Face Blind

by Lance Hawvermale

  Fortunately the bartender returned, saving her from admitting any of this out loud. “Sorry,” he said. “No one here knows the man called Alban Olivares. You maybe come back tonight. Big crowd. Try again.”

  “That’s it?” Mira asked him. “Nobody knows anything? This is a military bar, right? Olivares was in the army. Surely somebody recognizes the name.”

  Faces watched her from the shadowed tables. A chair leg scraped against the floor.

  “Forget it,” Gabe said. “Let’s go.”

  “Show him the dog tags.”

  “It won’t make any difference.”

  “It might.”

  “It won’t.”

  He was right. Trying to find a single man in a nation of sixteen million …

  Gabe drained his bottle and led her under the silver scorpion and out the door.

  She expected someone to follow them out, perhaps a gang of them. But her fear of being tailed was surpassed by her frustration. She’d been counting on El Estribo to produce results, and now she felt cheated. “What happens now?” she asked.

  “More phone calls, I guess. Sooner or later we’ll find something solid.”

  Having failed at the bar, they wove through the trestle tables of a sidewalk sale in front of a boot store, and then Gabe stopped abruptly.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you hear that?”

  And then she did. Someone shouted behind them.

  Even as Mira turned, thoughts tumbled through her mind: The murderer had found them, the police had issued a warrant for them, or the cop with her hair in a bun had decided she didn’t like the look of these two Americans with trouble in their eyes. She saw instead a man jogging toward them. His hair was buzzed close to his scalp, a gold chain swinging at his chest. His polo shirt was tucked neatly into a pair of slacks with the sharpest creases Mira had ever seen. He didn’t look like an assailant, but you never could tell.

  “You know this guy?” she asked.

  Gabe shook his head. “I don’t think so. But honestly I’m not sure.”

  Whoever he was, he started talking even before he stopped in front of them, his long string of Spanish words like a strand of pearls, beautiful but of little practical use to Mira. He went on for twenty seconds, speaking so quickly that her pocket dictionary would’ve only sighed in defeat had she called it to arms. She understood only two words: Sargento Olivares.

  “Sergeant Olivares,” she said. “You know him?”

  When it became apparent to the man that these gringos didn’t understand him, he put his hand on his hips and—obviously irritated by their lack of lingua franca—said something that made no sense at all to Mira. “Desaparecido.”

  She looked at Gabe. “Any idea?”

  “Yeah.” He seemed suddenly distressed. “The Midnight Messenger is one of the disappeared.”

  “The disappeared what?”

  “People. The kind who vanish one day and never come back.”

  * * *

  Gabe found their interpreter at a coffee shop full of neo-hippies. His name was Andy, and as an itinerant guitar player, he was not about to turn down twenty bucks for five minutes of work.

  “… and he says you can call him Tadeo,” Andy translated. “He’s a cabo primero. I guess that’s some kind of, you know, rank in the army or something. I ain’t exactly sure. But he heard a guy asking around in the cantina, saying you wanted to find a certain someone.”

  Gabe introduced himself, not paying any attention to the bottle of water the waitress had placed in front of him. Olivares had known how all the pieces fit together. If Tadeo could somehow provide insight into the man’s life …

  Tadeo spoke at length, and Andy paralleled him as best he could in English. “Uh, he says the dude you’re looking for, Alban, wasn’t really a buddy of his, but like, uh … an acquaintance. They served together. Ol’ Alban skipped town a week or so ago, which was, like, totally out of character for him. He was really on the level. Straight, you know?”

  “I understand. So what happened?”

  Andy relayed the question and then repeated Tadeo’s response. “He says he thought Alban got kidnapped or something, like they used to do back in the day. I guess years ago there used to be some freaky shit going down around here.”

  “Freaky shit?”

  “Yeah, like, uh … the feds putting bags over people’s heads and kidnapping them.”

  “I didn’t think that happened anymore.”

