Silent City (19 page)

Pete found himself in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by four tiny, standalone apartments, each with variations of the same lawn furniture set. The Waterford sign confirmed he was in the right spot. Pete noticed the lights were off in all but one. He gripped the wheel tightly for a second and let out a long breath. He opened the glove compartment and rummaged around before pulling out his father’s gun and looking it over. He kept the safety on.

Pete got out of the car. He began to walk the short distance between the car and the bungalow’s front door. The ground was wet from the rain, and the parking lot lights had yet to pop on. The air smelled smoky, Pete thought. He pulled the gun from behind his back and held it close to his left leg.

He wondered what Mike or Emily would say if they saw him now, toting a gun into an apartment with who knows what waiting for him.

He walked up to the door. Though the lights were on, Pete didn’t notice any movement or noise coming from inside the bungalow. Feeling awkward with the gun in his hand, he slid it back behind him and reached out to knock. Before Pete could make contact with the door, it wheezed open, slightly ajar. Pete pulled out his gun again and waited.

After a few moments, he pushed the door slightly. There were no signs of life or movement coming from inside.

“Fuck it,” Pete said. He pushed the door fully open and walked in. The bungalow was tiny. There was a lightly furnished living room and a door to another, secondary room that was closed. The living room had a small sofa and two chairs that looked, to Pete, like they once belonged to a dining set. Tied to one of the chairs with rope was a man. He was dead. Pete covered his mouth. There was a gaping, bloody hole where part of his face used to be. Pete fought the urge to vomit. He felt his own hands shaking.

Pete stepped gingerly toward the body. He had no sense of when the man had been murdered, but the kill had been messy. There was blood all over the floor and couch. From what little Pete knew about forensics, he could tell the murder weapon hadn’t been a run-of-the-mill handgun. Probably a shotgun. He looked up at the ceiling and noticed a hole —the result of another, errant shot. Pete looked at the man’s hair and what little remained of his face. He didn’t want to be right.

It was Javier. He was certain. He recognized the watch, too. The clincher.

He tried to look at the mangled face of his former friend from different angles, not to nauseate himself further, but to somehow prove himself wrong. But he couldn’t. It was him.

Then he heard the scream.

• • •

Kathy Bentley was dazed and unresponsive as Pete scrambled to remove the rope tying her to the tiny twin bed in the bungalow’s second room. She was splattered with blood, probably Javier’s, Pete thought as he raised her off the bed and into a sitting position. She was conscious, but barely. He had to hold her up.

“Kathy,” Pete said, shaking her slightly. “We have to get you out of here. Can you try to stand up for me?”

Kathy didn’t respond. Her eyes were at half-mast. Her hair matted with dirt and sweat.

Pete’s mind was whirring. It looked like Kathy had been in the room for a few days—there were small, empty cereal boxes, a few gallons of water, and a rifle resting near the westernmost wall, out of Kathy’s reach. A drawer set had been toppled over and emptied, along with a shoddy black nightstand. The floor was littered with papers and clothes. Contreras hadn’t been concerned with keeping the place tidy while he held Kathy.

“We have to get the fuck out of here,” Pete said, as much to himself as to Kathy. “If Contreras just did this, my guess is he left for only a short time. No way he’d leave it like this. Can you walk?”

“The couch…” Kathy mumbled.

Pete looked at her in surprise.

It was the first thing she’d said since screaming.

“We’re leaving now,” Pete said. “I’m taking you home.”

“Baginthecouchgetit,” she slurred.

Pete tried to carry her out of the room. He managed to drag her into the living room and tried, unsuccessfully, to prevent her from seeing Javier’s mutilated body. Pete heard her sob softly. He glanced back at his former friend as they inched toward the door, and felt a crushing sense of failure. As much as this disaster was about finding Kathy, it was also about reconnecting in some way to the friend he’d left waiting in the police station for the father that never came to pick him up.

“Please,” Kathy said, more clearly this time.

“We’re almost out the door,” he said, trying to distract her.

“No, we have to get the bag in the couch,” she said, her voice hoarse but forceful. She was waking up. “That’s the money.”

“Money?” Pete asked.

