“What kind of package?”
“A bathing suit,” the man says, laughing. “A very, very skimpy bathing suit. Once you have that on, you will walk with your…guest, to a small park with four concrete benches. Stand by the closest bench. I will be there in exactly thirty minutes. If you’re not there…well, let’s not consider that, shall we?”
My breathing starts to quicken.
“All right,” I say. “Six p.m. I’ll be there. And you’ll be there with Tom and Denise. If I don’t see Tom and Denise, I will—”
“I know, I know, you will kill the man that you have,” he says. “Aren’t you ashamed of saying these threats out loud, so he can hear them?”
“No,” I say, and I disconnect the call.
CHAPTER 80
TOM’S EYES are swollen and filled with tears, and he wipes at them, not caring if his captor is seeing this embarrassing display. Pelayo is smiling widely.
“Everything is coming together,” he says. “See? Save for some disruption to your life, and an unfortunately burnt arm that is entirely your fault, in just a little while, your family will be reunited.” Pelayo reaches over, rubs Denise’s head, and Tom feels a sharp bile of anger rise up in him.
“Don’t touch my girl,” he says.
Pelayo lifts his hand. “I understand. Come, we need to get ready.”
Tom takes Denise’s hand and starts walking down the balcony, to the open sliding door leading back inside. Pelayo says, “Tom, are you all right? You seem to be limping some.”
“Leg cramp,” Tom says. “Lying down all day and night will do that to you.”
“Oh, I see,” Pelayo says, and they are ushered into a wide suite, Tom holding Denise’s hand, walking carefully with a limp so the cutting tool hidden in his right sock doesn’t fall out.
Rosaria Vasquez swears and bursts into tears. This is too much, just way too much. Her last phone call came from her boss ten minutes ago, sending her to a small town named Beachside, and then there was a thump, the right rear of her rental Buick shuddered to the side, and here she is now, with a flat tire and a damn jack that just won’t work.
Again she moves the thin handle, and again it slips out, skinning her knuckles. She throws the handle into the dirt, turns and slumps back against the car, draws up her knees, and runs her hands through her now very short hair. She’s parked just off US 98, and she hates this stretch of road, hates the state of Florida, and pretty much hates everything. The land is flat, bleached, with trees and brush that look fake.
Traffic roars by, and the occasional tractor-trailer truck buffets her car, rocking against her back.
“Hello?”
Rosaria wipes at her eyes, stands up. Behind her disabled Buick is a dented and rusting blue Audi sedan, and an older Vietnamese woman is looking at her with concern.
“Hi,” Rosaria says. “Thanks for stopping, but I think if I—”
The woman, wearing baggy black slacks and a floral blouse down to her thick hips, turns and yells back at the parked sedan. The rear door flies open and two young Vietnamese men and a woman bail out and come to her. Another older male is dozing in the front seat.
The woman points and yells at the three young people, and the two men get right to work, slipping the jack handle in, while the young woman—a sister?—wrestles the spare tire closer to the car.
“Um, hey, I mean—”
The Vietnamese woman shakes her head. “We’ll be done soon. You see.”
And by God, that’s exactly what happens. The two young men manage to get the jack working, get the rear end of the Buick up, while their mother and sister offer advice, criticism, and tips in fast bursts of Vietnamese, and soon enough, the flat tire is tossed into the trunk, the car is lowered down, the jack and handle are put away, and after a round of handshakes, the two young men and woman get back into the car.
Rosaria tries to get to her bag, to offer something to the family, but the woman violently shakes her head.
“No, no,” she says. “We’re good now. Honest. Go with God, my sister.”
Rosaria bows to her. “You, too. Go with God.”
And as they leave, horn honking, everyone waving save for the older man still sleeping in the front, Rosaria knows that no matter what happens in the next hour, she will never, ever forget this family and what they did for her.
I check my watch after I leave the Yucatan beachwear store, feeling about as conspicuous as an elephant in a child’s wading pool. There was a bathing suit waiting for me, and I’m so self-conscious walking out in public with such a skimpy article of clothing that I’m sure my ears and face are burning. My jiggling butt cheeks are hanging out, my boobs—not impressive but a reasonable size—are oozing out of the sides of the small top, and I hate to look down, seeing my flabby and pale white tummy overhanging the tiny triangle of cloth that is rubbing and tearing at me something fierce.
My watch says I have fifteen minutes before the exchange, and I know why my nameless tormentor has ordered to me to dress this way: he wants to make sure I’m not concealing a weapon, and by God, this jet-black suit is so skimpy I don’t think I could hide a nail file.
Archie is right next to me, the placid yet mournful look still on his face. The dressing rooms back there had doors of wooden slats so I could keep watch on him while I changed, but he’s been a very good victim.
I only wish I could be a better person.
We walk along the side of the wide parking lot, heading to the place where the concrete benches are placed, and I slip my arm into his for a few feet. I stare ahead and say, “I’m…I’m sorry for what’s going to happen. But I have to do this to save my family. I hope you can forgive me.”
Then a man’s voice quietly says, “You should not trust that man, not at all.”
And I come to a halt.
The voice is from Archie.
CHAPTER 81
IN THE basement garage of his new hotel, Pelayo Abboud approaches the black GMC Yukon with his associate Casper keeping pace with him. Tom Cornwall is being helped into the rear of the Yukon, sitting next to the young girl who is on the far side, wearing black tights and an oversized Epcot sweatshirt, Tigger doll in her lap.
Casper says, “The old man and the Army captain, they have left the Yucatan.”
“Good,” Pelayo says. “Then it will be finished in just a few more minutes.”
Casper holds the rear door open, and as another vehicle starts up in the distance, Pelayo cheerfully climbs in and sits next to Tom.
I grab the old man’s wrist and pull him closer to a little island of grass and low brush, drag him in for cover, and I say, “You tell me what you know. Now.”
Archie sighs. “His name is Pelayo Abboud. He is a killer, a criminal, a very, very bad man who will one day burn in eternity for his sins.”
My hand is still on Archie’s wrist. “Go on. That’s not really a news flash.”
He looks out at the warm and wide waters of the Gulf of Mexico, acting almost like a child seeing the ocean for the very first time. “Pelayo is the head of a Mexican cartel, the Veracruz.”