by M. G. Harris
I stare across the potholed lakeside street, beyond a semi-constructed villa that’s already overgrown with raggedy weeds. The lake water is just as I remember it, a sharp, dazzling blue, improbably bright.
With the helmets under our arms we stroll down the lakeside road to a restaurant set in a neatly clipped lawn with flower beds. Accordion rhythms of Mexican norteño music play over loudspeakers. The restaurant is almost deserted – the lunchtime rush won’t start for another hour or so. We veer past the bar, where two long-haired women in bikinis sit sipping beer from frosty glasses. At the edge of the lake a long wooden pier reaches out into the water. A glass-bottomed boat is moored about halfway up, waiting for the next batch of visitors. The water sports centre is before that; nothing more than a collection of slightly shabby-looking jet skis.
Seeing us approach, a skinny, very tanned boy about my age and wearing only a pair of bright yellow shorts lopes over, squinting in the sunlight. He shows us to where he’s already set up two scratched-up Kawasakis for us. Benicio hands him a bundle of Mexican peso notes and gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “OK, pal,” he says in Spanish. “We’ll see you later!”
We both slide into position on the jet skis and rev up. Then we’re moving out beyond the stacks of parked jet skis and into the water, giving a wide berth to the swimmers near the pier. At Benicio’s signal I ratchet up the speed until we’re both skimming the water, slapping the vehicles along an occasional small wave. Benicio edges ahead, indicating that I should follow. He swerves towards the edge of the lake and then slows down. I do the same, until we’re both at a standstill.
Bobbing up and down on his Kawasaki, Benicio lifts up his visor. “So?” he yells. “Does this one look familiar?”
I follow his finger to a house on the bank. It’s a modern white villa built in the old Spanish style, with a terracotta-tiled roof. Doesn’t look remotely familiar. With a quick nod he flips the visor into place and we’re back on the water. About ten minutes later we stop by another house. This one is almost impossible to see behind a thick forest of tall reeds. There are arched windows and the building is white, but instead of the tidy lawn I remember from the dream, there’s a wide patch of gleaming white gravel.
I shake my head slowly. Benicio looks disappointed. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “There’s one more house that matches your description; lakeside, white, modern, arches, lots of glass. It’s another five hundred metres from here. But it’s been unoccupied for months. The realtor said the renters moved their stuff out but that they won’t let it go on the market. Their rent keeps arriving, every month.”
“It looks sort of familiar. . .”
Benicio nods, thoughtful. “It was one of the first houses I checked. But it was empty. I assumed that it wasn’t the right place, so I didn’t search it.”
“All these houses kind of look the same. I’d need to see it close up to be sure. I mean . . . I really wish you’d asked me months ago. Maybe it’s too late for us. To find anything, I mean.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Benicio says. “There has to be a reason they’re still paying the rent.”
A moment later we reach the place and I’m standing right in front of the house. Seeing it gives me a shot of déjà vu. I push strands of damp hair out of my eyes.
“Yep. This is it.”
We park the jet skis among reeds alongside a clean pinewood jetty. There’s only one mooring so we tie the machines together with the same rope.
At the back of the house a large French window opens on to a paved terrace. The second-floor balcony hangs over, creating a covered outdoor area. The back garden isn’t overlooked by anyone except from the water. There’s not much traffic on the lake, though. It’s a quiet spot; a perfect spot for a comfortable, accessible hideout.
Benicio unholsters his gun, pulls the sleeve of his jacket down over the muzzle and whips it hard against a pane of glass next to the lock. The glass breaks noisily. We wait for a few tense seconds. But there’s no reaction from anyone inside the house – if anyone’s there.
Still holding the gun, Benicio unlocks and then steps through the door. I follow. Benicio stops and pushes a hand into my chest. He hisses, “Where are you going. . .?”
“I’m not letting you go in there alone,” I whisper.
“Don’t sweat it. I’ve got the gun.”
“You’re not going in there without at least a lookout.”
Benicio moves away. “I’m telling you to stay outside.”