“Cut open the cushion on the left,” she said, ignoring Pete’s question. “There should be a gym bag in there.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Pete said, growing anxious. He’d been in the bungalow for almost 20 minutes.

“Fuck, fine,” Kathy said, pulling away from Pete. She moved back to the couch and unzipped the cushion, snaking her arm inside. After a few seconds of searching, she came back with a medium-sized blue gym bag. Pete loomed over her as she unzipped it to reveal stacks of hundreds tied in various bundles. He’d never seen so much money in one place. She looked up at him, as if to say “See?”

“We have to get the fuck out of here,” he said, his eyes still on the cash. He expected Contreras—in full Silent Death garb—to stroll into the tiny apartment at any time.

“Yes,” Kathy said, swinging the bag over her shoulder. She seemed much more alert than when Pete first discovered her. “They’re coming back. They should have been back by now.”

“They?” Pete asked, nerves clear in his voice.

“You have no idea what’s going on, do you? This is where everything starts,” Kathy said, motioning around the living room as she opened the front door. “Javier figured it out and came here, and he got killed for it. I knew they were stashing money in the couch between deals because he wouldn’t stop talking about it. I thought I was going to be shot next. I’m not sure why they kept me alive this long.”

They walked outside the bungalow and began the short walk to Mike’s car, Kathy in front. She paused for a second and turned to Pete, who was trailing a half step behind.

“And thank you,” Kathy said. “I don’t know how the hell you, of all people, found me, but thanks.”

Her second thank you was drowned out by the sound of a large black truck pulling into the small parking lot. Pete could make out Conteras’ silhouette. He slid his father’s gun from his waistband and gripped it tightly as they ran for Mike’s car.

• • •

Pete slammed the driver’s side door shut as the Focus’ tires squealed violently in reverse while Kathy slid into the passenger seat. He backed up the car carelessly and slammed his foot on the accelerator, trying to gain a few seconds on the truck, which could easily overtake the slow-moving sedan.

“They’re not going to be behind us for long,” Kathy said, turning around to look out the car’s back window.

“No shit,” Pete responded, as he turned the car onto Duval St. He had to reach the expressway, fast. “We have to get to a busier area, or we’re fucked.”

“Or we’re dead,” Kathy said.

Pete gripped the steering wheel and changed lanes abruptly, hoping to gain a few seconds on the truck. From what Pete could tell by checking the rearview, the diversion did little. The fastest way off the island was by taking Duval Street, the main drag of Key West, littered with bars, restaurants and late-night revelers. Pete focused on the road, trying his best to dart through traffic without being too obvious, as the area was not bereft of police cars. The thought of getting pulled over sounded almost appealing. Pete had counted at least three fender benders in the last few minutes due to Contreras’s driving. And, despite Pete’s best efforts, the truck was still only a car’s length behind them.

“Where are we headed?” Kathy asked.

“Back to Miami,” Pete said, looking at her briefly.

“Where else would we go?”

Kathy seemed confused.

“Well, wonderful. Are we expecting to lose them in some way?” Kathy said, exasperated. “Because driving down the busiest street toward the busiest one-lane highway in the state isn’t the best way to do that, FYI.”

Pete never got the chance to respond.

The car lurched, sending them hurtling forward. Pete felt himself slam into the dashboard. The car was spinning, Pete realized. He heard the back window shatter and turned to see Kathy crumpled next to him, her body curved in a weird position, her back against the windshield. Pete groaned. His face was plastered on the steering wheel, his eyes felt sluggish and heavy. There was glass all over the backseat. Pete felt a shooting pain in his left arm. He was dazed. Kathy wasn’t moving. The truck had crashed into them from behind.

Pete opened the driver’s side door and toppled out, rolling on the concrete. Cars were now weaving around them. The black truck was still crunched against Mike’s car, which was dented badly, but might still be able to run. He wasn’t sure where Contreras was. He got to his feet and felt wobbly. He noticed some movement from the truck. Nothing from Mike’s car. He’d been wearing a seatbelt, but Kathy might have been seriously injured, Pete thought. He saw his father’s gun near the gas pedal and snatched it up.

“Told you not to fuck with me, son,” It was Contreras. “How many times did you think you’d be able to get away? Once was pure luck. This time it’ll be different.”

