The Night Charter (23 page)

M
ATT SAT IN
the chair where Chapado had been held and rocked back and forth with his head in his hands. His mind raced ahead of him, skipping across ideas and plans and discarding them almost as soon as they occurred to him. He kept coming back to the knowledge that he had nothing and Camaro Espinoza had everything.

After he had run through every permutation of rape, torture, and murder that he could imagine, he was forced to turn toward more feasible ends. The corpse of Sandro Soto wasn't getting any fresher. Neither was the situation. He had to settle on something concrete and follow through on it. Otherwise he was lost completely.

Slowly his mind settled. He breathed more easily. The nervous sweat was gone, replaced with the simple perspiration of being in the hotbox interior of the warehouse without so much as a fan to stir the air. He took out his phone and dialed.

“Mr. Clifford,” Hugo Echave said when he answered. Matt heard the barely contained rage once more. “What do you want?”

“There's been a change of plans,” Matt said.

“What change of plans? You assured me last night that the exchange would go ahead on the schedule you set. This is what you
said,
Mr. Clifford! And now you call to play more games!”

“It's not like that,” Matt said. “I'm calling because the place where I was going to set the meet is no good. We can't go there. There will be cops all over. I have to find somewhere new, or we're both gonna get caught up in something.”

“This cannot go on forever, Mr. Clifford. We must come to a conclusion. You've killed eight of us and one innocent. We believe you will harm Señor Chapado if we push you. We're ready to
deal
. All you must do is agree to make the exchange.”

Matt cursed silently. “I need another day or two.”

“No! We must move forward. Or are you going to commit another murder?”

“I didn't kill that guy and his wife!” Matt said. “How many times do I have to tell you that? It's got nothing to do with me. Believe me, all I want is Chapado off my hands and the money in my bag. It's just going to take a little longer than I thought. It's not the end of the world.”

He could feel Echave seething. “Señor Chapado is dead,” the man said finally.

“What? No, he's not dead!”

“Let me speak to him.”

“No. No, you can't talk to him. He's asleep.”

“Wake him up!”

“I'm not letting you talk to him, okay? I have him and he's
fine
. You don't have to worry about anything. We're going to do this in a few days. Everybody will be happy.”

“I want a photograph of Señor Chapado—
alive
—with a copy of the
Herald
. A current copy. You have twenty-four hours to produce this photograph, or we will consider Señor Chapado dead and our deal at an end. You won't get a single day to enjoy your money before we find you and kill you.”

“You were going to kill me anyway,” Matt said. “You said so yourself.”

“Yes. You are going to die, Mr. Clifford.”

“Then screw you. I'm not sending you any picture. You
will
wait for me to set a place and a time, and you
will
bring me my money. And maybe in the meantime you can get your shit straight and stop blaming me for killing people I didn't kill. If I did it, you would know.”

“We do know, Mr. Clifford.”

“Whatever. See you around, Hugo.”

Matt hung up the phone. His body trembled all over. He clasped his hands around the phone to still himself.

C
AMARO SLEPT, AND
in the bathroom the man was also sleeping in his spot beneath the sink. Lauren was thirsty, but she didn't want to disturb either of them with the sound of the water. So she sat and watched the clock count away the minutes until she decided it was late enough.

Before she went, she took one of Camaro's phones, the cheap-looking one, and some of the cash left on the nightstand. Lauren didn't know how much these things would cost, so she took a hundred dollars. That should be more than enough, with more left over for something to eat and drink.

She let herself out of the room quietly and walked down the length of the motel to stay out of the sun for as long as possible. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed around, the former lighting on Lauren briefly before she flicked them away. She'd read somewhere that mosquitoes liked the smell of feet, so she expected there would be bites around her ankles by the time she got back.

Away from the motel, she stayed to the grass and gravel at the edge of the road. Eventually, she walked far enough that the motel disappeared, but other shapes were coming into view ahead of her. It occurred to her that all she had to do was keep going, that it would be as easy as calling 911 and asking to be taken away from here, but she did neither of these things. The police were the first step toward foster care, and she did not want to go back to that.

Thoughts of foster care returned her to memories of her dad. The pain was still raw and fresh and would be that way for a long time. At least now she didn't cry uncontrollably whenever his face appeared to her. Even now she had only a single tear, and she wiped it away. She sniffed a little, but kept the rest inside. That was where it had to stay for now, until she was gone from this place and somewhere the system could not lay its hands on her.

