Yacht Haven Grande sat on the water to my left. Through a forest of masts, I spotted Wayward’s. An image of Alicia, gritting her teeth and pointing a handgun passed through my head. My feet moved like wildfire.
Then, I hit the intersection of Frenchman Bay Road and Long Bay Road. The crossing signal on my left told me to stop, but I ran harder. In the street, a sedan zipped past me, the driver laying on the horn. A guy behind the wheel of a truck stomped on the brakes and swerved to miss me. I kept going.
I crossed through the entrance of the black iron fence around Yacht Haven Grande, got through the parking lot, then took the stairs down two at a time.
My heart was butting up against the backs of my teeth when I came to the dock and looked up at Wayward’s cockpit. I saw nothing, heard nothing, but moved like Alicia was being strung up before my eyes.
I jumped onto the swim platform and hurtled into the cockpit.
“Alicia!” I screamed, then burst into the salon.
“Jerry?” she answered. I saw her peer up from the port hull, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide and the black revolver in her hand. Flor’s little face peeked out from behind her.
I ran to them and wrapped my arms around them.
The pinkened sky in Santurce, a metropolitan neighborhood in San Juan, painted the high-rises and the streets with fading glory. DJ walked toward the sun.
A car in need of a new muffler rattled past. A street vendor worked over a steaming griddle, calling out “Bacalaitos! Bacalaitos! Two dollars!”
The GPS app said Rachel Little’s car had been stopped in a neighborhood almost due west of Santurce for the last six minutes. With that woman, Rose, likely to pop out of the bar behind DJ, now seemed a fine time to get a cab and get the hell out.
Leaning up against a mural of crowned skeletons with eyes like kaleidoscopes, DJ Googled the address where Rachel stopped. It was a three-story, Spanish-style house in Dorado about a half-hour’s drive west of San Juan.
He pushed off the mural, moved toward the street, and raised his hand at a cab coming his way. Inside, the vehicle smelled like incense, and the driver, a plump, balding man with dark brown skin, smiled at DJ.
“Can you take me here?” DJ held up his phone, showing the driver Rachel’s address.
“Okay,” the driver said. He flipped on the meter. They were off.
Thirty minutes later, the cab zipped down a road cut through the jungle. According to DJ’s phone, they weren’t far from Rachel Little. When the cab slowed to make the final turn into a neighborhood of stucco villas with clay-tile roofs, DJ tapped the back of the driver’s headrest.
“Let me out here, compadre.”
The driver pulled to the shoulder. DJ slipped a hundred-dollar bill over the cabby’s seat. “Mr. Franklin thanks you for your hard work.”
“My pleasure, acho,” he said in a thick Puerto Rican accent. DJ climbed out, his shoes settling into the bare sand between the shoulder of the road and a high stone wall marking the boundary of a front yard.
When DJ shut the door and swung his backpack over his shoulders, the cabby rolled down his window. He handed a slip of paper out. “Call me next time. I’ll drive you.”
A phone number was written on the paper in marker.
“I don’t think you want to see me again, man. Better for you if we go our separate ways.”
“I’ll see you,” the driver insisted. Probably hoped DJ would tip him another seventy-odd bucks. “Are you staying here?”
“Eagerness isn’t something I can handle right now, okay, friend?” DJ turned to walk away, but the cabby honked his horn.
In a flash, DJ was leaning through the guy’s window. He grabbed him by the front of his shirt and was a breath away from punching his nose backward, when DJ saw a picture of a little girl stuck halfway over his speedometer. She was beaming, despite missing a front tooth, and her straight, dark hair was capped with a white headband. She wore a matching white dress—probably for her first communion.
DJ let go of the old man’s shirt.
“My granddaughter,” he said gently. “I give her mother money. Cute, yes?”
“She’s adorable.” DJ wouldn’t throttle her grandpa. “You need some cash for her?” He pulled out the Mark Cosgrove wallet from his back pocket. As a matter of good habit, he always kept a thousand in various bills inside—mostly hundreds. He pinched off two and held them out to the cabby. “Make sure she’s got nice clothes. Does she like to read?”
“Books? Yes,” the man replied.
