“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I guess. You sort of get to choose your mother.”
“I choose Gwen.”
“That’s fine. And I agree with that.”
“Good,” she said, her mouth set with unarguable certainty.
“But Jeanette’s going to get out in less than a year. And she will want to see you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Look, she’s got her problems, and we all know what they are, but she does love you.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Of course she does,” I said.
“If you love someone, you don’t do things like that, so that you’ll be sent away from them. You do things so you can stay together. It was her fault that she left us. And I’m happier now.”
“Hmm,” I said.
She looked away, unhappily, out the window. So I just looked straight ahead, concentrating on driving.
It was like that for awhile. Then I thought I heard her say, “So let’s get a cup of coffee.”
I was startled. Angie doesn’t drink coffee. “You really want a coffee?” I asked.
“Huh? What?” she said.
“Did you . . . oh, never mind,” I said, puzzled. I checked the radio. It was off.
My mind was playing tricks on me. Then I heard myself saying, inside my head, “There’s a Barnes & Noble off the next exit. They have lattés and all that stuff. How about that?” I answered myself, reflexively, “No there isn’t,” because there wasn’t one off of that exit. “It’s hard to know if you’re being followed on a freeway,” was the next line, and I realized my mind had drifted off into the memory of my ride with Manny, leaving the fortress of stone, “Straight line, everybody zooming along.”
It had to have been my subconscious cuing, because when I looked purposefully in my rearview mirror, I saw that there was a dark blue Ford Explorer about eight cars back. It’s a pretty common car. No reason to assume that it was the same as the one that had followed us then.
But I thought I better find out.
I checked. Angie had her seat belt on. Angie always has her seat belt on. She’s good in that way, as well as many others. “I’m gonna pull off this next exit here,” I said.
“Okay, sure,” she said.
I had my cruise control set on seventy-six miles per hour, as a lot of the drivers did. I accelerated some, not like Manny could’ve in the monster Mercedes, but enough to see if they pulled out of the seventy-six-mile-per-hour club too.
“She can’t take me back, can she?” Angie asked abruptly.
“No, baby, she can’t,” I said. But I knew better. If Jeanette found a sugar daddy with a pile of money for lawyers, or a gung ho woman’s group to back her, and she fought for her “natural mother’s rights,” it would be a hell of a battle. And an expensive one. If CTM turned against me, especially Jerry Hobson with his nasty, blackmailing, evidence-planting tricks, it would be one we could certainly lose. I was almost glad that I had another problem on my hands to distract me.
I wanted to make an abrupt move and cross directly from the inside lane to the exit ramp, forcing them to show their hand. Or not, and turn out to be just another couple of guys on their way to the mall in their SUV. I kept an eye on my side and rearview mirrors, and at the last moment, I yanked the wheel and cut off a gray Toyota Tundra—the driver leaned on his horn and gave me the finger—cut in tight behind a dented Hyundai sedan, and then steered hard onto the exit ramp, my tires complaining and threatening to cut loose as we went into the curve.
“Don’t ever drive like this,” I said to Angie.
But she was shrieking, “Dad, what are you doing?”
“Hang on, baby,” I said, trying to slow down without provoking a skid.
There was a light at the end of the ramp. It was red. I pushed down on the brakes hard enough to come to a semistop. I looked back toward the start of the ramp. The Explorer was charging into it, way too fast for normal driving.
The motherfuckers were after me. With Angie there.
35
“Dad, Dad, what are you doing?” Angie said.
I was overreacting, being cowboy stupid, with Angie in the car. I could have found out that we were being followed without the drama. So what if someone was following me? What would they find out? That I was taking my daughter to a doctor’s office and dropping in at a big downtown law firm?
“You want an ice cream?” I asked, like I’d pulled off with a reason.
It was pretty thin, but she said, “Sure.”
I looked around. It was one of those nowhere exits for development that would surely come. Probably built because someone politically connected owned the surrounding acres. But so far, it didn’t even have a gas station and convenience store. There were some signs up, one to an industrial area—refineries we could see in the distance—and I knew that there was a development a couple of miles behind, but I didn’t want to double back. If we’d kept going toward the city, the next exit would’ve been eight miles ahead, Kavanaugh Golf Club Estates, a very expensive subdivision built around one of our more exclusive golf clubs, with the river running through it. If the road in front of us stayed roughly parallel with the highway, that’s where we’d end up, and there was a high-end mall with a Häagen-Dazs and a Godiva Chocolates and other nice places for treats, so I turned left.
The Explorer was almost up to us, and when we turned, it followed.
The road started veering to the west, away from the main road, into the choppy scrubland, clumps of salt grass and scattered ephedra in the stony, sandy soil.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Angie asked.
“I’m kinda guessing,” I said.
“Mmm,” she said.
“Mmm, yourself.”
A mile later, the Explorer still behind me, the paving ended, and we were on a sandy track. The area is full of them. Lots and lots of nothing in front of us, and more nothing on either side of us, and Angie asked, “Are you lost?”
“Well, yeah, sort of,” I said. “Don’t tell Mom.”
“I won’t.”
