“It was the right decision. Trust me.”
“Trust you? Okay, well then if you know everything, where the fuck is Ian now?”
I was quiet for a beat. “Safe.”
The Kid asked, “Why the fuck did you call me in the first place besides to raise my blood pressure?”
“I’m not sure what to do next.”
“Oh, I get it. So now you want my opinion on what to do.”
“You know what, Kid? Go fuck yourself.”
I meant to disconnect the call and slip the phone back into my pocket. Before I got the chance, the Kid said, “All right, all right. We’re both upset right now. We just need to take a moment to breathe.”
We were both quiet for a moment.
The Kid said, “So now what do you need?”
“Transportation. Money. Something.”
“You don’t have any cash?”
“About forty bucks.”
“That will maybe get you a coffee and scone at Starbucks.”
“Luckily I’m not looking for coffee or pastries.”
The Kid said, “Ben?”
“What?”
“Right now, if you want even the slightest chance of getting out of this, you need to do one simple thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Ditch the girl.”
21
But I couldn’t ditch the girl.
The Kid knew it too, but he still said it because yes, it did make the most sense if I wanted a chance to get out of Miami. The Kid told me about what had just come over the county radio, that the cops already had my description. Two years ago in Chicago I had been set up as a cop killer. Now the same thing was happening in Miami.
I headed up another block and hailed a taxi. One stopped almost immediately. I opened the back door and bent my head inside.
The driver said, “Where to?” his voice heavy with a Cuban accent.
“The hospital,” I said, sliding across the seat and slamming the door shut. “My little girl, she’s sick.”
The driver stared at us for a long moment. Then he turned back to the wheel and got us moving forward in no time at all.
I set the girl down on the seat beside me. I was afraid she might start speaking again, and that somehow the driver would know what she was saying and do something rash. It was clear the driver didn’t quite buy my story—I’d caught the slight mistrust in his eyes—but I had asked to go to the hospital, and that, at least, was a safe place.
The iPhone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, glancing at the rearview mirror to catch the driver watching me.
“My wife,” I told him, then answered the phone, saying, “Yes, honey?”
“The fuck?” the Kid said.
“We’re in the taxi now. Headed straight for the hospital.”
“Right. So here’s the deal. I called in a favor from a guy I know down there, only he’s all the way over in Immokalee. It’s going to be at least two hours before he gets there, probably more.”
“And what should I tell the doctor when he asks about insurance?”
This tripped the Kid up for a second. “You’re headed to the hospital now, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You planning something stupid before you get there?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Even if you get her to the hospital—or, hell, the police—it doesn’t mean that she’ll be safe. Simon can easily get to her.”
I thought about it for a beat. “He won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She’s served her purpose. He’s done with her.” I noticed the driver eyeing me in the rearview mirror, and brightened my tone. “So what should I tell the doctor about our insurance?”
“I’ll try to find you a motel nearby, one that charges by the hour and will take cash.”
The phone beeped. I checked the screen, then held it back to my ear and said, “My battery’s about to die. If you could text me the information, that would be wonderful.”
“I’ll see what I can do.
“Sounds good, honey. I love you.”
The Kid said, “Yeah, you wish,” and was gone.
The little girl sat quietly beside me. A part of me did not want to let her go. A part of me saw a glimmer of my own daughter in her, and that part wanted to hold on to her forever.
I said to the driver, “Make a left up at the next light.”
His eyes shifted up to meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Huh?”
“This light coming up. Make a left.”
He frowned. “But the hospital—”
“Just turn left. It’s a shortcut.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “that no shortcut. The hospital only—”
It was the cold barrel of the gun pressed against the base of his skull that caused him to stop talking. His eyes shot up into the rearview mirror again, now filled with fear.
I said, “Turn left.”
Without a word he flicked the turn signal on and made the left.
“Now go straight for another two blocks.”
“Please, mister,” the driver said, “I don’t want to die.”
“Keep going straight.”
The driver kept the taxi moving, taking us away from the main strip.
“See this big tree coming up on the right? Park underneath it.”
“Please ... please, I have family.”
“Park underneath it.”
The taxi slowed and stopped underneath the tree.
“Now turn off the car.”
Trembling, the driver cut the engine.
“Give me your wallet.”
“Ma-Ma-Money?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want your money. I want your wallet.”
“But I ... don’t have wallet.”
“Your ID then.”
“But why—”
I pressed the gun even harder against the back of his head. “Tell me this. Do you believe I will kill you if I have to?”
He hesitated a moment, and in that moment I hoped he wasn’t thinking about his own life, but about his family. About his wife, his children, whatever other relatives there were—I hoped fate had given me this taxi driver as someone I could trust, or at least depend upon for this particular task. Then, almost immediately, that moment was over and he was nodding his head almost imperceptibly, as if he feared one quick movement would cause me to squeeze the trigger.
