The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (58 page)

They looked up at her, but no one spoke.

Pope smiled at her. “Take your seat,” he said. “Wheels up in five minutes.”

THERE WAS a sign on the wall of the room that said that the motel had Wi-Fi. Caterina booted up her laptop, located the network, and joined it. She had installed police scanner software, and it was then, listening to those disinterested voices bracketed by static, that she heard about the body of the missing girl who had been found.

The police said that the girl had been identified as Guillermina Marquez.

The body had turned up on scrubland near to the Estadio Olímpico Benito Juárez. The Indios played there; Leon had taken her to see them once. It was close to the motel. A twenty-minute walk, maximum. Fifteen if she ran. She thrust her camera and her notepad into her rucksack, scribbled a quick note to Milton explaining where she was going, locked the door behind her, and set off towards the river.

It was growing late, and the light was leaving the city. Caterina crested a shallow hill and looked out across the border to El Paso, the lights twinkling against the spectrum of greys across the desert and the mountains beyond. She wondered what it was like over the border. She had never been. She had an idea, of course, on a superficial level—she was in contact with journalists on the other side of the line, there was television and the movies—but it was more than the superficial things that she wondered about. She wondered what it would be like to live in a city that was safe. Where you were not woken with yet another report of dead bodies dropped on your doorstep. Where the army and the police were not as bad as the criminals. Where children were not abducted, were not tortured, mutilated, bruised, fractured or strangled or violated.

The stadium was across a bleak expanse of scrub. Other girls had been found here: she thought of the map in her room, with the pins that studded this part of town, a bristling little forest of murders. She remembered two of them left in the dust with their arms arranged so that they formed crucifixes; she remembered those two particularly well.

She walked faster.

Dusk was turning into night. Two police cruisers were parked on the scrub next to a thicket of trees and creosote bushes. Blue and white crime scene tape had been strung around the trunks of three of the trees, fluttering and snapping in the breeze, forming a broad triangular enclosure. Uniformed officers were inside, gathered around a shapeless thing on the floor. Caterina ducked down, pulled the tape over her head, and went forwards. She could see the body covered with a blanket, the naked feet visible where the blanket was too short. She took out her camera, shoved in the flash, and started taking pictures.

One of the policemen turned. “Excuse me.”

She moved away from him, circling the body, continuing to take pictures.

“Excuse me, Señorita. No pictures, please.”

“What was her name?” she asked, the camera still pressed to her face.

“I recognise you,” the policeman said.

She lowered the camera. “Do I know you?”

“I’m
Capitán
Alameda. You don’t remember?”

“No, I—”

“It’s Caterina, isn’t it?”

“Yes—how do you know my name?”

“I was at the restaurant on Monday night. I was with you in the hospital.”

“Oh.”

He put a hand on Caterina’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Who was she?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“When was she found?”

“A couple of hours ago.” He guided her back and away from the covered body. “Come on. It’s not safe. I thought you were going over the border.”

“Soon. Tomorrow, I think.”

“You need to keep off the street until then. If they find out where you are— look, where are you staying?”

She paused.

“Don’t worry—I know the cook is looking after you. My colleague—
Teniente
Plato—he’s been speaking with him. I’ll take you back there. We can talk about what happened here in the car. I’ll answer all your questions.”

She paused.

“Caterina—I’m the captain of the police. Come on. You can trust me.”

She relented.

FELIPE EXCUSED HIMSELF from the party. It would continue in the grounds of the mansion, but out of sight, the garages were busy with activity. He had called in his best men. His best
sicarios
. Their cars were parked in the wide bay before the triple garage, and they were milling there, waiting for his instructions. Pablo had opened the arms cache and was in the process of distributing the heavy artillery. The way Felipe was thinking, if Adolfo wasn’t returned to him soon, he would have to do something to focus the attention of the authorities. Firing a few AR-15s in the marketplace, tossing in a few grenades, that ought to do the trick. They knew, but perhaps they needed to be reminded: there were some things that could not be allowed to stand.

