“Es verdad,” Jesus said, delivering the briefcase.
“Speak English, you shmuck,” Wiley snapped. He turned to Keyes, complaining: “The man was born in Trenton and still he’s doing Desi Arnaz. Drives me nuts.”
Jesus Bernal slouched away, pouting. Wiley opened the briefcase and said, “Might as well get the preliminaries out of the way. Pay attention, Brian.” Wiley held up a pair of plaid swim trunks. “Theodore Bellamy,” he said.
“I believe you,” said Keyes.
Next Wiley produced a crimson halter top. “Renee What’s-her-face, the Canadian girl.”
Keyes nodded blankly.
With both hands Wiley dangled a man’s silver necklace with a gaudy octagonal charm. “Sparky Harper was wearing this,” Wiley said, studying it in the firelight. “It says ‘Sunshine State Booster of the Year, 1977.’ Got his name engraved on the back. Be sure to point that out.”
Wiley dropped the articles into the briefcase and snapped it shut. “You’ll take this back to Miami, please.”
Keyes felt relieved. He’d been contemplating the possibility of dying out here in the swamp and not liking the idea at all, dead in his underwear and covered with bug bites.
“Saw Bloodworth’s column,” Wiley said. “What a hack.”
“He’s not in your league, that’s for sure.”
“He’s a dim-witted gerbil who can’t write his name. Strangled to death is redundant, doesn’t he know that?” Wiley fumed. “If it’d been you, you would have put it together two days ago. You’d have connected everything—Harper, Bellamy, Renee. Hell, you would have printed our letters.”
“And you would have loved it,” Keyes said.
Wiley wasn’t listening. “Brian, I know you’ve still got good police sources. What do you hear?”
Viceroy Wilson edged a little closer. He was always interested in cop news.
“Metro homicide closed the Harper case when Ernesto died,” Keyes said. “As for the other two, a big zero. Missing persons, that’s all.”
“Damn!” Wiley exploded. “Those silly shitheads have got murderous terrorists on the loose and they don’t even know it! See what I mean about credibility, Brian? What do we have to do? Tell me, Viceroy, you’re the historian. Did the SLA have this problem?”
“Naw, they had Patty Hearst,” Wilson replied laconically. “Got plenty of ink. Maybe we can brainwash us some famous white bitch.”
“Si,” said Jesus Bernal, digging his knife from a gumbo-limbo tree. “Pia Zadora!”
Wiley sat cross-legged in front of Keyes. “See what I’m up against,” he muttered.
“Skip—or is it El Fuego now?”
“Skip is fine.”
“Okay, what do you want from me?”
“We need a witness,” Wiley said momentously. “Someone impeccable. Someone who can go back to Miami and attest that we are legitimate, that we’re deadly serious. Brian, we want recognition. We want the police and the press and the politicians and the tourist board to take us seriously.”
“In other words, you want your names in the paper?”
“The Nights of December? Yes. Mine? No. Not until the time comes.” Wiley leaned closer. “If you go back and tell the cops about me, it would complicate our plans. Jeopardize everything. Now, should you decide to play Boy Scout and spill the beans, fine. But if you do, Brian, you’ll deeply regret it. All hell will break loose, and what’s happened so far—the kidnappings, Sparky Harper, the rest—is gonna seem like Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. You understand what I’m saying? If I should pick up the Sun tomorrow and see my face, then me and my comrades shift into overdrive. Moderation goes out the window. And then I’m afraid some folks you and I both know, and care about, are going to wind up suddenly deceased. We’re talking massacre with a capital M.”
Keyes had never seen Wiley so grim, or heard his voice so leaden. He wondered if Wiley meant Jenna, or Cab, or friends from the newspaper.
“Brian, if we do things my way, on my schedule, the violence will be minimized—I promise. If all goes well, in a few weeks the whole truth can be told. But not now—it’s too early. My name would be nothing but a distraction, a liability to the organization. So my role here—well, let it be our little secret for a while. The rest of the saga is yours to tell. In fact, that’s why we invited you here. Can I offer you some softshell-turtle stew?”