Blood Money

by Thomas Perry

  Jane slowly raised the shotgun and gripped it tightly against her shoulder to fight the recoil. She looked down the groove along the top of the receiver, held the bead in the center, and let it settle on the man with the gun. He would be the first, then his companion, before they could dive out of the light. If the driver had the presence of mind to accelerate away, she would put a shot through the back window on his side, and one on the other side before she ran.

  The man with the gun raised his free hand above his head and made a quick circular motion. The taillights of the car went dim as the driver took his foot off the brake. Jane lowered the shotgun, pulled Rita to the ground with her and held her there. “Don’t move.”

  The driver pulled to the wrong side of the road and swung the car in a tight half circle, the left tires bumping on the shoulder as the headlights swept across empty brush, over Jane and Rita’s hiding place, then settled on the road again. The two men climbed into the back seat, and the car moved up the road the way it had come.

  Jane tapped Rita. “There’s another way. Come on.”

  Jane rose and began to trot into the field, making her way farther from the road and back toward the house.

  Jane could hear Rita’s footsteps behind her, but suddenly they stopped. Rita’s voice reached her from twenty feet back. “Wait,” she said. “I’m not leaving Bernie out there to die.”

  Jane stepped close to her. “Keep your voice down,” she whispered. “If Bernie did what I told him to, he’ll be fine until we catch up with him. If he didn’t, nothing we do is going to help him.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Remember the arroyo?”

  “What’s an arroyo?”

  “That dry streambed where I set Bernie down. It runs north-south. The road runs east-west. Water doesn’t stop just because there’s a road. It has to cross.”

  Headlights appeared on the road again, and Jane and Rita had to drop to the ground until the car passed. Then Jane was up and trotting again, and Rita had to trot too, to keep her in sight. Almost as soon as the road went dark, the lights from the next car appeared.

  Rita stopped and crouched as they had before, but Jane pulled her on. “They’ve got their intervals figured out now. There’s not enough time between cars to wait for them.”

  When they reached the arroyo, Jane stepped down into it. When Rita joined her, she said, “See? It’s deep. When it rains, there must be a lot of water.”

  “But which direction does it run?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It has to cross the road.” Jane bent low and hurried along the bottom of the arroyo toward the road.

  As they came closer to the road, Rita could see that Jane had been right about the cars. They were moving faster now, and the intervals between them were even.

  When they were a hundred feet from the road, Jane stopped and waited. When Rita caught up, Jane pointed at the road. “See?”

  Rita strained to see what Jane was pointing at. There was the road. It went across the arroyo, but it didn’t dip down and go up again. It was level. From here it looked as though the road had been built on a pile of big rocks. Did the water seep through between the rocks?

  The next car approached and Jane turned her face away from the road and said, “Get ready. As soon as it goes past, we move.”

  The car flashed past; Jane rose to her feet and ran. Rita felt an instant of panic. Jane seemed to be on her way, but Rita had no idea of what she was running to. It wasn’t until Jane was at the edge of the road that Rita could see her stop. Jane was below the level of the road on her hands and knees beside a set of low, thick plants. Jane pushed the plants aside and bent lower, then disappeared.

  Rita came to the spot and knelt in front of the plants, then fought them aside with her forearms to see. Beyond the plants, she touched something hard and cool like rock, but it was a perfect circle. She reached farther in. It was a big cement pipe. Rita felt relief, and embarrassment at the same time. This was what Jane had meant. Jane had known there would be a big pipe—what did they call it?—a culvert. Otherwise, the arroyo would fill up after a rain and the water would wash out the road. That’s why the plants were so thick here. This was where there was the most water.

  Rita could hear hollow, echoing scraping sounds from inside the culvert. She felt a swelling in her chest as she dropped to her belly and slithered into the round, dark hole. It was dirty, and the cement scraped her elbows and knees. Moving was hard and painful, but she was crossing the road by going under it, so she ignored the pain and moved.

