by Guy Johnson
Jackson had commented, “That’s a pretty cynical outlook, don’t you think?”
“I been to mainland China a couple times, boy. Them people done come out of the Stone Age in less than fifty years. They got a way to go but they pushin’ hard.”
The subsequent discussion had meandered through world politics and the Cold War. Jackson was surprised at how knowledgeable his grandfather was about current events. The conversation came to a close when his grandfather began to get exhausted. Before Jackson left the clinic, the old man pulled him close to the bed and whispered, “I know you got to do what’s in yo’ heart. I ain’t askin’ you to fight just to fight. I’m askin’ you to look at the facts real hard and make yo’ move based on the facts. If it looks like you can walk away without a fight, do it. Just be realistic.”
Later, Jackson realized that he had just had his first man-to-man discussion with his grandfather. He felt good about it and that surprised him. It also surprised him that the old man had changed his tack in asking him to pick up the gauntlet and carry on the fight. He had left the final decision in Jackson’s hands. That change in strategy alone caused Jackson to be more receptive to him and his advice. Again Jackson began to feel the sense of loss his grandfather’s passing would cause him, and his thoughts were wrapped in melancholy. He let the puppy out and walked through the darkened house.
There were faxes waiting on the dining room table for him. He reviewed them, but found no cause to make changes in the finished report that Corazon had prepared from his revisions. He called her at home and thanked her for all her extra effort. He was in the process of complimenting her on the quality and thoroughness of her work when she interrupted him.
“Jax! There’s a note here that says your grandmother was called and given the fax number in Mexico yesterday. Did you call and give someone the approval to do that?”
“No! How would they have gotten it?”
“It was written on my ink blotter.”
“But who would have done that? She’s not on my emergency call list. She must’ve called for it. Why would she want the number?”
“She’s your grandmother, you ought to know. All I can tell you is this looks like Martha’s handwriting. Bedrosian must’ve directed some people to work this weekend.”
The malaise of his mood deepened after he hung up the telephone. What was his grandmother up to? Why would she want the number? Thoughts too numerous to mention swirled around him like wisps of vapor, leaving trace elements of guilt at every turn. At around nine-thirty in the evening, he had to get out of the house. He took a walk with the puppy along the outskirts of the cemetery which lay behind his grandfather’s house. It was the beginning of the new moon, there was only a sliver visible in the sky. The stars appeared dim and indistinct as if they were behind a sheet of opaque material. The only light that illumined the darkness came from an occasional streetlight.
Jackson entered the cemetery through the Montecido Street gate. He had no fear of the cemetery. He had often played among the crypts and mausoleums as a child and his grandfather had placed more than a few bodies there himself. Jackson was headed to a knoll which overlooked the cemetery and had the city skyline in the background. He wanted to think about Elizabeth—what she was doing, what she was wearing—but he could not put the fact out of his mind that his grandmother had the fax number in Mexico. Why would she want it? She definitely wouldn’t send Franklin down to Mexico alone. It was too dangerous. Then a terrible thought dawned on him. What if she was working with the men who had followed him? What if she was passing on information to his grandfather’s enemies? The very thought brought the taste of bile to his mouth, but it had the ring of truth. She and Franklin both stood to benefit if Jackson and his grandfather were killed.
The puppy distracted him. The young dog was happily straining at the leash to investigate various things in the darkness, yet every once in while he would stop and look back the way they had come and his ears would prick up. At first, Jackson paid no attention, but the third or fourth time the puppy looked back Jackson knew there was something or someone behind him. When he reached the top of the knoll, he stood in the shadows of the old Bustamante family mausoleum. The Bustamantes had built themselves an edifice for the ages. It was a huge stone building that towered above all the others. It was topped with a dome and had large columns lining its entrance.
Jackson knew from his childhood that the shadows in the mausoleum’s entrance would hide him from view. He knelt with the puppy behind one of the mausoleum’s columns and waited. Within five minutes, against the pale background of tombstones, a dark form could be seen moving deliberately in Jackson’s direction. From the path his follower was taking, it looked as if he would pass within twenty feet of the mausoleum. The puppy growled at the stalking form in the darkness. Jackson immediately grabbed the dog’s muzzle and held it firmly, but the stalker had heard the growl and was now casting about for its source.
Jackson had no weapon, but he was sure that whoever was following him had one. He quickly considered his options. His only real chance was surprise. He tied the puppy to the pillar and dropped to his hands and knees and crawled out of the shadows behind some shrubs that lined the walkways. He stood up as soon as he was away from the mausoleum and moved into the shadow of an adjacent crypt. His intent was to flank his follower and attack from the side. The puppy whined a few times after Jackson left, then commenced growling again as the form drew nearer. The man was within ten feet of him and Jackson could see the glint of a weapon in his hand. Jackson waited for the distance to shorten and prepared himself to spring. He was mentally kicking himself for being so foolish in taking the dangers of his grandfather’s world lightly. He held his breath and moved to the balls of his feet. He had to put everything in his leap to catch the man by surprise. Otherwise, he would die in the attempt.
“Diablito?” the form asked cautiously.
