Getaway

by Lisa Brackmann

  “Sorry,” he said when she winced from the pain of the movement.

  “You can’t help it.”

  He was looking at her body now, staring and then looking away, at the bruises, she figured, deep and purple on her ribs and arm, and on her hip, too, but he couldn’t see that.

  “There’s a nightshirt in the dresser,” she said.

  He nodded. Let out a short, hard breath. Then he wadded up Gary’s T-shirt and threw it in the corner.

  “There’s a party I’m supposed to go to tomorrow. It’s just up the coast. You’ll come with me.”

  “I’m not supposed to leave town. Morales told me.”

  They lay in bed. He’d helped her with her nightshirt and the sling and swathe. Sweat gathered under its pads and straps. He’d taken off his shirt and lay there in his shorts. It was easier to talk that way, lying down.

  “It’s not far,” he said. “Just in San Pancho. It’s a little town past the north end of Banderas Bay.”

  “How is that going to help? Going there?”

  “I’ve got some business to do. But I can get a plane close by. I’ll fly you back. To the States.”

  She almost laughed. “What kind of business?”

  “It’s complicated,” he muttered. “Look, it’s up to you. If you want to go, I’ll take you.”

  She thought about it. “What about the police?”

  “If they’ve got somebody watching, you’re not going to look like you’re running. We’re just going to a party, that’s all. And the cops here, they don’t exactly have a lot of resources.”

  “What about Gary?”

  “Fuck Gary. He doesn’t have anything to say about this.”

  She was so drowsy—from the drugs, from the beer, from the pain in her head—that it was hard to think straight.

  Was there another choice? She couldn’t come up with one.

  “What’s everyone going to think, seeing me like this?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “They’ll know,” she said. “Everyone knows everything here.”

  “You got mugged,” he told her, his face inches from hers, his features blurred by the dark. “Robbed. But you’re feeling better, and you wanted to go out, just to get your mind off what happened. Right? Can you sell that?”

  “I guess.” He sounded like Gary, she thought.

  “Try to sleep,” he said.

  “You don’t have to stay.” She wasn’t sure if she even wanted him to stay.

  “I’d better. You shouldn’t be alone when you have a head injury. Didn’t the doctors tell you that?”

  She nodded. It’s better that he’s here, she told herself, and there was something comforting, she had to admit, about having him lying there within arm’s reach.

  “I’ll get you out of this,” he said. “I promise.”

  [CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR]

  He left early the next morning, before the sun had even risen. “I’ll be back to pick you up around four-thirty,” he said. “I’ve got some stuff I have to deal with. Can you be ready?”

  “I’ll need some help getting dressed.”

  “Oh.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll come at four. Does that give you enough time?”

  “Sure.”

  What did she have to do, other than dress? Not pack. She was leaving all these things behind.

  After Daniel left, she managed to put on a pair of shorts and her Mephisto walking sandals (her cute Kenneth Cole flip-flops were lost somewhere up at the dump) and hobble downstairs for breakfast.

  Forget a bra. That wasn’t going to happen.

  “Oh, Señora Mason, you look much better today!” Paloma exclaimed.

  “Really?” Michelle doubted it. “Thanks,” she added quickly. There was no point in saying what she really thought, not here, not now.

  “Let me bring you some breakfast.”

  Michelle sat at a table by the courtyard fountain. Drank a cup of coffee. Ate a couple pieces of toast and some fruit. Petted the calico cat when it came by looking for handouts.

  She thought about writing Maggie another e-mail. Tell her what was going on. That she thought she’d be home soon but she really wasn’t sure.

  What was the point, though?

  If I make it home, I make it, she thought. If I don’t, what was the point of telling Maggie what had happened? How would that help anyone?

  Would telling Maggie result in some kind of justice?

  If I’m gone, what difference does it make? she thought.

  Besides, if Maggie didn’t know anything, maybe they’d leave her alone.