  Jane’s echoing sounds ahead of her suddenly stopped. Rita waited, and heard a low hum, then felt a sharp vibration as a car passed over her head. Then Jane began to move again, and Rita struggled to keep close to her.

  A moment later, Jane’s sounds simply faded and were gone. Rita knew that Jane must have made it to the end. Rita struggled and strained to go faster, and finally she felt a fresh, cool breeze on her cheek. Jane’s whisper came from close to her ear. “You did a great job, Rita. Stay still for a second.”

  This time Rita could see the glow of the headlights on the plants on the left slope of the arroyo twenty feet ahead of her. The lights brightened, and the engine sound got louder and lower. Then there was darkness and the engine sound went up the register until it was a distant whine. “Time to move on,” said Jane.

  She helped Rita out of the culvert and pulled her to her feet, then set off again. This side of the road seemed to be the same random arrangement of rocks and bushes and plants as the other side, but Jane appeared to know where she wanted to go. After what seemed to be a long run, Rita could see the other road that they had been afraid to cross.

  Jane stopped fifty feet from the road, then began to walk along it in a parallel course, staying low and staring at the rocks and bushes ahead of her. Suddenly she turned and hurried toward the road, and knelt down as though to pick something up. When Jane stood up again, Rita could see that what she had bent to grasp was Bernie’s arm. She was pulling him to his feet.

  Rita trotted to catch up, then watched Jane set the shotgun on the ground and kick dirt over it.

  Jane said, “We cross the road here, and make our way two blocks straight ahead before we get back on Canyon. The car is a black Ford Explorer, parked on the right about three blocks farther on.”

  Jane hurried them to the shoulder of the road. Rita could see the car that had stopped to look for them parked in its spot a few hundred feet away. “You and Bernie go first,” Rita said. “If they see you, I can still pick up the—” and Jane’s hand grasped her wrist and yanked her onto the road. They ran a few steps and they were across, moving into the shadows of buildings and trees.

  They were on a road parallel to Canyon Road, walking fast. After a few minutes of walking, Jane turned to the left, and then right. Jane said, “There. See it?”

  They walked on until they came to the black shape Jane had pointed to. Jane swung the door open, climbed up into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. Seconds later, Rita had pushed Bernie into the back seat and was beside Jane, closing the passenger door. Jane pulled out, moved up the street, and took the first turn before she switched on the lights.

  It seemed to Rita that it took a terribly long time for Jane to drive across town. At each intersection, Jane would look into the mirror over her head before she brought the Explorer to a stop. But then she accelerated, took a turn, and they were moving up the ramp onto the freeway. They passed under a sign that said ALBUQUERQUE.

  Jane drove, and they sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Rita spoke. “I’m sorry.”

  “What?” asked Bernie.

  “This was my fault,” Rita said, louder. “I did this. Jane made us safe, and I threw it away.”

  Jane waited for Rita to speak again for a minute, then another minute. Finally she said, “It was not a smart thing to do. It also wasn’t an evil thing, or a selfish thing, or a cowardly thing. You made a mistake, you did everything you could to fix it
, and it’s over. We’re all alive, and they don’t know where we went.”

  “Where did we go?” asked Rita.

  “Good question,” said Jane. “I don’t know yet. I guess we’ll have to do some thinking. We’ll pick a place, and I’ll try to start getting you settled: rent a house, buy clothes—”

  Bernie interrupted. “Honey, where were you when you found out about Rita’s letter and came back for us?”

  “Toledo, Ohio,” said Jane. “Why?”

  “Just at the north end of Albuquerque we meet Interstate 40. Go east on it.”

  Jane hesitated. “You can’t possibly want—”

  “It’s this truck, or whatever it is. It’s full of letters back here. The damned things take up so much space, I can hardly move my arms or legs, lie down, or sit up. Let’s go mail them.”

  “I don’t know,” said Jane doubtfully. She found herself turning her eyes toward Rita.

  The girl was hunched down in her seat, looking very young, thin, and dirty. Her eyes were glistening, and she was staring at Jane. “Please,” she said. “Just give us this much. We can hide for the rest of our lives.”