It sounded like Carlos. The man had the shape and size of Carlos. But Jackson had no intention of revealing himself until he was sure that it was Carlos.
“I am only doing what your grandfather requested,” the form continued. “I see that you have tied the little dog, but where are you?”
“Right here, Carlos,” Jackson responded, emerging from the shadows.
“That was very good,” Carlos commented, shaking his head appreciatively.
“Thanks,” Jackson acknowledged. “How long have you been following me?”
“Since you left the house. When I came from the clinic, you were sitting in the dark thinking, so I camped out in the kitchen and got something to eat. When you left, I followed.”
“All part of the security consulting biz, hey?” Jackson said in a friendly, teasing manner. The puppy whined, reminding Jackson that he had been left tied to a column. As he untied the dog, he asked, “How was my grandfather doing when you left?”
“Not too well,” Carlos replied. “He’s having some problems with his heart. He needs to rest quietly and he doesn’t know how to rest.”
“Well, I want to see him again,” Jackson said, feeling a sudden urgency. “I have to tell him something. Do you think that it would be a problem if we went to the hospital now?”
“No, it’s not a problem.” Carlos smiled. “Your grandfather and the Ramirez brothers own the clinic. Many of the doctors and nurses who work there had their education paid for by El Negro and Señor Ramirez.”
“It’s the clinic mentioned in the property papers that my grandfather donated to that doctor,” Jackson commented as they walked back to the house.
“Yes, I mentioned it in the car when you first arrived,” Carlos answered.
Despite the lateness of the hour, there was still vehicular traffic clogging the streets. As they sat in the limo waiting for the traffic to crawl forward, Jackson asked Carlos, “Did you know my father?”
“Yes, but he was killed before I got to know him well. We first met on one of your grandfather’s annual hunting trips when I was abo
ut fifteen or sixteen. He was nine years older so we weren’t friends, but he was nice to me.”
“I don’t know anything about your family, Carlos. You’ve never mentioned your mother or your father.”
Carlos shrugged. “My father’s dead. My mother lives in Chiapas. There’s no reason to bring them up in conversation.”
“Is it that you don’t want to talk about them?”
“I was born of poor Indian folk living in a village in rural Chiapas. My father died when I was little. We were dirt poor and always close to starvation. It’s a monster being poor and a pure-blood Indian in Mexico.
“El Indio saved me from the streets. He was my mother’s cousin and he visited us on my thirteenth birthday. When El Indio left he took me with him.”
“How’s your mother doing now?”
“She’s alive and well. I bought her a house when I was twenty-one. I put all my brothers and sisters through college. One of them is a doctor. Another is a teacher. One is an artist. And I was able to do that because your grandfather helped me.”
“Hell of a story!” Jackson said with a shake of his head.
“The world is filled with stories,” Carlos replied. “Most don’t end as well as mine. Look, there’s a break in the traffic!” Carlos pointed to a broad side street. He spoke in Spanish to the driver, who turned and took the detour as directed.
When the limo arrived at the clinic, the gate was shut, but as soon as the guard saw the limousine he hurried to open the gate. The front doors were unlocked by another guard. As Jackson ascended the stairs he heard a siren. When he entered the hall, he saw nurses and doctors running to the far end of the hall. Jackson headed toward his grandfather’s room, which was in the opposite direction.
Thinking that his grandfather might be asleep, Jackson entered the room quietly. As he opened the door he saw a man in a white coat leaning over the bed. Over the man’s shoulder he could see his grandfather’s thin arms flailing away frantically.
“What going on here?” Jackson demanded.
The man turned and Jackson saw blood on his hands. The man held something shiny and he flicked it with a snap of his wrist in Jackson’s direction. Jackson had started toward the man, but he stumbled over the legs of a body sprawled on the floor. As Jackson lost his balance and fell against the foot of the bed, the knife intended for him flew past his shoulder and stuck in the wall. His attacker followed his knife throw with several kicks aimed at Jackson’s groin and solar plexus. Jackson barely had time to block the attack before he regained his balance.
Once he was squared up to the man, Jackson saw that he had a considerable size and weight advantage. The man was thin and wiry, but his body was rip-cord strong. He had dirty blond hair that occasionally fell into his face and squinting eyes. There were no words spoken. Jackson knew that he was in a fight to the death. He was letting the years in the dojo control his actions and reactions. After blocking the man’s initial attacks, Jackson even began to feel confident, parrying and attacking, often grazing the man, coming closer every time. Jackson was just getting into a rhythm when the man pulled a large knife from his belt and slashed it in the direction of Jackson’s neck. Jackson barely eluded the tip of the knife as its sharp blade sliced through the arm of his shirt, nicking his skin.
Now it was the man who parried every attack and forced the fight with his slashing blade. Jackson, backed up against the wall, picked up a chair and held it over his head. The man smiled and tossed the knife from hand to hand. He was showing off. Jackson timed his charge for the moment that the knife was airborne and then ran straight at his attacker, driving him backward against the wall with a crash. One of the legs of the chair hit him in the stomach, a second pinned his knife arm briefly, but he pulled it free and slashed at Jackson’s face. Jackson dodged backward, barely avoiding the knife, and then rammed the chair forcefully into the man’s body again. This time Jackson felt the satisfying crunch of broken bones as the man’s ribcage caved in slightly. The man’s knife hand was caught underneath one the chair legs. As he fought to free it, Jackson looked around for some sort of weapon to end the fight. Next to him on a hospital cart was his grandfather’s bone-handled hunting knife. Jackson flung off its sheath and jammed it deep into the man’s chest.