DJ took another hundred from his wallet. “Get her some good ones.” He dropped the money in the driver’s lap.
“Okay,” he said. “I will wait for you.”
“No, man, I don’t—” DJ stopped himself. No point in arguing with the man. DJ nodded at him, just to get the guy out of his hair. He probably could use a ride when this was all done, but who the hell knew when that would be?
“Don’t hang here while I’m gone. Drive around but stay close.”
“I will do that, sir.” He picked up the money and stuffed it into his shoe. Then he rolled his window up and drove off, the tiny four-cylinder coughing and sputtering down the road. DJ watched until the taillights disappeared around a corner.
Getting his bearings, DJ surveyed the road ahead. Big walls hemmed every lot—some stone, some iron. He walked along the left shoulder, seeing what he could see. Where rooflines rose over the fortifications, he noticed red clay tiles and stucco. The houses were of a similar type, but each had its own architectural fingerprints. One had turrets over the driveway, another, an arched entry, and a big fountain in the front yard. The assholes who lived here must’ve pictured themselves as noblemen tucked in private villas. If you put a picture of this neighborhood next to one of Officer Dos Santos’s, DJ would’ve assumed they were from different countries.
Even in the dead of night, in its quietest moments, Dos Santos’s neighborhood had a heartbeat kept by barking dogs, night insects, and rattling cars zipping down the road.
Here, the air was still. Bugs were kept at bay by chemicals sprayed on the lavish lawns. To DJ, this place felt wrong.
Before giving in to his nerves, DJ slung one of the straps of his backpack off his shoulder, then worked the zippers apart and slipped his hand inside. Touching the clammy steel of his .38, his body felt surer.
He zipped up the backpack again and slung the free strap over his shoulder.
After squeezing his hand into a fist until his knuckles cracked, he got his phone out to check the GPS app again. It said Rachel Little’s car was parked nine hundred feet ahead, and about fifty feet south of the road. Looking down the pavement, he judged the distance, about half of a quarter-mile dragstrip. Three driveways.
Before long, he came to an arched, black iron gate about one-and-a-half times his height. Beyond it ran a driveway, flanked by dozens of twenty-foot-tall Puerto Rican hibiscus trees—maga trees, their branches sagging with blood-red flowers about half the size of DJ’s hand. They were the state flower of Puerto Rico.
He couldn’t see much beyond them—only vague points of light that hinted at a house beyond. Checking his phone one last time, DJ made sure he had the right place.
The GPS app indicated Rachel Little’s car was parked due south, and unless the lot was much smaller than it appeared from the road, and it looked like she had at least three acres of land, this had to be it.
DJ stepped back, examining the stone walls on either side of the gate for a handhold. They were rocky, with a decorative cap that gave an inch overhang. Chances were good the marble cap hung an inch over the other side of the wall as well. If he could get a decent start, he could swing his arms over top and latch on.
Taking two large steps backward, DJ shook his arms out. He cracked his knuckles, and breathed through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth. Whether from the breathing, or the beers he’d been feeding himself all day, he felt limber enough to get over the top. He took one last breath.
Go.
DJ exploded forward. He’d shocked more than one person with his footspeed when he had to but going more than a few steps usually led to disaster. The prosthetic under his right knee would wobble like a top, eventually slipping the cup off what remained of his leg.
He planted his right leg and jumped up. The toe of his left shoe hit the stones, caught, and boosted him up. When he threw his arms over the top, his fingers caught on the back of the marble cap stones as his chest bashed against the front.
Something popped inside his torso. He cringed at the impact, then gritted his teeth and sucked air, but didn’t let go. Ignoring the pain, he pulled himself up with help from his left foot, which scrambled against the front of the wall.
As quickly as he’d mounted the wall, he pushed himself off the other side, and landed in the yard. The prosthetic held, allowing him to duck behind a hibiscus tree. Through one of the house’s large windows, he spotted an athletic, blond woman riding a stationary bike in the living room.
Rachel Little.
Coals settled in his gut. Blunt’s face flashed through his mind. Now the real work began.
