Shadows Across America Read online

“We need to copy everything and then destroy the originals,” Ethan said. “If they have a way of tracking them, we’re screwed.”

  In the kitchen, they looked around and found some bread, cheese, and a couple of beers, but Suarez refused with uncharacteristic friendliness. Ethan felt as though a completely different person were standing in front of him.

  “Are you a member of Andrés’s church?”

  “No. Just that I can’t drink. I drank a lot for a long time—I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Ah, OK. I’m sorry. I put my foot in it.”

  “No, you didn’t know. And it’s appropriate; it was an excellent raid. One of the hardest nights of my life. You were a very good comrade in arms.”

  “Thank you. I . . . admire what you’ve done. I don’t know why you’ve done it, but clearly you’re a great detective, and I’ve known a few.”

  Suarez carefully patted Ethan down, looking for internal damage. Strangely, after he’d seen to his partner and treated several of his wounds, he wouldn’t allow Ethan to return the favor. Ethan put it down to Latin machismo.

  “I lost my family years ago,” Suarez said with unexpected candor. “Andrés is the only friend I have left. He helped me when all I did was drink, and in his infinite generosity and patience, he picked me up off the street time after time. I owe my new life to him. Of course I have to help find his niece. I’d rescue her from hell if I have to, because that’s exactly what he rescued me from.”

  With each new revelation, Ethan was able to build a much fuller picture of this mysterious man.

  “I have to confess: at first I didn’t want to work with you. I only agreed because Andrés insisted.”

  “Don’t worry—I didn’t like the idea either. And I understand. I mean, I know how you see gringos, and some of my fellow countrymen ruin our reputation, chasing after drugs and whores.”

  “It wasn’t because you’re a gringo. I work alone. It’s hard to trust someone else. It’s not gringos that worry me. Have you seen the way our young people talk? They say issue instead of problema, fuck when they’re surprised . . . it comes naturally to them. They want to be like you and scorn our traditions. That’s what worries me, not the gringos. You won the war, but we’re still losing.”

  “When did we fight a war?”

  “The culture wars. And when you’ve won the battle for culture, you can impose your thinking on everyone else.”

  “I think the same in English and Spanish. I don’t feel that one is dominant over the other.”

  “You’ve never been to the indigenous reserves. You’ve never seen an entire people forced to do all their paperwork or study their history in someone else’s language. It changes everything. It’s the enslavement of everything that is truly theirs. That’s true colonization, the colonization of thoughts and language. Young people learn from your films, music, and myths. That’s why they think you won the war against Hitler at Normandy.”

  “Normandy was very important.”

  “The Russians won that war, but you don’t hear about it because no one reads Russian except for Russians. Normandy was a joke, a very bloody joke. Like all the jokes governments play on us. The lives of all of us here in Central America are a joke played on us by your government. Our blood is the primary raw material that goes into your drugs. Our poverty serves industries owned by billionaires, but our grandchildren will study the story of it in English. And they’ll believe what they’re told.”

  “So it’s all our fault? I’ve studied what I could about Latin America, and I still don’t understand it. But one thing I’ve learned is that it’s easier to see yourself as a victim than fight back. Maybe we’re too obsessed with success, but you spend your lives afraid of achieving it.”

  “I think you’re right about that. I don’t understand it either. Latin America is too big. There are too many different Latin Americas—there’s even a lot of different Central Americas, and it’s just a tiny strip of land. And then there’s the Caribbean, the islands, each with their own world and accent.” Suarez paused, trying to get his thoughts in order. “Well . . . listen. It’s like this: if Central America were a residential condo, then Panama, say, would be the nouveau riche guy. No one knows where the money came from, but one day the bastard turns up in a brand-new car with gold chains dangling from his neck. Costa Rica is an old lady from a good family fallen on hard times. She goes to Mass every Sunday and looks down on the rest. Nicaragua is a guy who had a difficult childhood. All of them were abused as children. Nicaragua was a talented kid who looked as though he might amount to something but ended up as the town drunk, staggering everywhere and challenging everyone to a fight. El Salvador was the runt of the litter who had to learn to defend himself when his family was murdered before his very eyes. Now he’s the neighborhood thug. Honduras is the wife of a domestic abuser who still defends her husband to the hilt, and Guatemala is a quiet, humble worker putting in long hours and tolerating his boss’s mistreatment without complaining. They all have indigenous, Spanish, and lots of other different kinds of blood, but the more indigenous they have, the more they despise it. They’re ashamed of it.”

  “How about Belize? People always forget about it.”

  “Belize is the black man who lives at the end of the street and smokes pot all day. He’s also the one who sells to gringos. It’s a staging area for drug trafficking. Everyone knows about it, but no one’s going to do anything. Here’s another home truth: each different part of the Caribbean is an independent state with its own language and culture. The different Caribbeans have more in common with each other than their own countries. But that’s just what I think. A lot of people will tell you different.”

  “You don’t speak as though you’re from here.”

  “None of us are, not really.”

  “Except for the indigenous people.”

