by Mark Wheaton
Stabbed. I was stabbed.
The memories came back quickly now. The Bronco. Father Belbenoit and Bishop Osorio. The man with the melting face.
Nicolas.
He flashed back to the blade penetrating his flesh and recalled his body’s spasms as he fell to the ground. The last thing he saw was the reflection of the man in the side of the car. But something had happened to this memory. He was now looking at it from the point of view of Nicolas lying shot in the street. Instead of the black Bronco, there was the house at 6780 Diaz Boulevard.
But where was he now? This didn’t look like any of the many hospitals he’d visited in Los Angeles to tend to the spiritual needs of the sick and dying.
He closed his eyes, shut everything else out, and began to pray. He didn’t know if he’d find God there, but he hoped to find more of himself. His mind was muddy and troubled. He needed to center himself.
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. He waited for someone to enter, but they never did. He heard people pass in the hallway, the sound of vehicles on the road outside, even what he thought was a faraway gunshot, but he remained alone. At some point he blinked and it was night. He blinked again and it was morning. The room remained unchanged. He was almost afraid to speak, fearing what might happen if he did.
What if the wrong people came?
When he opened his eyes next, he found someone staring back at him from beyond the doorway. It was an old man wearing a loose-fitting shirt and cloth pants and carrying a broom. He was looking at Luis as if waiting for confirmation as to what he’d seen.
Luis raised his right hand as high as he could, which meant about two inches off the bed. At the gesture, the old man turned and shuffled off down the hall.
Okay.
A moment later Luis heard two pairs of running feet hurrying down the hallway. Into the room burst a pair of middle-aged nuns in full habit. They raced to the side of his bed, overjoyed.
“¡Padre! Usted ha regresado a nosotros. Es un milagro! A miracle. You are with us.”
Luis tried to speak, but no words emerged.
“You are in a hospital in Mexico,” the older of the two nuns said in Spanish, as if reading his mind. “The town of El Tule in Michoacán. We have been so worried about you.”
“How long?” Luis managed to croak.
“Twenty days,” the nun said, checking Luis’s pulse by a watch pinned to her habit. “I am Sister Vera Monte. This is Sister Marisol Klaveno.”
Luis nodded by way of greeting. He tried to lift himself up again but was gently pushed back down by Vera.
“You need to rest,” the nun said. “It is enough exertion for today that you have woken. That’s very good. But right now efforts like that can be costly. Please. Lie back. Maybe sleep more.”
Luis didn’t argue. Michoacán? How did I get there?
He was asleep before he had an answer.
When another morning came, Luis awoke to find his father asleep in a steel chair at the foot of his bed, hand resting on Luis’s ankle.
Is he why I’m here? Luis wondered.
His leg shifted, rousing Sebastian. When the older man saw that his son was awake, he smiled wide and clapped his hands.
“So, the nuns were right. Alive and alert. Thank God.”
“One out of two,” Luis said. “The sisters said I am in Michoacán?”
“El Tule,” Sebastian said, slowly easing himself from the chair to rise. “A couple hours west of Morelia.”
After steadying himself, Sebastian bent to unlatch the caster locks on each of Luis’s bed wheels. He slowly wheeled the bed over by the window.
Given that the hospital he was in seemed fairly new, Luis was surprised to look out not over a metropolis but a midsize town of mostly one-story buildings stretching out a few miles. A truck passed beyond the hospital’s gates, kicking up a cloud of dust the color of sand. Below the window was a courtyard, complete with concrete benches and religious statuary.
The other buildings in his sight line seemed small compared to the multistory hospital.
“Do you know this place?” Luis asked.
“It’s farm country,” Sebastian said. “This is the largest town for miles. An outpost in the shadow of the Pico de Tancítaro, off Highway 37, that’ll take you all the way to Playa Azul. The farmers bring their produce into the city, as most of the work here is in packing and preparing for export. It’s poor, but so is the rest of the area. Your mother and I came once for a funeral. Your great-uncle’s.”
