In Desperation

by Rick Mofina

  Since her televised appeal yesterday, people from across the city had brought her balloons, stuffed toys and notes of support. After passing their gifts to police at the line, most well-wishers spoke to the media, offering their teary consolation for Cora.

  The cabdriver who’d delivered the yellow bouquet stopped to talk to insistent reporters after he’d handed the vase over the tape to a sheriff’s deputy. “Sir, just a few words please, sir!” The deputy gave the vase a quick inspection before taking it around the back to investigators who were checking each item.

  The female Phoenix police officer who’d accepted the flowers passed a wand over the vase then delicately probed the stems with latex-gloved fingers. A detection dog from the K-9 unit sniffed the bouquet before the flowers were taken inside. The FBI agent who’d received them started to set them in the living room with the other items but reconsidered.

  She saw Cora on the sofa, hands cupped around a mug of coffee. Her hair was pulled back and her sleep-deprived eyes brimmed with sadness as if she were gazing into an endless pit.

  “These look pretty, don’t you think, Cora?”

  The agent glanced at Gannon, who was standing nearby, checking his cell phone messages, then she set the vase on the coffee table. The fragrance generated a weak smile from Cora.

  “All yellow,” the agent said, “for hope.”

  But Cora feared she was running out of hope. Aside from last night’s false alarm at the Burger King in Tempe, the FBI had received no strong leads on Tilly.

  Where was she? Why hadn’t Lyle called? Where was he?

  And she’d heard nothing from the kidnappers.

  The alarm ringing at the back of Cora’s mind grew louder, filling her with doubt. Had she been wrong to go to the police? The way she’d been wrong about so much in her life, running away from her family and making so many mistakes. But that was the past. She’d left it behind and had been rebuilding her life, piece by piece.

  Why was this happening?

  Was it somehow tied to the unforgivable act she’d committed all those years ago? Stop. It made no sense to think like that because it had nothing to do with Tilly’s kidnapping.

  But what if karmic forces were at work?

  Guilt began to tighten its grip on her.

  “Are you going to open it?”

  The agent indicated the envelope that Cora still held in her hand. She opened it to a simple white card, with an embossed garden scene. She unfolded it, expecting, as with the other cards, an expression of sympathy or something encouraging.

  She stopped breathing when she read:

  You called police. You pay the price. Remove the flowers and look in the water. Find GALVIERA or more will come!!!

  Cora couldn’t move.

  “Is something wrong?” Gannon had been watching her.

  Cora’s hands trembled as carefully she lifted the flowers from the water. She was afraid to look but forced herself to pick up the vase, tilt it and slowly peer into the water.

  Shock hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest.

  Her stomach lurched as she felt the earth move under her.

  “What is it?” Gannon said.

  “Are you all right?” the agent asked.

  Cora dropped the vase. It shattered on the coffee table.

  “Oh Christ!” said the agent, incredulous, staring at the two white orbs that had fallen from it to the floor. They looked like small boiled eggs. Each had swirls of pink fleshy strands and blue irises.

  Eyes.

  “My baby!!!”

  Cora released a raw heart-stopping shriek and began flailing at the air.

  “Jesus!” Gannon rushed to her.

  After reading the note without touching it, Hackett seized a radio and called to officers outside in the front yard.

  “Eight-sixty. Who made the last delivery? The yellow flowers in a yellow vase, who brought that?”

  “Seven-O-one. Cabdriver with Flying Eagle. He’s out front talking to the press.”

  “Grab him!”

  “Say again eight-sixty?”

  Cora’s screams had interfered with Hackett’s transmission.

  “Grab him now! Keep it low key and bring him around back!”

  Cora screamed and screamed until she passed out.

  Eventually, Gannon and the others got Cora to her bedroom.

  Paramedics were called to tend to her while FBI crime scene experts cleared the living room and began investigating the note, pieces of the vase and its grisly contents.

  Outside, at the back of the house, Hackett and Larson went at Velmar Kelp, the taxi driver who’d delivered the flowers.

  “Like I told you, I just delivered them,” Kelp repeated. “I stopped for coffee at Zeke’s Diner on the west side, at Central and Eighty-Second Avenue and this guy came up to me, all busted up about the missing girl and whatnot and gives me two hundred bucks to deliver them,” Kelp said. “What’s going on?”

  “It looks like you’re involved in the kidnapping, Velmar.”

  “What? You’re crazy.”

  “A shit storm is about to come down on you so you’d better give us the truth now.”

  “I just delivered the flowers for some guy on the street, I swear!”

  “Did this guy have the address?”

  “No. I got it from my dispatcher, from First Eagle bringing fares to the house here, you know, news people. And the Republic story today gives the street and whatnot.”

  The FBI refused to let up.

  Did Kelp get the guy’s name, a card, a phone number? What did he look like? Any scars? Tattoos? What about his clothing? The way he spoke? Show us the cash he gave you. Were there witnesses? Did he ask for a receipt? Was anyone else with him? Did he get into a vehicle?

  Their questioning grew into an unyielding interrogation until they convinced Kelp to ride with them to Zeke’s Diner where he’d received the flowers. Supported by Phoenix detectives, FBI agents canvassed the area and searched for security cameras, all while pressing Kelp for more details.