“Good,” I said. “Now do you believe that I don’t want to kill you?”
Again, a moment’s hesitation, then another almost imperceptible nod.
“Then work with me here. Give me your ID.”
Still trembling, he slowly moved his right hand away from the steering wheel and reached into his front pocket. As he did this I glanced at the clock on the dash. It was almost four o’clock. I tried calculating how many minutes we’d been stopped here, in front of a two-story bungalow with an overlarge palm tree dripping heavy drops of rain on the windshield and hood.
“Here,” he said in his shaky voice, now with his driver’s license pulled from his pants pocket. He slowly moved it toward the back.
I plucked the license from his trembling grasp. It was issued by the Commonwealth of Florida. It pictured the driver and said his name was Damian Sanchez.
“Okay, Damian, so this is you?”
“Ye-Yes.”
“Good. Now, Damian, I don’t have time to bullshit you, so I’m not even going to bother trying. I’m going to tell you the truth, and whether you decide to believe it is up to you. But your ID here, I’m going to keep it. Because this girl beside me? As you’ve already probably figured out, she’s not my daughter. What she is though is some kind of sex slave. I can’t really get into it, but I managed to help save her, and in the process, a good friend of mine died. There are people out there right now that are trying to kill me, that are trying to get this girl back, and I can’t allow that to happen. Are you following me so far, D
amian?”
The driver nodded again and uttered a noise that may have been yes.
“Very good. Because this girl, Damian? I’m putting her in your care. And all I ask of you is to take her to the nearest hospital. You can tell them whatever you like, I don’t care, just as long as she gets taken care of. Do you understand? She has no family, not as far as I know, but then again I can’t understand her. Maybe you can. Now, Damian, repeat the basics of what I just told you.”
“To ... to take girl to hospital. To ... to make sure she is safe.”
“That’s exactly right. And Damian? I’m keeping your ID as collateral. Because I’m going to check up on what you do here. I’m going to hold you accountable. You can go to the police later—I’m sure you will and to be honest I don’t care—but first you must take her to a hospital, to a good hospital, and make sure she’s taken care of. Do you understand me, Damian? Because if you don’t, if you do something to harm this girl or somehow put her life in jeopardy, I will hunt you down. Do you hear that, Damian? I will hunt you down and I will make you pay. Do you believe me?”
“Ye-Ye-Yes,” he said, his voice still soft, almost a whimper, and a block behind us a car turned the corner, its headlights splashing us, and I decided it was time to go.
I shoved Damian’s ID into my pocket and said, “Now give me your cell phone.”
“Wh-What?”
“Your goddamn cell phone, Damian. Let’s not play this game again.”
He didn’t move as slowly this time, almost confident now in the fact that he wasn’t going to die. This time he reached across the passenger seat and pulled out his cell phone, handed it back to me.
“I’m sorry, Damian,” I said, taking his phone, “but I can’t have you calling the cops on me right away. Pull that wire out from your radio too.”
“The ... wire?”
The iPhone vibrated again, two short bursts. I glanced down at the screen. The Kid had texted me the name and location of a motel.
“Goddamn it, Damian, don’t play stupid. The wire—you know which one. Pull it out and give it to me.”
He disconnected the wire from the radio to the mike, handed it back to me, his hand still shaking. Another set of headlights splashed us again, this time the car passing us, and I knew I was now beyond pressing my luck.
I took his cell phone and the wire and put them in one of my jacket pockets. I placed a hand on the girl’s head. I smiled and thought, Good luck, kid.
“Damian,” I said, keeping the gun aimed at him as I slid across the seat and grabbed the door handle. “You remember everything I told you, yes?”
“Ye-Yes.”
“Good. Now here’s the real question. Can I trust you to do this?”
“Yes,” he said again, this time with no hesitation, and I took that as my cue to open the door and jump out. Almost immediately Damian fired up the taxi and squealed away. Wasn’t quite the calm and inconspicuous exit I’d wanted him to make, but then again that hadn’t been part of my instructions.
I stood there for a long moment, watching the taxi receding, its taillights fading, and then I turned and started walking.
22
The motel was a complete piece of shit. But it was cheap and charged by the hour and was only thirteen blocks away from where Damian had dropped me off.
The guy behind the glass barely even looked at me while he took my money and handed me a key. He had a TV on nearby, some sitcom turned up way too loud, and the canned laughter followed me out of the manager’s office to the side of the motel where I went directly to my room. It was even filthier than I had anticipated and reeked of cigarette smoke. There was a bed, a chair, a table, and a TV. I took the chair and propped it up against the doorknob. It wasn’t much, but if someone wanted to break down the door, it would at least be one more barrier besides the cheap chain lock.
I was exhausted, my entire body tingling with pain. The only thing I wanted to do was sleep, but even the sight of the bed grossed me out. Instead I pushed it all the way to the front of the room and stood it up and laid it against the single window. This way if someone tried shooting in, they would hit the bed first. Again, it wasn’t much, but it was all I had.
