Death Benefits

by Michael A. Kahn

  It took a moment to grasp the extent of the miscommunication that had occurred when Benny had called Ferd from the tunnel. Ferd had assured him that he and his men were in position. Both had assumed that they were talking about the same position. Rafe read my facial expression. He gave me a sad smile and shook his head. “You’re all alone, Rachel.”

  The bearded man stepped in close. “What kind of lock?” His voice was low and controlled. His eyes were like laser beams.

  I stared at him, trying to place a name on the face. I had seen him somewhere before. “It’s just an ordinary lockbox,” I said, feeling dizzy.

  He turned to Rafe. “Get a crowbar out of the trunk.”

  As Rafe went behind the car and popped the hood, Remy Panzer reached down for the briefcase. “I don’t believe my services are needed anymore.”

  “Services?” the bearded man repeated. “Your services have been worthless, you miserable faggot.”

  Panzer smiled as he straightened up, his hand clenched around the briefcase. “A deal is a deal, Mr. Nevins. Moreover, I have even delivered a special bonus, at no extra charge. I’ve brought you a sacrificial maiden for your next little soiree up on the pyramid. She’s really quite lovely, if I say so myself.” He turned to me. “I’ve enjoyed doing business with you, Rachel. Although Mr. Salazar’s script called for you to betray me, I don’t take it personally. Moreover, the contents of this briefcase have placed me in a forgiving mood. You played your role to perfection, with the exception of this minor foul-up at the end. Assuming these gentlemen will allow you to grow old, my best wishes for continued success in your career.”

  He turned and walked toward the stairway leading up the side of the riverbank to the street. He was four stairs up when Tezca shot him.

  With the silencer on the gun, all I heard was a thwip.

  The bullet hit Panzer in the middle of his back, punching him forward, his back arching in pain. He started to turn toward us, his face contorted in shock and pain, his free hand reaching for the wound.

  And then I heard another thwip.

  The second bullet tore into Panzer’s neck below his ear. The impact spun him off the stairs and onto the sloped riverbank. He landed on his side, the briefcase still clutched in bis hand. He seemed to be just resting there, propped on an elbow, staring at us, awful, motionless but for the blood pulsing and bubbling out of his neck wound. And then he rolled onto his back. Dark blood ran down the concrete slope in rivulets as his body started to twitch.

  The first thing to drop was the briefcase. It slid down the incline and clattered onto the riverbed. A moment later, Panzer’s body started to follow. It slid slowly down the concrete slope, gradually turning as it slid, no longer twitching, leaving a dark trail of blood. The body came to a rest near the briefcase at the bottom of the riverbank, head first, eyes wide open, twin moons reflecting in the sightless pupils.

  Rafe walked over to Panzer’s body. He was carrying a gun in one hand, a crowbar and a flashlight in the other. He crouched beside the body for a moment and then straightened up. He looked down at the bearded man. “That was stupid, Arthur.”

  Arthur Nevins aka Tezca ignored the remark and grabbed me roughly by me arm. “Panzer was right, lady. You want to live to see your grandchildren, you show us where it is. And quickly.”

  “Show us, Rachel,” Rafe said.

  “Now!” Tezca hissed in my ear.

  “Okay,” I said dully.

  The three of us walked into the dark tunnel.

  “You lied about everything,” I said to Rafe.

  He didn’t answer, and I couldn’t see his face in the darkness.

  “That call last night,” I said, close to tears. “Remember your call?”

  He grunted.

  “There wasn’t any champagne, was there?” My voice was shaking. “It was all a lie, wasn’t it?”

  “There was no champagne,” he finally said.

  “What kind of monster are you?” I asked, more hurt than angry.

  “Be quiet, Rachel,” he said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “My God, were you the one who attacked Dottie Anderson?” I asked.

  “No,” Rafe answered. “Never.”

  “Then who did?”

  Tezca twisted my arm behind my back. “Shut up, bitch,” he snarled in my ear.