An unmarked police car rolled up the slope that curved around the mansion and parked next to the garages. Two of the men broke away from the rest, their hands reaching for their pistols. Felipe watched as the door opened and a man he recognised stepped out.

The municipal cop.
Capitán
Alameda.

The two men recognised him, too, and stepped aside.

“El Patrón.”

“Not now,
Capitán
. I’m busy.”

“I know about Adolfo.”

“Then you’ll understand why this is not a good time.”

“No—I know who has him. And how you can get him back.”

Felipe turned to Pablo. “You go in five minutes,” he called.

“Yes, El Patrón.”

“Be quick, Alameda. And don’t waste my time.”

“The girl from the restaurant. The one you didn’t get. The Englishman is trying to keep her safe.”

“And?”

“I have her. There was a body in the park next to the stadium. She was there. Taking pictures.”

“Where is she?”

He nodded in the direction of his car. “In back.”

“Get her.”

Alameda went back to the car and brought the girl out. She was cuffed, her wrists fastened behind her back.

“Do you know who I am?” Felipe asked.

She spat at his feet.

“She’s feisty,” Alameda suggested. “Took a good swing at me before I got the bracelets on.”

“Where is the Englishman?”

“
Come mierda y muerte
.”

“If you help me get my son back, I’ll let you go. You have my word.”

“Your word’s no good.”

Felipe shifted his weight. “Look around—you’re on your own. The Englishman can’t help you now. You don’t have any other choice.”

BEAU PULLED the Jeep into the motel parking lot. Milton opened the rear door, stepped outside, and pulled Adolfo out with him. Beau followed close behind, the barrel of his pistol pushed tight into the small of the Mexican’s back. Milton unlocked the door and opened it.

The room was empty.

“Caterina?”

The bathroom door was open. Milton checked. It was empty, too.

“Where is she?” Beau said anxiously.

“I don’t know.”

Her laptop was on. Milton checked it: a police scanner application was open, the crackle of static interrupted by occasional comments from the dispatcher. A scrap of paper was on the desk next to the computer. A note had been written down.

“There’s been another murder. She’s gone to cover it.”

“We don’t wanna be hanging around, partner. The sooner we get them both over the border, the better.”

“Not without her.”

“I know, but we’re not on home turf here.”

“It’s not open to debate. You can go whenever you want, but he stays until I have her back.”

Milton’s phone started to ring.

He looked at the display: an unknown number.

“
Hola
.”

He didn’t recognise the voice. “I think you have the wrong number,” he replied in Spanish.

The caller spoke in accented English. “No, I have the right number.”

“Who is this?”

“I am Felipe.”

A pause.

“You know me now?”

“I’ve heard of you. Where’s the girl?”

“In a minute. I don’t know your name. What shall I call you?”

“John.”

“Hello, John. You are the Englishman from the restaurant?”

“That’s right.”

“You have caused me some—awkwardness.”

“I’m just getting started. Where’s the girl?”

“She’s here. Safe and sound. Where is my son?”

“With me.”

“He is—?”

“He’s fine.”

“We seem to be at an impasse.”

“Seems so. What do you want to do about that?”

Felipe paused. Milton knew he was trying to sweat him. Pointless. “I’m waiting,” he said. There was not even the faintest trace of emotion in his voice.

Felipe was brusque. “We each have something the other wants. I don’t know why you have involved yourself in my business, but I am going to propose a short truce. An exchange: the girl for my son.”

“Where?”

“There is a village south of Juárez. Samalayuca. Turn right off the 45 and drive into the desert. We can meet there. Tomorrow morning. Nine.”

“You wouldn’t be thinking about trying to ambush me, would you, Felipe?”

“A truce is a truce.”

“I know you don’t know who I am.”

“So why not tell me, John?”