This rang a distant bell in Luis’s memory. The funeral was before either he or Nicolas had been born, but their mother spoke about attending, as it had been one of her only trips to Mexico after leaving in her youth.
“He was a priest, my great-uncle?”
“He was,” Sebastian confirmed. “The fear was that you might be killed in the hospital. So I knew I had to get you somewhere far away but also safe. This seemed like a good answer.”
“How did we get here?” Luis asked.
“Oscar. He paid for a private flight. We landed in Uruapan, and then an ambulance drove us here. This hospital, San Juan Diego, has close ties to the El Tule diocese. The local parish priest, Father Arturo, has been our primary benefactor, even making sure you had a private room. Sandra’s uncle’s name carries weight around here. Father Arturo has even put me up in his parish rectory, an apartment building a couple of blocks from the church, San Elias Nieves.”
Luis stared out at the unfamiliar landscape, wondering how long he’d stay. He had to get back to his parish, to his life, to the real world. Mexico, particularly this far south, might as well have been on another planet.
“Did the killings stop?” Luis asked.
Sebastian nodded gravely. “Osorio and Belbenoit were the last. Many think you were kidnapped and are now dead. Only Oscar’s pilot knew where we were going. Oscar said he didn’t want to know.”
Because he’d have to tell the devil, Luis thought.
“To preserve that,” Sebastian said uneasily. “You shouldn’t call the States, contact your parish, or ring that deputy DA. If someone’s looking for you, I’d be afraid it could lead them—”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Luis interrupted. “I have no intention of calling anyone back home.”
Particularly as it seems God might’ve placed me precisely where I need to be.
XI
Michael relished the look on Deborah’s face as she went over the letters in her hands. Her eyes flicked from the one in her left to the one in her right, then back again, as if to compare the wording.
And why not? Michael thought. They practically say the same thing.
“What is this, Story?” Deborah asked.
“A courtesy,” Michael replied. “You did fire me, but I thought you should know—”
“Know what? That you found an end run to keep your name in the game? Fine. You’ve done that. Now you can leave this office.”
She slapped the letters back onto her desk. Michael looked again at the letterhead, the first being from the director of the FBI’s office and the other from the attorney general of the United States. He couldn’t quite see the signatures on the bottom of each but knew they were authentic. It had taken some doing, but Special Agent Lampman had brought him onto the FBI investigative team as a civilian contractor.
As it turned out, Deborah hadn’t necessarily meant her words to be taken as gospel when it came to firing Michael from the DA’s office, so both Justice and the FBI had reached out to her for clarification. She’d backtracked, been made to reinstate Michael in order that he continue to be paid by the City of Los Angeles, and the two letters Michael presented to her confirmed that he was now a special liaison.
“They’re using you, Michael,” Deborah warned. “This is the FBI. They don’t care about you. All they want is to glean everything they can from you, maybe make a few high-profile arrests, then ride back to DC.”
“More than you’re doing, Deborah,” Michael shot
back, folding the letters and returning them to his coat pocket. “And at least they’re using me to try and prosecute a crime. CIA’s using you to protect a criminal. You know who else was protecting a criminal? The guys who killed Naomi.”
Michael turned for the door. He expected Deborah to retort, curse him, or make excuses. When none of this came, he glanced back to her. She was already facing away, staring out her window at the view of Grand Park.
“If you’re going to leave, Michael, that was a great line to do it on,” she said.
“I’m sorry. This one’s personal to me.”
“And it’s not to me? I’m the one who plucked Naomi out of that mentorship program in the first place. You know why? Because she reminded me of myself. A young woman of color trying to kick ass in the big city going after the big fish. She didn’t have a corrupt bone in her body.”
Unlike the two of us, Michael inferred, completing Deborah’s thought.
“That’s why we can’t let this slide,” Michael said. “How many times have men like Sittenfeld gotten away with murder because of their connections? I’m sick of it. And yes, willing to sacrifice my career over it.”
