Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (60 page)

“I don’t know.  I guess so.  I’ve been to San Diego, but it was a few years ago. I didn’t see that part, if that’s where it was.”

“It looked beautiful, in the ad.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what everybody says.  Listen…what’s your name? I’m sorry, if you told me before, I…”

“Ranya Bardiwell.”

“Well Ranya Bardiwell, honest to God, I’ve got to use the bathroom. Would you mind untying me? I’m not going to run away.  You didn’t have to tie me up.”

She looked doubtful, but at least she was not waving her .45 around any more.  She asked, “You’re not going to do anything crazy?”

“I swear, I’ve just got to use the bathroom.  No, I’m not going to do anything crazy.”

“How do I know that? Why should I trust you?”

“Listen, Ranya, at some point you’ve got to.  You can’t keep me tied up, and you can’t keep a gun on me all the way out to San Diego.  That’s just not going to work.  You have to let me go.  You have to trust me.”

“You say that now, but how do I know you won’t jump me the second my back is turned?”

He could understand her worry, it was completely reasonable, given the circumstances.  “I don’t know how to answer that.  I guess it’s just that I care about Brian too. You should be able to understand that.”

“Were you really about to shoot yourself, when I came in?”

“I…I don’t know.  I was watching my video, and drinking, drinking a lot.  I hadn’t planned it ahead of time or anything.”  Those minutes spent with the muzzle of his Sig pressed against his heart had been the absolute nadir of his life.  They were the rock bottom of his well of sorrow. And at the end of those final moments…in walks this woman, saying that she’s Brian’s real mother.  This was not mere happenstance.  Not a coincidence. Even in his residually boozy state, he recognized that Higher Powers were somehow at work.  They had to be—there could be no other explanation for her astonishing appearance.  However, in his present muddled condition, he could not even begin to explain himself, his feelings, or his near self-destruction.

She wasn’t satisfied, she wouldn’t let go of the suicide question. “But you’re okay now, you’re not even thinking about it? For sure?”

“For sure.”  This was true.  In fact, Alex Garabanda felt that he
had
died, in a way.  The barrel tip pressed against his sternum had been a fulcrum, around which his entire life had pivoted: before, and after. Wasting the gift of this fresh new life was now the last thing on his mind.

She stood up from the kitchen chair and pulled a vicious-looking folding knife out of her right front jeans pocket.  She flicked it open one-handed with a steely snap, and approached him, looking him in the face all the while.  Her eyes were a uniquely luminescent shade, between hazel and green.  The silver blade was leveled a yard from his throat, but he felt perfectly calm.  His new life was literally in the hands of his deliverer.  He recognized this as the exact moment of surrender to trust, for both of them.

She brought the knife down and skimmed the blade along the wooden armrest, under his up-stretched right palm, slicing through the restraints. Then she stepped back and said, “You do the rest.”  Her pistol—a .45 caliber model 1911 he could now plainly see—was jammed into her jeans under a wide leather belt.  The hammer was back, cocked and locked, in “condition one.”  It was evident that she knew her way around guns.  His own Sig-Sauer was nowhere in sight.

Alex tugged at the knotted cord tying down his left hand, and then leaned forward and loosened the bindings around his ankles.  He recognized his backyard clothesline but felt it unworthy of comment.

She said, “I must be an idiot to just let you go like this.  If you’re lying, if you turn around and try to pull something, I swear I’ll kill you.”

He raised himself unsteadily, pushing off from both armrests.  She backed away from him, keeping a safe distance, while he lurched across the living room and down the hall to the bathroom, pushing against the walls for balance.  He noticed his framed family pictures were gone.  He said aloud, “Listen, what you saw today when you walked in…that wasn’t really me.  That’s not how I am.  I’m not a quitter, no matter what you think.  It’s just…the things that have happened, the pressure…”

“Pressure? Oh, please, don’t you dare talk to me about pressure!”

He turned around in the hallway to face her, holding onto the bathroom door frame.  “Okay, fair enough.  But I’m not a quitter.  And I don’t believe it’s just an accident, you showing up when you did.  Think about it! How can that just be an accident? Think about everything that happened to bring you here, to bring me here—how can that just be a coincidence? So what I want to say, to tell you, is…well…I’ll help you. I’ll help you to get Brian away from them.  I’ll go all the way, no matter what it takes.”