  I was so upset I could barely concentrate. I walked as slowly as they would let me and pretended that I was unsure of where we were going. I knew that they had to keep me alive until we reached the lockbox. I also knew that they had no incentive to keep me alive afterward.

  Finally, we reached the sixth passageway.

  “Up there,” I said wearily, taking some small pleasure in the fact that I had at least remembered to heave the bucket, the grocery bag, and the backpack into the sewer tunnel, where the currents had carried them down the river out of sight.

  As Rafe shined the flashlight into the arched ceiling of the passageway, I started inching away, hoping they would become too engrossed in the lockbox to notice.

  But Rafe must have sensed my movement. He spun around and shined the beam on me. I froze.

  “Hold her,” he ordered.

  Tezca grabbed me from behind with his left arm, pulling me against him, his left hand clasped over my breasts. He pressed the gun against the right side of my neck. His breath was hot and sour.

  I watched as Rafe reached up with the crowbar and poked it around under the edges of the lockbox, looking for good leverage. He found a spot and jammed the crowbar into it. Getting a better hold, he started to apply pressure, slowly pulling the crowbar down. I could see the lockbox door starting to creak and bend, slowly bowing out. Rafe yanked on the crowbar and the door gave way with a pop.

  “THIS IS THE POLICE!”

  The shout came from somewhere further down the tunnel.

  Rafe immediately turned off his flashlight. We were in total darkness. Tezca grabbed me even tighter around the chest.

  “Release the girl,” the voice shouted, “and throw down your guns!”

  I recognized the voice. I prayed that Rafe wouldn’t.

  “Dammit,” Tezca hissed.

  “Quiet,” Rafe commanded in a low voice. Then he hollered, “WHAT?”

  “Release her!” Benny shouted. “Throw down your guns!”

  “Give me your gun,” Rafe said to Tezca in a low voice.

  “No way, man.”

  “You want to walk out of here?” Rafe asked calmly. “Then give me that gun. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Rafe told him. “Give me the gun and hold Rachel.”

  Tezca tightened his grip on me. “Okay,” he said, handing Rafe the gun.

  Rafe clicked on his flashlight. “Here!” he shouted as he heaved the gun in the direction of the voice. He used the flashlight as a spotlight, following the arc of the gun with the beam of light. The gun landed thirty feet in front of us. It bounced along the concrete and slid into the shallow stream of water. Rafe held the beam of light on the gun in the water.

  I realized what was happening too late.

  “Go back!” I screamed as Rafe shifted the beam of light up and found the moving target seventy-five yards away. “It’s a trap!” I shouted just before Rafe fired the gun.

  There was a howl of pain as the body twisted and fell.

  “Oh my God,” I moaned. “Benny! Benny!”

  Tezca turned me around. “Shut up,” he hissed into my ear as he hooked an arm around my neck and increased the pressure.

  Rafe shined the flashlight in my face. “Be quiet, Rachel. We’re almost done.”

  Tears of anger and frustration blurred my vision. “You bastard!” I croaked, unable to shout because of the pressure on my neck.

  “Hold her,” Rafe said to Te
zca as he turned back to the lockbox and stepped into the archway.

  The door to the lockbox was hanging open. Rafe reached up and removed the black plastic bag. Still standing in the archway, he carefully unrolled the plastic and pulled out the canvas sack, which I had rewrapped with the duct tape. He gripped the canvas sack in his left hand, judging its heft.

  He turned to Tezca, the hint of a smile on his lips. “At last,” he said quietly, stepping down from the archway. He turned to set the canvas sack on the floor of the passageway and pick up his gun.

  From somewhere far off I could barely hear the sounds of police sirens.

  “Let’s kill this cunt,” Tezca growled, “and get out of here. We’re running out of time.”

  Rafe stepped closer, until we were just an arm’s length apart. He had the gun in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

  I stared into his eyes—terrified but determined not to show it.

  “You lost,” I said, trying to sound confident.

  He looked puzzled as he started to raise his gun. Tezca released his hold on me and stepped to the side.

  “Lost?” he repeated, holding the gun at waist level.

