by Tim Maleeny
“Where are you going?”
“To pack.”
“So you’re leaving?”
“I don’t know,” said Garcia. “I just have a feeling I’m going on a trip.”
“Just like you have a feeling the American will return?”
“Yes.”
“And why would he come back to Mexico?”
“Because I would.”
“Why?”
Garcia didn’t answer. He looked at Juan and played with the thread on his sleeve until it rested firmly between his thumb and forefinger. Then he yanked decisively and felt a satisfying snap. He let the loose thread drop to the floor, then he turned and walked away.
Chapter Fifty-six
“We should have seen this coming.”
Sally said it softly but the words stung. She wrapped both hands around the cup of tea and drank, her green eyes clear and hard above the rim.
“You trying to make me feel better?” Cape took some crunchy noodles from the dish between them.
Sally called to the waitress, a young Chinese girl in her teens. They spoke rapidly in Cantonese for a minute, the girl looking from Sally to Cape, then smiling and bowing before she went downstairs.
“What was that about?” Cape looked around the dim room. The second floor of the tea house was empty save for the two of them, at Sally’s request, but the scars on the floor and the tables crowded along the walls were testaments to its popularity. Cape thought he knew Chinatown but Sally always managed to find someplace he never knew existed.
“I asked her to make something special.” Sally studied his face for a moment. “You look better than you did in the hospital, but your forehead is still—”
“—purple. I know. You were in the hospital?”
“You were unconscious. I left before Beau arrived, once I knew you were going to come around.”
“How did you know?”
“I checked you out.” Sally smiled and Cape had an image of her running her hands along his neck, squeezing his temples. He suspected she could give the doctors a run for their money.
“How did you know Beau was there?”
“I saw him.”
“He didn’t mention seeing you.”
“That’s because he didn’t.” Sally took another sip of her tea. “Doors are over-rated.”
The waitress brought a mug that smelled so bad she held it at arm’s length. Cape could see her eyes watering behind the steam. After she set it down she bowed once and then disappeared again.
“What is it?” Cape looked at the noxious liquid, a bluish-green concoction with flecks of brown floating on the surface.
“Ancient Chinese secret.”
“It smells horrible.”
“Then make a face when you drink it,” said Sally. “Just drink it.”
Cape frowned but didn’t say anything.
“Trust me.”
He did. Cape grabbed the cup, which was almost too hot to touch, and poured its contents down his throat. He figured the best thing to do was get it over with, so he tried to open his throat like a beer-chugging contest.
He almost fainted. Cape had a sensation of lava hitting his stomach, then an explosion in his head that cleared not only his sinuses but his ears and tear ducts at the same time. His eyes started to water and his nose ran like a faucet.
“It’s working.” Sally handed him a napkin.
“Thanks.” Cape wiped his nose, let the tears run down his cheeks. He took a deep breath and realized the pounding headache that had plagued him since the car accident was gone. Not diminished, utterly gone. He looked around the room and could’ve sworn his eyesight had improved. He wondered if X-ray vision would develop if he drank another cup.
Sally smiled, laughter in her eyes.
“What’s in that drink?”
“You don’t want to know.” Sally shook her head. “If you did, you’d never swallow it.”
Cape took a deep breath and gingerly touched his forehead.
“It’s still purple,” said Sally.
“But it doesn’t feel it.”
“You’re welcome.”
Cape leaned back in his chair. “You were telling me how I should’ve seen this coming?”
“We—I said we. You’re not always as suspicious as you should be.”
“Salinas got what he wants—it’s over. The Senator is dead, the racket he and Cordon set up is bust.”
“Look at it from his perspective.” Sally set her cup down. “I was raised by men like Salinas.”
“And what would they do?”
“When Salinas first discovered what the Senator was up to, what do you think he did?”
Cape remained silent.
“He would threaten the Senator’s family.” Sally’s eyes seemed to harden with memory. “You always threaten first, to see if there is any leverage. And if the target does not respond—”
“—you act on that threat to let them know you’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“But his wife was already dead.”
Sally nodded. “So our attention turns to the son.”
“And Danny was an easy target. Already in the life, because of Frank. Just an arm’s length away from Salinas.”
“You said the Senator resigned suddenly.”
The buzz from the drink was fading but Cape still felt more lucid than he had in days. “They must have snatched Danny, demanded the Senator come down to claim him. And then they killed them both.”
“But we forgot something.” Though her face was unlined, Sally suddenly looked incredibly old. The moment passed and Cape wondered if it had been a trick of the light or an after-effect from the drink. “A threat always has two audiences.”
“It does?”
Sally nodded. “The victim and…” She let her voice trail off, then found it again. “The people watching.”
“Salinas had an audience.”
“A man like that always does. Business associates. Rivals like Cordon. Law enforcement. Even the press. As long as he avoids proof of his guilt, Salinas doesn’t mind rumors—in fact he covets them.”
“Because every threat carried out sends a message to everyone else. Fuck with me and I’ll kill your family.”