  29

  Frank Delfina liked his Albuquerque bottled-water business because it didn’t stink. Flower shops smelled, bakeries smelled. Even supermarkets smelled if you came in the back door, where the food was delivered. There was breakage, and you always found yourself stepping on a spot that made your shoe stick, and then the sole made a little smacking noise for the next few minutes. He looked across the plant at the clean, clear bottles waiting for tomorrow morning’s shift to come in and fill them.

  He liked everything. He liked it that people were dumb enough to believe that spring water driven down from the mountains in a truck was better than water that came from the same reservoir in a pipe, although they couldn’t tell the difference. He knew that, because this plant topped off each bottle with about two inches of tap water.

  Delfina didn’t like flying into Albuquerque and then waiting like this. He noticed Buccio walking toward him from the distant doorway, and he stared at him in frustration. He had let himself put faith in Buccio and his crew, and it had been a mistake. Buccio had the short-haired, big-shouldered look of a marine officer, always standing up straight and wearing his sleeves rolled up above his big forearms, as though he were about to do something impressive. He always looked like somebody who could pull off just about anything, and to do him credit, he was always eager to try. But that didn’t mean things would work. Delfina had almost let Buccio and his guys talk him into letting them pull an attack on a bus carrying the bosses of half the families in the country. At least Delfina had backed away from that one.

  Buccio said, “Vanelli’s car just pulled up in the lot outside.”

  “All right,” said Delfina. “Get the rest of your guys in here now.”

  Buccio gave Delfina a puzzled glance, then turned on his heel and strode quickly into the bottling area.

  Delfina twisted in his chair to look up at Mike Cirro, then held out his hand. Cirro reached into his sport coat, produced a Smith & Wesson .45 semi-automatic pistol, and placed it in Delfina’s palm. Delfina examined it, pulled the slide to cycle a round into the chamber, then slipped it into the back of his belt and adjusted his coat to cover it, and leaned back in the chair.

  A few hours ago, Delfina had let Buccio pull one of his commando-raid travesties outside Santa Fe. Buccio had flown a dozen men into Albuquerque, held a rendezvous at the airport, then deployed his troops. He had explained to Delfina how he’d sent snipers in camouflage into the desert to cover the house and the road, then pulled a full-scale assault to kick in all the doors at once and rush in. As Delfina thought about it, he was positive that at some point in the operation, Buccio must have said, “Synchronize your watches.”

  But Buccio had stormed an empty house. Rita Shelford had been gone. The woman who had been helping her hide had been gone. They had found computers, all set up in the dining room, and lots of different kinds of paper and envelopes. Buccio had had the sense to take the computers. As Delfina thought about it, he could almost forgive Buccio for the childish theatrics. Having the computers was going to be better than having the girl.

  Delfina was glad he had listened to Buccio’s whole story without interrupting him or shouting, because he had heard about Buccio’s mistake. He watched the rest of Buccio’s crew coming in from the door to the plant and the outer doors. They were Buccio’s hand-picked protégés, all of them. They all had his close-cropped, overexercised look with thick necks and empty faces.

  Delfina heard the distant door to the parking lot open and turned to watch the last four men come in. He recognized Vanelli and Giglia. They were laughing and talking with the other two men, who looked a little more subdued. When they came into the big room and saw Delfina, Vanelli stepped forward and said respectfully, “Frank. I brought some friends of ours to meet you. This is Paul Lomarco.” He indicated a tall, dark young man in a pair of jeans and a windbreaker. “This is Pete DiBiaggio.” That one was wearing a sweatshirt above his jeans that said, NEW MEXICO, LAND OF ENCHANTMENT.

  Both men smiled and nodded timidly at Delfina.

  Delfina smiled too, stood up, and shook their hands. “Glad to meet you.” He turned to Buccio. “Go get these guys a beer.” Buccio prepared to pass the order to one of his crew, but Delfina’s stare remained on him until he went toward the office himself. Delfina turned to the two men. “You guys are Cleveland boys, eh? Part of Al Castananza’s family?”

