Devil's Claw

by Valerie Davisson

  Andrews was hoping they’d get lucky. The guy hadn’t been all that careful at the sea otter center, so he probably didn’t cover his tracks here, either. They’d find something.

  The kitchen and dining area yielded nothing other than the fact that Schofield didn’t cook and barely ate at home. Full set of china neatly stacked in the cupboards. No dirty dishes. Not even a box of cereal in the shallow pantry next to the stove. The only thing in the fridge was a stick of butter, some condiments, and takeout containers.

  Man ate well, though. Steak, green beans, and half a baked potato in one Styrofoam box. Mostly dried out. Lid popped open. Shriveled cheesecake. No alcohol. Not even beer.

  “Maybe he doesn’t like to drink alone,” Diaz said, materializing at his shoulder.

  “Eats out mostly, that’s for sure,” Andrews said, forcing himself not to flinch. The guy was a ninja.

  They tossed the couch, checked all the usual hiding places behind the TV and in the vents, undid the remote control, poked around the baseboards, then headed upstairs.

  In the first bedroom, they took in the open suitcase and clothing on the bed and floor. Diaz raised his eyebrows.

  “Interrupted packing for a trip?”

  Andrews shrugged. They conducted a thorough search but found no laptops, ticket stubs, or pads of paper on the nightstand with conveniently remaining impressions of airline reservations or secret rendezvous on them.

  A quick search of the closet and dresser didn’t yield anything more.

  What did yield something useful was in the second bedroom. Eight-by-seven feet, it wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet. Schofield’s home office.

  “Bingo,” said Diaz. “Now we’re talkin’.”

  A older desktop computer topped a small but solid wood desk. Another table ran along the wall under the window, creating an L-shaped work area. At the far end, a bulky printer/copier/fax machine connected to a landline.

  “Our guy’s old-school,” Andrews said.

  Going by the interrupted packing and seemingly quick exit, it was doubtful Schofield took the time to wipe the computer clean. But even if he’d done that before packing, between Ken and Esturban, whatever secrets the attorney hid in that archaic box of bits and bytes would be printed and on his desk by tomorrow morning.

  All he had to do was pack it up and get it to them tonight. Conveniently, Schofield kept the original packaging on a shelf in the closet.

  Feeling like they were finally getting somewhere, Andrews didn’t even object when Diaz put on a rap station on the way to the airport.

  It was late when he got the report, but Ken came through. Detective Andrews now knew more about Schofield than his mother. It always amazed him how much information you could learn about someone from their computer. People blithely conducted their private lives online and over the phone, even the ones who should know better, like an attorney. Which reminded him, he’d have to change all of his passwords when he got home.

  He had it all. Bank accounts. Doctor’s reports. Phone calls. E-mails. Browsing history. Ken did his usual great job. But he had gone above and beyond official job duties on this one. Ken really wanted to nail this guy. A few minutes ago, he came into Andrews’s office and handed him a folded piece of paper, exiting without saying anything.

  Oasis de Milagro, Guadalajara.

  Andrews looked it up on his computer. It was one of those cancer treatment centers.

  Ken, you are my new best friend. Maybe he’d send him flowers after all.

  Within minutes, Andrews was in his car. He drove a few miles inland to a RadioShack and picked up a burner phone, then punched in the number of a retired cop he knew.

  International call.

  He looked at his watch. 8:30 p.m. Two hours later there. Sheila was one of those “early to bed, early to rise” types, but if she didn’t pick up, he’d leave a message. After getting her leg shot up in a gang takedown, she got out with a medical. Last he heard, she’d been enjoying the good life in Manzanillo. He hoped she’d help him out. Once a cop, always a cop.

  He checked Google Maps. It was only a three-hour drive to Guadalajara. All he needed her to do was locate Schofield for him; then they’d work on extradition.

  Sheila picked up on the second ring. Living on Mexico time, she said, when he asked. No need to get up early anymore. They exchanged a few pleasantries; then he explained why he had called.

