Mortal Prey, Page 2

  “You can believe them?” she asked.

  “Perhaps. We continue to look. . . . There was a strange circumstance the day Paulo was killed.” He hesitated, as if puzzling over it, then continued. “Two men were killed at an airstrip not far from here. Shot to death. One was the airstrip manager and the other was an American. There was no indication that they were involved with Paulo’s assassination. With that strip, there is always the question of unauthorized landings”—he meant drug smuggling—“but still, it is a strange coincidence. The American was identified through fingerprints. He was not involved in trade, in”—he made a figure eight in the air with his fingers, meaning drugs— “but he served time in prison and was believed connected to American organized crime, to the Mafia. A minor person, he was not important. We are asking more questions of our police, and our police are talking with the Americans. We will find out more, sooner or later.”

  “When you find them,” Rinker said through her teeth, her cold eyes only inches from the old man’s, “when you find them, kill them.”

  His eyes held hers for a moment, doing an assessment of the woman he knew as Cassie McLain. They didn’t know each other well, but the old man knew that Paulo’s involvement with her was more than casual; knew she’d been pregnant with one of his own grandchildren, this tidy blond American with the perfect Spanish. After the moment, he nodded. “Something will be done,” he said.

  “This dead American at the airstrip,” she said, at the end of the audience. “Do you even know where he was from?”

  “That we know,” he said. He closed his eyes for a minute, parsing the information in his head. He smelled lightly of garlic, and had fuzzy ears, like a gentle Yoda. There was a legend that in his early years he’d had an informer hung upside down by his ankles, and had then lit a fire under his head. According to the legend, the informer stopped screaming only when his skull exploded. Now Mejia opened his eyes and said, “He lived in a town in Missouri, called Normandy Lake. A woman who lived there told the Missouri police that he’d gone to Cancún on vacation. She said she would come for the body, but she didn’t come. When the police went back to the house, she had gone. She’d packed all her personal belongings and had gone away.”

  “That’s crazy,” Rinker said, shaking her head. But her brain was moving now, cutting through the glue that had held her since the shooting, and she was touched by a cool tongue of fear. After a moment, she said, “I don’t want to go home. I’m a little frightened. If it would be all right, I would like to go to the ranch until I can walk. Then I think I will go back to the States.”

  “You are welcome to stay as long as you wish,” the old man said. He smiled at her. “You may stay forever, if you wish. The friend of my baby.”

  She smiled back. “Thank you, Papa, but Cancún . . .” She made the same figure eight in the air as he had. “Cancún is Paulo. I think it would be better to go away when I am well.”

  One of the old man’s bodyguards wheeled her back out to the BMW, and as the car pulled away, she looked at the driver’s shoulders and the back of his head and realized that she now knew more about what happened at Gino’s than the old man did.

  SHE KNEW THAT the bullet had been aimed not at Paulo, but at her.

  If the old man found out that his baby boy had been killed because of Rinker, and that Rinker had never told them of the danger—she hadn’t expected it, hadn’t believed it could happen—then maybe the old man’s anger would be directed at her.

  She shivered at the thought, but not too much, because Rinker was as cold as the old man. Instead of worrying, she began planning. She couldn’t do anything until she got her strength back, which might take some time. She’d benefited from the report put out by the Mejia family and the Mexican police that she’d been killed along with Paulo—at the time, they’d done it simply to protect her from a possible cleanup attempt if it turned out that she’d seen the shooter.

  The story would serve her well enough. The St. Louis goombahs didn’t have anything going in Mexico, as far as she knew, and the only information they would have gotten would have come from the newspapers.

  On the other hand, with the old man pushing his drug-world contacts, sooner or later the truth would come out. By that time, she had to have made her move.

  Before she talked to the old man, she hadn’t had anything to do; now she’d be busy. As Cassie McLain, she’d retired, and was living on her investments. As Clara Rinker, she had to move money, retrieve documents, talk to old acquaintances across the border.

  She had to be healthy to do it all.

  RINKER SPENT A MONTH at the old man’s ranch, living in a bedroom in the main house, with an armed watcher to follow her around. The middle brother, Dominic, visited every third day, arriving at noon as regular as clockwork, to bring her up to date on the family’s investigation.

  All the time at the ranch, she waited for her image of Paulo to fade. It never did. To the very end of her stay, she could smell him, she could taste the salt on his skin, she still expected to see him standing in the kitchen, listening to futbol on a cheap radio, his white grin and black tousled hair and his weekend bottle of American-style Corona . . .

  BY THE SECOND week on the ranch, bored but still weak, feeling more and more pressure to move while remaining determined not to move until she was solid, she began talking with her watcher. His name was Jaime, a short, hard man with a deeply burned face and brushy mustache. He was good-natured enough, and went everywhere with a pistol in his pocket and an M-16 in the back of his truck.

  Rinker said, “Show me about the M-16.”

  After a little talk, and perfunctory protests by Jaime, he hauled two chairs out to a nearby gully, set up a target range, and showed her how to fire the M-16. She did well with the weapon and he became interested—he was a gunman, deeply involved with the tools of his profession—and brought out other guns. A scoped, bolt-action Weatherby sporting rifle, a pump .22, a lever-action treinta-treinta, and a shotgun.