  Both men nodded. Lomarco said, “Yeah. They sent us here to watch the airport for the two women.”

  “Yeah, I got guys all over the place on that too.” Delfina smiled and shrugged. “The only good part is, I’ll bet you’ve had tougher jobs than that. Probably looked for women when you weren’t even getting paid for it. So you guys happened to run into each other at the airport?”

  “That’s right,” said DiBiaggio. “I met Vanelli a couple of years ago, so I went over to talk to him. He remembered me, too.”

  Delfina nodded. “Ah, here’s Buccio with the drinks.” Buccio handed each of the two a bottle of beer.

  Both men looked increasingly uncomfortable. Lomarco looked around him. “Wow. This is a big place.”

  Delfina nodded. “Yeah, I figured if you build something, it should be big enough so you don’t have to do it again in five years.” He looked at the twelve men along the wall to his right. “Come on, you guys. Relax. I didn’t mean to leave you out.”

  The men approached, a little warily. A couple of them nodded at Lomarco and DiBiaggio, who didn’t seem to be made more comfortable by the new faces. “Come on, guys. These are friends of ours. Aren’t you going to shake their hands?”

  A couple of Buccio’s men shook hands with Lomarco and DiBiaggio. Delfina stepped back to make room for others. In a moment he was behind the two guests. As Buccio and Vanelli stepped forward and grasped the two men’s hands, Delfina reached under his coat to his back, held the pistol behind Lomarco’s head, and fired. The noise seemed to make the air in the cavernous building harden and slap the eardrums. Four or five men cringed or ducked their heads, but Delfina already had the pistol at DiBiaggio’s head. He fired.

  He stepped over the men lying on the floor and walked toward his chair. Buccio, Vanelli, and two others had been spattered by blood. They were looking down at their hands and shirts, and the others seemed to be in the process of awakening from paralysis. They looked at the bodies, then at one another, and then at Delfina, who was shaking his head sadly.

  “They seemed to be two pretty good men,” said Delfina. “It was a shame to have to do that.” He looked up at Buccio’s crew. “That was totally unnecessary. Do I have to remind you guys what this is about?”

  A few of the men before him looked down at their feet, but Buccio, Vanelli, and a few others stared straight ahead.

  “It’s everything,” said Delfina. “You know what went into this? For weeks, I had people in a Flor
ida prison watching Rita Shelford’s mother twenty-four hours a day. Finally, we get a break. The girl writes her a letter. It takes two days to figure out that the place the girl is describing is Santa Fe. It takes a few more to backtrack through old newspaper ads to find out what houses used to be for sale or rent that aren’t anymore, then check every single one of them out. When the hard part is all done, I decide ‘Okay, these guys are always telling me about their precision and efficiency and all that. I’ll give them a shot at this.’ ”

  Delfina held up his hand in wonder. “Did I need to say, Keep it a secret? Don’t let guys from other families see twelve of my men fly in at once and meet in an airport that you know is being watched?”

  Delfina’s glare softened. He held out the pistol and Mike Cirro stepped up, took it from his hand, and slipped it into his coat again. “I know you must have done some of this right, because you didn’t get shot or arrested. You got into the house, took what was there, and got home. Fine. But look at these two. I didn’t kill them. You did.”

  He could see the men were sufficiently chastened. “Get them out of here. They depress me.”

  Several of the men dragged the two bodies out of the room, and others began to swab up the blood with red mechanics’ rags from the bottling plant. Delfina returned to his chair and watched the proceedings.

  After a half hour or so, he heard the door at the far end of the building open, and saw four men come in carrying big cardboard boxes. He slowly let his excitement build. This was going to be it.

  He turned to Mike Cirro. “You’re pretty sure you can do this yourself? If you need experts, I can get them. We’ve got all kinds of people on the payroll in companies all over the country.”

  Cirro shrugged. “It depends on how hard it is to get around their passwords. If I can’t, I won’t hurt anything, and we can get the experts.”