  “Most of the cops down here are bent,” she said, “but I know a few we might not have to bribe . . . much.”

  With promises to call as soon as she located his guy, they hung up. With nothing else to do, he dug some sweats out of a pile of dirty clothes and decided to take a run. For someone who hated waiting, he’d gotten into a job that required a lot of it.

  Andrews lived just a few blocks from the ocean but couldn’t remember the last time he’d run on the beach. It was louder than he remembered. A stiff breeze cooled his face and made his eyes water momentarily. This was definitely what he needed. He needed to clear his mind and sweat the day away.

  In about a mile, he was slightly winded and turned back. He really needed to get back in shape. He promised himself to start a workout schedule tomorrow.

  Except for the moon and a pair of lovers on a blanket up by the rocks, he had the sand to himself. When he was coming up on Main Beach, he spotted another runner pounding the sand, coming toward him. A silhouette of long legs, topped by a formfitting T-shirt got his attention. Nice . . . When she got closer, he recognized the runner as the McKenna woman. Logan.

  If she recognized him, she didn’t acknowledge it.

  She passed him in a flash. Didn’t look winded at all. He looked back to watch her run. She’d pulled her hair into a thick braid. It glinted copper in the moonlight.

  Thoughts of unbraiding that hair and wrapping those long limbs around him froze him momentarily to the spot. He watched her run away from him until a cloud covered the moon, making it too dark to see.

  42

  Monday, July 27, 2015

  Come in, Mr. Schofield! Please come in and have a seat,” the doctor said, standing up from behind a solid, heavy wooden desk, waving Gary into his office. Dr. Manning, according to the name tag on his white coat, indicated a chair across from his desk, reached across, and held out his hand, forcing Gary to shake it.

  “Welcome to Oasis de Milagro!” he said, sitting back down.

  A large man with thick, wavy brown hair and ruddy cheeks, Manning looked well fed and self-satisfied. Coal-black eyes emanated a confident energy into the room.

  Gary did as requested, but from what he’d seen so far, he severely doubted that any kind of miracles would be worked here. Still, the room had been clean, the bed adequate, and the staff certainly attentive. And whatever they’d given him last night certainly worked better than the pain meds he’d received in the US. He held out a sliver of hope.

  “I trust you rested well last night. Our first goal is to make you as comfortable as possible. There is no reason for any of our guests to be in pain. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No, I wasn’t hungry,” Gary said. He had no appetite this morning, but the drugs had indeed knocked him out last night. He had enjoyed the first solid night’s sleep he’d had in a long time. If that was the price of being pain-free, he didn’t much care.

  “Well, maybe you’ll have some lunch. You can always get something sent up from the kitchen even if you don’t feel hungry. You need to keep your strength up. You are free to eat anything you want. No dietary restrictions here. In fact, your treatments will work better with food on your stomach.”

  That was certainly different. Made it feel more like a resort than a hospital.

  Gary noticed the doctor had no accent. He sounded as American as he was. He looked at the wall behind him where his diplomas were displayed.

  The doctor noticed him l
ooking.

  “Medical school in Chicago, residency in LA,” he said. “Received an excellent education in the US, but as I’m sure you read on the website, our hands are tied there. When it comes to treating cancer, anyway. Any good oncologist knows this is where you go to be at the cutting edge. Mexico is one of the few places we are free to practice real medicine. I started this clinic about eight years ago, and we have helped many, many people, with cases more advanced than yours, Gary.”

  Gary preferred Mr. Schofield, but the residual drugs in his system kept him from objecting.

  “The doctors are in charge here, not the insurance companies or the FDA,” the doctor added in a more aggressive tone. “We have access to many more advanced therapies here.” He quickly shifted back to cheerful and optimistic, getting down to business. “Allow me to introduce you to my colleague Dr. Rolphson,” he said, indicating a man who had just entered the room. “He is one of the highly skilled members of the medical team dedicated to your care.”