  The sirens seemed to be getting louder, but they were still so far away.

  “Come on, man,” Tezca said. “Let’s go.”

  “No, Rachel,” Rafe said to me. “I won.”

  He started to raise the gun and in one fluid motion shifted toward Tezca and shot him squarely in the chest. The roar of the gunpowder was deafening.

  Tezca staggered backward, weaving toward the left, splashing through the narrow river in the middle of the tunnel, blood bubbling out of his chest, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. Rafe followed, the gun in one hand and the flashlight in the other. He shot him in the chest again as Tezca stumbled back against the wall. Tezca slid slowly down into a sitting position, leaving a black smear of blood along the wall. Rafe stood over him, gun ready, flashlight trained on his victim. Tezca tilted his head up with a look of total bafflement. Spotlighted in the beam of the flashlight, a rivulet of blood trickled down into his beard from the corner of his open mouth. He frowned, and then his head dropped onto his chest. I watched in horror as the body listed slowly, slowly to the right, and then tipped over, the head thonking against the cement.

  My ears were ringing from the gun shots. Stunned, I turned to Rafe.

  He lowered the gun and turned to pick up the canvas sack. Turning back, he stared at me for a moment. “Go help your friend,” he said.

  He turned away and started to run, the gun in one hand and the tape-wrapped canvas sack in the other. Far off in the distance, you could just detect the light at the end of the tunnel. The tunnel curved slightly to the right up ahead. I watched until he disappeared, and then I turned.

  “Benny!” I shouted as I ran into the darkness.

  Epilogue

  The preliminary injunction hearing was supposed to last through the following week, but it ended suddenly on Thursday afternoon when, during a short recess between witnesses, the other side doubled their settlement offer and my client said yes. We signed the settlement papers and the stipulation of dismissal the following day, which meant I could enjoy the weekend.

  And a glorious weekend it promised to be. Although it was early October, the sky was blue, the temperature was seventy-three, and the water was calm as Benny and I walked across Loyola Park toward the lake. Ozzie had already reached the sandy beach and had turned to wait for us, his tail wagging exuberantly.

  “Did you bring his Frisbee?” Benny asked as we approached the beach.

  “Of course,” I said as I reached into the beach bag and pulled out the red Frisbee.

  Ozzie started barking as soon as he saw it. I handed the Frisbee to Benny, who sailed it over the water. Ozzie leaped joyfully into the lake and started paddling after the Frisbee. Benny jogged across the sand toward the water line.

  The mailman had arrived as we were leaving for the beach, and I had stuffed the mail into my beach bag. I could read my mail while Benny and Ozzie played Frisbee. Walking halfway down the pier, I picked a nice spot, kicked off my shoes, and sat down with my legs dangling over the side. Watching Benny run along the beach, I was pleased to see that his limp was completely gone. If he could run on it, his ankle must have completely healed. I leaned back and closed my eyes. The sun felt good on my face.

  Benny’s healed ankle brought back memories of the strange and violent resolution of my Stoddard Anderson investigation. Fortunately, Benny hadn’t been hit by the bullet Rafe fired at him. But he had badly sprained his ankle when he slipped trying to dodge the bullet. Adding the proverbial insult to injury, he had hobbled over to one of the arched passageways and had just scrambled into it when Rafe shot Tezca. The sounds of the gun shot reverberating down the tunnel so startled Benny that he fell off the passageway into the river of raw sewage—head first.

  Salazar escaped in a new Lear jet registered in Tezca’s name. By the time Customs got to the airport, Salazar was thirty minutes from Mexican air space. Although the Mexican government was able to scramble two jet fighters in pursuit, Salazar shook them somewhere over the Yucatán and disappeared.

  Under court orders, the FBI seized records from Salazar’s office and safety deposit box and subpoenaed several individuals from the inner circle of Tezca’s religious organization. Rafe Salazar was revealed as the power behind the throne, handling many of the legal and financial affairs of Tezca’s operations, including the secret bank accounts in the Cayman Islands and the Netherlands Antilles. Indeed, Rafe had been a signator on each of those accounts. Based on what the FBI and the State Department were able to learn, most of the money in those accounts had been removed within days of Salazar’s disappearance over the Yucatán.