  They spent two or three hours a day shooting: stationary targets, bouncing tires, and, with the .22, they’d shoot at clay pigeons thrown straight away. The clays were almost impossible to hit—at the end, she might hit one or two out of ten, learning to time her shots to the top of the target’s arc.

  As they shot, Jaime talked about rifle bullets and loads, wind drift and heat mirages, uphill and downhill shooting, do-it-yourself accurizing. He liked working with her because she was serious about it, and attractive. An athlete, he thought, though she didn’t really work at it, like some gym queens he knew in Cancún—trim, smart, and pretty in a blond gringo way.

  And she knew about men. He might have put a hand on her, himself, if she hadn’t been in mourning, and mourning for the son of Raul Mejia. He remained always the professional.

  “There is no way that you can carry or keep a long gun for self-protection,” he told her. “With a handgun, you have it always by your hand, like the name says. With a rifle, which is very good if you have it in your hand, well, it will be in the bedroom and you will be in the kitchen when they come for you. Or you will be sitting in the latrine with your pants around your ankles and a Playboy in your hands—maybe not you, but me, anyway—and the rifle will be leaning against a tree, and that’s when they will come. So this gun”—he slapped the side of the M-16—“this gun is fine when you are shooting, but you must learn the handgun for self-protection.”

  She demurred. She wanted to learn the long guns, she said. Rifles and a shotgun. Not a double-barreled bird gun or anything cute, but a stubby, fat-barreled combat pump. She didn’t want to learn how to shoot any fuckin’ birds: give her a shotgun and a moving target five yards away . . .

  He shook his head and smiled good-naturedly and showed her the long guns, two weeks of first-class tuition, but he kept coming back to the handgun. “Just try it,” he’d say. “You are very natural with a gun. The best woman I have ever seen.”

  “Shooting’s not exactly rocket science,”
she’d said, but the phrase didn’t translate well into Spanish; didn’t come off with the irony of the English.

  IN HER SECOND two weeks on the ranch, she went a half-dozen times into town, to her apartment, and gathered what she needed in order to move. She also wiped the place: There’d be no fingerprints if anyone came looking for her. Then one Wednesday, after she’d been on the ranch for a month, Dominic came out and said, “We’ve got word about a man who some people say might have been the driver for the shooting. We don’t know where he is, but we know where his family is, so we should be able to find him. Then we might learn something.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “By the weekend, I hope,” Dominic said. “We have to know where this came from, so we can get back to business. And for Paulo, of course.”

  THAT WAS ON a Wednesday. She was still not one hundred percent, but she was good enough to run. She’d handled everything she could by phone, she had documents she could get to, she’d moved the money that had to be moved. She would leave on Thursday afternoon.

  She’d already worked it out: She had two doctor’s appointments each week, on Monday and Thursday. The driver always waited in the lobby of the clinic. When she came out of the doctor’s office, if she turned left instead of right, she would be at least momentarily free on the streets of Cancún, and not ten yards from a busy taxi stand.

  She should have half an hour before the driver became curious. If she got even two minutes, she’d be gone. She’d done it before.

  • • •

  RINKER AND JAIME went for one last shooting session on Thursday morning, with the shotgun. Jaime had six solid-rubber, fourteen-inch trailer tires that he could haul around in a John Deere utility wagon. They went out to the gully and Jaime rolled the tires, one at a time, down the rocky slope. The tires ricocheted wildly off the rocks, while Rinker tried to anticipate them with the twelve-gauge pump. When she hit them, at ten yards, she’d knock them flat, but on a good day, she struggled to hit half of them with the first shot. She learned that a shotgun, even at close range, wasn’t a sure thing.

  When she’d emptied the shotgun, they’d pick up the tires and Rinker would drive them to the top of the slope and roll them down while Jaime shot at them. Taking turns. He did no better than she did, though they both pretended that he did. On this day, she made what she thought later was almost a mistake.

  Jaime pulled the Beretta from his belt clip and said, “Just one time with the handgun, eh? Make me happy.”

  “Jaime . . .” With asperity.

  “No, no, no . . .” He wagged his finger at her. “I insist. We have time before the doctor, and this you should learn.”

  “Jaime, goddamnit . . .”

  He ignored her. A half-dozen empty Coke cans sat in the back of the John Deere, and he threw three of them down the gully. “You can do this. You will find it much harder than the rifle or the shotgun.”

  “Give me the gun, Jaime,” she said, making the almost-mistake.

  He stopped in midsentence, looked at her, and handed her the Beretta. She’d always liked that particular gun when she was shooting nines: It seemed to fit in her hand.

  And she liked Jaime and might have wanted to impress him a bit, on this, her last afternoon. She flipped the safety and pulled down on one of the cans and shot it six times in three seconds before it managed to flip its now-raggedy ass behind a rock.

  They stood in a hot, dusty, powder-smelling silence for several seconds, then Rinker slipped the safety on and passed the piece back to Jaime.

