Humidity had conquered the gray afternoon and heat shimmered on the distant highway.  A summer wind bore down from the coast heralding the rain that would be coming before the day was done.

The air inside the car was frigid from the ceaseless air conditioning.

"You didn't take the exit."  The boy crossed his arms finding little warmth from his body heat, but his T-shirt offered no protection at all from the cold.

"What?"  The father snapped. 

This was why the boy hadn't said, you missed the exit.  Make a neutral statement, not a correction.  The father liked being corrected even less than being questioned.

"So I did," the father said, adjusting his belt and smiling. 

Playing with his belt was an odd habit he had developed at some point in his life.  It was a tell.  Whenever he lied, his hand would make its way to the warn strap of brown leather around his waist.  Wear marks could be seen where the oil from his fingers had turned the deep polished russet to dull tan.

When he was telling a particularly outrageous untruth, his thumb would caress the buckle for good measure.  A chewed nail would trace out the engraving of the ornate "B" on the brass plate.  "B" for Bertrand.  Why his father needed the initial of his first name on display, the boy could never figure out.  It reminded him of when he was four or five and was entranced by the magic of his own name.  It was the first word he learned how to spell and the only one he could easily read.

Ma.  Ma, can I get it?  He would ask recognizing his name on a mug, a keychain, or a baseball cap.  Happy even to get some little object with an "M" stamped on it.  He had long since outgrown the infantile attachment.  Why hadn't his father?  It was something he could never ask.

"Actually, we're not heading home."  He turned his head so the boy would get the full effect of his smile.  It was a smile that charmed people immediately.  It charmed woman into dating him.  Salesmen into giving him a deal.  Bartenders into letting his tab slide.  It was his magic ticket.  But the magic wore off with everyone after a while.  There were only so many times he could use that voucher before the woman realized he was cheating.  So many times he could flash it and say in his good ol' boy way, c'mon cut me a break, before people demanded their money.  So many times that a boss would accept that glorious smile before he fired him for showing up late to work.

"Where are we going then?"

"We're going on a road trip.  You like road trips, don't you?  It'll be just like that time we headed down to the Keys."

"Of course, Dad.  Love 'em." 

The boy hated them.  Especially, with Bertrand.  The trip to Key West was four years ago when he was six.  They slept in a scuzzy motel that smelt like salt and mold.  The vacation ended with a fight between his parents.  Good ol' boy Dad, abandoned them there with all of twelve dollars in his Ma's purse.  Luckily, a family from Maine took pity on them and dropped them off in Jacksonville on their way home.  He sat on his Ma's lap squeezed into the backseat with the family's three kids.

"Is Ma coming?"

"Why would she?"  The smile was gone.  "She's no fun.  It's going to be just you and me.  Two men out having fun.  Excited?"

"Sure am."  He gave it his best Leave it to Beaver delivery.  Sugary optimism, laced with wholesome exuberance.

It had been six months since the last time his father had been around.  Not since the police showed up at the door to deal with the yelling and screaming that some neighbor must have complained about.  He'd shown up at the trailer drunk and demanding that Ma take him back despite the divorce being final for over a year.

"It's no good, you spending too much time with her, you know?  You need to have the influence of a man."  His hand ruffled over his prematurely white hair.  This was a different type of tell.  This meant that he was going to philosophize.  Or as Ma called it, talk out of his ass.  "You're getting too girly spending all your time with her.  We don't want you to growing up funny.  The world is a hard place.  It's dog eat dog, you know?  If you don't toughen up, it's going to rip you apart.  What kind of dad would I be if I let that happen?"

"I am tough, Dad."

He just laughed shaking his head, in that way of his that said, you're such an idiot, son.

"What about school?" the boy asked.  It was Monday, the third week of the new school year.  It didn't seem like any time to be going on a trip.  His father had picked him up after class.  He was supposed to go to rehearsals for the play, but he didn't dare tell Bertrand that.

"School's a scam, kid.  Look at me.  I played that game.  You think I'm some stupid bum?  I have two degrees.  Fat lot of good they did me.  Trust me, you're better off without it.  Besides what kind of kid your age likes school.  You don't like school, do you?"

"Of course not.  I was just asking."

"See that's your mother's influence.  A few months with me and we'll start to undo the damage she's done."

"Months?"  The word had hit the boy in the stomach like one of his father's fists.  The constructed character he was playing was forgotten, and his voice squealed with shock and horror.  "We're going to be gone months?"