“Your whole family.” Sally’s mouth was a straight line. “That means the daughter, too.”
“The daughter with the different last name.” Cape banged his hands against the table and wished it had hurt more. “Who was sent away for her own good when she was young. Who was invisible to Salinas and men like him.”
“Until the press found her.”
Cape said nothing. Sally sat immobile. Traffic whispered and honked two stories below. Finally Sally broke the silence.
“You want to go after her.” She said it as a statement.
Cape met her gaze. “Yes.”
“They’ll try to kill you, too.”
Cape touched his forehead and tried to look nonchalant. “What else is new?”
“She might already be dead.”
“I know. You coming?”
“Of course.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
Rebecca Lowry was exhausted.
The United flight from SFO to Mexico City was delayed by almost four hours. The gate attendant said it was because of weather, but when several passengers pointed out that it was perfectly sunny in both San Francisco and Mexico City the plane suddenly had a mechanical problem.
Rebecca calmly made her way to the front of the line and pointed at a button the attendant wore on her blouse. Ask me about our on-time performance! The woman tersely explained that the crew had been delayed getting to the airport, but her tone of voice made it clear that she suspected the delay was really being caused by Rebecca’s inquisitive attitude.
Rebecca had tried to follow the instructions in the telegram to the letter, but she missed her connecting flight in Mexico City. After pacing the airport for three hours she caught a bumpy AeroMexico flight to Monterrey. There s
he stood in line for twenty minutes waiting for a taxi, her carry-on bag feeling like it was filled with lead.
The taxi navigated busy streets, the architecture a blend of modern-ugly and colonial, the Sierra Madre Mountains visible at every turn. The driver cruised past Fundidora Park and Macro Plaza, movie theaters and discos exploding with neon to spare. It was almost midnight when he pulled into the driveway at the Calinda Plaza hotel.
The lobby was empty save for a balding man in his fifties behind the desk. He had been sitting on a stool but stood and gave Rebecca a huge smile. She almost fainted with gratitude.
“Señorita Lowry?”
“How did you know?”
“We have been expecting you—I held your room.”
Rebecca remembered they had asked her for her flight information when she made the reservation. She smiled and pulled out her credit card.
“Thank you—gracias.” She wished she remembered her high school Spanish, but it had been too many years.
“It is a long trip from the U.S.” He pronounced U.S. like oooh, yes.
“Ooooh, yes,” repeated Rebecca lamely. She could barely keep her eyes open. She had tried to rest on the flight but couldn’t close her eyes, though the adrenaline rush from receiving the telegram had long since faded. She had too many questions, too many stray thoughts to relax. But now that she was here at the hotel, all she wanted to do was sleep.
The man handed her a key card. “Ocho cientos doce—eighth floor. Elevators right over there.”
Rebecca rested her head against the side of the elevator as she watched the numbers light up above the door. The eighth floor was quiet save for the humming of the ice machine. Judging from the ambient noise as she walked toward her room, it might have been empty.
She slid the key twice before she got a green light, then stepped into her room to let the door shut behind her. The room was pitch black. A green light glowed on the far side of the room, and she could hear the tortured grinding of an air conditioner. Dropping her bag, she reached along the wall to find the light switch.
Her right hand slid along the stuccoed surface almost two feet until she felt a something smooth. Just as her fingers shifted to push it into the wall, Rebecca felt it move suddenly. Her tired brain sent sparks but no clear signal, telling her the smooth surface wasn’t hard like plastic but surrounded by something warm and calloused. Rebecca backed against the door as she realized it must have been a nail, and she just touched a human hand.
The lights came on and Rebecca blinked as she tried to find her voice.
A man standing not more than three feet way had hit the switch. He had a dark complexion and a mild expression on his face. He wore a navy suit and loafers. His overall appearance was non-threatening, but his eyes were hard.
“Hola, Señorita Lowry. You have kept us waiting.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out, and she wondered if maybe the hotel was empty, after all.
Chapter Fifty-eight
“We’re going to a pig farm?”
In answer to Cape’s question a satellite image appeared on the plasma screen in front of Sloth. He slid his hand awkwardly across the scratch pad and the image zoomed, revealing a cleared area on the outskirts of a city. It was hard to judge the scale, but there appeared to be a series of long buildings arranged near a body of water too symmetrical and square to be anything but man-made.
Linda’s hair jutted toward the screen. “This is one of the biggest operations in Cordon’s portfolio of companies. It not only received seed money from Delta Energy, which got huge tax breaks for investing in this place, it also got funding from the Mexican government.”
“But it’s a pig farm.”
“A huge source for bio-gas.”
“Translate please.”
“Pig farts—a terrific energy source, and a really good source of cash.”
“You’re kidding.” Cape turned toward her but stayed out of reach of her hair.
“I’m serious, and this plant might be legitimate, at least as far as the law is concerned.”
“I don’t have a lot of time, Linda. Our flight leaves in four hours.”
