Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “She’s Kondrat’s blitzkrieg. When he wants to invade, she’s the storm trooper. Within minutes, he’ll know anything you say and do.”

  “I did get the impression that there was more going on between them than meets the eye. Are they lovers?”

  “Of the craziest kind. They’re bonded to each other, but both are sexually … shall we say … liberated? Neither of them worries about the other’s fidelity.”

  “You sound as if you’re talking from experience.”

  Stone drained his beer, belched, and said, “That’s no shit …”

  McMahon opened the cooler and indicated for Stone to help himself. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  Stone settled back in his seat. “I’m only telling you this because, in spite of what’s happened here, I like you. I’d hate to see you eaten alive by those two … like I was.”

  McMahon remained stoic.

  “I was married when I first met them. I loved my wife as much as any man can love another person. But, when I fell into Shelob’s clutches—”

  “Shelob?”

  Stone gulped another mouthful of beer. “I gather you’re not a fan of Tolkien, huh? Shelob was the gigantic spider that lived below the ground, protecting some tower or something. Anyone attempting to enter the tower using the subterranean stairs would be caught and devoured by her. Abigail won’t eat you, but she will sexually devour any man with whom she comes in contact.”

  “I get your point.”

  “Before she and Jabłoński were through with me, my wife found out I was fuckin’ them and making porn and left me.”

  “Them?

  “Hey, it ain’t only women who have to spend time on a director or producer’s couch to get a job. Jabłoński enjoys sex in any and all forms. Anyhow, my wife was raised in a devout Protestant home; she couldn’t take it. I haven’t heard from her since.” He got a wistful look. “I’ve tried everything to reach her … thus far, nothing has worked.”

  McMahon thought Stone was about to cry.

  “Once they entice you into their web, they’re relentless. No matter how hard you try to free yourself from their clutches, they hang on. Even if you do succeed in driving them off, you’re still stuck in the web. They won’t stop until they’ve sucked the life out of you—and you end up, like me, a no-talent actor who’s stuck with them.”

  “You were forced into making adult movies?”

  “Yeah, sounds stupid, doesn’t it? A man blackmailed into screwing beautiful women on screen? Trust me when I tell you, bein’ Dick Hardon ain’t all it’s made out to be.”

  “I don’t understand … this isn’t the 1960s. Making porn and being AC/DC isn’t a big thing.”

  “Tell that to my wife—she thought it was.”

  Since its beginnings, the cartel has focused on drug trafficking, but has expanded into other criminal activities such as human trafficking, kidnapping, local drug distribution, and extortion.

  —Insightcrime.org

  65

  It was still dark when they came. Once again, Fitzpatrick was sitting at the table in the courtyard. He ignored Traynor and said to Manuel, “If I were to have my people … shall we say … interview you, what could I learn about DEA operations in Mexico?”

  “Nada, but I doubt that will stop you.”

  The drug lord laughed and once again his ample stomach shook. “You have cojones anyway. That’s more than can be said for the soon to be dead Señor Toledo.”

  Traynor’s eyes narrowed.

  “You going to kill him?” Manuel asked.

  Fitzpatrick said, “When he is of no further use to me. Once I have all the information I need to take over his business.”

  Traynor caught the implication, but noted that he did not answer his question. Either way, he felt his face burn with indignation. He glanced at Manuel and saw that the news had angered him as well. If Fitzpatrick killed Toledo, they would lose an important witness against the makers of The Black Orchid. His musing stopped when the drug lord said, “Now, I must decide what I’m to do with you.”

  He stood and walked around the table, stopping before Manuel. “I can’t help but wonder how much you know about DEA actions along the border.”

  “Nothing,” Manuel answered. Traynor was impressed by the way he kept his cool. Especially since he knew, better than anyone, what lay in store for him if Fitzpatrick thought he held any valuable information about anti-cartel operations. “I’ve been away from it for over five years.”

