My stomach roiled. I gagged on the memory of the putrid stench, which was far worse than anything in the kitchen trash can. I went to the telephone and pulled a card out of my wallet. I dialed the number, and then a voice on the line said, “Russo.”

“It’s Malcolm Cutter, Detective.”

“Okay. What?”

I imagined him on the other end of the line, listening with an expression of disdain. It obviously pained the man to have to speak with me, one of the butchers of Laui Kalay. I wondered how long he would keep my secret.

I said, “I just remembered something you need to know. The guy who brought the meal to Haley Lane’s trailer that night.”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t remember his face. Maybe that will come. But I do remember something strange. There was the smell of rotten fish.”

“You saying the food was spoiled?”

“No, that can’t be it. We wouldn’t have eaten anything that smelled as bad as I remember.”

“Okay then, what?”

“I don’t know. I just flashed on a real strong memory of rotten fish, and this guy standing outside in the dark with a tray full of food.”

“What did he look like?”

“I told you, I can’t remember.”

“Black? White? Short? Tall?”

“It’s more of an impression than a mental picture.”

“No details to identify the guy? Nothing else?”

“If I remember more,” I said, “I’ll call you.”

“You better.”

He hung up.

27

My stomach still felt queasy. It was as if the putrid smell was inside my nostrils, even after all that time. Some people say memories of scents go deeper into the subconscious than sights or sounds could burrow. I belched and nearly vomited. I swallowed several times. I went back into the kitchen and splashed some Scotch into a water glass, and I drank it in one gulp. It burned the nausea away and replaced it with a cozy feeling. I figured if a little Scotch could do that, a little more could do it better. I poured myself three fingers and took the glass and the bottle out to the chaise longue on the patio. I lay there drinking and looking up toward heaven as the palm leaves overhead swayed in the ocean breeze and gulls wheeled and soared and small tufts of clouds sailed inland. Haley filled my thoughts, and I tried to remember it made no sense to be angry with a God who thought it best to take her from me. I tried to remember I might as well be mad at gravity.

It felt like late afternoon when I awoke. The bottle and the glass were gone. I stood and went into the guesthouse. The glass had been washed and replaced in the kitchen cabinet. The Scotch was capped and sitting on the counter. There was a lot less liquid in it than there had been that morning. My head was killing me. At least the headache helped distract me from my ribs, and all the rest.

I fell onto the sofa and sat there staring at the carpet. Why? Why had they murdered her? Did it have something to do with the other violence swirling all around me, with Guatemala and the disappeared? Was it something I hadn’t considered, something caused by factors or events completely unknown to me? Or was it random, like Castro’s irrational desire to see me dead?

I tried to focus on the new memory, to summon details beyond that dark profile and the stench of rotting fish. I wanted to see the man’s face, hear his voice, get some kind of hint that might lead me to him. I indulged myself in thoughts of violence, of putting my hands on him and causing as much pain as possible. But as I thought about the fleeting memory of him and that strange, awful smell, a kind of dread rose over me. I recognized the feeling. It had been a constant companion in the hospital. Instead of satisfying fantasies of revenge, my memories stirred familiar fears of being powerless, the heart of insanity.

It seemed I wasn’t strong enough for vengeance. Not yet.

I decided to return to the sweet distraction of the Doña Elena’s kidnapping and Toledo’s murder. And what had I learned? Not much. I had managed to get beaten senseless and nearly killed. The two-hundred-thousand-dollar mystery remained. I had no idea where to look next for Alejandra Delarosa. I had looked through every connection in her file, had visited her previous neighbors, her employer, her church, and her landlord, but nobody knew anything. At least, no one was willing to tell me anything. And after months of straining to get past my mental block, when a memory of Haley’s murderer had finally returned, the only detail was an awful stench.

I wondered if the smell was even real. Maybe it was just my mind playing games, just another residual hallucination, a metaphor aptly expressing itself. Maybe it was my subconscious saying, ‘You stink, Cutter. You’re rotten to the core.’ And so I was right back to thinking about losing Haley, and the fear began to come again. That helpless feeling.

Suddenly I was angry. I stood up. It was time to put a stop to this so-called recuperation.

I shaved and showered, and fifteen minutes later I was in Haley’s Bentley headed south. After a half-hour drive along the Pacific Coast Highway and the 5, with unobstructed views of the sparkling ocean most of the way, I arrived at the north gate of Camp Pendleton. I explained to a Marine guard that no, Captain Bud Tanner wasn’t expecting me, but he should put a call in to the chaplain anyway.

Five minutes after that, I was in Camp San Mateo, 62 Area, home of the Fifth Marines, the most decorated infantry regiment in the Corps. After his last deployment to Afghanistan with the Fourth, Tanner had been reassigned there for some reason.

I pulled into the parking lot outside the rust-and-ochre-colored, two-story building where Tanner’s office was located. A female sergeant held the door for me as I entered the building. I checked the registry on the lobby wall and followed the numbers to his office.

Tanner was at his desk when I walked in. He stood immediately and came toward me with his hand out. “Good to see ya up and around, Gunny.”

“Thanks, Captain,” I said, taking his hand. It was good of him to call me that, since they had busted me to private.

I looked around the office. I had seen Bud Tanner in a hooch in Afghanistan and a room in a stateside hospital mental ward, but this was the first time I had seen him in his own element. The office was larger than most I had seen in the Corps. In addition to the desk and chair, he had a credenza, a bookcase, and a couple of chairs for visitors facing the desk. The walls were made of painted concrete blocks. He had one window, which opened toward the parking lot, and beyond that a complex of low buildings, including Capodanno Chapel, where the chaplain led worship services three times a week. Near the chapel I could see another building where marines were trained with computer-simulated weapons to kill the enemy. Eternal life and sudden death stood side by side. I supposed it was the way of things.

At the other end of the room were a sofa and two occasional chairs, all upholstered in stiff-green vinyl. In front of them stood a low coffee table with a Formica wood-grain top. On each end of the sofa were two other small tables. A Bible and a box of facial tissues sat on one of the smaller tables. A pitcher of water and three glasses sat on the other. Tanner waved a hand toward the sofa and chairs, and we sat down across from each other.

He said, “How you been?”

“Pretty good.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” He indicated the stitches on my forehead.