“We traced Rebecca’s flight to Monterrey, Mexico. Sloth accessed her credit card and she checked into a hotel there a few hours ago. Now guess where the pig farm is?”
“Monterrey?”
“Just outside the city.”
The image on the screen changed, replaced by a series of photographs from ground level. Linda talked in staccato burst as new pictures flashed onto the screen.
“This is a farm that raises pigs for the usual reasons pigs are raised—”
“ Bacon?”
“—and ham sandwiches, and pork chops. And all the other forms of pork that carnivores like you eat.”
“—delicious.”
“Don’t interrupt if you’re in a hurry. And that’s still the principal activity on the farm, but it’s not the most profitable. See that lake?”
Cape nodded.
“It’s not lake.” Linda wrinkled her nose. “It’s a waste lagoon.”
“Pig piss.”
“Among other things. Now see those long sheds?”
“That where they keep the pigs?”
“Yes. Notice the pipes running from the sides of them, into that series of tanks?”
“Sure. It looks like the pipes all connect and lead to that shed next to the lagoon.”
“When pigs fart, which they do constantly, they release methane—just like cows.”
“And people.”
“And methane not only smells bad, it burns. Which means it can be a source of fuel.”
Cape studied the photos. “Isn’t burning methane going to release pollution?”
Linda nodded. “It releases carbon dioxide, a greenhouse gas, but methane is considered much worse for the atmosphere, so there’s a trade-off. Capturing methane on pig farms gives you a cheap source of energy to make electricity that’s slightly better than burning coal or other fossil fuels. For a developing country it can be pretty lucrative.”
“I get why it’s cheap, but how is it profitable?”
“This operation also gets money from Delta Energy for carbon offsets.”
“I thought that was about planting trees.”
“An offset can be sold for anything that supposedly reduces greenhouse gases, so funding a methane-burning pig farm qualifies as much as planting a tree. This farm gets a check every month. A big one.”
“And since the tree-planting venture was corrupt—”
“—I’m betting there’s some creative accounting going on among the pigs.”
Cape closed his eyes for a second, tried to get the kaleidoscope of images from the screen off his retinas. He needed a minute to think. When he opened his eyes the plasma screen had turned a dark blue, a calmer color. Sloth must have sensed he was getting overwhelmed.
“OK, say it’s another shell company.” Cape turned to Linda. “But why this place instead of somewhere else in Mexico?”
Linda took a printout off the desk. It was a newspaper article from the previous year. “Remember how you said the press on the Senator dried up suddenly, about nine months ago?”
Cape looked at the photo next to the article. It showed Dobbins smiling at the camera along with a bunch of well-dressed men. They were standing in front of a low shed with pipes running into it. Mountains were visible on the horizon, trees in the near distance. It looked tropical.
“This is the pig farm that Luis Cordon owns in Monterrey, Mexico.” She tapped the faces of the men in the picture. “When Delta Energy got its big tax break, the alternative energy venture got some press. Politicians on both sides of the border hyped their greener-than-thou achievement to woo voters. One of them was Dobbins.”
Cape stared at the photo, cursing himself for overlooking the article in his original search. Once he had found the trail to Mexico he’d left the background check behind.
“Salinas must
have seen this.”
“That’s what we think.” Linda spread her arms to include Sloth. “Dobbins realized too late his love of the press might have exposed his connection to Cordon. So he lowered his profile, but by then it was too late.”
“Salinas took a few months to do some homework, then came about the Senator.” Cape ran his hands through his hair. “So this place is significant for Salinas.”
“It must generate a fortune for Cordon. If Salinas is going to press his advantage, he’ll go after this place. Unless he wants to bring the fight to Matamoros.”
“What’s there?”
“Cordon lives there—it’s a big smuggling port, right near the Texas border.”
“But why would Salinas lure Rebecca to Monterrey and not bring her to him?”
“In Puerto Vallarta?” Linda’s hair shrugged a little. “I’m just telling you how these places are connected.”
Cape thought about what Sally had said about Salinas. About carrying out a threat in such a way that it sent a signal to everyone.
“He wants her to see it burn,” said Cape. “It’s the crown jewel of Cordon’s empire, and she’s a stand-in for her Dad—Salinas wants Rebecca there when he destroys the farm.”
“As a witness?”
“And part of the message.” Cape didn’t want to say his next thought out loud but he did. He was starting to understand Salinas and hated the feeling. “She’ll never leave there alive.”
Before Linda could say anything the plasma screen directly in front of Sloth wiped itself clean. Stark words appeared in bold type.
You’ll need these.
A printer hummed to life somewhere behind them. Cape followed the sound to a small alcove where a paper tray caught page after page.
“What are these?”
Schematics of the methane plant. Floor plans. Elevations.
Cape walked over and squeezed Sloth’s shoulder, their normal substitute for shaking hands.
“What’s the head count on the farm?”
About thirty thousand.
“Thirty thousand men?” Cape knew some drug lords kept standing armies, but he wasn’t prepared for this. “I’m fucked.”