  “Doesn’t, as far as anybody knows, but Tadeo here sort of panicked when Alban went missing, and he says the first thing he thought about was the old desaparecidos, the ones who get taken away and don’t return.”

  “Why would he panic if he admits the two of them weren’t even friends?”

  “Hell, how should I know? I don’t even know what you guys are talking about. I’m just the middle man. Alban was, like, the platoon leader or something. A sergeant. I ain’t exactly an expert in army-speak, so maybe platoon isn’t the right translation, but anyway, Alban was supposed to be somewhere and he never showed. And this was apparently a dude who always showed.”

  Gabe figured that was true. Any man who would go so far to save a child’s life was a man who always showed up when duty required it. And even when it didn’t. “Does he have any idea where the sergeant might have gone?”

  Andy asked, then listened to the lengthy response. “Well … he says the last anybody heard, Alban was on weekend leave. They asked around at his usual hangouts and knocked on his apartment door, but he never turned up. Now Tadeo is asking what you know.”

  I know his sergeant was head-shot and killed.

  “I don’t have any answers.”

  “Why are you looking for him?”

  “Is that Tadeo asking or you?”

  “Both. Hey, man, you got me curious, that’s all.”

  “Alban and I … we might have a mutual friend.” He thought of the pinwheel, growing from the sand like a tinfoil flower. “But I suppose it’s too late for any of that.”

  “Dude, it’s never too late. Just remember what the Buddha said. ‘Turn your tears into water, and your rage into rain.’”

  “Did Buddha say that?”

  “Yeah. Fat little guy, laughs a lot. You should give him a try.”

  Mira intervened, not distracted by Andy’s wayward philosophizing. “You said that Olivares had an apartment?”

  “I didn’t say it. He did.”

  “Is it nearby?”

  Andy asked, listened, nodded. “Says it’s in a block of duplexes on the south end of town, just behind the school. Not the best neighborhood, but hey, what the hell, right?”

  Mira stood up. “Then we’re only wasting time sitting around.”

  Gabe agreed, though he was surprised by Mira’s persistence. From what he’d learned about her, she’d come to Chile to introduce her brother to his favorite author. Luckily, Gabe’s flight across the desert had led him straight to her. Half a kilometer in either direction, he wouldn’t have her standing here now, pushing him closer to a dead man’s motive.

  “So what’s this all got to do with the price of Mary Jane in Jamaica, anyway?” Andy asked. “What’s going down?”

  “I wish I knew.” Gabe slid his chair under the table and realized that he hadn’t even touched his overpriced water. He grabbed the bottle. “Tell him I really appreciate his help.”

  Andy did, then waited for Tadeo’s response. “He says if you happen to find out anything, you can leave word for him at the bar. He’d appreciate it. He also says vaya con Dios and all that stuff.” He used a napkin to print the address Tadeo had given him.

  “Thanks.” Gabe shook Andy’s hand, then gave the two men an hasta la vista and fell into step beside Mira.

  “Are we considering that a productive conversation?” Mira asked.

  “In the last hour I’ve spent seventy bucks on information, so yeah, I’m hoping it was productive. I can’t afford any more bribes, considering I’m probably
unemployed.”

  “Probably?”

  “I haven’t gotten the official pink slip yet, but it’s a lock. There’s a bus stop. If our karma’s in order, maybe the driver speaks English.”

  They crossed the street, picking their way through the traffic of compact cars and trucks with unregulated exhausts. A digital billboard advertised the very brand of bottled water that Gabe had just purchased, and then it melded into a promo for a concert by the rock outfit Lucybell.

  “When we get to his apartment,” Mira said, “what is it, specifically, that we’re hoping to find?”

  “Specifically? Nothing. Non-specifically? Anything.”

  “Anything like what?”

  “Amend that. Not anything. Everything.”

  The bus stopped in front of them and opened its doors with a hiss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When the phone rang, Tilanna was breaking a man’s finger with an ice ax.

  … but the only way to set it properly was to rebreak it—a realization that turned her stomach into a paper airplane.