“Got it,” I tell him calmly. “But I’m coming in anyway cos you’re a crazy boy with a gun. And some people I know will be upset if I don’t have your back.”
“Ditto,” he says. But this time, he doesn’t stop me.
The house is totally white, totally empty. Almost as I remember it: a house of grey and white marble floors, white furniture, muted abstract art and glass. Now, though, it looks faintly drab, dusty and forgotten.
We examine all the rooms downstairs. There’s no furniture. Benicio motions to me that he’s going to start on the stairs. I follow, stepping quietly, but I’m disappointed. There’s nothing left here. If people were coming to the house, there’d be a sign of it in the kitchen. A fridge, at least, for snacks.
Upstairs immediately feels more concrete, familiar. We make a quick check - it’s empty, every room.
“Oh, man.”
“What is it?”
“This really is the place. I’ve seen this. That was a bedroom,” I say, pointing. “That was Melissa DiCanio’s office.” Benicio steps inside and I follow.
He whispers, with deep satisfaction, “Goooooal.”
There’s a telephone on the desk, and a laptop computer. Benicio nods at me to get to the computer while he guards the door. I glance at what’s open on the desktop – a Web browser looking at YouTube. I start unplugging the laptop when Benicio hisses at me.
“Just pull the contact database! You want to advertise that we dropped by?” He takes a memory stick from his pocket and tosses it through the air at me. I grab it out of the air just before it clatters against the desk, flashing Benicio an angry glance.
I open the email program and rapidly export the contacts database on to the memory stick.
“OK; done. Anything else. . .?”
Benicio opens his mouth to speak. Before a sound leaves his lips, from behind him, there’s a noise. A door opens. The sound comes from inside the empty bedroom. We glance at each other, utterly astonished. Benicio pulls backs, gun at the ready. He slides behind the door, concealing himself.
There’s nowhere in the room for me to hide. I grab the handle of the balcony door. It turns – I push the door open and close it behind me. There’s a tiny part of the balcony that is hidden from view. Breathing rapidly, I press myself into the space, against the outside wall.
There’s silence. I’m outside, holding my breath, straining to reconstruct a picture from every tiny sound that I’m hearing inside the room. Somewhere on the same floor, a second door opens. Another silence. Whoever opened the door must be looking into another room. Where did he come from? When we checked, the door to the bedroom was open and the room was empty; so was the ensuite bathroom. The guy must have been crouched behind the opened bathroom door, I realize with a sinking heart.
Crouching on the toilet.
Then there’s the sound of footsteps. Someone’s stepped into the room with the balcony. I can hear slow pacing. The sounds get closer to the windows. Why hasn’t Benicio tackled the guy? I’m dying to sneak a peek at what’s going on but if I budge an inch I’ll risk being seen.
A little thing would give us up now. Just open the balcony door and I’m standing right there. . .
The balcony door handle turns. There’s movement. A guns fires. There’s return fire, two shots, then an agonized yell.
I can’t stop myself from looking. I lean forward, stare through the glass. Benicio lies groaning, his gun on the floor, centimetres from his fingers. Blood is spattered on the
wall behind him. He’s been shot, but I can’t tell where. Standing over him holding a gun there’s a guy with his back to me. All I can see is that he’s got a lithe build and long, black, curly hair.
“Don’t move,” the shooter advises Benicio, speaking Spanish. “Not one centimetre. Or I’ll kill you, see?” He looks and sounds Mexican. “Who sent you? What are you doing here?”
Outside on the balcony I lean back, hiding again. Inside, the shooter is cursing, furious that he hasn’t got anything with which to tie up Benicio. His fury erupts into violence – swearing as he kicks him. Benicio just manages to say “No, don’t. . .” when the guy lands a hard blow. Benicio yells, then groans loudly in agony. I blink slowly, twice.
This is only going to get worse. Benicio is totally at his mercy. I could get away now, no doubt, swing over the balcony, escape on one of the Kawasakis. If I leave Benicio here, though, the Sect will probably torture him. Under that pressure, will he reveal the secret of the gateway to Ek Naab? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I doubt that they’ll leave him alive.