  After that, Michelle took a Vicodin and went back upstairs to lie down.

  “What should I wear? This?”

  She showed Daniel the black dress she’d worn that night to the cocktail party downtown—the dress she’d bought with Gary’s money.

  “Yeah, that’s fine.” He sounded distracted. “Maybe bring along some shorts and a sweater or something. And your swimsuit, to make it look good. It’s at the beach, and there’s a pool. People’ll be spending the night there, so no one’s gonna wonder if you have some extra things.”

  “So I can bring a toothbrush?” She tried to make it light. Why not? If she could joke about it, maybe it wasn’t as bad as she feared.

  “Sure.” He grinned. “Hey, go to town—bring the floss.”

  He helped her dress. She didn’t want to look at herself in the mirror. If she saw how ridiculous she looked, how wounded, how helpless … she didn’t think she’d be able to make herself leave the room.

  “Ready?”

  “Almost.” She had her tote bag, stuffed with a bathing suit, a pair of shorts, her favorite blouse, underwear, and the one sweater she’d brought, which so far she’d worn only once, on the plane from Los Angeles.

  In the hobo she packed a lipstick, her Olympus E-3 and her point-and-shoot camera, a T-shirt, her passport, and the money that remained, about two thousand dollars.

  As she stuffed it into an envelope from the resort hotel, she thought, If I’d just left it behind, maybe I would have gotten away. Maybe I would have made it to a bus going out of town. And maybe Charlie would still be alive.

  There was nothing she could do about that now, except regret it.

  Daniel had driven over in a different Jeep: older, considerably more battered than the tricked-out late model he’d driven before.

  “New car?” Michelle asked.

  “Mine’s in the shop,” he muttered.

  She wasn’t sure she believed him. You’re going to do something illegal, something dangerous, maybe you didn’t want to do that in your own car.

  “You okay? You’re up for this, right?” he asked her.

  “I’ll manage.” She had to. For better or worse, she’d made her choice.

  “We’re heading into Nayarit now,” Daniel said as the road looped around the airport. “Different time zone. It’s an hour earlier here, just so you know.”

  “Well, I’m not wearing a watch.”

  They crossed over a broad, muddy river, continuing along the highway, passing great swaths of open land and jungle interspersed with parking lots and clusters of condominiums.

  The highway swept close to the ocean, through a cluttered-looking town—“That’s Bucerías,” Daniel said. “Nicer than it looks from the road. I’ve been thinking about moving up here. One of the best beaches around”—before it turned inland, into jungle-covered foothills.

  “Are you going to tell me anything?” she finally asked.

  Daniel sighed. “Michelle, look … anything I tell you, you’re not going to understand.”

  “You know what? I’m not stupid.”

  Calming breaths, she told herself. She was so angry. She felt choked with rage. “Charlie told me some things. I didn’t want to believe him. But I’m starting to.”

  “I know you’re upset about Charlie,” he began.

  Her hand made a fist and struck the door, without her even thinking about it. “
Don’t you say a fucking word about him!”

  He didn’t. He stared straight ahead and kept driving.

  About ten minutes later, she saw orange cones, and then barrels, on the road. Ahead of those a couple of olive drab trucks— Humvees, maybe—with machine guns mounted on them. A half dozen men in fatigues, with weapons.

  “Don’t worry,” Daniel said. “It’s just an army checkpoint.”

  They use the army, hadn’t Charlie said that? One of the cartels. Or the army was helping one of them. She couldn’t remember which.

  Her heart started pounding.

  “Calm down,” Daniel said. “Don’t act like you’ve got something to hide.”

  He slowed and then stopped.

  A soldier came up on either side of the Jeep.

  “¿Hablan español?” the one on the driver’s side asked.

  Daniel nodded.

  “¿Tienen drogas o armas?”

  “No,” Daniel said, and then he rattled off something else that Michelle didn’t understand, then gestured toward the backseat, and the soldier laughed.

