Carrie told Joe he had some strange friends.
“Oscar thinks he owes me a favor, that’s all. Years ago I left his name out of a newspaper article and it wound up saving his life.”
Carrie looked, doubtful, but said nothing. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore amber sunglasses with green Day-Glo frames and a silver one-piece bathing suit. Oscar didn’t stare, not even once. His mind was on business, and the soccer game he was missing on television. Most Thursdays he was on his way to Belize, only this morning there’d been a minor problem with Customs, and the flight was canceled. When Joe Winder called him at the warehouse, Oscar felt honor-bound to lend a hand.
“He thinks I cut him a break,” Winder whispered to Carrie, “but the fact is, I did use his name in the story. It just got edited out for lack of space.”
“What was the article about?”
“Gunrunning.”
From the bow, Oscar turned and signaled that they were close enough now. Kneeling on the deck, he opened a canvas duffel and began to arrange odd steel parts on a chamois cloth. The first piece that Carrie saw was a long gray tube.
“Oscar’s from Colombia,” Joe Winder explained. “His brother’s in the M-19. They’re leftist rebels.”
“Thank you, Professor Kissinger.” Carrie smeared the bridge of her nose with mauve-colored zinc oxide. It was clear from her attitude that she had reservations about this phase of the plan.
She said, “What makes you think Kingsbury needs another warning? I mean, he’s got the mob after him, Joe. Why should he care about a couple of John Deeres?”
“He’s a developer. He”ll care.” Winder leaned back and squinted at the sun. “Keep the pressure on, that’s the key.”
Carrie admired the swiftness with which Oscar went about his task. She said to Winder: “Tell me again what they call that.”
“An RPG. Rocket-propelled grenade.”
“And you’re positive no one’s going to get hurt?”
“It’s lunch hour, Carrie. You heard the whistle.” He took out a pair of waterproof Zeiss binoculars and scanned the shoreline until he found the stand of pigeon plums that Molly McNamara had told him about. The dreaded bulldozers had multiplied from two to five; they were parked in a semicircle, poised for the mission against the plum trees.
“Everybody’s on their break,” Winder reported. “Even the deputies.” At the other end of the boat, Oscar assembled the grenade launcher in well-practiced silence.
Carrie cut the twin Evinrudes and let the currents nudge the boat over the grassy shallows. She took the field glasses and tried to spot the bird nest that Molly had mentioned. She couldn’t see anything, the hardwoods were so dense.
“I’m not sure I understand the significance of this gesture,” she said. “Mockingbirds aren’t exactly endangered.”
“These ones are.” Winder peeled off his T-shirt and tied it around his forehead like a bandanna. The air stuck to his chest like a hot rag; the temperature on the water was ninety-four degrees, and no breeze. “You don’t approve,” he said to Carrie. “I can tell.”
“What bothers me is the lack of imagination, Joe. You could be blowing up bulldozers the rest of your life.”
The words stung, but she was right. Clever this was not, merely loud. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but there wasn’t time to come up with something more creative. The old lady said they were taking out the plum trees this afternoon, and it looks like she was right.”
Oscar gave the okay sign from the bow. The boat had drifted close enough so they could hear the voices and lunchtime banter of the Falcon Trace construction crew.
“Which dozer you want?” Oscar inquired, raising the weapon to his shoulder.
“Take your pick.”
“Joe, wait!” Carrie handed him the binoculars. “Over there, check it out.”
Winder beamed when he spotted it. “Looks like they’re pouring the slab for the clubhouse.”
“That’s a large cement mixer,” Carrie noted.
“Sure is. A very large cement mixer.” Joe Winder snapped his fingers and motioned to Oscar. Spying the new target, the young Colombian smiled broadly and readjusted his aim.
In a low voice Carrie said, “I take it he’s done this sort of thing before.”