The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (52 page)

“I’ll take it.”

“You want ammo with that, too?”

The Springfield boxed thirteen rounds per magazine; Milton bought four, mixed factory hardball and jacketed hollow points from Federal and Remington, for a straight hundred.

He paid the man, thanked him and went back outside. It was seven in the evening by now, and the winds had picked up. The faint orange dust that had hung in the windless morning had been whipped up into a storm, and now it was rolling in off the desert. He took a taxi back to the border and was halfway across the span of the bridge when the storm swept over Juárez. Sand and dust stung his face and visibility was immediately reduced: first the mountains disappeared, then the belching smokestacks on the edge of town, and then, as the storm hunkered down properly over the city, details of the immediate landscape began to fade and blur. The streetlights that ran along the centre of the bridge shone as fuzzy penumbras in the sudden darkness.

Milton’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and pressed it to his ear.

“It’s Beau Baxter.”

“And?”

“Smith, are you outside in
this
?”

Milton ignored the question. “Get to it. Can you help?”

“Yeah, it can be done. You help me with our mutual friend, I’ll help get the girl where she wants to get and set her up with a nice new identity. Job, place to live, everything she needs. Want to talk about it?”

“We should.”

“All right, buddy—tomorrow evening. There’s a joint here, does the best huaraches you’ve ever tasted, and I’m not kidding. I always visit whenever I’m in Juárez, compensation for having to come to this godforsaken fucking town in the first place. It’s at the Plaza Insurgentes, on Avenida de los Insurgentes. Get a taxi, they’ll know. Eight o’clock, all right?”

Milton said that he would be there and ended the call.

The lights of Juárez faded in and out through the eddies of dust and grit. The Hotel Coahuila’s neon throbbed on and off, a huge sign with a girl wearing
bandolero
belts and brandishing Kalashnikov machine guns. He passed a police recruitment poster with a ninja-cop in a balaclava and the slogan
“Juárez te necesita!”
—Juárez Needs You. There was no one in the gate shack on the Mexican side of the river. No passport control, no customs checks, no one to notice the Springfield that was tucked into the back of his jeans or the clips of ammunition that he had stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. There was no queue, either, and he pushed his way through the creaking turnstile and crossed back into Juárez.

THE STORM gathered strength. Milton took a taxi to the address that Caterina had given him. He told the driver to stop two blocks earlier and, paying him with a twenty-dollar bill, told him to stay and wait if he wanted another. He got out, the sand and grit swirling around him, lashing into his exposed skin, and walked the rest of the way. It was a cheap, dingy area, rows of houses that had been sliced up to make apartments. He passed one house, the road outside filled with SUVs with tinted windows. The cars were occupied, the open door of one revealing a thickset man in the uniform of the
federales
. The man turned as Milton passed, cupping his hand around a match as he lit a cigarette, the glow of the flame flickering in unfriendly eyes. Milton kept going.

Caterina’s apartment was just a few doors down the street. Milton felt eyes on his back and turned; two of the SUVs were parked alongside one another, their headlights burrowing a golden trough through the snarling, swirling dust. He turned back to the house, walking slowly so that he could squint through the sand at the third floor. There was light in one of the windows; a shadow passed across it. A quick, fleeting silhouette, barely visible through the darkness and the grit in the air.

Her window?

He wasn’t sure.

A narrow alleyway cut through the terrace between one address and its neighbour, and Milton turned into it, gambling that there was another way inside around the back. The roiling abated as he passed inside the passageway, but it wasn’t lit, the darkness deepening until he could barely see the way ahead. He reached around for the Springfield and pulled it out, aiming it down low, his finger resting gently on the trigger.

The passageway opened into a narrow garden, fenced on both sides, most of the wooden panels missing, the ones that were left creaking on rotting staves as the wind piled against them. The ground was scrub, knee-high weeds and grasses, scorched clear in places from where a dog had pissed. There was a back extension attached to the ground-floor property, no lights visible anywhere. He looked up: there was a narrow Juliet balcony on the third floor. There was his way inside. Milton climbed onto a water butt and then boosted himself onto the flat roof, scraping his palms against the rough bitumen. He stuffed the Springfield back into his trousers and shinned up the drainpipe until he was high enough to reach out for the bottom of the balcony, shimmied along a little and then hauled himself up so that he could wedge his feet between the railings.