I glanced up in the rearview, thinking that maybe I should turn around. The Explorer was no longer hanging back and keeping a tail. It was coming up fast, very fast. In a moment it was practically on my bumper, and then it pulled to the left, like it was going to pass me. I wondered what they were up to, if they would flag me down or cut me off.
As it came up alongside, I looked over, and the passenger-side window was sliding down. I saw one of the two guys that I’d seen in the prison when we’d met with Ahmad. The one with thin hair and acne pits. He was looking back at me. And then I saw the gun come up. I reflexively reached out for Angie and shoved her down and stomped my foot on the brake at the same time. They zoomed past.
I turned hard right, off the road, into the scrub and the sand. I was hoping to circle back onto the road and run the other way, back where we’d come from. Could I outrun them? In Manny’s car, sure, but in my seven-year-old Cherokee? Who knew what they had under the hood.
We were bouncing like mad over the bumpy ground, and I was wondering what the hell I should do. I’ve been a cop. I know the worst thing in the world is to run from cops. It makes them excited and scared, and worst of all, righteous. “He ran” opens the door to just about anything. But if what Ahmad said was true, and what Manny said was true, they could just grab me and say I was aiding and abetting terrorists or some damn thing, and they could take me away, and I would never even get my one phone call. Besides, they hadn’t identified themselves as police. They’d identified themselves as someone who wanted to shoot me. “Jesus,” I prayed silently, “please protect us. I have my daughter with me.”
I unclipped my key ring from the ignition key. “Angie,” I ordered, “unhook your belt.” She had to think I was nuts, bouncing over the dirt and rocks like we were, and she didn’t move. “Do it! Do it now!”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said.
“Take these.” I thrust the keys a
t her. “The one that looks like a bicycle lock. Crawl in back, open the tool box. Come on, go! Go!”
“Okay,” she said, taking the keys. She didn’t sound frightened. Kind of excited even.
I concentrated on the driving, trying to get some distance without wrecking us or flipping. At least they weren’t gaining.
“You there? You there?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me when it’s open.”
Time passed—three, four, five, ten heartbeats. “Got it.”
“There’s a vest in there. Put on the vest.”
The bastards were getting up close. I shoved the pedal down. We accelerated way too fast and got airborne. I heard a “Whoa!” from the back, while I was yelling “Hang on!” We came down with a thud and almost bottomed out. I was grateful not to hear anything break underneath.
Their suspension was no better than mine, and I could see that they almost lost it. The ground was getting rougher, small hillocks up ahead and a dry riverbed.
“There’s a handgun and a shotgun in there. Get them both. Get them up here, but stay low. Crawl, baby, crawl. Put the back seat down so you stay flat . . . . Are you doing that?”
“Yes. I’m doing it as fast as I can.”
“Don’t hurry. Do it slow and careful. We’re gonna come out of this.”
“I know that,” she said. “I’m with you, Dad,” expressing full faith and trust, beyond reason.
I heard the seat go down. A moment later, my shotgun appeared between the two front seats. It’s a Remington 870, the barrel cut down to fourteen inches by a smith up in Nebraska, which required a whole ton of paperwork, but it was legal. I took it with my right hand and set it on the seat. Then I reached back as she handed me my handgun, a Heckler & Koch USP compact .45. It only takes eight in the magazine, but they’re big ones.
Now I was armed. What was my next move?
“Angie, get down on the floor. Between the seats.”
“I want to see,” she said.
“Get the fuck down,” I yelled at her.
She gasped, but got down.
“Sorry,” I said. I never swear at her, or even in front of her.
“That’s okay,” she said.
I needed to put some distance between us—so that I’d have a moment, even half a moment, to do something. How? If I tried to turn, that would put my side to them as the distance was closing, and they could get a shot off. They hadn’t shot so far. No point, bouncing the way both of us were. There was some professionalism there. Not necessarily a good thing for me.
I needed a moment in which I could get turned around so I would be facing them. Preferably with something between them and me.
There was the dry riverbed almost right in front of me. I veered left toward it. I dove into it. The ground was smoother in there, and I was able to pick up the pace.
The Explorer did the same and followed me in. Dust billowed up behind me. That was good. It had to be blinding them, maybe even slowing them down. The river’s track got deeper and shallower and then deeper again. When we were in a deep spot, lots of fine earth kicking up into a cloud behind me, I turned hard right and went up the bank. As I came over the edge, we got airborne again. This was going to cost me hundreds of dollars in shocks and who knows what and was taking a year off the Cherokee’s life, and it was already a year too old.
We came down hard. I turned right, sliding and skidding, and hit the brakes. As we slid to a stop, I flung open the door, grabbed both guns, and jumped out. I got lucky. Buried in the dust cloud, they’d missed my turn, and they had to put on the brakes and make their turn after my spot.
When they came up out of the riverbed, I was leaning over the hood of my SUV, facing them, the bulk of the Jeep between us and the Remington pointed straight at them.