  “You should visit their land. It’s not easy: they’re surly and mistrustful, the legacy of victimhood. You don’t know anything about them; no one does until they go there. Nobody sees how they’re treated. They’re isolated, reviled, impoverished, alcohol dependent. Genocide dressed up as counterrevolution is a recurring theme. But why is it a revolution just to ask for the same rights as everyone else? During the civil wars, it doesn’t matter who’s fighting who—they always get killed. Gringo companies like the Fruit Company did experiments on them as though they were animals. And this was thirty years ago, not five centuries. Lots of people complain about the conquistadors, but then they spend their lives trying to prove they’re white. It’s the lie we live: we claim to distinguish between one thing and another, but nobody here is just one thing. We’re not indigenous or Spanish: we don’t fit any specific heritage. Here, people act as though the Spanish came, stole everything, got onto a ship, and left. Then we appeared out of nowhere, with no interest in anything, not even who we are.”

  After a brief silence, Suarez turned the conversation back to the case and the information he’d found: a legal firm they knew nothing about and a truck driver who’d taken Michi out of the country.

  “Johanna contacted him by email. We have the password, and he has no way of knowing that she’s dead.”

  “That’s right, but we also have the hard drive and the telephone. In all that, I’m sure we can find something to lead us back to the law firm. That seems easier than finding a truck driver who’s God knows where. Also, they’re more likely to know the client. But there’s one thing I’ve been thinking about since we left: What will the deputy chief do? His friends have been killed, his money’s been stolen, and his business has been ruined.”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want to be him right now.”

  They laughed mirthlessly.

  “The only thing I know for sure is that if he’s smart, we won’t be able to find him. His friends are dead, and the girl is going to identify them as her captors. It’ll be a huge scandal. The way I see it, unless he’s extremely powerful, he’s fucked. I don’t think it’s in anyone’s in
terests for him to stay out of prison.”

  Ethan walked around the small living room, plotting their next move. “So we’re going after the lawyers?”

  “You can if you like. I’d rather try with the truck driver.”

  “You’re going to look for him even though you don’t know what country he’s in?”

  “To me, the difference is that we have him and not the others. I understand that to you every border is a new world, but I think there’s a good chance. It’s not so hard for me.”

  “Are you saying that you’re going to look for him on your own?”

  “I have my contacts. What do you think?”

  “Split up? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Given what we have to gain, I think we should try. Think of this cash as new funding for the investigation. Now we’ve got plenty of money but not much time. What if you can’t find the firm? Or I can’t track down the trucker? I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Given the course things were taking, Ethan told Suarez about Ari and suggested making her their remote contact. With each of them in a different region, she could coordinate with them more easily. Suarez agreed. Ethan wrote Ari an email to let her know, and Suarez left.

  It was early morning, and the events of the previous night began to take a toll on Ethan. His imagination was stuffed full of images and voices from the night before, and they were all screaming at him at once, competing for his attention. He relived the flashes of light, the noise of each shot, the gunman turning toward him, the bullets hitting the gunman, and then the gunman falling back with his eyes still on Ethan. His arms had been stretched out on the ground, like Christ on the cross. He tried to wash it all off in the shower, but he knew that the night wouldn’t stand for it. It would be with him for a long time.

  Suarez, sticking to the discipline that had kept him going for years, woke up at five in the morning, just as the sun was coming up over the horizon. He made himself some toast and sat down to watch the news. It had long been something of an addiction for him, giving him a false sensation of control, as though he were forewarned. Deep down he knew it was a game, but he still kept it up. When he went out, he’d be two steps ahead of his fellow pedestrians, just the way he liked it.

  That morning, he watched his programs even more closely, waiting in vain for a report on the incident. It might be too soon, or it might be that there wouldn’t be anything; it was just as likely to be overlooked. It was completely out of his hands, depending more on the deputy chief’s contacts and what favors he might be able to call in. Once he’d finished his first scan of the news, he showered, ate some more, and walked around the patio he shared with his neighbors, studying the perimeter and inspecting traps only he knew about. Someone had jumped over the wall behind the Marquez house and crossed the garden, leaving certain signs that only he could detect. Upon closer, discreet examination, he saw that they’d gone to the front door. There was no sign of it having been forced, but the key had scratched the paint and wood. No doubt the son had come back drunk again and either mistakenly, or for some other reason, had crossed several different properties before recognizing his parents’ house.

  After his patrol, he came back and collected his mail. Then he resumed his monitoring of the news but still didn’t turn up anything. At seven thirty he lay down to read until sleep overcame him. At nine he came out of his doze and went straight back to the news channels. After another fruitless scan but feeling refreshed, he started to examine the hard drive in detail. It was a veritable gold mine of information about previous kidnappings, but there was nothing of interest to his case. Johanna had set up a database for all the information about her clients that she believed to be relevant: the ransom, the days each victim had spent in captivity next to some macabre deliveries highlighted in bold: finger, finger, ear. The final column was for the sum obtained or a NO in red followed by coordinates he tried to pinpoint on a map. But what he thought would be simple was not. He couldn’t make heads or tails of them. So he contacted Ari.