Dropping to one knee, he slung the bag off his back and unzipped it. From an inside pocket, he took out a pair of latex gloves and two shoe covers, all rolled up with a hair band holding them together. He slipped the hair tie off, sliding it around his wrist, then laid the gloves and the booties on the ground next to him.
Reaching inside again, he pulled out a dark, long-sleeved shirt. He put it on over his T-shirt, then found a beat-up ball cap stuffed in the bottom of the backpack. He combed his hands through his hair a few times, making sure to gather up every loose strand in his left hand, then slipped the hair tie off his wrist with his right and bundled it together.
With the hat on his head, and his hair tucked inside it, DJ pulled the latex gloves on, blowing into each to get a good fit. He took the .38 out and tucked it in the back of his pants, then slipped on the shoe covers and leaned his bag against the tree.
Hunching low, DJ darted from tree to tree, working his way up the driveway with the unwavering nerve of a combat veteran.
When he reached the front of the house, he crouched low under the window, mashing down the flowers and staying clear of the light spilling out from inside. Inside lights were his ally, as long as they didn’t fall on him. Anyone inside would see nothing but blackness outside.
DJ took the .38 out of the back of his pants, opened the cylinder and checked that it was ready to fire. The brass reflected the shine coming through the window, turning it into a twisted reflection of the world outside. DJ saw his own figure, dark and featureless, and felt Death lay a hand on his shoulder.
Then, like an angel on his other shoulder, Jerry’s disembodied voice came to DJ. “You’re not a cold-blooded killer.”
But his partner’s voice was wrong: this wasn’t killing in cold blood. This was retribution. Sliding a bead on the cosmic abacus from one side to another.
“This is murder.”
Call it what you want, he thought. Maybe we’re both right.
DJ heard the thin sound of pop music reverberating through the glass above him. From his position, he saw the top of Rachel’s head, bobbing along with the bass. It looked like a melon on a fence post, begging to catch some lead.
Maybe it’d be best to shoot her from here. The front door was probably locked. Likely alarmed. If he kicked it in—if he even managed to kick it in—there’d be a hell of a calamity. Pretty risky.
He squeezed the grip of his snub-nosed Smith & Wesson. Best to shoot her from here, no question.
On one knee, DJ leaned back, thumbed the hammer back, and slowly lined the shot up with the side of her head. With all the movement from her peddling, this wasn’t as simple as he’d hoped it would be. He had to fish around for a moment, find the space where some part of her head would be, then he had to feel the rhythm of her movements.
Soon, he had it. He coiled his finger around the trigger. The steel was warm to the touch, as comfortable as holding the hand of an old girlfriend. Rachel Little had no clue. Her chest heaved as she pedaled faster, her shoulders rippled as she leaned forward on the bike. A bead of sweat trickled down DJ’s ear.
“You’re an evil man,” Jerry’s voice said.
Not as evil as her. The trigger pressed back against his flesh. The compact .38 had a ten-pound trigger pull that he knew very well. Blunt’s purple, bloated face suddenly bloomed in his mind’s eye.
DJ flinched. He blinked. He lowered his weapon.
Jerry was right.
“Hands up!”
DJ spun right and saw the darkened figure of a large man. A light at the corner of the house outlined his body. His feet were spread shoulder-width apart, his arms lost to the light glaring behind him, but DJ knew he was looking down the barrel of the other man’s handgun.
“Put your hands up or I’ll blow your head off,” the other man bellowed at DJ.
DJ didn’t doubt the man’s ability to follow through, but the way he locked and unlocked his elbow and adjusted his feet like he had ants in his shoes seemed to suggest there might be some wiggle room here. If DJ could talk him down or scare him off.
“I don’t have a fight with you, friend. The only person I got a quarrel with is your boss.” DJ slowly raised his hands, letting his S&W 640 dangle off his finger by its trigger guard. “Now, you seem like an observant man, so I’m going to step a little off my path, and not attempt to lie to you, because I know it wouldn’t work. So here it is. Your boss is a bad person.”
The other man’s ears perked. He lifted his chin. DJ had piqued his curiosity, it seemed.
