Shadows Across America Page 25

  “Of course I’ve seen it. But they said that this was a gang dispute.”

  “Some dispute. A gang executing cops? And then setting their victim free? They wouldn’t have the guts. This wasn’t a gang. This is the work of your Ethan. These were the bastards who took Michi, and he found them. Who was behind it and where they sent her I couldn’t say. You know, like a Greek once said, ‘The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know anything.’”

  Michelle couldn’t help tearing up. She put on a pair of sunglasses. “Ethan . . . killed those people?”

  “He has a partner who hides himself very well. I wonder who he might be . . . therefore I am. How does it go?”

  “What are you talking about?” Michelle said, utterly confused.

  “Yes, that’s how it goes: ‘The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know a thing, but I think, and therefore I am.’ That’s very good—do you get it? I think; therefore I am. Something to ponder.”

  “You were telling me that Ethan killed those policemen.”

  “Don’t go around telling everyone. I mean, the less people know, the longer our gringo will stay alive.”

  “Three? They killed three people?”

  “Four. The guy’s good. I wonder how he managed it. Aren’t you happy? He took revenge on the people who took your daughter. And now he must know what happened. If he hasn’t called you yet, I suppose it’s because he is tracking her down. I wouldn’t have bet a cent on him, but he had his own ideas, and he put them to good use. See? I think; therefore I am. Ethan knows what to think. Congratulations. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “How do you know it was him?”

  “Oh, that . . . let’s just say that I know.”

  “Now I need you more than ever. I need you to protect him. Nothing can happen to him. Did you hear me? Tell me what it will cost. I’ll pay anything.”

  “You don’t understand. You can’t pay me. No one could. I warned him, and he went ahead anyway. The Doce are going to execute him. The criminals he got rid of paid their dues, and debts like that are collected in blood. You saw their price for Jonathan—who knows what the bill will be now? I can’t save your Ethan, and I don’t know anyone who can.”

  “Someone must be able to!”

  Calvo hid behind a cynical grin, refusing to offer a solution.

  “Who can I go to?”

  “No one I know.”

  “Ethan won’t answer my messages.”

  “He doesn’t want to put you in danger. However, from the looks of you, you’re riding the storm pretty well.”

  Michelle revealed her eyes, which were now black with running mascara. “Not really.”

  Calvo smiled at some double entendre she didn’t understand. “The bloodshed has to be paid for. He knew that and decided to make the sacrifice. He’d do it happily so long as it means rescuing the girl. If I got involved, they’d kill me too.”

  “No, it can’t be. It can’t be.”

  “Either that or put him on a plane and get the seat next to him. Because if they can’t find him, they’ll come for you. Go. Today, tomorrow at the latest. I don’t think you’ll get much more time than that. And not with the girl, obviously; you can’t afford to wait for her.”

  As he signed into the email account again, the only thing that came as a surprise to Suarez was how predictable people could be.

  From: Latinbeast32@ . . .

  To: Mimbura1983@ . . .

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: New job

  OK. send me all info and ill look at it i’m free on tuzday, i’ll look at it when i arrive and if i’m interstd i’ll let you know on wenzday.

  It disgusted him to be dealing with such a despicable excuse for a man, but he reminded himself that he was a professional. He had been dealing with trash like this for as long as he could remember. He implemented his plan with bureaucratic patience: he telephoned his Panamanian contact and was immediately entangled in a long conversation about the good old days that may never have actually happened. Then he succinctly outlined what he needed: a truck driver who smuggled children across the continent, of uncertain nationality but who had a hideout in Colombia, where he was heading right now, arriving on Tuesday. He needed him found beforehand. He had gleaned a little more information from Johanna’s computer: the state where he was hiding, that he’d be crossing the border from the south but hadn’t gotten there yet, and thanks to Ari, an IP address. They discussed the difficulties involved, not just in finding the truck driver but also in arranging Suarez’s passage and supplying him with a weapon. The man soon started to get nervous and asked for more time—there was no way he could get all that information before Tuesday—but Suarez knew him well and let him go on. Embarking upon a long diatribe full of excuses, his friend entered into a spiral of frustration that fed on its own arguments. By the end he was almost shouting: There was no way he could help Suarez; why didn’t he go find someone else to do his dirty work? Suddenly, however, he remembered that he knew a top guy in customs who could check to see whether the guy was in Colombia, and once they’d established the route, they could ask for it to be traced, an internal, unofficial request, off the books. It would be an interdepartmental favor, but then the police would be able to track him, and the Colombian police force was reliable enough for Suarez to assume that they’d do it competently. He then breathed a big sigh of relief and started to list the different things they’d need to do to make sure that the tracking went well, asking again, almost as though for the record, whether Suarez wouldn’t prefer that they issue an arrest warrant. But Suarez didn’t answer that either. Then the monologue continued before transforming into an entertaining succession of funny stories and shared anecdotes that went on for almost another hour, as it always had for as long as the two had known each other. Once they’d said goodbye, Suarez went back to the computer and typed out an answer in the name of a woman who’d died several days before.