The car squealed to a halt.  The boy flew toward the dash and the seatbelt dug into his shoulder and gut, pulling the air out of him.  The world erupted into the blare of horns.  A semi-truck swerved around the stationary car.  It seemed to scrape along the side as it passed with the howl of some great demonic entity.  The late afternoon traffic eroded into chaos all around them on the blacktop.

"You have a problem with that?  Do you?  You little smart-ass.  Don't you dare cry.  I swear if you cry, I'll take this belt off and give you a real reason to cry.  You don't like months?  Try years.  I'll never let that whore get her claws into you again.  I'm going to do my duty and make sure you grow up a real man.  A boy belongs with his father."

The vision from the past was like a hurricane blotting out the sunny afternoon.  The Gulf waters were a majestic blue.  The sky was a perfectly clear azure.  He gazed out at them with a deep scowl.

Davenport adjusted his sunglasses and followed the man's line of sight.  "What's the matter?"

"I hate Florida," he said through tight lips.

"Dude, how can you hate this.  Sun, sand, babes in bikinis.  What's not to like?"

"Bad memories."  Maxwell took a deep drink from the iced tea in front of him.  A swirl of undissolved sugar floated on top.

"So you spent time here?"

"Grew up in Jacksonville until... until I didn't."

"Jacksonville?  That's the fuckin' panhandle.  That's not Florida.  You stick around here and I'll make sure you have some memories that'll make you love this place."

"I didn't slip you ten grand for you to play tour guide.  What do you have for me on Torrealba?"

"Jeez, all business.  You have to make some room for fun.  Remember how things were back at Chapman?"

"Yeah, those were really great times."  Maxwell stressed the sourness in his words until they had the taste of bile on his tongue.  He and Davenport had met after the attack on the base.  They'd both been called in to deal with the additional detainees that were rounded up after the suicide bombing.  Long days in sweaty cells.  Long nights in a corrugated tin excuse for a bar getting blind drunk and making up war stories.  "Do you have information or not."

"Don't worry.  What I've got is gold.  I don't know what Torrealba has done to get on your radar but from that look on your face, I almost feel sorry for the bastard."

Maxwell frowned.  Spit it out, his eyes screamed.

"The father's yacht was in port two days ago.  The El Silbón is a two-hundred footer, so even down in Miami, it has trouble slipping in and out unnoticed."  Davenport fished out a pack of photos from his shirt pocket.  He handed Maxwell the top four—the yacht from different angles.

"The only people on or off were the crew."  He started dealing out the stack of pictures, flinging them so they spun across the table.  Each one featured a workman engaged in some task.  One saw to refueling.  Others loaded supplies on or garbage off.  The last one showed an unshaven man in a crisp white shirt walking out of a bakery.  Davenport tapped the photo with his finger.  "That's Luis Barreiros, the private chef.  I had a drink with him before he went back to the ship.  He confirmed that the son, Benicio, was on board."

"What about the grandson?"

"Yes.  He confirmed that Aarón was a passenger.  He was only too eager to bitch about how his talents were being wasted making hotdogs and pizza for the kid."  Davenport scooped up the photos and arranged them in his nervous hands.  "I know you're paying me not to be curious, but I have to ask: why is this boy important?"

How much did he trust Davenport?  About as much as anyone in his business.  Fortunately, he had a lie ready.  "I had intel that he might be traveling with his child.  Reports also indicate that this Benicio might put up quite the fight.  But if his son is with him, he might..."

"Go quietly," Devenport finished, getting the point Maxwell was alluding to.

"Where was it sailing?"

"That, Luis didn't know.  In fact, he had the feeling that they were purposely keeping the boat moving.  Picking random destinations after setting sail from each port.  South is all he was sure of."

"How could he be certain?"

"The crew is worried about being stopped by the Coast Guard. They only made this stop because something was wrong with the engine and it was running at half power.  They were desperate.  Even then, Luis had expected them to stop in Havana like they had back in September."  Davenport leaned forward in a gesture of confidentiality.  "My guess is they're not stopping in any place twice.  They don't want a pattern that anyone could follow."

"Great.  A needle in a haystack."  Maxwell held up one of the photos of El Silbón he had in his hand and studied it. The sneaky bastard had sent the boy and his father out to sea, knowing they were safer there than on land.  And every day that passed was one more with Aaron trapped with his degenerate father.  The thought burned through him.

"But hey, look on the bright side." Davenport took a sip of his beer and smiled.  No doubt, thinking about how he would spend his money.  He looked like a tourist enjoying a day away from the rat race.  "At least you know what the needle looks like now."

Maxwell would move the heavens to bring the boy back to Emily.  A boy belonged with his mother.