  “Paper airplanes don’t fly on Mars,” Luke said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “’Cause I remember from last time. When they tried to play baseball. It didn’t work very good. Gravity’s funny!”

  “Yes, sir, it is.” Ben scolded himself for doubting the young man’s perceptive streak. There were many things too complex for Luke to grasp, but his antenna for all things Martian was uncanny. “You know, you’re right about the airplane. But Tilanna isn’t really trying to fly the plane. We’re just using the plane as something called a metaphor.”

  “A meta for what?”

  Ben smiled. “For describing things like queasy stomachs. As a matter of fact—”

  His cell phone cut him off. Other than their own voices and the wild din of Mars, the last few hours had been quiet. If someone was calling, it was probably either Mira checking on her brother or the police bearing more bad news.

  When Ben got up from the desk, he expected his lower back to issue a veto, one that he would be forced to override by mustering at least two-thirds of his will. But the old gods who governed Mars, the deities of Bradbury and Burroughs, must have dumped their healing waters on him. He rose without pain and answered the phone while Luke turned on the TV.

  “Cable here.”

  “Benjamin, you have to get out of there.”

  The voice made no sense. For a moment Ben just stood there.

  Then he knew. “Joe?”

  “He was here, Benjo, Jesus God, he was here…”

  It took no more than that to convince him. Ben knew by the sound of his brother’s voice that things were bad. Maybe even worse than bad. Maybe dire. Jonah had used this same voice when lying in the street that afternoon in Newport Beach after the accident. Ben hadn’t heard it since, but now he was struck by an echo from that moment, his brother lying on a broken spine: Somethin’ ain’t right, Benjo. I think I’m hurt real bad.

  Ben held the phone in both hands. “I’m here, Joe. I’m always here. Just tell me what to do.”

  “That … that man showed up. He threatened to kill Donner…”

  “Who? I don’t understand. Who are you talking ab—”

  “The one who murdered Eduardo.”

  It fell into place. Ben felt it physically, like a coin dropping through the slot and rattling home. Jonah was talking about the one Gabe called the rifleman. “Joe, please tell me that you’re okay.”

  “He didn’t hurt me.”

  “And Donner?”

  “Alive. Scared shitless, but alive.”

  “Christ Almighty.” Ben sank down to the bed, his legs suddenly unsteady. Luke shut off the Spanish soap opera and watched him.

  “He said he would shoot Donner in the stomach. That’s what he said. That he would shoot Donner in the stomach so he would die slowly unless I told him.”

  Ben didn’t want to know, but he had to ask. “Tell him what?”

  “Where to find Traylin and Luke. I’m sorry, Benjo, I’m sorry, but I had to tell him. He wasn’t bluffing and I had to tell him.”

  “I gotcha. It’s cool. You did what you had to do to keep yourself safe.”

  “You have to get out of there, do you hear me? I want you on the first plane back to the States. Do you understand what I’m saying here, Benjamin?”

  “It’s not that easy…”

  “The hell it’s not. This man is extremely serious about this. He came back after the police left with Eduardo’s body. I don’t know where he was hiding, but he came back. He wore a rag around most of his face like … like some kind of goddamn cowboy bank robber.”

  Luke got up, crossed the room, and sat down on the bed beside Ben.

  “He had a gun,” Jonah continued, each word chiseled sharp with fear. “A rifle. He knocked Donner down in front of me and pointed it at him. He … he asked me where the two of them went, and then he started … he started counting down from five. He made it to three before I told him.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe. I’m sorry you got involved in this.”

  “I don’t give a damn if you’re sorry. None of this is your fault. Just get out of there.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. He told me that he was letting me live so I could warn you he was coming. He wants you to know. Do you understand what that means, what type of man you’re dealing with here? He just left, so you have enough time if you hurry. He was driving one of those all-terrain things, an ATV. Calama’s at least five hours from here. You have plenty of time to get to the airport. If there are no immediate flights to the States, just charter something to Santiago and go from there.”