He leaned across and risked a look inside.

There was no light now.

He took the gun and pushed the barrel gently against the doors. They were unlocked, and they parted with a dry groan. He hauled his legs over the railing, and aware that even in the dim light of the storm he would still be offering an easy target to anyone inside, he crouched low and shuffled forwards.

He heard movement in the adjacent room: feet shuffling across linoleum.

Milton rose and made towards the sound. He edged carefully through the dark room, avoiding the faint outlines of the furniture.

He reached the door. It was open, showing into the kitchen. The digital clock set into the cooker gave out enough dim light to illuminate the room: it was small, with the cooker, a fridge, a narrow work surface on two sides and cupboards above. A man was working his way through the cupboards, opening them one by one and going through them. Looking for something.

Milton took a step towards him, clipping his foot on the waste bin.

The man swivelled, a kitchen knife in his hand. He slashed out with it.

Milton blocked the man’s swipe with his right forearm, taking the impact just above his wrist and turning his hand over so that he could grip the edge of the man’s jacket. The man grunted, trying to free himself, but Milton plunged in with his left hand, digging the fingers into the fleshy pressure point behind the thumb, pinching so hard that the knife dropped out of his hand. It had taken less than three seconds to disarm him. Maintaining his grip, Milton dragged the man’s arm around behind his back and yanked it up towards his shoulders, pushing down at the same time. The man’s head slammed against the work surface.

“Who do you work for?” he said.

“Fuck you, gringo.”

Milton raised his head a little and slammed it back against the work surface.

“Who do you work for?”

“Fuck you.”

Milton reached across and twisted the dial on the hob, the gas hissing out of the burner. He pushed the button to ignite it, the light from the blue flame guttering around the dark kitchen. He guided the man towards the hob, scraping his forehead across the work surface and then the unused burners, raising him a little over the lit one so that he could feel the heat.

His voice remained steady and even, implacable, as if holding a man’s face above a lit flame was the most normal thing in the world. “Let’s try again. Who do you work for?”

The man whimpered. There was a quiet yet insistent crackle as his whiskers started to singe. “I can’t—”

“Who?”

“They’ll—they’ll kill me.”

Milton pushed him a little closer to the flame. His eyebrows began to crisp. “You need to prioritise,” he suggested. “They’re not here. I am. And I will kill you if you don’t tell me.”

He pushed him nearer to the flame.

“El Patrón,” the man said in a panicked garble. “It’s El Patrón. Please. My face.”

“What are you looking for?”

“The girl—the girl.”

“But she’s not here. What else?”

“Contacts.”

“Why?”

“They’ve been writing about La Frontera. El Patrón—he wants to make an example of them.”

Milton turned the man’s head a little so he could see him better. “Where can I find him?”

The man laughed hysterically. “I don’t know! Just look around. He’s everywhere.” He squinted at him. “Why would you even wanna know that?”

“I need to speak to him. He needs to leave the girl alone.”

“And you think he’ll listen?”

“I think he will.”

“Who
are
you, man?”

“Just a cook.”

The man laughed again, a desperate sound. “No, I tell you what you are—you’re fucked. What you gonna do now? Call the
federales?
How you think that’s going to go down, eh? You stupid gringo—El Patrón, he
owns
the cops.”

“I won’t need the cops.”