  To his surprise, the answer came back almost instantly in a precise and organized way. Ari sent him a series of screen grabs for each of the coordinates he’d sent, confirming his suspicion that they were all scattered around an area not far from the warehouse where they’d found the girl. In order to avoid repetition and anticipate possible discovery, Johanna had recorded where they’d buried the dead bodies from unsuccessful operations. They didn’t need maps or signs anymore; with a simple cell phone they could keep records that dated back years. Like every tool, new technologies were amoral: they facilitated activities both good and bad. Underneath every cross was the unfortunate victim of a kidnapping whose ransom had never been paid, people who’d just disappeared one day and had never been heard from again. Looking at this scattered chart of anonymous graves made Suarez anxious. Suddenly his breathing grew labored; he needed to get some air. He got up to go out but found that this was a mistake. His legs buckled under him, and he fell to the floor as the room spun around. He placed his knees and elbows on the floor and curled up until he recovered control. Then he used the table to pull himself back up and went to the kitchen. A fainting fit. It was just a fainting fit—I need sugar.

  By midday, when it was obvious that the news that he and Ethan had created wasn’t going to be reported that day, he sat down in front of the outdated computer. He signed in to an email account that would never be used by its deceased owner again. After spending a long time trying to think of the best approach to take and studying Johanna’s curt style very closely, he decided upon a brief email that he thought mimicked her exactly. And so he made the first move:

  From: Mimbura1983@ . . .

  To: Latinbeast32@ . . .

  Subject: New job

  Hello again. All well? Have a new job for a different client that I think might interest you. Let me know when you’re free to discuss it.

  Best

  The next morning, Suarez found that he’d received an answer as predictable as it was concise:

  From: latinbeast32@

  To: Mimbura1983@

  Subject: Re: New job

  I’m not interestd in a new cliant. Thanx.

  But Suarez had anticipated a rejection. He just had to copy and paste the reply he’d prepared.

  From: Mimbura1983@ . . .

  To: Latinbeast32@ . . .

  Subject: Re: Re: New job

  It’s our oldest client. We can vouch for them. We trust them completely. They’ve never moved merchandise to another country and don’t know how. We told them that you’re the best and they’re willing to pay 50% more than for the girl. Please tell me if you’re interested, it would be very good for us. We’d be very grateful. If you take it, more goodies will be coming your way in the future.

  Best

  Adrian Calvo walked through groups of stuck-up, fashionable youths who didn’t give him a second glance. His response to their snub was to shamelessly stare at the legs of the female students in their tights and cutoff shorts. People were so used to it that only a couple of the girls noticed, walking off hand in hand, muttering about the dirty old man. The rest just put up with him, mistaking him for a professor or janitor. He went to the dirty, nearly deserted cafeteria, where the waitress was watching a soap opera, completely oblivious to anything else. Only two of the tables were occupied; Michelle sat at the one farthest away. Calvo was amazed to see that she didn’t stand out at all among the much younger students. And neither do her legs, he chortled to himself.

  “Madam.”

  “Good afternoon, Don Adrian. Thank you for coming. I’m surprised you chose this place. The Faculty of Architecture cafeteria?”

  “In the private university too. No one could possibly expect to find us here. But I was surprised by your message. I heard about the incident. You seem to have recovered well.”

  “Thank you. There’s still some pain, but the worst is over.”

  “These gang kids are violent bastards,” Calvo said
, pretending to be outraged. “What did you want? I’d like to get this over with quickly. It’s not healthy for me to be seen in your company, as pleasant as it is. If my wife knew . . .”

  Michelle ignored both the compliment and the bad joke. But she did take note of her new status as a pariah. “I haven’t heard from Ethan, and I’m worried.”

  “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I think that the gentleman needed time to think. He seemed upset.”

  “This has nothing to do with us. I’m worried about his safety.”

  “An admirable sentiment and one that I share.”

  “But you’re not on the case anymore. Randall stopped paying you.”

  “So he did. I see that he isn’t hiding anything from you. A good man, your engineer. He seems to have taken it well. I mean both of you have.”

  “I can pay you too. I want you to protect Ethan—I don’t care how much it costs.” Michelle’s face was inscrutable and unsettling.

  “You couldn’t afford it.”

  “I’ll pay whatever it costs. I’ll find a way.”

  “You don’t understand. Not even the engineer could afford it. I came to meet you as a courtesy. Have you been reading the newspapers or watching TV?”

  Calvo put a tabloid he’d brought with him down on the table. The front page had a prurient four-column story with a photo of a curvy woman in a thong and high heels showing off her generous bust and buttocks. She was introduced to readers as “Samaris the market beauty.” Above it was a completely unrelated report with a large red banner headline: “CORRUPT POLICEMEN GUNNED DOWN.” Accompanying the lovely Samaris was a photograph of the kidnappers’ industrial warehouse. It had now been cordoned off and was crawling with police.

  “I like this newspaper. It doesn’t go for subtlety, but it knows its stuff. The article mentions a girl they had trapped in there and lists the horrible things they did. They obviously made them up because the girl didn’t make a statement, but they know what they’re doing; their sales prove that. This is the most-read front page in the country.”