Authors: Michael Robotham
Usually they stayed at roadside motels and or in campground cabins. Sometimes Miguel slept between them and on other nights they had a second bed. Belita woke one morning and slapped Audie in the face.
‘What was that for?’
‘I dreamed you’d gone,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I dreamed I woke up and you’d gone.’
He put his arms around her and rested his head against her stomach, smelling the clean cotton of her nightdress. She crossed her arms and lifted the dress, revealing herself. Then she put his hand where it would do most good and they made love slowly. When the moment came, Belita clung to him as though he could stop her falling.
‘Will you always love me?’ she asked.
‘Always.’
‘Don’t I make a good wife?’
‘The very best.’
On the fifth day they crossed the state line into Texas. The sky stretched ahead with pale trails, jets so high they couldn’t be seen. Miguel had grown more talkative, laughing at Audie’s jokes and riding high on his shoulders. At night he wanted Audie to read him bedtime stories.
Belita didn’t mind. She watched over both of them, never fully relaxing, always checking the security chain was latched on the door. Only in sleep did she unwind, breathing so faintly that Audie took her pulse by pressing his fingers gently against her neck, so he could feel the blood circulating beneath her skin with the fluidity of a song.
Up until then, Audie didn’t believe it possible that someone could die of love. He thought it was a fate invented by poets and writers like John Donne and Shakespeare, but now he understood what they meant by such suffering and wouldn’t have swapped the delights of it for anything in the world.
Outside the wind has grown stronger, rattling the windows. Lightning flashes and almost instantaneously thunder splits the air. Max sits bolt upright and flings himself out of bed, crashing into the wardrobe door. Audie catches him as he bounces off, lifting him in a clumsy clean-and-jerk. Hugging him. Holding him off the ground because his feet are still twirling in a running motion, the tambourine jangling between his knees.
Max is coughing and gulping at the air, as though trying to bite off chunks and swallow it more quickly.
‘Are you OK?’
He can’t answer.
Audie eases the boy down onto the bed. His face is pale and sweaty, his chest tight, his lips tinged with blue.
‘Where’s your asthma pump?’
He grabs at Max’s schoolbag and searches the pockets. The teenager has started to wheeze.
‘Just try to relax. Breathe slowly,’ says Audie.
He tips up the bag and shakes it, emptying the contents. The asthma inhaler bounces on the floorboards. Audie scrambles on his hands and knees. He shakes it hard and forces the nozzle between Max’s lips and teeth. The boy doesn’t react.
‘C’mon, take it.’
Max turns his face away.
‘Don’t do this to me,’ says Audie.
He grips the boy’s head, putting the inhaler between his lips, pressing the nozzle. He waits for Max to inhale and then pinches his nose, forcing him to hold his breath.
Eventually, he lets him breathe normally. Max relaxes. His chest loosens. His eyes are closed, his cheeks wet.
‘I want to go home.’
‘I know.’
Thunder rumbles above them. ‘I hate storms.’
‘You’ve been that way since you were little,’ says Audie.
‘How do you know?’
Audie sighs, frightened of going forward. Perhaps he has no choice. Max sits up against the headboard, breathing normally now.
‘You knew I was asthmatic.’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Closing his eyes, Audie can still picture the place: a roadside motel outside of Thoreau in New Mexico – one of those one-story breeze-block complexes built so you could park out front of your room. The parking lot was packed with long-distance rigs, 4WD pickups, RVs and campers. The receptionist buzzed and fussed like she was battery-powered and freshly charged, even at midnight.
‘Get that little ’un to bed,’ she said. ‘Breakfast is served until ten. We got a swimming pool, but it could be a mite chilly until noon.’
Audie carried Miguel to the room and put him into the smaller of the beds. He marvelled at how fragile the child seemed, how perfectly formed. The room was less than twenty yards from the highway and every set of headlights slid across the walls and every passing truck rattled the light fittings and sounded ready to come crashing through the front wall.
Despite the noise, they slept. Each new day took them further away from California, but neither could shake the feeling that Urban Covic was searching for them.