“So anything less makes me a sellout, huh?” Deborah asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Deborah retorted. “But do you even have a plan? Other than ‘get Sittenfeld while thumbing your nose at the government’?”
“I do,” Michael said. “I’m close to implementing it, too. There’s just one piece of the puzzle I can’t find.”
The third day after he first awoke, Luis rose from bed. On the fourth he made his first walking journey, going the dozen feet or so from the bed to the bathroom, which had gone completely unused up to that point. No matter how he tried to mitigate against the pain in his torso, it still shifted as he walked, driving the invisible blade inside deeper and deeper.
But the indignity of having to be changed by the sisters was too much. He had to be able to relieve himself. Unlike in a big American hospital, where every room would have had a bathroom, San Juan Diego’s had one three doors down the hall. Halfway there he almost turned back to use a bedpan, but something yanked him forward like a cord. He was so unsteady as he drew down his trousers that he had to stabilize himself against the wall.
He’d begun to assess what had happened. He was supposed to be dead. There was no question of that. The blade had been aimed directly at his kidneys, a shot generally more lethal than a knife to the heart. It wasn’t like the attempt on Michael’s life, where a junkie was handed a machine gun down the block from a group of armored-car security guards. No sure result there. But the man who’d stabbed him had killed two other priests.
How could Luis have survived?
¿Un milagro?
A miracle was the one conclusion that made sense. All those platitudes about Nicolas (His work on earth was done, so God called him home) to Baby Cynthia (God wasn’t done with her on earth) came to him at once.
God wasn’t done with him yet. It wasn’t his time. He had put this case in front of Luis for a reason.
But what is that reason?
When Luis was on the way back, he felt his legs might give out at any second and held on to the wall with both hands to guide himself. The hospital was three stories high and had a central atrium that let in light from a skylight, however dusty, overhead. It was strikingly decorative compared to the more functional buildings Luis could see from his window. Given the number of people he could hear moving in and out of the emergency suites below, as well as the rooms on his level, he wondered if the space would’ve been better served by having two full floors for beds.
Though they were always busy, Luis knew the sisters must’ve seen him on his journey to the men’s room, but none offered him help. When he finally reached his bed and climbed in, he discovered why when Vera appeared in the doorway, delighted.
“Well done,” she said, hurrying over to take his pulse. “If we helped you, you wouldn’t push yourself as hard.”
Ah.
“Has my father come in today?” Luis asked. “I wanted to talk to him about the town.”
“No, he’s working at the school again. Should be by at the end of the day.”
“The school?” Luis asked, surprised. “Is he teaching?”
“Oh no,” Vera replied, arranging the blankets around him. “It’s still under construction. It’s being erected behind San Elias Nieves. Though Father Arturo refuses to hear of payment for your hospital bill, your father offered to put hammer to nail as a means of recompense. Turns out he’s quite the carpenter.”
“He is,” Luis agreed. “But I’m the one who owes Father Arturo a debt.”
“He won’t hear of that,” Vera said. “He’s very much looking forward to meeting you when you’re back on your feet. Now rest.”
Gennady hadn’t known what to expect when he typed Miguel Higuera’s address into his phone’s GPS. He didn’t recognize the street name and there’d been no zip code. So when it appeared that the house was in a tiny cul-de-sac high up in the hills off Mulholland Drive, tucked in alongside some of the most valuable real estate in the city, he was surprised. Miguel was a tech for Dzadour Basmadjian’s crew out in Glendale who did a version of what Gennady did, setting up shell corporations and front businesses for the Armenian mob.
But that was like being an IT guy for organized crime. Not exactly the highest-paid person on the totem pole.