  From: Mimbura1983@ . . .

  To: Latinbeast32@ . . .

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: New job

  If you agree, we need your current license plates, chassis number and trailer model to do the paperwork. Attached is a form for you to fill out.

  Best

  Three days later, Suarez was wondering whether he’d made a mistake. Perhaps the truck driver was smarter than Suarez had given him credit for, or maybe he’d tried to contact Johanna by a different means and had worked out that he was being set up. If so, Suarez tried to think whether there was any way it could lead back to him, but there were no worries on that score: he’d always used Johanna’s address and telephone. So Suarez went back to thinking how they might catch the intermediary if he didn’t send the requested documents. He considered the different options, and the only one that seemed likely was the weak, very risky lead of the deputy chief. He didn’t have much faith in that line of inquiry. He wondered how Ethan was doing: obsessed with his own investigations, he hadn’t been in contact. He was worried that his search might put him on the Doce’s radar and told himself that he needed to talk to Ethan and make sure he was covering his tracks when, as though in answer to his prayers, a response came that would define his next steps.

  From: Latinbeast32@ . . .

  To: Mimbura1983@ . . .

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: New job

  Info recuested atatched

  Suarez downloaded the file, checked it, and forwarded it to his contact. Then he called him to speed things along. The man got to work, promising that they’d move fast. Suarez packed, excited like a gambler before a big race. Just over an hour later, he received the report: they’d made a positive ID. A full update would arrive in a day or two. Together with the confirmation came a number and a code for obtaining a weapon once he arrived. It was expensive but reliable. Suarez thanked his friend, as he had so often, and bought a ticket for the first flight, full of hope and expectation. He had forgotten all about Ethan.

  The date had gone well, and Ari had had a good time, but by t
he time she got home, she was feeling even more lonely. She decided that she had to move out; the house had become an empty shell. She felt a sadness settle upon her, not just because Ethan had gone but because of how different she felt from “normal” people. She grieved for the most stable period of her life, the only time when she’d ever been happy.

  When the doorbell got her out of bed, the last thing she expected was to be faced with the hulking form of Bear on crutches. He was still wrapped up in bandages, providing a marked contrast to the silhouette of Candy, who was small enough to fit into Ari’s purse. Although she saw them almost every day, there was something suspicious about the couple just dropping by like this.

  “Hi, guys . . . what a surprise. You should have let me know you were coming. Come in; don’t just stand there.”

  “Hi, honey. Sorry to come by like this. We need to talk.”

  “Hi, Ari, f-forgive me. It’s my fault. I asked Candy to come. I didn’t want to talk over the phone.”

  “Well, come in, damn it. What’s wrong? You’re making me nervous.”

  “Michelle wrote to us.”

  “To you? What’s got into her now? I’m still in touch with Ethan. Isn’t she getting enough attention already? What, now she’s jealous?”

  “How long has it been since you spoke?”

  “A couple of days maybe. I’m talking to his partner there, but I don’t think the gorgeous Michelle knows him.”

  Ari had begun to enjoy her spitefulness, but Candy held up her hand, brusquely cutting her off.

  “She wants to talk to you. She asked us to come on her behalf.”

  “Well, I hope you told her to go to hell. Straight to hell.”

  “Ari. You need to listen to her.”