  She glanced over her shoulder. A golf bag filled with clubs.

  The soldier on Michelle’s side of the Jeep looked to be twenty years old, if that. He had thick eyebrows, a round face, and big, dark eyes, which he kept fixed on some point just above her head. She wanted to smile at him, but she didn’t. He looked like a teenager, but he still carried a machine gun.

  “Okay,” the soldier on Daniel’s side of the car said. He lifted his hand in a wave.

  Daniel touched his hand to his forehead in a half salute, and they drove off.

  “Like I said, nothing to worry about. They’re not after us.”

  “So who are they after?”

  He gave her a look. She couldn’t tell if he was irritated or embarrassed behind his sunglasses. “You heard him, didn’t you? You understand that much.”

  “Drugs and guns. And you’re telling me you don’t have any of those.”

  His hands gripped the wheel. “I told you it’s complicated.”

  “In the car? Are there drugs in this car?”

  “No.”

  “On the planes you’re flying, then?”

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “What does Gary want, Danny? After all the things he’s done—after what he did to me—you can at least tell me that.”

  For a long moment, he said nothing, just gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead.

  She waited for him to say more.

  “He wants me to keep doing my job,” he finally said.

  “Which is what? Are you a smuggler, Danny? Do you smuggle drugs? Or guns? Or …?”

  “If you’re not stupid, don’t pretend like you don’t know.”

  She couldn’t say anything at first. She hadn’t wanted to be right.

  “So it’s true, what Charlie said? You’re a spook? Smuggling drugs?”

  “I’m an asset. Unofficial.” He sounded tired. “I manage a supply chain. One particular pipeline. Make sure the vendors connect with the shippers and the goods and payments get where they need to go. Sometimes I handle specific deliveries. It depends. Lately I’ve mostly been ferrying cash. It’s easier to launder money here in Mexico than it is in the States.”

  Daddy’s little bagman.

  She thought about the conversation she’d had with Charlie. About the communist threat that didn’t exist anymore. About the Contras … what had even happened to them?

  “Why do you do it?”

  “What kind of question is that?” He gave her one of his sidelong grins. “It’s a job. They pay me.”

  “You keep telling me you’re not a bad guy. So tell me why. What’s it all for? Tell me, I don’t know, that it’s to keep us all safe. You did it for your country. Whatever bullshit excuse you have. I want to hear it.”

  “I don’t have one anymore.” He shrugged. “It used to be fun.”

  “Fun?”

  The word hit like a punch in the gut.

  “Yeah. I did all kinds of stuff before this. Flew in and out of some interesting situations. Dropped in extraction teams and picked up people who needed saving, like a big fucking hero. Helped take out bad actors who were better off dead. No bullshit bureaucracy, we just did stuff. Good stuff. It was fun.”

  He laughed. “Problem is, you do this one thing that’s not right so you can do the bigger thing that is. And all of a sudden, you’re flying some poor asshole to a black-ops jail in fucking Morocco so they can paste electrodes on his balls.”

  Hearing this, she rolled her eyes.

  “Okay, so you’re a good guy and they steered you wrong, is that what you’re saying? You’re a victim here? Jesus, Danny. People are getting killed over this.”

  “Most of them are in the game.”

  She thought about all those stories she’d read, about the tens of thousands of people who had died here, in Mexico, casualties of the drug war.

  People in the game. Drug lords and dealers and assassins.

  Politicians. Reporters. Policemen. Kids.

  People who weren’t in the game at all.

  “Like Charlie?”

  He swallowed hard. Almost shuddered.

  “That kind of thing … it’s why I don’t want to do it anymore,” he mumbled.

  She let her head fall back against the car seat, winced from the pain the impact caused. She didn’t know what to say. But there was something she still needed to ask.

  “What about Gary?”