  “Sounds perfectly reasonable, except it would mean leaving you behind. If this prick doesn’t find us here like you said we’d be, he’ll turn right around and pay you another visit, and this time he will kill you. No way I’m letting you face him alone.”

  “I already thought of that. I’ll call the police as soon as we hang up and let them know that Donner and I will be heading their direction. We’ll be there soon. Is that good enough for you?”

  Was it good enough? Since that day when the Malibu had changed their lives in 1979, Ben had never been in a situation where death was a real presence rather than just an abstraction. For all these intervening years, he’d never had to act to ensure his own survival. His fight-or-flight instincts were collecting dust in his attic, but now the trapdoor rattled on its hinges.

  “Do as I say, Benjamin. Get out.”

  “Keep the sat phone with you, brother. I’ll be in touch.” He ended the call.

  Luke said nothing, only stared at him and waited.

  “We better gather up our things,” Ben said, staring at the carpeted floor.

  “Why?”

  “We’ve got to check out of the hotel a bit early.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were right about the Martian. He’s not giving up.”

  “But I shot him with a ray gun.”

  “He’s hard to kill.”

  “We need Dycar. He could beat him.”

  “Dycar’s dead.”

  Luke didn’t have a rejoinder for this, and as Ben began stuffing scribbled-on stationery into a pillowcase, he felt the sting of the young man’s uncertainty. Lieutenant Dycar wouldn’t run, but rather meet the rifleman in the hall and let fate take care of the rest. Heroes didn’t need pillowcases as getaway bags.

  Ben wondered, just for a moment, if he was doing the right thing.

  * * *

  Mira plundered a dead man’s house.

  Gabe had brazenly forced the back door. Mira, who’d never ventured into petty crime as a teenager, observed this forced entry with a kind of scientific awe. This was how the criminal half lived.

  “We need to hurry,” Gabe had said, leading her inside. A furrow of splinters marred the doorjamb, the exit wound of the kicked deadbolt.

  Now, three minutes later, Mira stood in the living roo
m smelling that unfamiliar scent of someone else’s home. Eduardo died on a looped video in her mind. Every car that passed outside represented a threat. Had anyone seen them enter the house? Were the cops already on the way?

  “Just hurry,” she told herself. “Just go.”

  Though she never would’ve considered ransacking anyone’s home, she’d convinced herself that Señor Olivares wouldn’t mind. After all, wasn’t she trying to avenge him, at least in a bumbling, amateur way? It wasn’t as if she’d come to steal from the dead.

  A noise from outside drew her attention.

  She bit her lip, waited.

  Silent seconds tumbled by.

  When no one burst in on her and demanded an explanation for her trespass, she got back to the business of looking for answers. She remembered that old Bob Seger tune: she was working on mysteries without any clues.

  There was little to see. When it came to interior design, Alban subscribed to the philosophy of the Benedictine monks. The carpet was worn but clean. A pair of bookends shaped like praying hands supported three novels and a Bible, all of which were written in Spanish. The only piece of furniture was a simple futon covered by a handmade afghan.

  She heard Gabe moving around in the bedroom. Doors opened. Floorboards creaked.

  How could she be expected to find any hints in such Spartan quarters? Damn you, Bob Seger.

  She picked up the only photo in the room, a portrait in a gold plastic frame. Judging by the fashion, the hair, and the god-awful pull-down portrait screen, the picture was at least twenty years old. Man: smiling with teeth and toupee. Woman: primly perfect with husband’s hand on her shoulder. Boys: curly-headed brothers with mischief crouched in the crooks of their elbows, waiting for release.

  She carried the picture to the bedroom. “Anything?”

  Gabe pulled his head out of the closet. “And I thought I had the worst fashion sense in this hemisphere.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Not if you’re into beige. Guy’s got eight pairs of pants in different shades of blah.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And a shoe box full of paper-clipped receipts and banking mumbo-jumbo, but other than a CD collection of people I’ve never heard of before, then yeah, that’s it. What about you?”