  Fitzpatrick stiffened and then slapped him. “I think you bullshit the bullshitter, eh?”

  “I’m no longer a member of the DEA; therefore, they don’t consult with me much.” Manuel spoke through clenched teeth. Blood trickled from one corner of Manuel’s mouth and Traynor could see that Fitzpatrick’s slap had enraged him.

  “You expect me to believe that you came to Mexico and grabbed Toledo on your own?”

  “No, I don’t. My current employer is a wealthy American. His daughter disappeared and he sent me and my companion to find her.”

  Fitzpatrick’s eyebrows furrowed as he absorbed this information. “Obviously, you were unsuccessful.”

  “She was dead when we found her,” Traynor interjected.

  The drug lord turned his attention to him.

  “She was killed in a snuff film,” Traynor added.

  “What did Toledo have to do with this … snuff film?” he asked.

  “He was the money behind the production,” Manuel said.

  Fitzpatrick seemed to be pondering what they had told him. “Our friend, Toledo, is lower than I thought.” He turned his attention back to Manuel. “You swear that you know nothing about any DEA agents in Mexico?”

  “I haven’t since they pulled me out over five years ago.”

  Fitzpatrick returned to the table and sat behind it. Traynor was beginning to think of that chair as his throne. After studying them for several long moments, he said to his henchmen, “Take them back. I have to think on this turn of events.”

  Once again they stood in the courtyard, under the baking sun. Fitzpatrick was nowhere in sight. A white commercial panel truck pulled into the courtyard. “Looks as if we may be going for a ride,” Manuel said.

  “I hope that is meant in the way one usually thinks of it,” Traynor whispered to him.

  “Prepare for the worst and if it doesn’t happen, it will be a blessing.”

  “And if it does?”

  “At least we’ll be ready for it.”

  The driver and two other men exited the van and entered the hacienda. It was a matter of minutes before they returned and the two goons grabbed them, marched them to the van, and shoved them inside. The side door of the truck slid closed, and in minutes the interior was like an oven, the heat like a blistering wall. There were no seats, just a roll of canvas lying along one of the sides.

  “You’d think,” Traynor commented, “that they could at least turn on the A/C for what may be our last ride.”

  “Fam hacer callar!” one of the guards said.

  “What the hell is he saying?” Traynor asked.

  “He said shut up,” Manuel replied.

  “Oh.”

  They sat side by side with their backs against the van’s metal wall. Traynor studied the rolled tarp lying against the opposite wall and decided that it offered a softer seat than the plywood that covered the van’s floor. When he moved across the small confines and sat on the rolled the tarp, it groaned. He bolted up, hitting his head on the van’s ceiling. He looked at Manuel while rubbing his skull. “You hear that?”

  Manuel reached over, grabbed the edge of the canvas, and pulled. The tarp unfurled like a window shade, revealing Toledo. His face was a mass of bruises and lacerations, and when he opened his mouth, Traynor saw that his top front teeth were missing.

  “I’ll be dipped in shit,” Traynor said.

  “He wasn’t what I’d call eye candy before this,” Manuel said, “but those missing teeth make him really u
gly.”

  Traynor slid down and sat beside Manuel. Toledo opened his eyes and stared at them in disbelief. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Somewhere between the grinding wheel and the millstone,” Manuel answered.

  Toledo’s tongue darted through the gap in his teeth. Traynor supposed he was only just discovering that his appearance had been altered. He gave them a questioning look, similar to the one Traynor’s dog once gave him after his first encounter with a skunk. “Do drug lords have dental insurance?” Traynor asked.

  Toledo rolled onto his side with his back to them. He began to shake.

  “You think he’s crying?” Traynor asked Manuel.

  “If he isn’t, he will be once we tell him where we are and what our chances of survival are.”