Milton snaked his right arm around the man’s throat and started to squeeze. The man struggled, got his legs up, and kicked off the wall. Milton stumbled backwards, and they went to the floor. The man was trying to get his hands inside Milton’s arm, but he could not. Milton squeezed, the man’s throat constricted in the nook of his arm. He braced his left arm vertically against his right, his right hand clasped around his left bicep, and he pulled back with that, too, tightening his grip all the time, his face turned away. The man was flailing wildly, his arms windmilling, and he scrabbled sideways over the floor, kicking over the waste bin, treading dusty prints up the kitchen cupboards. His sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floor. He was gurgling, a line of blood trickling from his mouth. He was choking on his own blood. Milton squeezed harder. The man’s legs slowed and then stopped. Milton relaxed his grip. The man lay jerking. Then he stopped moving altogether.

Milton got up and flexed his aching arm. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it, studying the dead man gaping up from the floor. Early twenties, a cruel face, even in death. His eyes bulged, and his tongue lolled out of blue-tinged lips. He crouched down next to the body, frisking it quickly: a mobile phone, a wallet with three hundred dollars, a small transparent bag of cocaine. Milton took the money and the phone, discarding the wallet and the cocaine, and then took a dishcloth and a bottle of disinfectant he found under the sink and cleaned down anything that he might have touched. He wiped the glass and put it back in the cupboard. He wiped the tap. He wiped the hob.

Milton took the man’s torch and went into the bedroom. The laptop, covered in stickers and decals—WikiLeaks, DuckDuckGo, Megaupload—was under the mattress, where Caterina said it would be. He slipped it into a black rucksack he found in the closet and dropped the Springfield and the ammunition in after it. He climbed down from the balcony and followed the passageway back to the front of the house. The storm had still not passed. Visibility was poor. Milton walked back in the same direction from which he had arrived. He passed the parked SUVs, ignoring the man smoking a cigarette in the open door, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He found the taxi again and got in.

“La Playa Consulado,” he said.

He bought cheeseburgers, fries and Big Gulps from the take-out next to the hotel. He could hear the sound of the television as he approached the door to Caterina’s room. The curtains were drawn, but light flickered against the edges. Milton stopped in his room first, taking out the revolver and ammunition and the things that he had taken from the dead man, hiding them under the sheet. He locked the door behind him and knocked for Caterina.

“Who is it?”

“It’s John.”

He heard the bedsprings as she got to her feet and then her footsteps as she crossed the room. The lock turned, and the door opened. Milton went inside.

“You were hours.”

“I’m sorry. It took longer than I thought. Was everything all right?”

“The cleaner tried to come in, but I sent her away.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. I’ve been watching TV all day.”

She looked tired, and despite the permanent glare of defiance, her red-rimmed eyes said that she had been weeping.

“Here.” Milton put the wrapped meals on the bed. Caterina was hungry and so was he; he realised that he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast this morning. The meat in the cheeseburgers was poor, but they both finished quickly, moving onto the little cardboard sheaths of greasy fries. Milton watched the TV as he put the food away; Caterina had tuned it to a channel from El Paso: news about local Little League sports, a fun run to raise money for cancer research, the pieces linked by glossy presenters with white teeth and bright eyes. It was a different world north of the river, he thought. They had no idea what it was like down here.

Milton put the rucksack on the bed and took out the laptop. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Perfect, thank you,” she said. “Did you—did you have any trouble getting it?”

“No trouble at all.”

THREE MORE DAYS.

Jesus Plato reminded himself, again and again, as he stared up at the bridge.

It was Wednesday today.

Just three more days and then an end to all this.

It was a fresh morning, a cool wind blowing after the fury of the storm last night. Plato was at the concrete overpass known as Switchback Bridge. The bodies had been called in as dawn broke over the endless desert, ropes knotted beneath their armpits, tied to the guard rail, and the dead tossed over the side. They both dangled there, the rope creaking as they swung back and forth in the light breeze, twenty feet above the busy rush of traffic at the intersection. A small crowd of people had gathered to watch as a fire truck was manoeuvred around so that the ladder could get up to them. Former school busses from across the border, now ferrying workers to and from the sweatshops, jammed up against one another, and behind them, a queue of irate drivers leant on their horns. Just another day in Ciudad Juárez. Another morning, another murder. No one was surprised or shocked. It was an inconvenience. This was just how it was, and that, Plato thought, was the worst of it.