In Desperation (10 page)

Chihuahuan Desert, Northern Mexico

D
ust clouds trailed the white 1999 Chevrolet Blazer slicing through the eroded stretches and dried arroyos of scrubland some thirty miles outside of Ciudad Juarez.

Out here, the police scanner mounted to the dash was picking up mostly static. The driver, Arturo Castillo, a news photographer with
El Heraldo,
adjusted it and glanced in the rearview mirror.

Jack Gannon was in the backseat searching the desolate expanse for a hint of what awaited him. After Isabel Luna had called him in Phoenix, he'd left for El Paso with Cora's pleas echoing in his ears.

“Don't leave me, Jack, please!”

“I have to check something out.”

“What? Where? Why won't you tell me?”

Hackett was out of earshot but eyeballing him from across the room, where he was working with the other investigators, watching coldly but not interfering.

“Cora, let me check this out. I don't have details, just a lead from a good source.”

“Jack, please don't go. Something bad has happened. I feel it.”

A few hours later, when his jet landed in El Paso, Gannon made his way across the border to the offices of
El Heraldo.
Luna, true to her word, had arranged to
rush him to “a location in the desert.” Now, as the Chevy Blazer bumped along the dusty road, Gannon shifted his attention to Luna. She was sitting in the front passenger seat and when she'd finished sending a text message on her phone, Gannon came back to the question he'd asked earlier.

“How solid is your information?”

“My source is unassailable.”

Twenty minutes later, Castillo, guided by the odometer reading and directions Luna gave from her notebook, shifted the transmission of the Blazer into four-wheel drive and headed off road and over the parched grassland.

Two miles in, they came to a fast-flowing irrigation stream. Castillo chose a narrow bend and carefully forded it. The water rose to the running boards as the Chevy wobbled over the stony bottom.

After they'd gone another two miles, a small ranch came into view. As they got closer, Gannon discerned a rickety house that looked as if it was about to collapse and a ramshackle barn. The place appeared to have been abandoned for years…until now. A handful of police vehicles were concentrated at the barn, which was encircled with police tape.

Luna, Castillo and Gannon approached the four uniformed officers leaning on the cars just outside the police tape.

“We are from
El Heraldo
and the World Press Alliance,” Luna said in Spanish as the three showed their ID. Tapping her notebook against her hip, she added: “Let me speak to the person in charge here.”

A hot breeze kicked up grit as Luna stared into the implacable reflection of the first officer's sunglasses. A long, tense moment passed before he spoke into his shoulder microphone.

A terse response crackled over the radio. Then, in a move that surprised Gannon, the officer lifted the tape
for them to approach. Through the gap-toothed boards of the barn, he saw a car was parked inside.

A man in blue jeans, a polo shirt and cowboy boots, with a badge clipped on his belt near his sidearm met them at the entrance. As he handed over his ID, Gannon noticed the blue latex gloves he was wearing. Taking stock of Gannon, Castillo and Luna, the cop spoke in Spanish with Luna. Gannon soon figured that this cop was asking questions as Luna responded with string of
sí
…
sí
…
sí
's. Gannon guessed they were questions about him, as this cop—save for a quick scan of the empty horizon beyond them—never took his focus from him.

The detective was in his late thirties, about six feet tall with a firm build. He had a few days' growth deepening the craggy features of his face, accentuating his piercing hooded eyes.

“Come inside,” he said in English. “Follow me on the path marked on the ground by tape.”

What was going on? This press access to a crime scene was astounding. As Gannon struggled to figure it out, he was assaulted by the stench of excrement mingled with putrid meat. Something was humming. Flies. Blinding beams of sunlight gleamed through the barn's walls and Gannon needed a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Several other men in plainclothes were reviewing notes and items by an open barn window.

Gannon saw that the car was a four-door Chevy Caprice, late model with Texas tags…a rental, maybe? The windows were tinted and reflected the flash from Castillo's camera as he began taking pictures.

The detective opened the driver's door. The keys were still in the ignition and the indicator chimed softly.

Pong. Pong. Pong.