  Jaime looked at the gun, then at her, and said after a while, “I see.”

  He didn’t really. He’d probably find out soon enough.

  That afternoon, she ran.

  2

  LUCAS DAVENPORT PARKED IN THE street.

  A rusty Dumpster blocked his driveway, which had become a bog of black-and-tan mud anyway, so he parked in the street, climbed out of the Porsche, and looked up at the half-finished house. The place had been framed and closed, and the rock walls had been set, but raw plywood still showed through the second story and parts of the first, although most of it had been covered with a black weather-seal. The lawn between Lucas and the house was a wreck, the result of construction trucks maneuvering over it after an ill-timed summer rain.

  Two men in coveralls were sitting on the peak of the roof, drinking what Lucas hoped was Perrier water out of green bottles, and eating a pizza out of a flat white box. Given that they were roofers, and that when they saw him they eased the bottles down behind their legs and out of sight, he suspected that the bottles did not contain water. One of them waved with his free hand and the other lifted a slice of pizza, and Lucas waved back and started across the rutted lawn toward the front porch.

  He crossed the ruts and rain puddles gracefully enough. He was a large, athletic man in a dark blue suit and nontasseled black loafers, with a white dress shirt open at the throat. His face and neck contrasted with the easy elegance of the Italian suit—old scars marked him as a trouble-seeker, one scar in particular slicing down across an eyebrow onto the tanned cheek below. He had kindly ice-blue eyes and dark hair, old French-Canadian genes hanging on for dear life in the American ethnic Mixmaster.

  The house was his—or had been his, and would be again. Now it was a mess. An electrician stood on a stepladder on the new front porch working on overhead wiring. A couple of nail guns were banging away inside, sounding like cartoon spit balloons —pitoo, pitoo—and as he walked up to the porch, a table saw started whining. He could smell the sawdust, or imagined he could.

  Listening to all the commotion, he thought, All right. Two guys on the roof, an electrician on the porch, at least two nail guns inside and a table saw. That was a minimum of six guys, and if there were six guys working on the house, then he wouldn’t have to scream at the contractor. Seven or eight guys would have been better. Ten would have been perfect. But the house was only a week behind schedule now, so six was acceptable. Barely.

  As he climbed the porch steps, he noticed that somebody had pinned a four-by-four beam in the open ceiling, down at the far end. It would, someday soon, support an oak swing big enough for two adults and a kid. The electrician saw him coming, ducked his head to look down at him from the ladder, and said, “Hey, Lucas.”

  “Jim. How’s it going?”

  The electrician was screwing canary-yellow splicing nuts onto pairs of bared wires that would feed the porch light. “Okay, I’m getting close. But somebody’s got to put in that telephone and cable wiring or we’re gonna get hung up on the inspection. The inspector’s coming Tuesday, and if we have to reschedule, it could hold things up for a week and they won’t be able to close the overheads.”

  “I’ll talk to Jack about it,” Lucas said. “He was supposed to get that guy from Epp’s.”

  “I heard the guy fell off a stepladder and broke his foot—that’s what I heard,” the electrician said, pitching his voice down. “Don’t tell Jack I mentioned it.”

  “I won’t. I’ll get somebody out here,” Lucas said.

  Goddamnit. Now he was back in yelling mode again. Much of the problem of building a new house was in the sequencing—sequencing the construction steps and all the required inspections in a smooth flow. One screwup, of even a minor thing like phone and cable-television wiring, which should take no more than a day, could stall progress for a week, and they didn’t have a lot of time to spare.

  Besides which, living in Weather Karkinnen’s house was driving him crazy. He didn’t have any of his stuff. Everything was in storage. Weather had even lost her TV remote, and never noticed because she watched TV only when presidents were assassinated. For the past two months, he’d had to get up and down every time he wanted to change channels, and he wanted to change channels about forty times a minute. He’d taken to crouching next to the TV to push the channel button. Weather said he was pathetic, and he believed her.

  INSIDE THE SHELL of the new house, everything smelled of damp wood
and sawdust—smelled pretty good, he thought. Building new houses could become addictive. Everybody was working on the second story, and he made a quick tour of the bottom floor—four new boxes were piled on the back porch; toilet stools—and then took the central stairs to the second floor. One nail-gun guy and the table saw guy were working in the master bedroom, fitting in the tongue-in-groove maple ceiling. The other nail gunner was working in the main bathroom, fitting frames for what would be the linen closet. They all glanced at him, and the guy on the saw said, “Morning,” and went back to work.

  “Jack around?”

  The saw guy shook his head. “Naw. I been working. Harold’s been kinda jackin’ around, though.”

  “Rick . . .” No time for carpenter humor. “Is Jack around?”

  “He was down the basement, last time I saw him.”

  Lucas did a quick tour of the top floor, stopped to look out a bedroom window at the Mississippi—he was actually high enough to see the water, far down in the steep valley on the other side of the road—and then headed back downstairs. His cell phone rang when he was halfway down, and he pulled it out and poked the power button: “Yeah?”