He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

She called after him, “Okay, all right.  But don’t get any ideas!  Just remember, he’s
my
son, not yours!”

***

Ranya found an open jar
of instant iced tea in a kitchen cabinet, and stirred up a pitcher with water from the sink and ice cubes from plastic trays left in the freezer. The house was more than half-empty, but some essentials had been left behind, including some kitchenware.  She wondered if this was due to a sense of fairness on his ex-wife’s part, or because she had been unable to move it all.  She concluded that Karin just didn’t want the stuff, that it wasn’t worth packing.

When Garabanda returned a few minutes later, he brought a child’s portable radio with him.  He switched it to a rock station and set it on the counter by the stove.  “It was Brian’s,” he explained.  “I gave it to him for Christmas.  I don’t think he listened to it.”  Then he shot Ranya a conspiratorial wink and pointed to his ear, and she nodded her understanding. If anyone was listening to them, there was no reason to make their job easy. Next he walked back into the living room and switched the TV on to a news channel, doubling the crosscurrents of background noise.

“I made iced tea.  It’s in the fridge if you want some.”

“Thanks.”  He poured himself a glass and sat down at the kitchen table across from her.  They both sipped their drinks while coolly regarding one another.

She asked him, “So if you’re coming with me to California, what about your job? Can you just take off? Won’t you be AWOL?  Can you take emergency leave or something?”

“I don’t need to,” he answered.  “I already have next week off.  I’m supposed to be attending a diversity workshop in Santa Fe.  The PC Nazis want me to get over my ‘homophobia.’  I’m supposed to fix my attitude and get my head right…but I think it’s probably too late for that.”  He smiled bemusedly.  “You remember that circus freak with the tattoos?”

“The IRS agent.  Karin’s…ah…”

“Karin’s ‘special friend,’ Gretchen Bosch.  Here’s what happened: we were at the Memorial Day picnic, the annual federal law enforcement picnic.  I’d had a couple of beers, and I wanted to talk to Karin.  She came to the picnic with Gretchen, but I approached her when she was alone. Gretchen was off playing softball with the coed IRS team, so I thought I could speak to Karin privately.  I’d been out of the house a couple of months by then.”  He sipped his iced tea, and continued.

“I guess Gretchen didn’t appreciate my sneaking around her girlfriend.  I mean, I’m only the ex-husband, right? So she nailed me with an aluminum bat.  Gave it to me in the back, from behind—I never saw it coming.  More of a hard jab than a full swing, or so I’m told. Otherwise… Well, anyway, after I got up, I guess I kind of forgot I was dealing with a ‘lady,’ and I ended up taking her down and choking her out…which wasn’t easy, let me tell you. Gretchen’s a steroid queen.” He shook his head at the memory.  “It was an ugly scene, two federal officers brawling at the annual picnic.  Not exactly what you’d call ‘career enhancing.’  I ended up losing weekend custody of Brian for assaulting a federal agent.”

“But she hit you first!”

“Yeah, that’s what you might think.  But once the dust settles, it always comes back to ‘angry white man beats defenseless woman.’  Throw in the ‘homophobic hate crime’ angle and you’re doubly screwed.  That fight at the picnic, and then losing weekend custody…well that was the low point of my entire life.  At least until today, when Karin told me she was taking off for San Diego with Brian. I never thought there’d be any good coming out of that picnic fight, but I suppose every dark cloud hides a little silver, right? And here it is: I already have next week off for diversity training, so I won’t be missed at the Field Office.”

“But what about after that? What if it takes longer than a week?”

“Well, what if it does?” he said, brightening. “Ranya, I don’t care anymore.  Don’t you see?  After where I was a couple of hours ago, after that—the FBI just doesn’t seem very important.  I can do anything now!  If finding Brian takes longer than a week, I don’t care.  I’ll take my chances.”

“But what about your job, your paycheck? Don’t you have a pension coming?”

“Ah, what the hell…  I’ll have to send most of it to the bank anyway, just so I can stay in this empty house. And by the time I can retire, they’ll probably switch the money again.  They’ll probably pay us with ration coupons or raffle tickets or something, so who cares?”

“Really?”