  Toledo lay with his back to them. At least fifteen minutes passed by until finally the van lurched, and Traynor looked through the heavy grill that separated the driver from the cargo section. They had turned off the paved road and entered a dirt lane that appeared to lead into the desert. He made a vow that if he got out of this alive, he was never leaving New England again.

  The road was hard and they bounced each time the truck hit a hole or depression in the packed sand surface. Toledo sat up and morosely stared off to a place only he could see. Each time the van bounced, his head banged against the metal. More so than at any time since Traynor had met him, Toledo looked as if the spark of life within him had died out.

  Traynor ventured a look at Manuel. The former DEA agent sat with his arms resting on his knees, hands limp, and his head was turned forward as he stared out the front windshield. It suddenly dawned on Traynor that of the three, he probably had the least knowledge of what the cartel had in store for them.

  Manuel slid down and used the rolled tarp as a pillow. After a few minutes, he appeared to be sleeping, which Traynor doubted. No way in hell could anyone sleep while being tossed around the interior of a moving vehicle. Traynor occupied his mind trying to figure out a way to escape the deadly fate he was sure lay in store for them.

  Suddenly, the van slowed and the driver and guard got out. It was time for their sentence—whatever it was—to be carried out. After a few seconds, the driver opened the side door and stepped back, letting Manuel and Traynor out. The other guard stood off to their left, pointing an automatic weapon at them.

  The driver did the talking. “The border between Mexico and your country is ten kilometers in that direction.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder and then removed Manuel’s and Traynor’s handcuffs, leaving Toledo’s in place. “Start walking,” he said.

  Traynor looked at Manuel, wondering if they should stand their ground or if they should follow his instructions, which would leave them open to being shot from behind. Manuel shrugged and Traynor interpreted that as saying: What the hell, we’re probably screwed either way. Manuel looked over at Toledo still in the back of the van, but stopped short when the guard with the Uzi shook his head no.

  “Let’s go,” Manuel said.

  As he and Manuel passed the gunman, Traynor counted paces as he walked—all the time his shoulders were tensed against the bullets he was certain were coming. He jumped when there was a short burst of gunfire. Tensed against the impact of the expected bullets, he looked to his left, fully expecting to see Manuel lying in the blazing sand.

  Manuel was in turn looking at him.

  They heard the slam of the van’s doors and exhaled explosively. They kept walking until they heard the truck moving, at which time they turned and watched it drive away. A pile of stuff laid where the van had stood and Traynor went back. On the ground lay their passports, keys to the handcuffs, and two handguns with magazines lying beside them. Traynor opened the first passport, saw it was Manuel’s, and handed it to him. He loaded the pistols and passed one to him.

  They watched the van do a tight U-turn and race back toward them. Traynor raised his pistol and aimed it at the truck. Manuel grabbed his arm and said, “Don’t. If they were going to kill us, they’d have already done it.”

  The truck skidded to a stop about fifty yards from them. The driver turned until it was beside them and the sliding door opened. Toledo came flying out of the door, landing on his stomach. The gunman jumped out and pulled him to his knees. “Don Fitzpatrick says you can have him!” Then he took a shiny, chrome-plated pistol from his belt and shot Toledo in the back of the head. As he jumped back in the van, he shouted, “Don’t leave your garbage lying around my country.” The van accelerated and drove away in a cloud of dust.

  Traynor ran forward and fired his pistol at the rapidly retreating van. After he’d taken several steps, he realized that Manuel was not with him. He stopped and looked at his companion. “What the hell just happened?”

  “I guess Fitz figured he had nothing to gain by killing us, but he was never going to let Toledo leave here alive—he knew too much about too many people’s business. Our friend was not overly brave and once he was in DEA hands, he’d have spilled his guts,” Manuel said. He didn’t seem especially surprised, or perturbed. “What’s really fucked up about this is that Joaquin Sevilla Fitzpatrick was Toledo’s cousin.”

  “What are we gonna do about him?” Traynor asked.

  “We’re goin’ to leave him.”