  “He’s a step up the chain from me. Not exactly an asset. Not exactly official. They keep it vague on purpose. It’s not like everyone in the Company’s involved. It’s always been a little group, running their own game.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” she said with a snort. “So you’re a … a supply-chain manager. What’s his job? Human resources?”

  “He handles problems. Guess he thought I might be turning into one.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. But he knew I wasn’t happy. I made some noise about it. He thought maybe I was going bad.”

  She thought about that, about what that could possibly mean in this situation, and gave up. “Going bad?”

  “Talking,” he said simply. “Telling the truth. Naming names.”

  “Why not just kill you?”

  He gave her a look. “That’s pretty cold.”

  “Well, shit, Danny, isn’t that what these people do?”

  “Not us. I mean, not like that. We’re not—”

  “You’re not what? You’re not criminals? You just take out bad actors?”

  His hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “If I got to be a big enough problem, yeah, that could happen,” he said eventually. “But he’d rather keep me working. I know the players. Know the ropes. I’m not that easy to replace. Some no-load like Bagger’d goon it up in no time.”

  Clouds had started coming in from the coast. A few heavy drops of rain spit on the windshield, and then the sun came through again. She squinted against it, thinking that her head hurt, thinking that maybe he was right, that she couldn’t understand. Or that she didn’t want to.

  “So are you?” she asked anyway. “Going bad?”

  He hesitated a long time. “No. I don’t think so. I thought about it. Tell the press, tell Congress, tell somebody.… Then I thought, who’d listen? Who’d care? A lot of them already know, and what could they even do about it? The people with the power to fix it mostly like things the way they are.”

  “You still have plenty of excuses,” she said angrily. “Not everyone’s corrupt. There are people who try to do the right thing.”

  “Yeah,” he said without heat. “Hey, if you’re looking for a hero, I’m not that guy. I’m too much of a chickenshit, I guess.”

  She wasn’t going to fill in the silence that followed. What could she say to that? Then she thought, When did I ever not just go along? When have I ever been brave?

  “Me t
oo,” she said.

  She stared out the window, at the foothills shrouded in low-hanging clouds. “Mostly I thought about quitting,” Daniel said after a while. “But there’s consequences to that too, you know? So I told myself I was getting my ducks in a row. Making sure I had insurance. Waiting for … I don’t know what I was waiting for.”

  “I don’t understand,” Michelle said. “I don’t understand what Gary thought … what was the point of having me there? What did he think I could tell him, when I didn’t understand what I was even looking for?”

  “You were there, that was enough. Maybe you could tell him something useful. Maybe not. But you were there. And he could listen to us. Just to let me know that I can’t trust anybody, that he’s got his eye on me no matter what I do. He’d get a good laugh out of it later, you know? Come back to me, brag about how he set us up, make a few pussy jokes.… I mean, why do dogs lick themselves, right?”

  “Because they can?” She could hear the edge of hysteria in her voice, the rage again; she was shaking with it.

  “Yeah. He could fuck with us, so he did. That’s the kind of guy he is.”

  “And what he did to me …”

  “A warning. Like the pig’s head. This is what happens when you don’t play along.”

  [CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE]

  “You think you can keep it together?”

  She nodded. There wasn’t much choice.

  “You got mugged,” he reminded her. “You’re feeling better now. You wanted to go someplace where you could relax. Somewhere quiet.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  They had driven off the main highway, on a series of local roads. She’d seen a little bit of the town, a combination of an old village with men in white straw hats riding horses on the streets and art galleries that looked transplanted from someplace like Santa Fe.

  Now they were on a tiny lane that had been carved out of the jungle, narrow enough and so shaded by trees that it resembled a tunnel of green.

  Ahead was a wrought-iron gate with a guard box, and a guard. No uniform, but built like a weightlifter.

  “You don’t have anything to worry about here,” Daniel said. “It’s just a party.”

  The guard took in Daniel’s face and nodded.

  The gate rolled open.

  “Whose party?”

  He hesitated. “His name is Curt Dellinger. He’s a client.”