The outrush of foul air was overwhelming. From what Gannon could see, the driver was resting clumsily on the steering wheel and his passenger was leaning against the window.

Pong. Pong. Pong.

As Gannon heard the buzzing of insects and studied the spaghetti-lace pattern of black and browned blood everywhere, he realized that both corpses were headless.

Pong. Pong. Pong.

Flies from inside the car swarmed Gannon. One tried to go up his nose and he felt bile erupting along his throat.

Pong. Pong. Pong.

Staggering, he drew a deep breath and dragged the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Are you going to be okay?” Luna asked.

Gannon swallowed hard, hurried out and doubled over in the shade side of the barn, letting sweet-smelling breezes do their work, inhaling fresh air until he felt well enough to stand and face Luna and the detective.

“This is my stepbrother, First Sergeant Esteban Cruz.”

“We have Coke and bottled water, Jack,” Cruz offered.

Gannon said he was fine.

“This is your case?”

Cruz nodded as Gannon glanced around warily.

“Don't worry. It's safe for us to talk here,” Cruz said. “These men are not corrupt. Each can be trusted.”

“So what happened? What have you got here?”

“A ranch hand from the next property was out here yesterday morning hunting rabbits when he found them.”

“Who are the victims? What's the link to my niece?”

Cruz unfolded a piece of thermal fax paper and gave it to Gannon. It was a photocopy of Lyle Galviera's business card, front and back. The back bore handwritten numbers…possibly codes or accounts.

“We found this on one of them,” Cruz said.

“Is one of them Lyle Galviera?”

Cruz shoved a stick of gum in his mouth and shook his head.

“So who are they?”

“We think they were Galviera's cartel partners. We fingerprinted them late last night.”

“Why are you telling me this? Why call me down here?”

“To help you understand the gravity of your situation,” Cruz said.

“Is it more serious than what is in there—than having my niece kidnapped by monsters?”

“To begin with, we believe that someone involved in the multiagency investigation of your niece's abduction in Arizona may be on a cartel payroll.”

“Yes, Isabel said that on her call. So what are we dealing with?”

“Those two dead men are ex-U.S. law enforcement. The one in the driver's seat is Octavio Sergio Salazar. He was fired from the LAPD a few years back for alleged corruption involving drug shipments in California. The other, John Walker Johnson, was fired from U.S. Customs. He was alleged to have taken bribes in exchange for border access. Not long ago, Salazar and Johnson began double-dealing with cartels that were warring with each other.”

“So what happened?”

“Our ex-cops went rogue to start carving out their own U.S. routes while dealing with at least two cartels. We're not sure which ones. We think that Lyle Galviera was partnered with the ex-cops, using his courier company, and that he's holding the missing millions for Salazar and Johnson. And we think the cartels believe the cash was stolen from them.”

“Where did you get all this intel?”

“There are a number of longstanding investigations on both sides of the border. When your niece was kidnapped, people in police intel on both sides of the border started connecting dots.”

“Does the FBI know what you've told me? They should
be told so they can find my niece and get her out before all of this explodes.”

“They've been told. In fact, several U.S. federal agents are due at this scene at any moment because of the U.S. link. But Isabel and I wanted you to know the truth, to ensure it stays pure, because of the suspected infiltration of U.S. and Mexican police by cartels.”

“The people who have Tilly have given my sister five days to find Galviera. We're losing time. Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“He could be dead somewhere.”

“If that were true,” Cruz said, “we would know. The cartels would want the world to know that death is the price for stealing from them.”

“So he's likely out there with five million dollars and scared to death.”

“It's only a matter of time before the cartels find him.”

“You think they know where he is?” Gannon asked.

“The bodies have been here a few days. Salazar and Johnson were probably killed before your niece was taken.”

“That gives you a bit of a timeline then?”

Cruz nodded.

“There's more. Before they were killed they were tortured. We think they were lured out here and probably tortured for information about Galviera and the money. This was a double execution by a
sicario
.”

“An assassin?”

“Yes. And we found this.” Cruz glanced at Luna before showing Gannon a crime scene photo copied on his cell phone. The picture showed a small glass that looked like it was used for tomato juice.

