The Assassin's Case

by Craig Alexander

  Grant’s anger boiled.

  “I know there’s nothing I can do or say to make things right between us. But I am truly sorry.”

  He appeared about to say something else, but Grant held up a hand. “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear it.”

  They drove without talking, the wind blowing through the windows and the creaking protestations of the truck the only noise. As the miles melted beneath the old tires Grant found his anger dissipating. In spite of his best efforts he just couldn’t hold onto it. The truck rounded a curve and they reached the crest of a hill. The trees parted to reveal a valley spreading beneath them.

  Tedesco steered the Ford to the side of the road.

  “What’s up?” Grant pivoted his head left, right, back, his hand drifting to the pistol beneath his shirt.

  “Nothing. I just need a second.” Tedesco swung the door open, stretched and went to the front of the truck. He leaned against the grille and crossed his arms.

  Puzzled, Grant stepped onto the gravel and moved next to Tedesco.

  “Awesome isn’t it?” Tedesco waved a hand toward the vista beneath them.

  A river wound towards a lonesome section of beach. Marshland and forest surrounded the waterway, which in turn was bordered by hills. Every hue of green imaginable melded with an azure sky. To the west a stretch of white sand against a cobalt sea framed the scene.

  “All we’ve been through. All we’ve done in the past couple of days,” Tedesco said. “I just need a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “The goodness of creation. My place in it. That God is in control, even when we don’t see His purpose.”

  Grant coughed. “What?”

  The big man pulled his eyes from the panoramic view. “You don’t believe me? That I’m a changed man?”

  “Oh, I believe you. It’s just this God stuff I don’t buy.” Emotions welled in Grant. “If God is there, he’s either forgotten us, or he’s just a bully. Pushing us around on his chess board. Laughing while using us as pawns for His entertainment. Watching us stumble and struggle through life. Hearing our cries and doing nothing to ease our pain.” Grant shook his head. “No. I haven’t been on speaking terms with the man upstairs for a very long time.”

  Seemingly at a loss for words, Tedesco’s mouth hung open. “I can’t believe you would feel that way—”

  Grant spun and poked the man in the chest. “You can’t. You can’t believe. He allowed you to steal everything from me. Everything!”

  Tedesco seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumped. “God is good, Grant. Sometimes we just can’t see it. If I hadn’t done what I did, I might still be in that world.” He stared into Grant’s eyes. “He saved me.”

  Lowering his finger, Grant turned toward the valley.

  “When I think about your family—”

  Grant spun, felt his nostrils flaring.

  Tedesco backed away, hands up in front of him. “When I think about them, which is everyday. I know they’re okay. They were innocents with their lives stolen from them. They’re with Him.” He pointed up. “They’ll never know any more pain.”

  Grant swung from the hip. An uppercut.

  Luckily for Tedesco, although he couldn’t avoid the blow, he clenched his teeth, saving himself from heavy damage. The blow forced him back a couple of steps. He went to his knees, and held his arms down by his sides, eyes closed, waiting for the next blow. “They wouldn’t want you to live this way. They would want you to have a life. Please try to forgive. Not for me. For them.” He just knelt there. Penitent. Waiting for Grant to finish venting his anger.

  “Damn you, Tedesco.” Grant hovered over him. Unable to deliver the next blow. His emotions roiled. Anger, despair, and loneliness like a tide ready to batter him to his own knees. All he had left was the need for vengeance. If he pulled the gun from his waistband and spilled the hit man’s life force on the road, what then? The image of Jaime flashed through his mind and it calmed him. Did they have a future?

  Grant stared at the contrite form at his feet. More irony. The man who had stolen his faith from him attempting to convince him of the goodness of God. “Get up.”

  The big man stood and dusted off his knees. He worked his jaw around and rubbed it with a hand.

  “How many times are you going to let me hit you like that before you fight back?” Grant was truly curious.

  “As many times as it takes.”