“Shut up and let me think!” the shooter screams at Benicio. He leans over Benicio and reaches for the gun that’s lying at his feet. As he does so, Benicio’s left foot slams into the shooter’s groin. The guy yells, enraged, and whips Benicio across the face with his pistol. Benicio’s arms go up, fending off the blows. It’s instantly clear to me that this is going to end with Benicio being beaten to death.
The element of surprise – that’s all; the only possible advantage I can get.
Bring the house down.
I leap on to the edge of the balcony, drop into a handstand, facing the house. With a slight dip to build momentum, I swing hard into the window, feet first. I crash through, plunging into the room in a noisy cloud of shattered glass. When I land a second later, the guy has turned round and already fired off a bullet. But he’s way off target, distracted by flying shards of glass.
My next move kicks the gun clean out of his hand. I follow up with a second kick to his ribs. He staggers, winded for a second. By this time Benicio has recovered his own gun and dragged himself to his feet. He leans against the desk, clutching his own weapon. Blood spills from his right leg on to the parquet floor.
“Get his gun,” Benicio mutters, his voice icy. I do it, glancing at the closed door to the corridor. Only silence from the rest of the house.
The shooter gazes at me in sudden recognition. “I know you.”
Benicio glances at me. “You ever saw this guy?”
Blood drains from my face. I shake my head. The Sect must still be on the lookout for me. Ever since Melissa DiCanio used me as a human guinea pig for her genetic experiments, they’ve wanted to get hold of me. I still don’t know exactly what for, but it has to do with the genetic abilities they introduced into me when they turned my eyes from brown to blue.
“Why are you here?” Benicio asks the guy, his voice trembling. “What are you guarding?”
He doesn’t answer.
Benicio’s breathing goes into overdrive when he sees his own blood. The shooter looks at me again for a second, then back at Benicio.
“Buddy,” Benicio gasps at me, not taking his eyes off his attacker. “Leave. Now.”
I stare at the growing pool of blood at Benicio’s feet. I glance at his face. He’s deathly white.
“Let’s both go,” I reply.
“I need to finish this guy. Not gonna kill him in front of you.”
But there are tears in his eyes. Benicio’s never killed anyone before.
“Why kill him at all? We have both the weapons.”
“He’s right,” the shooter says, now speaking in English with a heavy accent. “What am I gonna do?”
Benicio frowns. He raises his arm, aiming the gun. His hand shakes.
The pool of Benicio’s blood starts to trickle towards me.
“Let’s go,” I repeat.
There’s a long, tense pause. Benicio breathes out, long and slow.
“OK.” Then to the shooter he says, “Turn around.”
The guy hesitates. I watch, rigid, appalled.
Shooting a guy in the back. . .?
“No te voy a matar, menso. . .” Benicio spits: I’m not gonna kill you, moron. He steps forward, hooks a foot around the guy’s knees, forcing him to turn. As the shooter’s back is exposed, Benicio whacks his pistol across the back of his head. The guy crumples to the ground.
By the time Benicio turns to me, the fire in his eyes is already going out. “Come on,” he stutters, nodding towards the staircase.
He stumbles with every step; trails blood all the way down the shiny white marble stairs.
On the lawn, Benicio staggers, recovers, staggers again. This time he stops, doubles over. His whole body trembles. The gun drops out of his hand. He throws up, violently, on to the grass. I reach him, pick up the gun and get my right shoulder under his arm, supporting him.
Whispering deadly curses under his breath, Benicio wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. I try to be sympathetic. “I know. I got shot once. It’s bad.”
“I’m losing a lot of blood,” he breathes. Benicio’s left trouser leg is almost completely soaked. “If he hit an artery . . . I could bleed to death.”
Is there an artery in the leg? I’m vague on the details of anatomy but I can see plainly that he’s losing blood pretty fast.
“You need to make a tourniquet,” Benicio says, fading. “Do it now. Fix it good. Use my bandana.”