They’d met through happenstance. A partner of Basmadjian was so impressed with Miguel’s work that he wanted to hire him to set up something similar for his outfit. Once Basmadjian told him that Miguel was strictly in-house, Higuera had passed along Gennady’s name as a recommended outside contractor. Gennady had never heard of Miguel Higuera and was surprised the young man had heard of him but was nevertheless grateful for the business. When Gennady contacted Miguel to thank him, despite being wary of being in another’s debt, Higuera joked over a secure IM line that the client would prove to be more trouble than he was worth.
This was eventually proven true, making Gennady curious about meeting this valued and prescient young man. Now, with his neck still visibly bandaged despite a high-collared shirt, Gennady made his way into the hills to finally sit with this mysterious tech head.
The last few weeks had been difficult for Gennady and his family. Getting accustomed to his inability to speak had led to a thousand problems, some minor, some major, but all with emotional consequences. Nina thought her daddy’s silence was some kind of game, as he didn’t look all that different, did he? So she tried to get him to talk but never could, frustrating her to no end.
Initially, Gennady’s injury was simple to explain to people, as the shooting in Santa Monica was fresh in their memories and easily referenced. A few weeks and a couple more mass shootings in the press and the incident was a distant memory, requiring a few more hand gestures or Yelena’s intervention. Gennady hadn’t wanted to socialize anyway, staying at home with his family since the shooting. The trek to Higuera’s house was his first solo excursion.
As he wound up Beverly Glen into the hills behind UCLA, Gennady went over what he wanted to ask Miguel. A quick inquiry had revealed that the tech freelancer seemed to have easy access to almost any computer system in the world, “tech freelancer” being a euphemism for “master hacker.” That he didn’t use his abilities to engage in blackmail or the illegal sale of stolen high-dollar software, as others might, told Gennady that Miguel was happy keeping off the grid as much as possible.
So why such an exclusive address then? Why not a shack out by the Salton Sea?
As he turned into the cul-de-sac and glanced around to the three small houses that made up the block, the answer was no more forthcoming. There were tremendous views of the neighboring canyon, particularly the one that matched Miguel’s address. It easily cost a million dollars, despite the slightly seventies architecture and décor. It looked like the home of a pair of semi-hippie retirees,
not a master crook trying to hide away.
Gennady parked and walked up to the front door. Though he’d communicated that he couldn’t speak, he still worried about having to pass any kind of verbal test to prove his identity. He knocked and waited, but no one came to the door. He knocked a second time, but again nothing.
He was about to text Higuera when a teenage boy on a rusty bicycle wheeled past.
“Looking for somebody?” the kid asked.
Gennady pointed to his throat and shook his head to indicate he couldn’t speak.
“You a salesman? ’Cause no one’s home.”
Disconcerted, Gennady took out his pad of paper and wrote, Looking for a friend.
“What’s their name?” the teenager asked.
Gennady added, Friend is overstatement. We have a mutual acquaintance. I’m here about hiring them for a job.
“What’s the name?” the teenager repeated.
Becoming aggravated but sensing the teen might have something to do with Higuera, he wrote, I have the address, not the name. I thought this would be a business.
“What business?” the teen asked.
They print T-shirts, he continued, wondering if this was some kind of a test to see if he’d blow Higuera’s cover if this was indeed his home. I work at a law firm. It’s for our softball team.
If this was some kind of test, Gennady had no idea if he was passing or failing.
The boy squinted up at Gennady after reading the latest. “Nobody like that around here. What happened to your neck?”
Gennady walked back to his car. He climbed in and was about to turn the key in the ignition when he saw the boy step into the house behind him.
Strange.
Before he could start the car, however, the engine roared to life on its own.
What the hell?
He grabbed the wheel, but it jerked from his hands, turning counterclockwise. Though the gearshift didn’t move, the car rolled forward. Gennady stomped on the brake, but nothing happened.
Oh God.
He flipped the switch for the emergency brake, but the car kept moving. He tried it a few more times to no avail. When he looked back up through the windshield, he saw that he was inching closer to the edge of the cliff. He reached for the door to bail out, only to find it locked.