At some point Audie woke to the sound of a half-scream. Miguel was twitching in the midst of a nightmare, his chest heaving and compressing like he was fighting for every breath. Belita took an asthma inhaler from her bag and put a mask over Miguel’s mouth and nose, holding it there until she knew the medication had reached deep into his lungs. Then she rocked him on her breasts, cooing while he sobbed against her neck until he fell asleep, curled in a ball, his face polished by the passing trucks.
‘You have to promise me something,’ she said afterwards, as she rested her head on Audie’s chest.
‘Anything.’
‘I don’t want
anything
– I want
something
.’
‘OK.’
‘Promise me that you’ll look after Miguel.’
‘I’m going to look after you both.’
‘But if something happens to me—’
‘Nothing is going to happen to you. Don’t be so gloomy.’
‘What is gloomy?’
Audie tried to explain, but couldn’t think of a word in Spanish.
Belita told him to be quiet. ‘Promise me on fear of death … on your mother’s life … as God is your witness … Promise me that if something happens to me, you will look after Miguel.’
‘I don’t believe in God,’ Audie joked.
She pinched his bottom lip until it bruised. ‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
The wind rises in furious gusts, making the walls groan. Max is sitting against the headboard, waiting for Audie to answer his questions, but Audie has lapsed into silence, eyes closed, twitching at some memory. The teenager almost feels sorry for him but can’t explain why. It’s like he’s broken. No, he’s trapped. He’s like a rabbit caught in a snare, thumping at the ground with its legs, fighting against the wire even as it pulls tighter.
‘What day is your birthday?’ asks Audie.
‘February 7.’
‘What year?’
‘2000.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘Texas.’
‘What’s the first thing you remember?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your earliest memory.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you always lived in the same house?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you ever been to California?’
‘No.’
Audie rolls off the bed and retrieves his backpack. Tucked inside one of the many pockets is a photograph of a woman standing beneath an arch of flowers, holding a small bouquet. Just visible, peeking out from behind the folds of her dress, a young boy smiles shyly at the camera.
Audie hands it to Max. ‘Do you know who that is?’
The boy studies the image and shakes his head.
‘That’s my wife.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘I don’t know.’
Audie takes the photograph from him, holding it gently between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes are glistening. He puts the photograph away and goes back to his sleeping spot on the floor.
‘You were going to tell me how you knew me,’ says Max.
‘It can wait till tomorrow.’
49
Valdez takes his car keys and leaves the house, ignoring the huddle of reporters who have gathered at the end of his driveway. He heads west toward Magnolia, still smarting over an argument with Sandy. That woman has a sharp tongue and suspicious mind. One minute she’s blaming herself and the next she’s blaming him.
Things were less complicated when he was single. Back then he only had to worry about himself. Now he feels like there’s a chain around his neck and no matter how high he flies he will always be dragged back to earth by a casual tug of her wrist.
Victor Pilkington lives in a mansion overlooking Old Mill Lake. It’s a southern gothic-style structure with wrap-around verandas on both floors, painted to make it look like a wedding cake. The old-world façade camouflages a state-of-the-art house with a poolroom, a private cinema and a gun safe that can be turned into a panic room or a bomb shelter.
A black woman answers the door. She has kept house for the Pilkingtons for twenty years, but rarely speaks unless spoken to first. Some domestics try to ingratiate themselves with a family, but this one drifts through the house like a ghost who doesn’t know what else to do.
She takes Valdez into the living room. Moments later, double doors open and his Aunt Mina swishes into the room wearing a long nightgown. She’s his mother’s older sister, mid-forties, sculptured but softening at the edges. She throws her arms around him and sobs.
‘I’m so sorry – I heard the news. It’s shocking, just plain shocking.’ She doesn’t want to let him go. ‘How’s Sandy? Is she holding up? I was going to call her, but one doesn’t know what to say.’ She runs her hands from his shoulders down his forearms. ‘Max is such a beautiful boy. I’m sure it’s going to be fine. The police are going to find him. They’re going to catch that terrible man.’
Valdez has to force his way out of her grip.
‘Where Victor?’
‘In his office.’ She glances at the stairs. ‘Neither of us could sleep. Go on up.’