“All you need to know is that you don’t want to know me. Don’t do anything stupid. You might think you’re a frightening man, and people around here would say that you are, but you don’t frighten me. There’s nothing here I haven’t seen before. If you try anything, if the girl is hurt—if anything happens at all that I don’t like—I give you my word that I will find you and I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

When he replied, the man’s voice was tight, with fury behind it. Milton knew why: he was not used to being threatened. “I believe I do,” he said. “Let’s make this exchange. After that—well then,
John
—after that, well, you know how this is going to turn out, don’t you?”

“No. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. And so do you.”

The line went dead.

“They have her?” Beau said.

Milton nodded.

“Ignorant dogs!” Adolfo gloated. “You—”

Milton did not even look at him; he just backhanded him with a sudden, brutal clip that snapped his head around and sent him toppling backwards onto the bed. When Adolfo sat back up, his lip was dripping with blood.

Milton wiped the blood from his knuckles. “Put him in the bath. If he tries to come out, shoot him.”

Beau did as he was told. Milton took his phone and found the number he had been given at the police station three days earlier. He entered the number and pressed CALL.

It connected. “Plato.”

“It’s John Smith.”

“John—what can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s the girl.”

“What about her?”

“She’s been taken.”

An audible sigh. “When?”

“A couple of hours ago.”

“You said you were going to the hotel.”

“I’m here now. I went out, and she’s gone.

“You left her?”

“Temporarily. She left on her own.”

“You know that for sure?”

“She left a note.”

“How do you know she—”

“I just had a call from Adolfo’s father.”

“
Cojer!
” Plato cursed.

“I’m guessing he’s in charge around here?”

“Felipe González. El Patrón. He
is
La Frontera. What did he say?”

“I’d rather not talk on the phone. Can we meet?”

Milton heard the long sigh. “You better come over here. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Yes.”

Milton took down the address that Plato dictated.

JESUS PLATO SLID underneath the hull of the boat, hooked the pot with his hand, and dragged it toward him. He dipped his brush into the paint and started to apply it. He had been looking forward to this part of the project for weeks. There were few things that made an old boat look better than repainting it. The
Emelia
had a tatty, ancient gel-coat finish, and Plato was going to replace it with two new coats of urethane paint. The paint wasn’t cheap, but he figured it’d be worth it for the difference it would make. It was calming work, too—meditative—and something where the gratification from the job would be quick.

A taxi turned into the road. He looked up as it slowed to a halt. Milton got out, paid the driver, and walked up the driveway. Plato slid out from beneath the boat and then stood, pouring a handful of white spirit into his palms and wiping away the stained paint. “In here,” he said, leading the way through the open garage door. He hadn’t told Emelia that Milton would be coming over, and he didn’t want her to worry.

The boat’s gas engine was in pieces on his work desk. He had a small beer fridge in the corner, and he opened it, taking out a couple of cans.

“Thanks—but I don’t drink.”

“Suit yourself.” Plato put one back, tugged the ring pull on the other, and drank off the first quarter. It was a hot day, and he had been working hard; the beer tasted especially good. “You better tell me what’s happened.”

“I met a man at the hospital. He’s a bounty hunter. He’s here for Adolfo González.”

“Good luck with that.”

“He says he can help get the girl over the border and set up on the other side.”

“He’s doing that out of the goodness of his heart?”

“Of course not. I said I’d help him find González.”

Plato sighed.

“I was going to meet him to talk about it. A restaurant. González was there. We’ve got him.”

Plato watched him carefully over the rim of his can. “You’ve got him?”

“Baxter does. The bounty hunter.”

“Beau Baxter?”

“You know him?”

“I’ve heard of him. He used to work on the line before he got into what he does now. Border Patrol.”

“And?”

“Back then he was old school. A hard man. But I don’t know about now. You don’t normally get much integrity out of men in his line of business. You saying he’s got Adolfo now?”

Milton nodded.

“And you don’t think he’ll just up and leave? Get him over the border and get paid?”