  Grant shook his head. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

  * * * * *

  Using the palm of his hand, Tedesco rubbed the back of his neck. The blow to the chin had jarred him pretty good. He realized Grant hadn’t put all he had into the blow, but it still hurt. Tedesco had to admit to himself that it also made him mad. His initial reaction was to fight back, no matter the outcome. But he tamped it down, realizing he deserved it. And more. He placed his left hand on the pack by his leg, its feel comforting.

  The road wound down into the picturesque valley. Though still miles away a town became visible at the edge of the river where it spilled into the ocean. He risked a glance in Grant’s direction, he seemed to have calmed down.

  Tedesco cleared his throat. “Can I say something to you?”

  “I don’t guess I can stop you.”

  “Well. I’m worried. About your faith.”

  Grant laughed. More of a scoff. “My faith? I told you. God either doesn’t exist, or just doesn’t care.”

  “What about us?” Tedesco waved a finger between them.

  Grant raised an eyebrow.

  “There are roughly three-hundred-eighteen-million people in the U.S. That’s three eighteen followed by six zeroes,” Tedesco said. “Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that you were the person to find that case?”

  “That’s all it is. A coincidence. I live in Gulf Shores. Period.” Grant wasn’t about to let Tedesco know that he had wondered the same thing.

  “Well, what about this then?” Tedesco held up the backpack.

  “What about it?”

  “Look.”

  Grant took a glimpse into the rearview mirror and pulled the truck to the side of the road. He grabbed the backpack. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “The holes.”

  Probing the pack with his fingers he located the punctures. Two bullet holes. One on the outside, one on the side. They appeared to be caused by one bullet as it entered and exited the backpack. “So?”

  Tedesco grabbed the bag. “That bullet should have killed me.”

  “Something in your pack just deflected the bullet. What of it?”

  Reaching into the pack, Tedesco removed a Bible. A large leather bound study volume. “Something is right. Here.” He passed the book to Grant. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

  Grant peered at the cover, marred by a bullet hole.

  “Open it,” Tedesco urged.

  Using his thumb, Grant flipped through the pages. The bullet path didn’t travel straight through as would be expected. It veered through the pages from left to right, finally emerging on the far right side of the pages near the back of the book.

  “Can you explain that?” Tedesco asked.

  “Well … I …”

  “You can’t. Don’t try. There’s no way the paper in that book should have deflected that bullet.”

  Grant passed the Bible back. “It doesn’t prove anything.” The words didn’t sound very convincing.

  “There’s something else I’ve noticed too,” Tedesco said.

  “And just what is that, oh great and wise guru?”

  Tedesco ignored the sarcasm. “You feel alive. Probably for the first time in years.” He nodded. “Yes. I see it.” He grew more confident as he realized the transformation he had seen in Grant over the last couple of days. “This has been good for you. Cathartic.”

  Grant’s only reply was a glare.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Though only a little after three in the afternoon the two men were exhausted. And hungr
y. Grant’s stomach growled at just a fleeting thought of food. The road became narrow, winding through tunnels of vegetation. Their path took them past banana, mango, tobacco, coffee, and sugar cane plantations.

  Grant followed the narrow lane into San Blas. Everything that Puerto Vallarta was, it wasn’t. It appeared to be a quaint fishing village, but judging by the numerous gringos walking the streets, it was also a tourist attraction. Grant steered the truck through the village, searching for a spot to eat and snatch a good night’s sleep. The town was surrounded by white beaches and ocean to the west, a broad estuary of the river and a mangrove swamp to the north. The town square contained the ubiquitous church and steeple, adobe buildings, and open air market. Near the sea and the river, thatched roof restaurants and shanties were abundant. Remains of eighteenth century architecture littered the village. The fronds of numerous towering palms waved in the wind, imparting the feel of an oasis.

  It seemed the highway had brought them through a time warp. Grant returned waves and smiles cast in his direction. “What do you think?”

  “Nice place.”

  “No. Where to eat. Sleep.”

  Tedesco considered a moment. “We should probably find someplace a little out of the way. Just in case.”