  The small, thin man, also replete in white doctor’s coat with name tag, remained standing after leaning forward to shake Gary’s hand.

  “Today we want you to rest from your journey and get the lay of the land, so to speak. Nurse Gonzalez will show you where everything is. We have a very nice patio area for dining, should you prefer not to take meals in your room. I do encourage you to eat something, but first, as you know, unlike American medical facilities, we receive no funds from insurance companies or the government. Nurse Gonzalez will take you to see Miss Monroe two doors down. She will take care of your payment now so you will be free to focus on your treatment tomorrow.”

  Nurse Gonzalez appeared at the door and smoothly ushered him down the hall toward the efficient Miss Monroe.

  As soon as they left, Drs. Manning and Rolphson took another look at Gary’s imaging results.

  “Nothing we can do for him, you know,” Rolphson said.

  “Of course not, but he doesn’t know that. He’s got a few weeks left, but who knows, he could last months.”

  Dr. Rolphson looked uncomfortable. He’d only been here a few months.

  “Don’t let it get to you, Rolphson,” Dr. Manning said. “There’s nothing wrong with giving these people hope and making them more comfortable before they die. Yes, we make a ton of money, but they are going to die anyway, and at least we can drug them to the hilt until then.”

  Dr. Rolphson still looked doubtful.

  “Would you rather go back the States and deal with insurance companies?”

  7:43 p.m.

  After making the initial payment, which bought him a couple of months of unlimited treatment and residency at the center, Gary’s funds were all but depleted. Thanks to the unplanned events at the sea otter center, he hadn’t been able to sell his new Lincoln before he flew out, but as soon as he made his phone calls in the morning, he’d have plenty of cash. Felix would be angry, he knew, but he was also a pragmatic man. He’d fork over the money to get the mineral rights. He would know how to leverage that into more money than he would pay to Gary.

  He would make the phone calls now, but just getting here, making the payment, and following Nurse Gonzalez around on her extensive tour had exhausted him. She gently insisted he eat dinner, which she assured him was delicious. Some kind of Mexican goop. It looked OK, but he couldn’t smell or taste much, so he only forced about half of it down. Nurse Gonzalez stopped in to give him his nightly medicine and make sure he was settled in for the evening. He docilely allowed himself to be hooked up to the IV, and the lovely medicine began dripping in.

  She dimmed the lights but didn’t turn them out completely. He requested the window be left open. No air conditioning, but he was surprised how little it bothered him.

  “OK, Mr. Schofield, are you comfortable?”

  Gary was already starting to fade. He felt marvelous.

  “I’m going home now, but if you need anything, just push the red call button on the wall above your bed, on your right.”

  Already drifting toward happy land, Gary did not respond.

  Nurse Gonzalez smiled. They only kept one night nurse on duty for seventeen patients. No one ever woke up at night.

  43

  Tuesday, July 28, 2015, 12:33 a.m.

  Eduardo checked his money belt one more time. He’d learned not to carry anything you didn’t want ripped off your shoulder. Or leave anything of value in your room.

  Everything was good to go. It hadn’t taken long to get what he needed. One thing about Mexico, you could go into any farmacias and buy things over the counter you had to jump through hoops for back home.

  Even then, for what he wanted, you normally had to get a prescription from a Mexican doctor and purchase it at a primera clase. But like everything else in Guadalajara, you could get anything for a price.

  Zipping up the belt, he made sure his shirt covered it before he let himself out into the street. People were still enjoying the warm summer night. He started walking. Julio would be parked around the corner.

  Eduardo still didn’t feel at home here, but he’d quickly learned how to get around. He had to, just to survive.

  Twenty-eight years ago, when he was just a toddler, his parents carried him across the border. They made it to Gilroy, where relatives took them in and got them work picking strawberries. They never looked back.

  In college, he met and married Vanessa. They were both working on their nursing degrees when he got picked up on a DUI after a friend’s bachelor party.