I find the bandana inside Benicio’s jacket. I don’t look too closely but the wound looks bad – a nasty, ragged exit from which blood pumps out. I tie the cloth above and pull it hard. Benicio flinches, and I pretend not to notice.
He leans against me, making me take most of his weight. As I look towards the jet skis I realize that he’s not strong enough to ride alone. Moving slowly, I guide Benicio to the jetty, help him climb aboard and then slide in front of him, standing up at the controls. Every time anything touches his leg, he screams. When he’s finally settled into the seat he seems to breathe a tiny sigh of relief. But he must know he’s not in the clear, not yet.
“You were pretty crazy in there,” Benicio says, struggling to chuckle. “Breaking the windows. . .? You couldn’t use the door?”
“I was going for the distraction,” I mutter, untying the jet ski from its mooring. “You were the mental one. Why did you have to bring a gun? That’s why he shot you.”
“I know . . . I know. Better drop them both now,” Benicio says and drops his forehead on to my shoulders. “In the water.” He groans. The weapons slip into the lake.
I start the engine. “Josh,” Benicio says. “You have to get me to a hospital.”
“Huh? We should call Montoyo. Get someone to pick us up in a Muwan.”
“No!” His voice rises for just a second, then drops. “No . . . you gotta do what I say. Take me to a hospital. I have my papers, everything. It’ll be fine. Just drop me in front of a hospital and disappear. You can’t be questioned. “
“What. . .? So – not tell Montoyo?”
There’s a painful pause. “That depends, doesn’t it? If you want to be grounded, then tell Montoyo I’m here.”
I don’t reply. We speed away from the lakeside. After just a moment I have to slow down. The hard bounce of the waves is too agonizing for Benicio. We keep going at a bearable speed until we’re back at the water sports centre. I shunt the Kawasaki roughly into position alongside the pier and grab Benicio’s arm. All colour has drained from his face, but when I look down at his right leg, I don’t see any more blood leaking. At least the bandana seems to be doing its job, holding back the bleeding. I help Benicio across the garden of the restaurant, ignoring the curious glances of the tourists.
One of the bikini-clad women at the bar offers to drive us to the hospital. “Your friend looks terrible,” she tells me, wide-eyed. “Was he in an accident?”
I’m about to accept when Benicio hisses in my ear, “No! We can’
t involve anyone. Just get me to the Harley.”
We arrive at the Harley. I reach into Benicio’s jacket to get the keys.
“Head for Chetumal. Drop me on the pavement in front of the hospital. Get back to Ek Naab. Can you do all that, Josh?” Benicio says, breathing hard.
“Mate, no problem.”
Then we’re on our way to Chetumal, the nearest city. Benicio is totally silent on the twenty-minute ride. I wonder how much blood he lost before I bandaged his wound. I’d guess a litre at least. It feels heartless to just dump him on the pavement outside the hospital.
When we arrive, I ease Benicio off the bike and help him to the door of the hospital. We spot an abandoned wheelchair and I grab it. I’m about to wheel him into the reception area when Benicio grabs my wrist. “No. Get back. And take this – you’ll need it to sneak back into the city.”
He hands me his security swipe card. I can only stare at it, open-mouthed.
“You absolutely sure about this?”
“Yes. You’ve got the contacts database. You and Ixchel, get working on that. Get some new leads on the Sect. Who’s their new leader, do they have any other bases apart from in Switzerland, what are they doing? They’re planning to run a broken world starting from December, Josh. That takes major planning. And we’re almost completely in the dark.”
“I guess everyone in Ek Naab is counting on us stopping the superwave. . .”
He grimaces. “Let’s not count any chickens.”
I grasp Benicio’s security pass between my fingers and nod. “I’m totally on it.”
“You’re my deputy on this, OK? We’re just covering the bases, Josh. Nothing too dangerous, promise me? Don’t go planning any raids on the Sect. . .”
“Basic detective work only,” I grin.
“If Montoyo finds out, you acted alone, yes?” Benicio groans and clutches his right leg. “Who am I kidding? He’ll guess right away that I helped you.”