  They demanded he volunteer his fingerprints.

  At Cora’s house, the FBI evidence team processed the vase and note for latent prints. It was when they undertook the gruesome task of examining the eyes that their interest deepened. Something ran counter to the assumption. Something was different. They needed to conduct more tests but one of the forensic experts said: “These are characteristic of Sus scrofa, recently isolated.”

  It took a sedative and several hours to calm Cora.

  By the time she woke, Hackett had returned and was with Gannon and a few other people in her room. Taking stock of their faces, Cora braced for the worst.

  Tilly was dead.

  “Cora,” Gannon started.

  She stifled a guttural moan.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  “The eyes are not human,” Hackett said.

  She blinked in confusion.

  “They were removed from a dead pig. They’re pigs’ eyes.”

  “Pigs’ eyes?”

  “They can’t belong to Tilly, or anyone else,” Hackett said.

  Overcome with relief and fear, Cora buried her face in her hands.

  “They just wanted to pressure you, send a message,” Hackett said.

  “To prove they’re evil fucking bastards?”

  “Cora,” Hackett said, “we still need to collect your fingerprints.”

  She stared at him.

  “My fingerprints? But you already have Tilly’s. Why do you need mine? How will my fingerprints bring Tilly back?”

  “We have to process the prints of everyone who touched the vase, the card and other things,” Hackett said. “We talked about why we needed your prints at the outset when ERT started their work.”

  She remembered but said nothing.

  Hackett then indicated the fingerprint analyst next to him with a laptop.

  “We’ve got an electronic scanner. No ink, no mess. It won’t take long.”


  Cora hesitated and Gannon tried to help the situation.

  “I gave mine. Cora, it’s routine.”

  “To create elimination prints,” Hackett said. “To help isolate prints that should not be present.”

  Cora still hesitated.

  Hackett and Gannon exchanged glances.

  “Is there some reason you’re reluctant?” Hackett asked. “We want you to volunteer your prints but we can get a warrant for them, if we have to.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll give them.”

  “Good,” Hackett said.

  The technician set things up on her kitchen table, positioning Cora in a chair. But when she placed her fingers on the glass platen, raw, exposed, her mind thundered with a memory and her fingers trembled. “I’m going to need you to relax,” the analyst said.

  “Sorry, I’m still a bit jittery from everything.”

  “I understand.”

  “Maybe if I took a hot shower, it might help me relax.”

  The tech nodded and she took her hand away from the scanner.

  Cora was coming apart.

  In the shower, she tried in vain to hide from everything, contending with her guilty heart. Needles of hot water stung her, like the sting of mistrust she felt whenever Jack looked at her.

  Steam clouds rose around her and carried her back to the point when her life first began to darken. Cora was sixteen and her friend Shawna had convinced her to go to a party downtown.

  “There’s going to be older college guys there.”

  Cora had never done anything wild like that in her life.

  “Time for you to bust out, girl,” Shawna told her.

  At the party, the people were older. Way older. There was talk that some were ex-cons on parole. Cora was uneasy and begged Shawna to leave. But Shawna was having fun and kept passing Cora these fruit drinks the older guys kept making.

  Cora started feeling woozy.

  Someone took her into a bedroom, told her to lie down…don’t worry you’ll be fine…relax…the walls started spinning…the bed was flying and she felt someone undressing her…she couldn’t resist…couldn’t move…the first man stood over her, climbed on top of her…when he finished another man followed him then another as she faded into oblivion…

  Cora didn’t know how she got home that night.

  Did someone look in her wallet for her address and drive her?

  When Cora woke and realized what had happened to her, she climbed into the shower and scrubbed herself raw. She wanted to peel off her skin.

  She wanted to kill herself.

  How could she have been so stupid?

  Shawna never knew. She’d left the party earlier, thinking Cora had left without her. Cora never told anyone what had happened. Not Shawna, not her mother, not anyone.

  She was too ashamed.

  She wanted to apologize to her parents, wanted to make herself invisible. She wanted to die.

  In the time that followed, Cora thought she could handle it, but she couldn’t. She’d turned to drugs. It was the only way she could survive. Her mother and father tried to get through to her, tried to help her.

  “What’s wrong with you, Cora?” Her mother sensed something had happened. “You’ve changed. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

  Cora was so ashamed she could never bring herself to talk about it and soon grew angry at her mother’s concern, her prodding. It led to one argument after another, until the last one before she left home at seventeen. With Rake.

  A nineteen-year-old heroin addict who’d convinced her that her destiny was to live with him and his friends in a drug-induced splendor by the sea in California. She was so stupid. After Rake vanished, there were other addicts. For years she drifted in a drug-addled haze.

  Then came that night, that horrible rainy night in California.

  She’d struggled to blot it out of her mind, to never think of it, or all the events that came later that had cast her into a pit so dark she thought she would not survive. It was while she was lost in the darkness that she’d become pregnant with Tilly.

  At that time Cora never realized that Tilly was her tiny point of light. She was too terrified. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go home. Ever. She was ashamed. She was scared. She went to a clinic.