“I don't understand.”

“This is the signature of The Tarantula.”

“The Tarantula?”

“He's a top assassin. He started professionally killing as a boy. With each high-profile killing he is known to toast La Santa Muerte, the goddess of death, with the blood of his victims.”

Gannon exhaled.

“This was a message killing,” Luna said. “The cartels have a complex structure for message or revenge killings. The cartel first does all the groundwork, setting up everything for the assassin to arrive and carry out the key executions. It's very ritualistic and disciplined.”

“So this goes beyond getting their money back?”

“Yes. Having The Tarantula involved means cartel bosses want the world to know that everyone connected to this theft of the cartel's money will die,” Luna said. “If the cartel finds Lyle Galviera first, they will torture him for information on their money, then kill him. And then they will have no use for your niece. Because she can identify them, they'll kill her, too.”

“Given that they've already found and executed these two competing cartel members,” Cruz said, “it won't be long until the cartel finds Galviera. No matter what happens, Galviera and your niece are marked to be revenge kills.”

Mesa Mirage, Phoenix, Arizona

H
ours later, as his jet lifted off from El Paso International Airport, Gannon recalled something the Irish writer Oscar Wilde had said about there being only two tragedies in life.

“One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.”

That pretty much covered it for him. As the wounded brother, there were times in his life that he'd ached to see his sister again, was willing to give anything to find Cora.

Well, he'd found her.

And as the hard-driving reporter, he had been hell-bent on finding a drug cartel assassin to write about; he had begged Isabel Luna to help him.

Well, they'd found one: a blood-drinking death-toasting killer called The Tarantula.

And he's coming for my niece.

When the plane leveled off somewhere over the Rio Grande, Gannon opened his laptop and clicked to the missing poster of Tilly. Her eyes sparkled as they met his. She looked so much like a younger version of Cora, her face radiating innocence and hope as she implored him.

Help me. Find me. Before it's too late.

He was her uncle. He was her blood.

Man, after the horror with the eyeballs, and then seeing those headless corpses in that car a short time ago, the thought of a cartel hit man targeting Tilly…. Something caught in Gannon's throat. He turned to the window, looked beyond the clouds and back on the few hours he'd just spent in Mexico.

After they'd left the desert crime scene, he, Castillo and Luna returned to
El Heraldo
's newsroom, where he had called Melody Lyon in New York. Absorbing the grisly details she'd said: “We need to get this story on the wire now, Jack.”

“I'll write it here, but we have to hold back on some of it.”

“Why?”

“Because we're way too close to this. I need to protect sources.”

Lyon weighed his point.

“I'll let you write it the way you think it needs to be written,
this time
.”

“Okay, but can you get Henrietta in Phoenix to seek FBI comment?”

“Fine, just ship me the story ASAP. And Jack? Are you still there?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you want to stay on this? I can put other people on it if it ever becomes…becomes…”

“Becomes what?”

“If it ever becomes too much for you, Jack.”

“I'm in too deep, Melody.”

She let a moment pass before speaking. “We're praying they find Tilly safe and bring her home.”

“So am I.”

Turning from the window back to his laptop, Gannon called up the story he'd sent earlier to headquarters and reread it, fighting to distance himself from the fact he was writing about his own family.

That was how it began, a tight nuts-and-bolts exclusive that provided few details. It did not report the victims' names or anything on the assassin. Gannon had filed it from Juarez before returning to El Paso for his flight. By now his story should've gone around the world on the WPA wire and been posted online everywhere with Castillo's crime scene photos, the ones suitable for family viewing—police vehicles near the barn.

Luna was writing a similar piece for
El Heraldo
.

The story beat the Associated Press, Reuters, all of Gannon's competition. It was a WPA win that should make New York very happy, especially George Wilson, head of all foreign news. It would satisfy Gannon's employer, whose resources he needed to find his niece.

His niece
.

Suddenly he was jolted by another concern.

Should he have alerted Cora that the story was coming, explained what he knew so that she could brace for it? But it would've been a risk to call her. He couldn't ignore suspicions that the task force had been infiltrated by people working for the cartel.

