CHAPTER 47: Rum
Seamus Boyle woke to the sound of helicopters. He opened his eyes and studied the white fan rotating above him. Not a helicopter, he thought.
He felt crisp sheets under his hands and smelled that distinctive hospital scent. A tube ran from his arm to an IV. He tried to turn, but the unmistakable discomfort of a catheter stopped him.
“Hello? Hello?” he said, hoarsely.
A nurse came, took a quick look. “Un momento, por favor,” she said.
Ah, yes, Belize, thought Boyle. I made it. Rum. Beautiful brown women.
Señor Prescott?” asked a doctor, chart in hand. Boyle did not respond.
“Señor Jordan Prescott?”
Oh, yes, thought Boyle. I’m Jordan Prescott. “Yeah, yeah, that’s me,” he said.
“Glad you are back with us, Mr. Prescott. I am Dr. Rodriguez. You were injured in a car crash.”
“What day is it? How long have I been here?”
“About two weeks, señor.”
Shit, thought Boyle. All that work and I missed the deadline, cost me a bundle. Fuck. He smiled. Jonah’s in deep shit, but I made it to Belize—with millions. I’m free!
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At the US Embassy in Belmopan, Belize, Thomas Leeward doublechecked the passport photo emailed from the hospital. It said Jordan Prescott, but the face recognition software insisted it was a Seamus Boyle. Leeward compared the two photos, side by side. The hair was different, but it was the same man. He was sure of it.
An alert said Boyle was wanted for questioning. Arson, rape, murder, attempted kidnapping, felony theft.
Busy boy, thought Leeward. Who do we have here, in that hospital bed?
“Arturo!” he called out to the man in the next room. “I need you to take prints from the patient in Room 452, US citizen Jordan Prescott. Get a DNA swab while you’re at it.”
“Today?” asked Arturo.
“No, mañana está bien. He’s not going anywhere.”
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Far away in Silvercreek, Sheriff Russo had made his decision. He daisy chained a transfer of $2.4 million from the Belize account through the bank account in Cambodia to the Yellow Ribbon Alliance’s bank account in Seattle. He labeled it An Anonymous Donation in Memory of Virginia Hopewell Anderson.
He cleared his cache, shut down his computer and went for a walk up the hill. At the top, he looked down on the little town of Silvercreek and to the cemetery where Ginnie, her father and Erica lay, along with so many others who deserved better lives than the ones they got.
He looked up to the forested mountains, their peaks lost in the mist, and said a prayer for the future.
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“I remember the crash,” said Boyle. “Road washed out. I went with it down the hill.”
“A palm tree stopped you,” said the doctor. “Your car landed on the road below, right in front of a UN shuttle. You are a very lucky man. You owe your life to the UN and to God, Mr. Prescott. Without them, you would have bled out. Your legs—”
“How bad?” asked Boyle, fumbling with the sheets. “They don’t hurt at all. How bad?”
“I am sorry, señor. We did our very best, but…”
Boyle’s monitor beeped faster as his heart rate rose. A nurse hovered over him with a syringe. “Por favor tenga calma, señor,” she said gently.
Boyle’s ears filled with a rushing sound. He threw back the sheets, clawed at his hospital gown, lifted it to reveal the bandaged stumps where his legs used to be.
“I am very sorry, and—” said Dr. Rodriguez as Boyle let out a pitiful wail. The nurse swooped in, administered the sedative.
Belize! thought Boyle. No warm nights with Skye and beautiful brown women. “I gotta get outta here,” he wailed, pulling at the tubes in his arm. “Where’s my car, my phone, my stuff?”
“Not so fast,” said the doctor. “The police have your car so it is safe and the US Embassy is sending someone over to assist you, Señor Prescott.”
Ah, fuck me, thought Boyle as he collapsed with a wail onto the pillow.