***

“Yes, really.”
  Alex Garabanda knew that he wouldn’t be the first career Special Agent to bolt from the FBI and give up his pension, not by a long shot.  Luis Carvahal had been right: he had been shoveling coal in the Titanic’s engine room.  And for what?

“Okay, fine.  So tell me how we’re going to get to San Diego.”

“How?  Well, the best way is to fly there.”

“Flying? Are you crazy?  I can’t walk into an airport—I’d be spotted in a minute!  I’m a fugitive from everybody—the feds, the Milicia, the Falcons, everybody!”

“Not that kind of flying, not the commercial jets.  I’m talking about small planes, like when you flew into New Mexico.  Small planes are the best way to go.  ‘General aviation.’  I know people—I can swing it.”

“What, are you a pilot?”

“Me? No. Not officially, I’m not licensed or anything.  I’ve spent a lot of hours up in light planes, but I’m not a pilot.  It’s been a part of my job for years.  I’ve got plenty of stick time, unofficially—but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to fly.  I’ll get somebody else to do that.  It won’t be cheap though, and aviation gas…well, if you think gasoline is scarce, just try to find aviation gas!”

“But it can be done?”

“Sure, it can be done, but money’s going to be a problem.  I can only take $4,000 cash a month out of the bank.  $4,000 more if I ‘invest’ another $4,000 in government bonds.  That’s the law.  Even $8,000 won’t be enough to get a plane and a pilot, not even if I call in some favors, and get a friend to help us out.  Otherwise, we’ll have to drive through, and just take our chances at the checkpoints.  At least I can buy gas on the military bases.  If you’re just a civilian going by yourself, then it’s a hell of a gamble to try to drive through. It’s easy to get stranded in the desert if you can’t find gas, and then what?  A woman alone…”

“What would it cost for somebody to fly us straight to San Diego?”

“Straight through?  It’d cost a lot, that’s for sure—but it’s still the best way.  No checkpoints, no roadblocks.”

  “How much?”

“How much? Well…I’m just guessing…probably a least a hundred thousand.  Maybe a lot more.”

“Blue bucks?”

“Yeah, blue bucks.  ‘New Dollars.’ That’s all there is now.  For the plane, the fuel, the pilot…everything.  That is, if I can even find somebody that’ll do it for blue bucks.  You can’t just walk into a bank with a stack of cash anymore, if you can’t prove where you got it.  You know the deal, the war on drugs, the war on terror…the banks have all kinds of reporting requirements.  And on the other side of the coin, nobody wants to be left with a pile of Monopoly money, if they pull another switcheroo.  That’s what happened when they went from greenbacks to blue bucks.  People who had lots of cash lying around couldn’t convert it.  Mafia, dope dealers, crooks—they lost out big time.  Honest people too, people who just didn’t trust the banks, and kept their dough under the mattress.  They wound up with green Monopoly money.  Wiped out.”

“So how can anybody come up with a hundred thousand blue bucks, if you can only take out $8,000 a month?”

“Well, you’ve just put your finger on the problem: it’s damn hard to operate outside of the system.  And now Uncle Sam wants everybody to use digital money.  You know, electronic transfers, credit cards…”

“So that Big Brother can see what you’re doing.”

“You’ve got it.  But I have a friend who used to fly for the Border Patrol.  He might take us as a favor, at least part way…”  Alex poured himself another glass of iced tea from the pitcher, and took a long drink. “And he needs the money.”

Ranya asked, “What about gold.  Would gold work any better?”

“Gold? You mean, like gold coins?”

“Right.  Krugerrands, Maple Leafs—that kind of gold.”

His eyes lit up.  “Oh, hell yeah!  You can buy a whole damn airplane with enough Krugerrands.  You’ve got some?”

***

She hesitated, scanning his face.
  “Well…yes.  As a matter of fact I do. You fell asleep before I got to that part of my story.  I took the Comandante’s gold when I split from his house last night.  I stole his stolen gold from him, when I escaped from his compound.  He had it in his safe.”

“You’re a safecracker too?”

“No…he sort of left it open,” she lied.

“He left his safe open?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“I’ll bet.  So how much gold did you take?”

“I haven’t counted it yet. A lot.”  She paused again, considering what to tell him, and decided to lowball her answer.  “Maybe fifteen pounds.”

“Fifteen pounds of gold? Seriously?”