No, he had no other option but to get the story out.

For the rest of the short flight, Gannon considered how the execution in the Mexican desert of two American ex-cops would bring more to bear on Tilly's case. Now as the landing gear rumbled down, he searched the blurring ground for answers. There had to be something he was overlooking, something he could dig into. He had to do more to find Tilly, and he had to do it fast.

Time was working against them.

 

The story was getting bigger.

The first thing Gannon noticed as his cab approached Cora's house was that there were more news people out front, including a few satellite trucks from Los Angeles, Tucson and Las Vegas.

“Hey, Gannon! What about the executions in Mexico?”

He gave the pack an apologetic wave and went to the back door.

“Come on, Jack, give your pals here a break!”

In the ride from the airport to Mesa Mirage, he'd checked his BlackBerry for developments. His WPA story was the big one. The
Los Angeles Times,
Yahoo and the
New York Times
had already put it up on their sites. The
Arizona Republic
had posted it, too, along with a news features on ever-widening neighborhood searches for Tilly and prayer vigils by church groups.

The moment Gannon stepped inside Cora's house, she rushed to him.

“Why didn't you call me?”

“I couldn't.”

“You should've warned me, Jack! I was going out of my mind! Oh my God, is it true? Are the murders connected to Tilly? Who are the officers?”

Mounting worry had deepened the lines carved into her drawn face. He started to take her aside.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“No.” He felt a hand on his shoulder. “
We
need to talk.”

Gannon turned and met Hackett's scowl as the FBI agent backed him into a corner and dropped his voice to a menacing level.

“How did you learn about the homicides in Mexico, Gannon?”

Hackett's question went beyond concern over a press leak.

That Gannon knew about a major break at the same time the FBI had been informed underscored Hackett's worst nightmare as the lead investigator:
The sickening possibility that had dogged him with that memo on cartel infiltration of U.S. police ranks.

In the icy silence that passed between them, each man knew. By Hackett's body language, by the fury behind his eyes, Hackett telegraphed his fear of a potentially compromised investigation. It was there slithering in the air, that someone, anyone, among the half dozen agencies involved in the case, including those in Texas and Mexico, could be on a cartel payroll.

It rattled Hackett that Gannon had gotten so close.

“I don't expect you'll give up a source,” Hackett said, “but I'll warn you, if you jeopardize our case I'll charge you with obstruction.”

“It would be better if you accepted that you have your sources and I have mine. And we both want the same thing.”

“Just watch yourself.”

“Excuse me, I'd like to talk privately with my sister.”

“Listen up—if you have information relevant to this case, you'd better share it.”

Gannon made a point of lifting his chin to inventory the agents and officers in the house.

“Right, why don't you tell me about the two dead ‘cops' in the desert, Agent Hackett? Then we could talk about sharing, about trust.”

Hackett grimaced then left.

Cora was alone in her bedroom, looking at pictures of Tilly. Gannon's stomach tensed after he'd shut the door.
Trust
. Did he trust her? Could he trust her? She touched her tears that fell on the photos in the laminated album.

“Cora, I need you to help me find her.”

She nodded.

“We have no time. I need you to tell me the truth about everything.”

“I've told you everything.”

“I think you're holding back.”

“I told you I made a lot of mistakes in my life.”

“Stop the bullshit! I have seen what they do and what they are going to do to Tilly. You have to tell me everything so I can help.”

“Oh, God!”

“Why did you call me?”

“Because you're a good reporter and I thought you could help me find the people who took Tilly, so we could bring her home.”

“Are you part of this?”

“No!”

“Cora, what did you mean when you said you're being punished for past sins, that it's karma? What the hell do you mean?”

“Jack, I—I don't know—”

“Stop this! They're going to kill Tilly!”

“I know. I have to protect her. We have to find her.”

“Then tell me something that could help, damn it, Cora!”

“Maybe Tilly's father knows something.”

“I thought you said he was out of the picture?”

“He is. I haven't seen him since I was pregnant.”

“Why do you think he could help?”

“He's a police officer with the LAPD.”