  That was seven months ago. That’s when his life changed. The only country he’d ever known deported his ass back to Mexico, his “home” country. He’d never been to Mexico and only spoke rudimentary Spanish. His parents had insisted he speak English, anxious for him to fit in.

  Vanessa, six months pregnant, desperate to get him back, sold his car and hired an immigration attorney that said he specialized in cases like his. But after the guy got paid, he either ignored Vanessa’s calls or asked for more money. He wanted more money than either of them had or could borrow to get him back home again. And he had to get home.

  Here he lived in constant fear and hunger. He couldn’t speak the language. He had no job. Vanessa sent money, but half the time, it didn’t get through. And now that they’d given that bloodsucking attorney everything they had, she had no more money to send.

  Last week, she contacted her cousin Felix Rodriguez. Vanessa didn’t know him well, but he was known in the family for getting things done.

  So when Felix called, Eduardo listened. Even though he listened with growing alarm as Felix described what he wanted him to do, what he tried to focus on was the golden passport that would get him back home. Back home to his family, his country, his life—and a wife about to deliver his second child. Felix said it came with a rock-solid social security number, too. Vanessa would never have to worry again.

  The fact that the slime he wanted to get rid of was an attorney helped Eduardo say yes. He could do this. Well, he may not have the stomach to do it himself, but he knew someone who did.

  If all went well, he’d be back home with Vanessa in time for the birth of his new daughter.

  Julio was there. Waiting until Eduardo got in, he said nothing, but drove at a steady pace toward the Oasis de Milagro clinic. Julio knew the way. Eduardo didn’t know his last name and didn’t need to. After tonight, hopefully, he’d never see Julio or anyone else in this godforsaken rat hole again.

  1:16 a.m.

  The streets were quiet. Oasis de Milagro sat sleepily in the middle of the block. If they had a security system, it wasn’t in evidence. The two men walked quickly around to the back side of the property, by some scraggly palms. Several of the windows were open. They selected the one farthest from what looked like the well-lit nurse’s station in the center and hoisted themselves easily up and in. Once inside, they listened, but all they heard wa
s the person softly snoring in the bed. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but still, after making sure the coast was clear, they stepped softly into the hall.

  Felix had provided a description of Gary Schofield. An over-six-foot-tall man with wiry hair and a beak-like nose wasn’t hard to find. They found him in room 216, sound asleep like everyone else on the floor. No breeze came through the open window. Eduardo would not miss the heat.

  Indicating silently that Julio should provide lookout by the door, Eduardo stepped quickly to the far side of the bed, unzipping his money belt and removing a small vial as he went.

  He just wanted to get this over with. With only a moment’s hesitation, he added the contents of the vial to Gary’s IV. He had come prepared with a syringe just in case, but this was better. No needle mark.

  This wasn’t how he’d planned on using his nursing knowledge, but he had no choice. He would just have to live with what he had done when he got back home.

  Gary’s eyes fluttered open, but he did not move.

  “Mr. Schofield. Don’t try to move. You won’t be able to.”

  Gary’s eyes widened in panic.

  “Felix told me what you did. You killed that poor boy. You deserve to die, that’s not a question. And what you stole will be returned to Felix. I’ll see to that.”

  Eduardo reattached Gary’s IV to the original drip and placed the vial he had brought back into his money belt.

  The fear and desperation in Gary’s eyes would have softened his heart seven months ago—a lifetime ago. Now, it only made him hurry. Locating the briefcase, he easily found the paper Felix had described, folded and tucked it inside the second pocket of the money belt, then waved Julio over.

  “Sorry, Gary, but my medical expertise is limited—I’m not sure I gave you enough. Julio is here to finish the job.”

  He had no qualms about killing Gary. He just couldn’t do this part himself. Just before he let himself out of the window to the grounds outside, Eduardo saw the glint of the knife and the sick smile on Julio’s face as he approached Gary’s bed.