I lowered myself to the floor, my back against the wall, both of the dead cops’ guns in each hand. The single lamp on the table was off and the darkness enveloped me.
The Kid called, said, “Good news. Word just came across the Miami-Dade County radio about a taxi driver telling the police a white man with glasses pulled a gun on him.”
“That’s the only description?”
“So far, yeah. But it also said the unidentified man left a child with him, and instructed him to take the child to the nearest hospital, which the driver did. After he made sure she was in proper care, he called the police.”
“Well done, Damian.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Any word yet on Ian?”
“Not yet.”
I was quiet for a moment, thinking about this. Then I said, “I’m in the motel room now, waiting on your guy.”
“Good. He should be there in the next hour or two.”
“Let’s hope not any longer. I only have the room for two hours. And my phone’s battery is now down to less than ten percent.”
“He’ll be there.” The Kid paused. “Ben?”
“Yeah.”
“Just a heads up.”
“About what?”
“This guy I’m sending? He’s ... different.”
“Different how?”
“You’ll see what I mean.”
• • •
I SAW EXACTLY what the Kid meant an hour and forty-seven minutes later.
By then my eyes had adjusted to the dark. I had been sitting in the same spot for nearly an hour, my back against the wall, still clasping a gun in each hand. Sounds came through the thin walls, the heavy grunting and moaning and squealing of sex. I had heard it all too often in my past life, when I used to lock myself away in my den and log onto the Internet, and did my best now to ignore it. I tried to stay awake, to stay focused, but found myself nodding off and then immediately jerking my head up.
Then there came a sudden knocking at the door.
Two light raps, just below the door’s centerline. It was an odd place for the knocks to originate. Most times when someone knocks on a door, they do so around shoulder level, their elbow cocked at a ninety-degree angle. Then again, most people knock casually, not even aware of it, waiting on their family or friends.
I waited in the dark, silent. Exactly ten seconds passed before the knocking came again, another two light raps.
I slowly rose to my feet, my back against the wall, my hands tight around the guns’ rubber grips. I moved silently through the dark, inching my way past the mattress covering the window. I moved it just enough to peek through the curtain. I couldn’t see anybody outside.
The knock came again, only once this time, and a strange voice whispered, “Ben?”
I moved to the door, looked through the peephole.
Nobody was there.
“Ben?” the voice whispered again.
I blinked, looked through the peephole again.
Still nobody.
There was shuffling then, feet against the stone walkway. I stuck one of the guns in the back of my waistband, used my free hand to move the chair from its place against the doorknob. I unlatched the chain and opened the door, the gun at my side, stepping out onto the walkway.
A child was headed away from the room. He stopped when he heard the door open and slowly turned around.
“Ben?”
It wasn’t a child, but a dwarf, or little person, or whatever the hell they were supposed to be called nowadays. The small man just stood there in shorts and a T-shirt, staring back at me with glasses. In his right ear was a hearing aid.
The little man stared at me for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. He smiled and stepped forward.
“I’m Titus,”
he said, extending his small stubby hand. “The Kid sent me.”
23
Titus drove an old Volkswagen Beetle. It was orange with scraped and rusting aluminum bumpers and hubcaps, dents and scratches along the sides and roof. There was a thick cushion on the driver’s seat so Titus could see over the steering wheel. The brake and gas pedals had been extended so his feet could reach them. Several pine scented Little Trees were treaded around the gearshift. The thing looked like its top speed was maybe fifty miles per hour. Not the most ideal vehicle to try to outrun Caesar’s long reach, but at least it was something.
Titus was clearly nervous as he weaved us through the Miami streets toward the interstate, checking his rearview mirror constantly. I wasn’t sure what he could see from his low vantage point, but I had to give him credit for trying. Myself, I kept my eye on the side mirror, watching for any trailing vehicles. By the time we had gone all the way up I-75 and then started west through the Everglades, I was confident that we weren’t being followed.
Neither of us had talked much since we left the motel. The Beetle had a tape deck and played quietly, pouring the soulful rhythm of Jerry Garcia and the rest of the Grateful Dead from the crappy speakers. The cassette tape played through until the end and then Titus, perfunctorily, ejected it and flipped the tape over and reinserted it into the deck.
It was nearly six-thirty in the morning. I had been up for over twenty-four hours. The rain had stopped but clouds still covered the sky, and random beams of the rising sun sliced through the gray. One of the cops’ guns lay in my lap, my hand around the grip, my finger still on the trigger.
Titus cleared this throat. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“Carver. It really sucks.”
I was staring out the window, watching the passing wetlands, and now shifted in my seat to focus on the little man.
“What the hell do you know about Carver?”
He flinched at the intensity of my voice, like he expected me to hit him.
I closed my eyes, shook my head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 9