  7

  Stolen Confessions

  Ethan woke up a little before dawn. For once, he felt good and well rested. He went straight to the computer and found Ari online. They caught up. She told him that his strange old buzzard of a partner had contacted her, and they said goodbye. Then Ethan got straight onto his own line of inquiry. The shoot-out had caused a major scandal. Journalists were taking advantage of it to attack the government and vested interests; the terms ignominy, shame, purge, and cleaning house had become commonplace. Rumors were multiplying and growing wilder and wilder, often disguised as leaks from supposedly verified sources. The only real truth was that the nerves of the security forces, public institutions, and the media itself were frayed. The latter’s crusade was little more than payback for a thousand historical slights. By now, he knew that he was doomed, just as Calvo had warned him. He just didn’t know how many days he had left to solve the case and get out alive. He didn’t expect Suarez to make any progress with his investigation, and working on his own again, he arranged to meet with Andrés to give him an update before insisting that for his own good, he didn’t follow Ethan down the dark path along which he was heading.

  The property was large but neglected. No one grew anything there, and weeds had spread over the fence, the path, and up the walls, blurring the distinction between garden and jungle. Which was just how it should be. Sinister, like him. Dark, like his soul. The undergrowth was so thick you couldn’t walk through it. It hid the lair of the black-headed beast, a cave in which to take refuge after claiming yet another innocent life, somewhere to muffle their final screams, which thrilled and frightened him in equal measure. The Beast cherished the bloody garment in his hand, which would be kept with the others so he could masturbate over it later or flagellate himself with it.

  The sickly, inevitable feeling that came after violence was always bittersweet. Like sexual desire, it devoured everything before it even began, transforming the pain of others into pleasure, stirring his hunger for sacrifice. The world was a rabid, lusty animal that existed to satisfy the powerful. There was only one choice: you could either be the executioner or be the victim. He was driven to stain innocence, ruin beauty, and pollute purity, but when it was all over, a feeling of emptiness and an inexplicable anxiety cloaked him; sometimes he even felt guilty. He was forced to seek refuge, disappearing into this dominion, which was rough, dirty, and insidious, the same as him.

  He headed toward the front door with the afternoon sun on his back, his purple silhouette getting bigger on the wooden boards, drunk not so much on alcohol as frustration at finding himself forced to wait on the bastards who were coming tomorrow. At least they’d be bringing his money. He had forgotten his earlier fears. He knew he’d be safe: they needed him and would give him back his fee. They must have earned it doing business even more horrible than his own. Then he’d be able to spend the money on whatever lordly whim came to him in his lewd magnificence. The Beast would use it to punish several bitches. He wouldn’t kill them: it would be consensual, or so they’d think when it began. Not by the time it was over. And then he’d pay what they’d agreed on so as to further shame them. The Beast was still brimming over with resentment after the slights he’d suffered, and he wouldn’t stop until he’d worked it out by unleashing his rage on defenseless creatures.

  When he opened the door, he didn’t notice the grooves in the lock. There was no reason to suspect that he had been spied on, analyzed, and dissected. But when he set foot inside, he instinctively sensed that something was wrong. Nothing had changed, but he knew. He could smell it. He listened hard and quietly walked to the kitchen, looking for the gun he kept taped to the bottom of a drawer. But what he found surprised him even more. A miserable old man waiting for him next to the sink, drinking coffee that he had clearly taken from the Beast’s own cupboard.

  The old man nodded curtly, holding up the mug. “Do you mind?”

  In that moment, the Beast swore that he would kill him. He was going to grab this spindly little son of a bitch and end him in a way that . . . but the greeting was just a distraction from the other hand, which was carrying a Taser. The electric shock hit him before he could react, immobilizing him and knocking him to the ground. The Beast collapsed in a heap but remained conscious, angry but nullified, swearing that . . . the second shock, jarringly painful, wiped his mind blank. A second later he passed out.

  When they were together, Ethan tried to give Andrés a credible reason for them not to see each other anymore. The honest Christian’s humble nature accepted what Ethan had to say without complaint. Ever since Jonathan’s death and its even more tragic consequences, Andrés hadn’t argued or asked any questions. He was willing to do whatever his two partners told him, always ready to be useful and fulfill his self-imposed penitence. So he waited patiently while Ethan tangled himself up in a confused web of reason and delusion. Eventually Andrés had the chance to change the topic.