  They began walking north, Traynor spit into the sandy soil, and said, “If I’d known it was going to turn out this way, I’d have shot the sonuvabitch in Mexico City.”

  “Why the hell would we have done that?” Manuel said.

  “Would have saved us a lot of trouble, that’s for sure.”

  The safety and physical well being of … police and other individuals in and around the crime scene, is the first priority of the first responding … policeman.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  66

  Angela Engle met Deborah in the hotel dining room. “You heard anything from the guys?” she asked.

  “I spoke with Jack yesterday. However, I haven’t heard a word from Manuel and Ed.”

  Angela peered out the window at the rain that ran down the glass. “Two days ago, this was Hurricane Fredericka and it raced across northern Mexico before being downgraded to the tropical depression we’re experiencing.”

  “You think they got caught up in it?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Still, it seems they would have called.”

  “Cell service down there is spotty in good weather. It’s probably nonexistent in a storm.”

  Deborah picked at the omelet on her plate. “You want something to eat?”

  “Coffee’s fine with me.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  Engle stared at the rain again. “That’s the question of the day, isn’t it?”

  Deborah pushed her plate away and said, “I wish the guys were here.”

  “It would make our lives a bit easier. In the meantime, we need to keep Doerr and Provost under surveillance.”

  “Something I’m not very good at.”

  “I think that it’s time we started to put some pressure on Provost,” Engle said. “He’s the one with the most to lose, as well as the most to hide. Public knowledge of his involvement in a film of this nature would be professional suicide for him.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Hollis International,” Engle said, “does it have any pull with the media?”

  “We own a number of television and radio stations.”

  “In California?”

  “One of each in LA, San Francisco, and Sacramento.”

  “Perfect. Here’s what I think we should do …”

  Deborah and Engle stood on the front porch of Celia Doerr’s house. They rang the bell and waited several seconds, listening for any indication of occupancy. “Maybe,” Deborah said, “she’s out.”

  Engle raised her right foot and took a .32 caliber hideaway pistol from her ankle-holster. “Her car is in the drive.”

  “She could have gone with someon
e else.”

  “Then again, she may not have.” Engle turned the knob and the door opened. “That worries me,” she said.

  Cautiously, Engle led the way into the house. The living room was as neat as it had been the last time Deborah had been in it; nothing seemed out of place. A cursory search showed no sign of Doerr. They walked to the kitchen; other than some dirty glasses on the sideboard, it too seemed to be in order. Engle turned and motioned for Deborah to follow her down the hall, in the direction of the bedrooms.

  Engle pointed her pistol toward the ceiling and held it near her right ear as she reached for the doorknob. She slowly turned it and pushed the door open. They stepped into what appeared to be the guestroom and Angela immediately crouched into a shooting position with the pistol pointed forward. She panned the gun from right to left.

  Deborah studied the small room and wondered if it had been Mindy’s. She watched in silence as Engle gave the room a short but professional inspection. Backing away from the miniscule closet, Engle said, “Well, only the master bedroom and bath left.”

  “Lead on,” Deborah said.

  They crossed the hall and stopped before the entryway to the final bedroom. Deborah cast a nervous look at Engle. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m glad you’re with me.”

  Engle smiled at her and stepped inside. Once again she swept her pistol from side to side. “Nothing in here, either,” she pronounced.

  Deborah gave the closed bathroom door a hesitant look. “That’s all that’s left.”

  “Unless this house has a basement.” Engle stepped in front of Deborah and opened the door. She turned on the light and stiffened. “Don’t come in here,” she warned.

  Deborah’s curiosity got the best of her. She peered over Engle’s shoulder. The shower curtain was pulled partially across the tub and the surrounding area was streaked with red trails and splotches. The thick coppery smell of blood assailed her and she sputtered, “I’m going to be sick.” …”

  Engle spun around and pushed her toward the living room. “Not here,” she said, “we have to preserve the crime scene.”