy are cops . . . so, yeah, I think that’s a good idea. I’ll come along, you can tell them all about it.”
Looking straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard, Bambi scowled, then put his hand on the gearshift as if to drive away. I was deciding whether to go for an arm bar or just go along for the ride when, instead, he used the hand to turn down the music—tribal rap, it might have been, drums like electronic thunder that kept pace with the chanter’s piercing hip-hop.
“You buy that in Africa?” I asked.
Arturo’s partner ignored the question for several seconds, then turned to me. “Those assholes had no right to question Deano! Not after all the garbage he’s been through. And he’s trying, man, he’s really trying to get it together! Then the cops pull a stunt like this.”
I said, “It’s not like they accused him of attempted murder,” and watched how he reacted to my double meaning.
He didn’t. Bambi stayed on track by continuing to transfer blame. “I heard the way they came into his room—pretending like they wanted to help, then started right away with the questions. Shrinks and cops, we’ve talked about it, they’re always trying to trap you with questions. Well, bullshit, that’s not the way you deal with someone like the