  Grant nodded. “I think you’re right. For all we know Cane may have enlisted the help of the Mexican authorities.”

  “Let’s find some food,” Tedesco said.

  They drove through town and past the beach. A couple of blocks from the central plaza they saw a McDonald’s sign.

  Grant shook his head. “Nah.”

  “That looks more like it.” Tedesco pointed to a restaurant sign. Tradiciones.

  After locating a parking spot, which wasn’t very difficult, as there were no other cars on the street, they went inside. The hostess led them to a table and the smells wafting from the kitchen made Grant’s stomach gurgle.

  * * * * *

  Completely sated on corn tortillas and Carne Asada Grant forced himself to stop eating before he became so full he couldn’t move. With a full belly weariness settled over his bones, his muscles achy.

  The surreality of the situation wasn’t lost. Here he sat, sharing a meal with his family’s killer. Grant studied the man’s face, searching for signs of the killer he knew once lurked behind those eyes, but finding none. By the hour Grant was finding it more and more difficult to hate this man, and he hated himself for it. He felt that by letting go of his hatred he was betraying his family. But the former hit man had one thing right. Something Grant couldn’t deny. His family would not want him to live the way he had been.

  Throw into the mix the longing he felt to see Jaime. Just to be near her. His ache to be with her matched the pain in his muscles. To say the least, his emotions were confusing. Hate and grief had been his sustenance for so long. He had to admit that since this all started he had been invigorated. It was almost as if another chance had been tossed in his lap.

  He shook his head in amazement watching Tedesco cram the local cuisine into his mouth. He washed down the last bite with the local version of a margarita. A glass with straight Tequila garnished with a lime wedge. Tedesco winced at the obvious pungency of the liquor, and sucked a breath through his lips. “Wow. That’s powerful stuff.” He reached a hand around a mug of Tecate and gulped down a healthy swig. The drink was followed by a smile. “Ahhh. Much better.”

  “I thought you religious folk didn’t drink?” Grant said.

  Tedesco raised his glass. “In moderation, my friend. Besides, beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

  “I don’t remember that one. Proverbs?”

  Tedesco shook his head. “Uh, uh. Benjamin Franklin.”

  Grant tried not to smile, but failed.

  While Tedesco continued stuffing his mouth a group of six men entered. They ordered drinks and began to pound down shots faster than the waitress could bring them.

  These were not tourists. The more they drank the more rowdy they became. They began catcalling and groping the pretty, dark-haired, waitress. Grant and Tedesco were the only other patrons. A couple of the men in the group leered in their direction. It was time to go.

  He waved for the check and the waitress brought it over. Two-hundred-forty-two pesos. Roughly eighteen dollars. Tedesco dug in his pocket and pulled out enough cash to cover the bill, and a generous tip, then continued eating.

  “We should go,” Grant said.

  “Uh, uh. Not yet.” Tedesco mumbled past a mouthful of pork Carnitas.

  Grant nodded toward the boisterous group. “I smell trouble.”

  “Me too. That’s why we’re not leaving yet.”

  Before he could offer up an argument, Grant scanned the room. The waitress stood behind the bar, eyes wide with fear. The hostess stood by the door, wringing her old hands. The cook stared through a window from the kitchen; his eyes darted from the group of men to the hostess and the waitress, then back to the men. If Grant guessed, he would say this was a family business, father, mother, and daughter.

  “Senorita.” The grungy leader of the group called to the waitress, waving her to the table. When she arrived he grabbed her, pulled her onto his lap, and began groping and kissing her.

  “No, por favor!” No, please! She slapped and pushed at his arms and finally broke away.

  The man stood and pushed her against the wall, holding her, continuing the unwanted attention.

  Grant reached for the gun wedged between his waistband and the small of his back. Tedesco reached across the table and placed a hand on Grant’s shoulder. Tedesco shook his head and stood up abruptly enough to push the chair back with his knees. The screech of the chair scraping across the tiles caused all heads to turn.