  But she couldn’t go through with it.

  She went to a church and prayed and soon it dawned on her that this was her miracle. This was her reason to start over. She’d been given a second chance with this baby.

  This new life.

  But it always came back to that awful night in San Francisco.

  The incident was always there. Close to the surface, breaking into her thoughts like flashes of lightning.

  Don’t think about it.

  The blood.

  Stop.

  So much blood.

  Stop.

  Blood on her hands.

  Now she was being punished for the sin she’d committed that night.

  Cora was so afraid she couldn’t breathe.

  Forgive me.

  Standing in the shower Cora stared at her hands.

  Were they still red with blood?

  Overcome, she fell against the shower wall and slid to the floor, lost in a whirlwind of confusion.

  She could not let anyone find out about that night in San Francisco. She had to protect Tilly.

  How did this happen?

  Where was Lyle? How could he do this?

  She could not survive without Tilly.

  16

  Somewhere in Arizona

  Lyle Galviera swallowed hard.

  This was the last one. It totaled $1,153,280.

  All bound with elastic bands in brick-sized bundles of tens and twenties and stuffed into six nylon gym bags.

  He was careful to keep his back to the security camera as he zipped the last bag closed. He set it with the others in the self-storage unit, a corrugated metal five-by-five space he’d rented from JBD Mini-Storage at the edge of Phoenix. He snapped the steel lock, tucked the key in his boot and exhaled.

  The unit was air-conditioned but Galviera was sweating because the plan, this critical plan, had gone to hell when someone had kidnapped Tilly.

  Why? She had nothing to do with anything.

  Why, goddamn it? Goddamn it. God-fucking-damn it.

  Dragging the back of his shaking hand across his dry mouth, he forced himself to keep cool. He had to fix this. All right, what could he do right now?

  Stick to the plan.

  It was all he had.

  Adjusting his ball cap and dark glasses, he returned to JBD’s security office. When the acne-faced kid at the counter saw him, he stopped bobbing his head, tugged at his earphones and ceased playing a game on his cell phone.

  “I forgot to give you some of our data, Mister…” The kid had to consult the clipboard with Galviera’s information. Galviera had rented the self-storage unit moments ago for fifty a month using a counterfeit driver’s license. “Sorry, Mr. Pilsner, here you go.”

  Galviera accepted the brochure.

  “And sorry, dude…I mean, sir…I also need you to sign the release that you understand our rules.”

  Galviera glanced at the sheet and took up the pen.

  “Only you have 24-7 access to your unit at JBD,” the kid said, “unless you give someone else your gate code, your keys and unit number. JBD has no access to your unit. As the tenant, you’re responsible for your unit and anyone you give your information to.”

  “Fine.” Galviera signed. “Thanks.”

  His knees nearly buckled walking to his battered Grand Cherokee. He had just finished securing $5.1 million of drug cartel cash in several locations. Before Tilly was kidnapped he was supposed to meet his cartel people to finalize his share of his biggest and last deal.

  The kidnapping changed everything.

  Am I caught between two cartels?

  Somehow Galviera’s people had to fix this. They had to help find Tilly. Alive.

  But t
hings kept changing so goddamned much.

  If this didn’t go down right, he was a dead man.

  As he drove, he tried to think.

  Today was Tuesday, or was it Wednesday? He wasn’t sure. Last Friday, according to the original plan, he was to fly from Phoenix to California, ostensibly for Quick Draw company business. No one knew the truth: that he was really flying to L.A. for his last deal with his cartel partners.

  But before boarding his flight in Phoenix, Galviera, as instructed, went to a pay phone, deposited a stream of coins, called a temporary number and checked in with Octavio, his chief cartel associate.

  “The situation has changed,” Octavio had said. “We’ve learned that a competitor is now disputing ownership of our routes and demanding payment.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You are likely being followed.”

  “Followed? Jesus Christ! You said there’d be no complications!”

  “Listen to us.”

  “No, you listen. I’m the one holding the goddamned money. I’m the target. You guaranteed no complications. I did not sign on for this bullshit. What do I do now?”

  “You shut up. You listen. And you live.”

  Galviera listened.

  “We must take very specific action. We’ve made arrangements. Abandon your flight to L.A. and drive to San Diego immediately. On the way, stop at a public phone and call the number I give you, at the time I give you. Tell no one. Before you leave, get rid of your cell phone.”

  Galviera got to his pickup truck and headed alone for California. Octavio had advised him to stop in Yuma, where a “friend of ours” had exchanged Galviera’s F-150 for a Grand Cherokee, gave him paperwork for it and counterfeit ID.

  “In San Diego, collect the cash. All of it,” Octavio said.

  “All of it?”

  “All of it. Then drive back to Phoenix. Break up the total and secure it in the locations we’ll provide. Then you will meet us in the Phoenix area at the specified address on the specified date and time we will give you. Do not deviate from our instructions.”

  Galviera followed them to the letter.

  Making the six-hour drive across California and Arizona loaded with over five million in cash was unnerving, but it went OK. It was after he’d returned to Phoenix and was in the process of storing the money that the news broke of Tilly’s kidnapping and the link to him.