Water from My Heart by Charles Martin

the canal, turned northwest, and traveled another long day up the mountainous coast of Costa Rica.
    I knew Zaul would be looking over his shoulder a few days. Follow too closely and I’d end up pushing him. He’d simply duck and run and we’d never find him. I needed to let him breathe, let his guard down. I knew Colin well enough that he wouldn’t cut off Zaul’s credit card, allowing him nearly unlimited funds. Colin was not a good man and he was not a good dad—what man is who sells drugs?—but he did love his kids. And in order to pay for his own sins, he’d keep giving Zaul money. Buying his own redemption. In a way, credit card charges would allow Colin and Marguerite to track Zaul’s movements. And as bad as that sounds and as much as they enabled Zaul to continue being Zaul, it was the only way Colin would be able to “follow” his son.
    I talked with Colin every day, checking in on Maria. They had kept her sedated to allow her to rest and give her face time to begin healing on its own. He said Shelly had been by several times a day and that circulation looked good. She was hopeful, but she continued to caution that the nerve that controls the ability to smile had been severed. While she had reattached it, she told Colin and Marguerite to prepare themselves.
    Time behind the wheel of a boat with nothing but water ahead gave me plenty of time to think. And the thought that kept playing over and over inside my head was this: What did I have to show for my life other than the scars on Maria’s face? Like, what was the impact or influence of me on earth? While my destination lay in front, something kept drawing my eyes back. To the wake. The more I studied it, the more I realized that the wake was a good image of me. Angry at present, but once it settled, it smoothed over. As if nothing was ever there. No evidence. No permanence.
    I had nothing to hold me and nothing to show for my life. No job. No wife. No family. One friend. Bimini felt empty. I had moved to an island and become one. I had a four-decade track record of playing my cards close to my chest and running from everything that hurt me.
    With smooth water, I climbed up on the tuna tower. Two stories above the boat, I sat for hours just staring at the water. Before me flying fish jumped up out of the water and flew a foot or so above the surface for two or three hundred yards before diving back in. My left wrist wore the watch Shelly had given me. One more reminder of an angry wake.
    I took my time. Conserved fuel. Soaked in the horizon. By noon on the fifth day out of Miami, I sat rolling in the waves offshore, staring at Colin’s pool deck through a pair of binoculars. The porch doors were open, curtains swung in the breeze. Music played. Smoke from a bonfire trailed upward. Someone, or someones, had been there. I waited until evening, but in eight hours of surveillance, not a soul moved about in the house or on the deck.

Chapter Eight
    I n the days following my exit from Pickering, headhunters called nonstop offering me jobs of a lifetime. More money than I could spend. I sent them to voice mail. Amanda called twice but I never answered. Finally, driving south down I-95, I opened the window at ninety-seven miles per hour and tossed my cell phone into a concrete barrier. I was done. I wasn’t sure who I wanted to be, but I was finished being whoever had worked for Marshall Pickering.
    I floated south to Jacksonville and found myself in my childhood home sitting on the crow’s nest with a cup of coffee staring out across heaven’s reflection. Two weeks passed in which I slept most of the time. My body was so tired, when finally given the opportunity to sleep, it did. Days passed in which I slept eighteen to twenty hours a day. No drugs. No alcohol. I simply stopped long enough for my soul to catch up with my body, and when it did, it needed sleep. I didn’t know what I would do or where or how I’d eventually make a living. I had some money