  Ironically, Rafe Salazar had in fact represented the Mexican National Museum of Anthropology, although they had obviously had no idea that he was representing Tezca as well. Even more surprising, he had in fact communicated to them Benny’s request that they pay me $250,000—a fact I learned when Dottie Anderson and I flew to Mexico for the ceremonial placement of Montezuma’s Executor on display at the museum. It was a beautiful ceremony. The Executor looks magnificent in the elevated display case, which is bathed in spotlights. Although Life ran a stunning color photograph of the Executor last month, my favorite shot remains the Polaroid I keep in the top drawer of my desk. Bernie DeWitt snapped it moments after Ferd Fingersh found the Executor. In the picture, Ferd is standing in the middle of the sewage tunnel, not too far from the archway where I had carefully dropped the Executor into the sewage river before walking out to my final rendezvous with Remy Panzer. Ferd is wearing hip waders, and the sewage is up to his knees. He is holding the Executor in both hands and has a triumphant grin on his face.

  Anyway, if you’re ever in Mexico, you should definitely go see it. And when you do, be sure to read the bronze plaque on the display case. At the unveiling ceremony, the plaque stated that “The People of Mexico gratefully acknowledge the gift of Dorothy Anderson of St. Louis, Missouri.” But Dottie insisted that they change it, and they did. The plaque now gratefully acknowledges “the gift of Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard Anderson of St. Louis, Missouri”—an acknowledgment that enabled Abbott & Windsor’s public relations firm to place an extremely favorable and mostly fabricated story about the late Stoddard Anderson in the St. Louis Business Review and the National Lawyer.

  After the ceremony and the cocktail reception, the head of the museum’s asuntos juridicos (legal affairs department) handed me an envelope containing a check made out to me for $250,000. I promptly signed it over to Dottie, which started an argument between us that we eventually settled on the airplane flight back with Dottie’s forcing me to agree to take half of it. After all, Dottie kept telling me, you earned it and you convinced that insurance company to pay me all that money.

  (By the time I finally met with t
he insurance adjuster, I had, in addition to the statement from Albert Weidemeir, signed witness statements from Sal Donalli, and Nancy Winslow, and Dr. Bernstein regarding Anderson’s mental and physical condition at the time of his suicide. The insurance company agreed to pay the full amount of the life insurance portion of the policy—$750,000—and we agreed to settle the accidental death benefits portion for $450,000 plus a $200,000 donation to an AIDS foundation. The donation was Dottie’s idea. All told, Dottie received $1.2 million in insurance payments.)

  I sat up and shaded my eyes in time to see the red Frisbee land in the water about fifty feet from the shore. There were a half dozen kids hanging around Benny and watching Ozzie paddle out to fetch the Frisbee. No one was watching me.

  I reached into my beach bag and pulled out the thick envelope with the Nicaraguan postmark. It had arrived in the morning mail. The moment I saw it, I had known who it was from. I didn’t tell Benny. I just casually stuffed it into my beach bag along with the rest of the mail.

  As I held it now, I could see my hand shaking. The pain and the betrayal had overwhelmed me during the days after the tunnel. I had forced myself to exorcise him from my memories. He had ceased to exist in my mind. Until that morning’s mail. With a mixture of excitement and dread, I tore open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter and an airplane ticket. I unfolded the letter on my lap:

  Dear Rachel:

  I was flying over Texas when I finally opened the canvas bag. You can imagine my reaction when I discovered that I had risked my life and forever banished myself from my country in order to smuggle out a flashlight filled with a chisel in concrete. But time heals all wounds and, I suppose, wounds all heels. You were a formidable adversary, Rachel, and you won.

  Four days ago I viewed El Verdugo in its new home. It is magnificent—even more so than I had imagined. Although you may find this difficult to believe, I have come to understand that El Verdugo is where it belongs.