Minutes to Burn

They all sat around the wooden table in the small house, Floreana bustling near the sink gracefully, despite her enormous belly. Diego was pleased to make the connection between Ramon and his son, and he conveyed that Ramoncito was doing well at Puerto Ayora. At the mention of her son's name, Floreana stopped pumping the spigot handle abruptly. She took a moment to gather herself before returning to washing the dishes.

She had served them encebollado, a native tuna soup laden with onion and yuca. Cameron watched the bulge beneath Floreana's apron, scratching her forehead at the hairline. "Are you nine months?" she asked in Spanish.

Floreana shook her head nervously and held up six fingers.

"Jesus," Cameron muttered. "She's huge for six months."

Ramon said something, and Diego nodded. "He said he wishes they'd left like the others, but he doesn't think he can move her safely now given how big she is. He thinks she'll deliver early."

Floreana reached over to clear Cameron's plate, and Cameron laid a hand on her arm. Their eyes met, Floreana a bit surprised.

"When we leave," Cameron said, "we'll take you with us. Get you to a hospital where you'll be taken care of." She spoke slowly so that Diego could translate.

Floreana smiled, her eyes filling with emotion. She placed her hand over Cameron's and squeezed it once tightly.

Derek tapped his spoon against the edge of his bowl. "I'm not sure you can make that promise, Cam," he said softly.

Floreana cleared several more of their bowls and stood washing them, hunching forward so that her stomach didn't press up against the basin. Cameron watched her for a moment, then lowered her eyes to the table. She ran a hand through her hair, troubled.

"You're right," she said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm having a bit of trouble with the accent," Rex said to Diego. "Ask them if they knew Frank."

Diego spoke with Ramon, and Ramon smiled at the mention of the man. "Si," he said. "El huevo gordo." He pointed at his wife, and when Cameron looked puzzled, he held his arms out to indicate a big stomach.

"Yes," Rex said in Spanish. "He was a touch on the heavy side."

Ramon spoke slowly, so Cameron was able to keep up with his Span-ish. "He came here a few times, trying to get me to come look at some-thing he'd put in that big freezer of his. He always seemed upset, his face sweaty and red, and he stumbled through his Spanish, so it was difficult to understand him. Finally, I told him I was busy with my crops and ani-mals and I had no time for his fancy toys and ideas. I told him nosing around like that was bad luck. And I was right." Ramon sat back and folded his arms, a sad expression on his face. "At first I thought he'd just gone home and left his things behind because that's how Norteameri-canos are."

"But now?" Rex asked. "Now what do you think happened to him?"

Ramon spoke rapidly for a few minutes, losing Cameron. She waited patiently, catching a phrase here and there. Ramon finally finished and Diego stared at the table, tracing a ridge with his index finger.

"What'd he say?" Cameron asked. "What's that last phrase mean?"

Diego raised his hand and let it fall to the table with a slap. "Tree monster," he grinned.

Rex slowed as he approached Frank's deserted camp, letting Cameron and Derek catch up to him. Diego had stayed behind to discuss with Ramon the ecological considerations of the mostly deserted island.

Something in the emptiness of Frank's camp made it seem haunted. Maybe it was the incessant flapping of the loose tent canvas, the omi-nously large specimen freezer, or the canteen dangling from one of the tent posts, as though Frank had just hung it there and gone for a hike. Some trash was scattered near the entrance to the first tent-jars and books and tools. A black Gore-tex slicker lay on the grass, blown, Rex figured, from the post. It was eerie seeing these things, objects stripped from the dead.

The ground was extraordinarily soft underfoot. Though the sun had dried the dew quickly, a few beads of water still clung to the little spider-webs threading the lush grass. Nearby, several giant tortoises lay retracted into their shells, their high-domed backs rising from the grass like boul-ders.

The loose canvas flap on the tent snapped in the breeze, its rope swaying as they approached. Cameron fisted the cord, pulling it tight. The noise ceased immediately, leaving a sudden silence. She looped the loose end through a hole in the canvas, knotting it. The wind kicked up again, filling the fresh silence with a low whistle as it carried through the shack atop the watchtower down the dirt road.