Pilkington is watching a fight on pay TV. He leans forward in a big leather armchair, dipping his shoulders as though throwing punches. ‘Come on, hit him, you pussy!’ He waves at Valdez to take a seat, not looking away from the screen. Then he adds, ‘Take a deep breath, Ryan. Don’t come in here angry.’
‘What in
fuck’s
name are we going to do?’
Pilkington ignores him. ‘You know the problem with boxers today? They’re not willing to come forward and get hurt. Take this kid – he’s Puerto Rican. He wins this fight and he could get a crack at Pacquiao, but the only way he’s going to last two rounds against Manny is if he gets in close and takes some hurt.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘I heard you.’
Pilkington gets up. Stretches. Pours a coffee from a glass pot. Doesn’t offer. Although only fifteen years separate them, Pilkington is Valdez’s uncle on his mother’s side. Age hasn’t diminished the older man physicality.
‘How is that gorgeous wife of yours?’ he asks.
‘Christ! Are you listening to me?’
‘Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.’
‘Our son is missing and you’re acting like nothing is wrong.’
Pilkington ignores the statement. ‘You married a keeper there. Do you know how I know?’
Valdez doesn’t answer.
‘Her smell.’ Pilkington drops a lump of sugar in his coffee. Stirs. ‘Human beings aren’t so different to dogs. The first thing that comes to us is a sense of smell. It’s a primary instinct. Immediate. Powerful. Understand?’
No
, thinks Valdez, who doesn’t understand. Pilkington could fuck a roast turkey for all he cares, so long as he keeps clear of Sandy … and helps find Max.
The fight has finished. The Puerto Rican kid lost. Pilkington turns off the TV and takes his coffee to the window where an antique telescope is aimed at the houses opposite.
‘This is your fault.’
‘What?’
‘Palmer. You should have neutralised this issue when you had the chance.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve tried! Half the scum in that prison took money to kill him.’
‘Your excuses count for shit, Ryan. What did you suppose was going to happen when Palmer got out? Did you think he was going to buy a sweater vest and take up golf?’
‘I don’t think you should lecture me.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t like being lectured.’
‘Is that right?’
‘What did you do in the war, uncle? How many shots did you fire?’
Pilkington picks up a paperweight of a grizzly bear, weighing it in his hands. Valdez is still talking, venting his anger, nose to nose with the older man.
‘I don’t like being lectured by someone who gets other people to do his dirty work and then complains about the stench.’
He opens his mouth to say something else, but doesn’t get the chance. Pilkington swings the paperweight underarm, sinking it into the younger man’s stomach, sending him to his knees. With surprising speed for a big man, he holds the bronze bear above Valdez’s head.
‘For a man with no cows you talk a lot of bullshit, Ryan. You’d be nothing without me. Your job and your fancy house and your property portfolio that nobody knows about – that was
my
doing. I got Frank put in charge, and he’s covering your ass, but I’m not going to waste any more of my political capital on you. You should have silenced Palmer when you had the chance.’
‘What am I supposed to do now?’ says Valdez, still struggling for breath.
‘Find him.’
‘On my own?’
‘No, Ryan, you have the combined resources of county, state and federal agencies. I think that should be enough. And when you find him, I’m going to make sure the job gets done properly.’
‘And my boy?’
‘You should hope he doesn’t get in the way.’
50
Desiree’s second-floor apartment is opposite Milroy Park in Houston Heights, down a narrow lane and up a flight of wooden stairs. According to her rental agent the floor space is a thousand square feet, but she doubts this every time she tries to rearrange the furniture.
As she climbs the wooden steps, she has a sudden feeling that there’s something she’s forgotten. She checks her handbag. Her keys. Her phone. Nothing amiss.
Reaching the landing, she notices the door slightly ajar. She stands very still, and wonders if her mother could have visited. She has a key but normally phones first. Surely she would have closed the door.
Who else has a key? Her landlord Mr Sackville could be making an inspection. He might be inside now, trying on her underwear.
Slipping her Glock semi-automatic from a holster, she contemplates calling it in, but she can’t be sure it’s not a false alarm. Imagine the laughter if she’s wrong. Senogles would never let her live it down.