I fired. The gun roared like thunder. The sound rolled in waves out across the scrub in every direction. The Explorer hit a bump as I fired. It rose up so that my shot missed their front windshield, but I took out a headlight and peppered the grill. I pumped and put another round in the chamber and fired again. They were starting to turn. I got the side window and saw it shatter. I put the shotgun down on the hood and picked up the HK. I stood—there was little chance of them getting a decent shot off, careening around like they were—and held it two-handed, steady and calm, just like they taught us to at the academy, following the target for a tracking shot. I thought I put it right through the busted side window, but I couldn’t tell if I hit anyone.
They were turning away. I shot off three more rounds, hoping to hit something. If not either of them, then the gas tank or a tire. But I didn’t hit anything except the body of the vehicle, if that.
I cursed myself. I’d had my chance and I’d blown it.
Now they could do what I’d done. Get some distance. Get out with their vehicle between us. Maybe with rifles. Who knew what they had. Once they were on foot, they could get good, steady shots off. They could circle around and come at me from two sides. Or one could pin me down from in front, while the other got around behind me.
What had I done to my little girl?
36
God was with us.
They drove off. Maybe one was hurt. Or dead. Maybe they just didn’t have the stomach for a firefight. Whatever the reason, they were going. If they stopped to set up an ambush, I would know it because their vehicle was kicking up a dust cloud that was visible for half a mile.
I opened the back door, asking Angie, who was lying on the floor, “Are you alright?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“You can get up. They’re gone.”
She gathered herself up and stepped out of the car.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” I asked.
She nodded. And looked perfectly fine. She looked at me with a small kind of smile, then said, “And, Dad . . . ”
“What?”
“I won’t tell Mom.”
I started to laugh. It wasn’t that funny, but the laughter came up from in the middle of my chest. I tried to hold it in because, after all, this had been serious. But I couldn’t. Then her smile burst into full bloom, and she started laughing and giggling too. We laughed harder and harder. I laughed so hard that I had to lean against the car and hold my stomach. Angie was laughing just as hard, tears coming into her eyes. The laughter kept coming and coming until I made it stop just so I could breathe.
I put my arms around her and held her close. “I love you, Angie,” I said. “I love you so, so much.”
“I know,” she said. “I know you do.”
There we were with my arms around her completely, holding her as close as I could, with her arms around me, her head against my chest. We were like that for awhile when she said, “Dad, that was awesome. That was totally awesome.”
“You peeked,” I said. Then I said sternly, “I told you to stay on the floor. You could have been killed. Angie . . . ”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But it was totally awesome.”
“Alright,” I said. “And I won’t tell Mom.”
37
Inside Kavanaugh Golf Club Estates, which is a gated community with very high security and its own patrols, there’s a large home—almost a compound because it has two cottages—with its own walls, its own gate, high-tech surveillance cameras on all corners, and its own security team.
It belongs to Jorge Guzman de Vaca.
I’d come to make a deal with the devil.
I needed something desperately: safe haven for my daughter. And I couldn’t trust any of the saints.
Such deals are the stuff of legend. All the stories are the same. The human wants some material thing; the devil wants his soul. Make no mistake, I’d trade anything for my daughter’s life. But the contest would be to see if I could negotiate a better deal. Then both of us would watch out, because as the stories tell, there’s always a twist in the contract’s tail.
After we’d gotten into the estates and then past Guzman’s own securit
y, he came to the door himself, and, holding it open, he said, “Carl, my friend, welcome. Please come in. Wonderful surprise, you coming to see me. And who is this young lady?”
Angie was completely wide-eyed. More agog at the mansion and the man than she’d been in the chase and the gunfight.
“My daughter, Angie,” I said.
“Welcome to my house,” he said to her and offered his hand. “My name is Jorge. And if there is anything you would like, please, it would be my pleasure. Come in, come in,” he said, leading the way. The house was Spanish—Mexican—in the grand style. He led us through the high-ceilinged foyer into the living room. That was higher still—two stories high with a balustraded balcony that ran around three sides. I guessed that the bedrooms were up there. The fourth wall was mostly glass with arches and columns. A second set of columns and arches outside created a covered walkway that kept the sun from shining directly into the house. The windows looked out onto courtyard with a pool and an artificial waterfall, landscaped—just like the front of the house was—with flowering desert plants and lush, trailing bougainvillea.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
He understood that I meant not in front of Angie. He smiled and said, “Give me a moment.” He went over to Angie and told her, “Look around if you like. In these cabinets here,” he opened them, “there is an immense collection of music CDs. Maybe you will see things you like. I will be right back. Sit anywhere. Do what you like.”
When Jorge was gone, Angie came close to me and said, “What is this place?”
“He’s a man I know,” I said, trying to figure out how to explain it all and failing as she looked at me, waiting for the rest.
Fortunately, Jorge returned. He was with an older woman, maybe twenty, twenty-five years older than he himself was. Her clothes were expensive and dignified, a thin gold chain and gold cross around her neck, and the glitter of a diamond in each ear. “Carl, I would like you to meet my mother, Luisa.”
“How do you do,” I said.
“Is my pleasure,” she said, with the Mexican accent that Jorge had worked so hard to erase in himself. “Welcome to our home.”
Salvation Boulevard Page 17