Lauren tried to imagine her dad and Camaro together, but she couldn't. They were completely different. Her father had always had an air of defeat around him, a sadness no amount of hugs could lift. Camaro was like a wall, with everything she felt hidden behind it. Lauren knew no one could touch Camaro through that wall if she didn't allow it. At some point she must have let Lauren's dad have that access, and this was the end result. Lauren was aware that in the end Camaro would kill the man she once called Uncle Matt. This did not bother her at all. And in the meantime, she would be like Camaro and build a wall of her own.

The drugstore was next to an auto parts store that was next to a hardware store that was next to a small family grocery. Lauren went to the drugstore first, exactly as Camaro instructed her, and took a handbasket to carry her things. She went down the short list, browsing the aisles until she found everything, and then she took it all to the cashier.

The man behind the register was old, and he smiled at her as he rang up her purchase. “Keep cool now,” he admonished her when she walked away.

The grocery was compact and nothing like a grand supermarket, but it had things to take the edge of hunger off. Lauren bought a few pieces of fruit—oranges and apples and bananas—and a two-liter bottle of Coke. She lingered awhile in the bread section, thinking about making sandwiches, but there was no cool place in the motel room to keep the baloney and cheese safe to eat. Eventually, she settled on a box of cookies and some saltines.

The woman who rang her up bagged her purchases in paper and made change. Lauren thanked her but got no reply. She headed outside again.

An awning stretched out along the front of the hardware store and provided some shade. Lauren put her bags down and looked at the phone. From her other pocket she took a crumpled sheet of paper with Richard Story's information on it and called the phone number.

At first she thought he wouldn't answer, but finally he did. He sounded out of breath, as if he had been running or lifting heavy things. It was the middle of the day. He was probably working. “Hello?” he asked.

“Is this Richard Story?”

“Yes, speaking. Who is this?”

“I'm your niece. Lauren.”

Richard was quiet for a long moment, and then he said, “Lauren? How did you get my number?”

“I looked it up on the Internet.”

“I haven't seen you since you were about four or five. How old are you now?”

“Fourteen.”

“Wow, fourteen. How's your dad?”

Lauren hesitated. There was no other way to say it. “He's dead.”

She might have heard him gasp. She didn't know for certain. “Dead? How? When?”

“It was a couple of days ago,” Lauren said. “I think he was shot.”

“You think? Jesus, Lauren. Where are you now? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm staying with a friend of my dad's. But I need someone to come and get me.”

“A friend? Aren't the police looking after you?”

“It's kind of hard to explain,” Lauren said. “But I'm safe. The police are trying to find out who did it. I need someone to pick me up, Uncle Richard. You're the only one who can. If you don't, they're going to put me in care.”

“Put you in care,” Richard said. “What does that mean? Like protective custody?”

“No, like a home for kids with no families. I have a family, though: you.”

Richard sounded less breathless now. “Lauren, I'm all the way out in Texas. Are you and Parker…I mean, are you still in Miami?”

“Yes. I really need you to come, Uncle Richard. I know it's been a long time, but I don't want to go back into care. I want to be with a real family.”

Emotion welled up in her. She remembered Camaro and placed a barricade between her outward self and her inward self. This was hard enough without bawling into the phone.

“I don't know how I'd get there,” Richard said. “I want to, but I don't have money for a plane.”

“
Please,
Uncle Richard. I need you now.”

“Shit,” Richard said.

Lauren poured all the energy she could into her next words. “Will you come?”

“Aren't the police going to want you to stay put?”

“They won't stop me from going with you,” Lauren said.

“I have kids of my own, Lauren. There's not a lot of room at home.”

“I have to get out of here,” Lauren said. “Please.”

A long, long time passed. Lauren clung to the phone with both hands. “I can drive,” Richard said at last. “But it's gonna take a while. A couple of days maybe. Can you hold on that long? Will you be safe? They won't try to make you go anywhere, will they? Not if they know I'm coming?”

“I won't go anywhere.”

“Where are you, so I can find you?”

“I'm not sure where I'll be in two days,” Lauren said. “Call this number again when you're close to the city. I'll tell you then.”

“Lauren…am I walking into some kind of trouble there? Your dad…”

“It's okay,” Lauren said. “Everything will be okay if you come.”

“I'll leave as soon as I can get home and get packed,” Richard said.

The tension fled her. “Thank you, Uncle Richard. You're saving my life.”

“Just don't go getting yourself into trouble. Steer clear of whatever the police are doing. I'm going to want to know all about it when I get there.”

“I'll tell you everything,” Lauren said. “Good-bye, Uncle Richard.”