  Grant spread his palms in front of him, bowed his head, and smiled. He leaned back and crossed his arms. This should be good.

  Tedesco wiped his mouth with a napkin and turned toward the group. “Gentleman. I don’t think you guys are her type.” He took a step forward. “Por qué hace no usted permite que ella ir?” He lowered his voice, his tone menacing. “Y sale.” Why don’t you let her go? And leave.

  Grant’s Spanish was rusty, though at one time he had been quite fluent, a necessity when working in southern Texas. Even so, he got the gist of Tedesco’s entreaty. He also got the gist of their reply. It wasn’t very nice.

  The grungy gang all stared toward Tedesco. Sneers of contempt on their faces. Their head honcho pushed the girl to the floor. “No vaya dondequiera. Tendré razón espalda.” Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.

  As soon as his back was turned, the girl scrambled toward the kitchen, where her father emerged with a large butcher knife. The proprietor grabbed his daughter with one hand, the knife in the other, and glared at the gang with defiance. “Vaya ahora. Mi esposa ha ido para la policía.” Go now. My wife has gone for the police.

  The groper tilted his head back and laughed. Then as one the group approached Tedesco. The big man spread his hands in front of him. “Yo no busco el problema.” I’m not looking for trouble. “Estúpido hombre blanco.” The man grinned, revealing a gold tooth, and switched to broken English. “You may not be looking for trouble. But you found it.” He took up a position behind his five compañeros.

  Tedesco drew himself to full height, his broad shoulders dwarfing them. He dropped his huge hands to his sides.

  As a unit the five guys rushed Tedesco. A combination of a right cross followed by a left cross, spilled two of the gang to the floor. A third leveled a hay maker at Tedesco’s chin. Tedesco grabbed an arm and a handful of shirt and heaved the man off his feet, flinging him to crash into the bar. He waded into the remaining two, smashing them down with his fists. The leader still hung back.

  Grant tipped his chair back against the wall, relishing the show.

  The last two men fell before the crashing fists of Tedesco and he turned to their leader.

  The man pulled a wicked looking knife from a sheath hidden be
neath the tail of his un-tucked shirt. The blade had to be at least nine inches long. “I’m going to cut you up, gringo.”

  While the two men circled, the rest of the cronies began to stir, three of them pulled out knives of varying sizes.

  Grant expelled a breath and tipped his chair forward.

  The grunge gang’s leader slashed the knife at Tedesco’s face. He ducked and then the blade plunged toward his stomach. He closed his large hand over the back of his attacker’s knife wielding hand. The leader tried to pull away but Tedesco’s grip wouldn’t relinquish. Still holding the hand, Tedesco drew back and delivered a punishing right to the jaw. As the man hit the floor Tedesco relieved him of his weapon.

  Two of the gang leader’s cohorts gained their feet, about to rush Tedesco’s back.

  Grant grabbed the back of his chair and moved to intercept, stepping between them and Tedesco. They rushed Grant. He moved to the side and tripped the first one, then swung the chair like a baseball bat at the second. The solid wood chair caught him in the shoulder and sent him tumbling to the ground. Grant turned. The man he had tripped stood up. Ignoring the knife in the man’s hand, Grant lashed out with a head-rocking roundhouse kick.

  Only two of the grunge gang remained conscious. Tedesco joined Grant and they turned to face the two men. They stared back with empty hands, apparently not high enough in gang’s hierarchy to warrant knives.

  “Está sobre,” Tedesco said. It’s over.

  Before the men could respond, two members of the local policía burst through the doors, the proprietress a step behind. The policemen wore short-sleeved khaki shirts and black boots. They scanned the room, their eyes roving over the grunge gang before settling their gazes on the dynamic duo of Tedesco and Grant. The frowns indicated they wouldn’t be greeted as the heroes of the day.

  The restaurant owners besieged the older policemen with a flurry of words, spoken too quickly for Grant to pick up but a few snatches of the conversation. They pointed at the group of thugs and at Tedesco and Grant. He did glean that the older police officer was the chief.