  “Don Ethan, I wanted to talk to you truthfully about my friend Oliver Suarez.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve heard his first name. That’s Suarez for you. Don’t worry; there’s no need to explain.”

  “I know that sometimes he can be an enigmatic so-and-so, but I think you need to know—”

  “I said don’t worry about it. I have no more doubts about him. I trust him as much as you do.”

  “You need to know who he is. Forgive me if I’m being naive. I respect what you say; you’re always right. But you need to know him and understand, especially now that you’re leaving. I’m going to try and find him now before he leaves—God willing I won’t be too late and he won’t have left yet. Oliver can’t go chasing an evil man who takes little girls. Oliver mustn’t.”

  Ethan listened to this veiled criticism expectantly.

  “Fine, go on.”

  The Beast woke up tied to a chair, gagged, his mouth covered in duct tape. He tried to flex his muscles and found that he was completely immobilized. Not much time must have passed: if this nobody was working alone, he must have worked quickly. His hands were down by his butt, touching something metal. They were cuffed, but when he tried to move them to consider ways to escape, he felt a tug on his ankles: his feet had been tucked under the chair and tied t
o his wrists, making any movement absolutely impossible. Someone must have helped the old cripple. He felt an acute pain in his little fingers, which had been tied up tightly enough to cut off the circulation. He realized that they were swollen—they must already have turned purplish—and began to worry about just who it was that had caught him like this. Who had sent the old bastard? He thought it might be a cruel joke, some sadistic humor before he was eliminated. His fears grew through him like vines. He listed the different gangs who might be candidates: the PCC in Brazil, also the Urabeños, the Paisas, or the Rastrojos, but none of them had any grudges against him. He’d completed all his jobs satisfactorily, and none of his clients had complained. The vines spread to his lungs, and he started to have trouble breathing. Then there were the European clients. He was under their protection; everyone knew that. But after the last drop-off, they were the only ones to have complained. If they wanted to punish him, there was nothing to be done. They had told him to wait, and he, like the moron he was, had waited for them like a lamb for slaughter instead of disappearing with the money. It all fit perfectly; it was so fucking obvious. They’d lied to him about when they’d come, and then they’d arrived twenty-four hours early. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. There was no negotiating with them, no way out. They were the worst of the worst. Oh my God, he begged to himself, let me talk to them—let me explain. It was unfair, so fucking unfair, after he’d been so faithful to them for so many years. Just because of a little oversight. He heard a noise in the next room, and his throat constricted even more. Oh my God, my God, just once, please, listen to me this once . . . Then he stopped kidding himself. At least let it be quick . . . the TV. It was the TV. He tried to listen. Someone was changing the channel. Maybe he was wrong. They wouldn’t do this. His alveoli relaxed and expanded; his airways cleared. He took a deep breath. If it wasn’t them—he breathed out—then who? No organized gang would dare with the protection he had. He tried to picture the guy who’d attacked him. What kind of a joke was this? He laughed at his earlier fears. The old man had taken him by surprise; otherwise he’d have just smashed his face in. He’d have skinned his soul. No one in their right mind would send a flea-bitten wretch to get rid of the Beast, especially not the Europeans. Those people had no sense of humor. Of course it wasn’t an organized group—what was he thinking? This was obviously somebody working on their own or thieves, but thieves would have killed him or taken whatever was there and left him tied up. No one would have tied him up like this unless they were idiots who’d seen too many films and thought that he had hidden treasure. Considering the state of the truck and house, only a crazy man would suspect he was rich. Plus, whoever had tied him up, as he found every time he tried to get free, knew what they were doing. Now it all made sense. It was obvious. A professional. He went back to his earlier supposition: the guy had to be working independently, but he still didn’t understand why. Finally, a few minutes later, the television was turned off, and he heard someone walk slowly out of the house. There were no other sounds. The Beast appeared to be alone. The same slow footsteps came back to the screen door and up the three steps. The wood creaked as he approached. The Beast didn’t turn his head, but when his captor arrived, the Beast studied him surreptitiously. His surprise and relief grew: it was the same spindly, defenseless old man. He looked like a farmer with that moustache. But he was still suspicious. This walking skeleton couldn’t be working alone. The man seemed pleased to see him awake.