“Take care, Lauren.”

They hung up. Lauren clasped the folded phone between her hands as if praying, and then put it away. She picked up the bags from the drugstore and the grocery and went back to the motel.

C
AMARO WOKE AT
the soft knock on the door. She brought her pistol with her as she checked the peephole. In the bathroom, Chapado was awake and watching. Lauren stood outside. Camaro let her in.

“I got what you needed,” Lauren told her when she put the bags on the bed. “And some other stuff.”

“How did it go?” Camaro asked her. She put the Glock at the small of her back.

“No one cared I was out there,” Lauren said.

“Good. Did you see anyone hanging around? Watching the motel?”

“Nobody.”

“Okay,” Camaro said. She looked in the plastic bag from the drugstore. All the things were there. She went to the bathroom and brought out the key to the handcuffs.

Chapado exhaled with relief as she let him loose. His wrists were red, despite the relative looseness of the cuffs, and Camaro was reminded that long use of cuffs like these could cause nerve damage. If she'd had another way to secure him, she would have used it. But that was not going to happen.

The man shook his hands out and rubbed at his wrists. “Thank you,” he said.

“You're going back in them when we're finished. Sit on the edge of the tub.”

He did as he was told. Camaro brought the supplies in. She ran the sink until the water steamed and washed her hands before filling the basin. She soaked a small towel in it. When that was done, she indicated that Chapado should put out his injured arm and let her lay the towel on it. He hissed when the hot cloth touched the raw wound.

“That's just to soften things up a little bit,” Camaro said.

She let the cloth sit for a couple of minutes and then lifted it off and cast it into the sink. The white was stained by leakage from the wound. If it was not cleaned thoroughly, it would get worse.

A pair of medical scissors were in a plastic bubble on a piece of cardboard. Camaro popped them out. There was no sterilizing them, but she let them rest in the sink until they were warm to the touch, then washed them in isopropyl alcohol. Two pieces of skin had been peeled free of Chapado's forearm. Camaro scissored them away, exposing the raw layer underneath, and then put the scissors aside.

There were cotton balls in the bag and hydrogen peroxide. Camaro let a couple of balls absorb the liquid. Then she knelt in front of Chapado to apply the peroxide to the wounds. Immediately, there was a sizzle and white foaming. “It stings,” Chapado said.

“It might a little. But it'll help bring up any debris down in the cuts.”

The stink of Chapado was still intense, especially so close. Camaro ignored it. Once the bubbles died down, she used a washcloth steeped in the scalding water to wipe down the injury. Chapado made a low, pained noise, but that was all.

More cotton balls, this time carrying a charge of the alcohol, gave the wounds a second cleaning. Chapado kept his silence then, though Camaro knew this must have been the most painful thing of all.

She was applying a layer of antibiotic ointment when Chapado spoke again. “You are a nurse?”

“No.”

“You were a soldier?”

“I was once.”

“It was there that you learned this?”

“Yes. I can take care of a lot worse.”

“I thought you might be a soldier. The way you killed that man. No hesitation. No remorse.”

Camaro glanced up at him. He was watching her closely. “Killing somebody is easy,” she said. “You pull a trigger.”

“I think we both know that is not the case.”

Camaro washed her hands again before opening up a package of gauze. “It doesn't matter. I did what I had to do to get you out of there.”

“But why? To get money from Clifford?”

“I don't want any of his money.”

“Then money from my people?”

“I don't want their money, either,” Camaro said.

“Then what is it? Why don't you let me go?”

Camaro covered the wound with a double layer of sterile gauze and then used medical tape to secure it on all four sides. “I'm doing something I don't have to explain to you. All you need to worry about is getting to your friends in one piece. When all of this is over, that's what will happen.”

“When?”

“Soon. I have things to take care of first.”

“I'm not afraid to die,” Chapado said.

“Are you sure about that?” Camaro asked. She looked him in the face.

He turned his head. “I try not to be afraid.”

“There's no harm in being afraid. I'm afraid.”

“You don't seem to be.”

“That's the difference between you and me.”

“If I must die,” Chapado said, straightening, “then I would prefer to die on my feet. Not begging. Can you promise me that will happen?”

“Nobody's going to die,” Camaro said. “Nobody we care about, anyway.”

“Then who?”

Camaro stood up. She brought out the cuffs. “Time for lockup. Get down on the floor.”

Chapado did as he was commanded, and Camaro cuffed him in. “I never learned your name,” he said.

“No,” Camaro said. “You didn't.”