Pete’s vision focused and cut through the smoke surrounding the crash. He saw Contreras walking toward him. He wasn’t in Silent Death garb, Pete noticed. The gash down his left cheek seemed sharper in contrast to the dirt on his face from the crash. He seemed relaxed, as if high-traffic car chases were commonplace. They probably were, Pete thought. For him. “That stupid slut wasn’t happy to just get away. She had to take something that belongs to me.”

Pete felt blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. He raised his gun to Contreras. He put his hands up, but let out a laugh.

“Wow, this old trick?” Contreras said, still walking to Pete, albeit more slowly. Pete took the gun’s safety off. Contreras laughed again.

“Sure you know how to use that thing?”

“Fuck you,” Pete said. He was tired. He just wanted a warm bed and a few days to sort out what was going on. He turned to the car and saw Kathy was moving. He wondered if the car could run, or if they would have to explain everything to the cops. He couldn’t hear the sirens anymore. There was a crowd forming, however. A few bar patrons had gathered outside of Willie T’s after the crash. The newly present gun had sent most running.

“Kid has teeth all of a sudden?” Contreras said, as he inched closer. He slid his hand into his vest and pulled out his own gun, bigger than Pete’s. Pete wagered he knew how to use it better, too. “That makes two of us.”

Pete thought for a second. He’d had a gun pointed at him twice in his life. He could try and play hero and end up dead in the next four minutes, or he could put his gun down and probably live for a few more hours.

“Put the gun down, you little shit,” Contreras said, getting agitated. “How hard did you get hit in the head?”

Then the sirens came back. This time, much louder.

• • •

Pete didn’t recall much of what happened next. He remembered crouching down to slide his gun over to Contreras, who was patiently pointing his weapon at Pete. That’s when he heard the screeching. He felt something push him forward and heard another crash followed by a man’s scream. Pete remembered grabbing his gun for some reason. He looked up and saw Contreras, his face contorted. Not in anger, but pain. Was he looking at me? Pete thought. Mike’s car was suddenly closer, and Contreras was pinned between his truck and Mike’s black Focus. Pete glanced back and saw Kathy behind the wheel. He couldn’t hear much. His ears were ringing. Contreras managed to move away from the two cars and collapsed on the street awkwardly. Was he dead? Pete wasn’t sure. He couldn’t tell if the sirens were getting farther away or if he just couldn’t hear them.

He sat on the street, his hand still on his father’s gun when he felt someone jostle him. He looked up to see Kathy’s face. She was screaming something at him. Pete didn’t understand. He nodded. Kathy took the gun. Kathy tried to pick him up and drag him to the car. As he was partially sliding on the glass-covered Key West street, Pete turned and saw Contreras, crumpled on the ground, as if he were just pausing for a few winks like a drunk local.

“He’s dead,” Pete said, pointing at Contreras’s immobile form.

He felt Kathy heaving him into the passenger side.

She put her hand on his forehead.

Pete expected it to be cold, but it wasn’t. She took it off for a second and looked at it. It was red—blood? His blood, Pete realized.

“We have to get out of here,” she yelled as she ran around to the driver’s side seat. Then they were gone.

P
ete couldn’t go home. Even if Contreras was dead, his apartment wasn’t safe. He guided Kathy to the route toward Mike’s apartment in Fort Lauderdale. This way, he could return the car he’d stolen and damaged, rest for a moment, and determine what to do next. He’d found Kathy. He hadn’t thought the next step through. There wasn’t much talking on the way back. Kathy focused on the road; Pete stared out his window and ran the events of the last few hours through his mind. Had they killed someone? What evidence was left behind? Were the cops looking for them? Javier was dead. Kathy was begrudgingly grateful but grating on Pete’s nerves. His shoulder and head ached, a dull, throbbing pain that was getting gradually worse. Pete’s dizziness had lessened, but he still felt off. The rain had subsided, but the air felt heavy and wet.

Pete looked back and his eyes landed on the bag of money. Wind snuck into the car through the shattered rear window.

“Thanks,” Pete said, breaking the silence.

“For what?” Kathy said, her tone flat, eyes on the road.

“For pulling me out of there,” Pete said. “He was going to kill me.”

“You’re welcome.”