“I know that sounds funny but let me explain. When I say bad, I don’t mean she takes a penny from the gas station tray, even when she don’t need it. Partner, she’s real bad, like paying-the-cops-to-hang-a-man-from-the-rafters-in-his-garage bad. Get me? The man she had killed wasn’t an angel by anyone’s standard, but he was my friend, and he never hurt a soul. And he didn’t deserve to die just because he had the rotten luck of renting a boat to the wrong person.”
Did the other guy get it? Who the hell knew? At least he was letting DJ talk, which counted for something.
“In short, I intend to kill your boss. And rest assured, I will do it. But it was never my plan, nor is it my desire, to hurt anyone else, least of all a working man trying to earn a wage.”
When DJ expected the man to answer, he stayed silent. Muggy as the air was, strands of vapor rose off the top of the man’s bald head. Was he deaf, or simply paralyzed by fear? Of course, the third option was that DJ had presented him with a difficult decision for most folks to make. More time to decide seemed prudent.
Behind DJ, the front door clicked open. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the man pointing the gun at him, but Rachel Little surely had come out of her house after noticing DJ in her flower bed with his hands up.
“Ramon, who is this man?” Her voice needled through DJ’s ears. She seemed comfortable using the sort of tone that only demanded, never asked; that expected perfect service from anyone she deigned worthy enough to be a servant.
Upon hearing Rachel Little speak, DJ liked her even less.
“He’s a trespasser, ma’am,” Ramon, the guard, said. A fresh bead of sweat dripped off his earlobe. Rachel Little might’ve scared him more than an armed man crouched in the bushes.
“There’s a sign by the front gate. What does that sign say?”
“Trespassers will be shot,” he answered. He took one hand off his pistol, then wiped his arm across his brow.
“I didn’t read your sign,” DJ said.
“It’s impossible to ignore,” Rachel answered. “You can’t go past the front gate without seeing it. That’s why we put it there, isn’t it, Ramon?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s why the sign is there.”
“I jumped the wall,” DJ said.
“Aren’t you impressive?” Rachel said. “Ramon, please shoot the trespasser.”
DJ felt Ramon’s eyes shift from Rachel’s face to his. Ramon hadn’t pulled the trigger yet, but he was damned close, and if DJ couldn’t remind him of why that ran counter to his interests, DJ Martin’s guts were going to become a permanent art exhibit all over the porch behind him.
“Ramon,” DJ said slowly, “remember what I told you: I ain’t here to hurt you. I’m here to avenge a friend, and so long as you don’t make yourself part of it, we’re square. Understand?
“So, before you pull that trigger, I want you to reconsider what I told you before she walked out. I am a killer. I was trained and re-trained by the United States federal government over a period of years, with a particular focus on infantry combat—of the science behind killing other armed men. This woman wants you to kill me. For what? Forty thousand a year? Fifty? What kind of benefits does she offer?”
“Don’t answer that,” Rachel snapped.
“I get two weeks off a year,” Ramon said anyhow.
DJ clicked his teeth. “Poor compensation for murdering in defense of a murderer.”
“I am not a murderer. Ramon, shoot the trespasser now.”
Ramon didn’t move a muscle. DJ considered that a victory—a small one, as Ramon hadn’t taken the gun off him, but at least he wasn’t dead yet.
“I’m asking a lot of you,” DJ said. “I know I am, but she ordered the death of a dear friend of mine. Have you ever had a friend killed, Ramon?”
“I did no such thing!” Rachel protested.
And that about settled things for DJ. Quick as he’d ever been, he twisted around, letting his pistol’s grip slide back into the palm of his hand. He pointed the business end square at Rachel Little’s forehead.
“Hey!” Ramon shouted. “Drop the—drop it!”
His piece rattled so hard, it was a wonder Ramon’s finger hadn’t tripped the trigger by accident.
“I’m sure a lady like you has made a real nasty habit out of lying to people. Even you don’t know what’s true and what you made up,” DJ said. “But I know what I saw. I saw my friend, strung up in his garage by three plain-clothes cops from San Juan. I saw him kicking and screaming, I heard them laughing. And one of them swore up and down you ordered it before he got his head blown off in his bathroom.”
Wayward Sons Page 34