The next moment, the man freed his arm and slashed again at Jackson, this time slicing his arm. Jackson fell back, dropping the chair in the process. The man took a few steps toward Jackson then fell on his face. Not wanting to get caught by a ruse, Jackson tipped the hospital cart over on the man for a reaction. There was none. He stepped on the man’s arm and removed the knife from his hand. Holding it at the man’s throat, he quickly frisked him for other weapons. Finding none, he checked for a pulse; the man was dead. Grateful that he had stabbed the man in a vital place, Jackson stood up and went over to check on his grandfather. The old man was bleeding from a deep stomach wound.
Jackson snarled bitterly, “Goddamn my grandmother! She sold us out! She sold us out, Gramps!”
His grandfather said nothing. His eyes were glazing over, but when he saw Jackson, he actually smiled and mumbled something softly that Jackson couldn’t hear. Jackson turned away to get medical assistance, but his grandfather restrained him with a surprisingly strong grip. Jackson saw that the old man wanted to say something. Jackson leaned over to hear his grandfather’s words. The old man whispered, “You’s my blood.”
“Let me get help, Grandfather,” Jackson urged, peeling the old man’s fingers off his arm. His grandfather shook his head and whispered, “Time to go. You ready now.”
“Ready, Grandfather?” Jackson questioned. “No, I still need you. Grandmother sold us to the enemy. I need your help.”
“You ready, boy! Tell Serena—tell Serena …” The old man fell silent.
“Tell her what, Grandfather? Tell her what?”
In a soft, hissing voice the old man whispered, “Tell her—tell her thank you!”
Jackson demanded, “For what? For sending this assassin?” There was no answer; he was talking to a dead man. The old man had died with his eyes open and a slight smile on his face. Gently, Jackson closed his grandfather’s staring eyes. An overwhelming sadness settled upon him. He realized that he loved his grandfather and, more important than that, he knew that the old man had loved him, perhaps not in the way most civilized people could appreciate, but it had been love. Tears began to trickle down his face. It was uncanny that the years of professed hatred could be pushed aside so easily. The love that Jackson thought had withered had merely lain buried under his indignation. It now pushed through to the surface and there was no denying it.
The door opened behind him and Jackson whirled, ready to face another antagonist, but it was Carlos who entered. He hustled Jackson down to the car, explaining that there were two other assassins still in the building. He told Jackson to go home and be careful, that he would take care of all the paperwork regarding the old man’s death and the body of his assassin.
When Jackson entered the dark, still house, he was on the alert. The driver had returned to the clinic to assist Carlos, but before he left he had given Jackson an old British service revolver. It was an unwieldy Webley .455. Jackson hoped there would be no reason to fire it: The gun looked as if its frame would blow apart with the first shot. He did not have to worry. Mario came out of the dark, carrying a shotgun. In the candlelight of the kitchen, Jackson saw that both the women were present. The younger woman, who was somewhat stocky and in her early thirties, had even armed herself with a hammer, which she carried stuck in the strings of her apron. Combined with her no-nonsense attitude, she looked like a formidable opponent. With the thought that nothing increased security like a dog, Jackson went and released the puppy.
When he returned to the kitchen, it was obvious that Mario and the two women were upset. Carlos had called from the clinic and had informed them of King’s passing. They repeatedly offered their condolences to Jackson on the death of his grandfather. The older woman, her
hair streaked with gray, wanted Jackson to know that his grandfather had been very good to her, that she was loyal and was prepared to stay if Jackson needed. Jackson was touched. Through Mario, he told them all that their loyalty was unquestioned, but that he would prefer they return to their own homes rather than risk potential injury. He said he did not know if the house would be attacked. The older woman called her son to come and pick her up. Mario refused to leave; he had his pride.
The younger woman, whose name was Theresa, had no other home. She had worked for King nearly eleven years. He had taken her out of a brothel in Chihuahua when she was nineteen. From the texture of her hair and the shape of her nose and lips, Jackson could see that she had African ancestors in her lineage.
Jackson informed both Mario and Theresa that they should remain on alert until Carlos arrived. He went to his grandfather’s gun cabinet and took out the matched pair of forty-five-caliber Colt pistols. The custom ivory grips made the guns feel comfortable in his hands. They had been his grandfather’s prize possessions: Series 70 National Match Gold Cup, single-action pistols. Jackson donned a double-holster harness, attached custom-made silencers to the guns, checked their operation before chambering a bullet in each weapon. As he put the guns into his holsters he wondered what Elizabeth would think of him. He situated Mario at the back door near the kennel and Theresa in the foyer. Jackson and the puppy made regular rounds of the house, but otherwise they were based on the balcony, overlooking the courtyard.
Within the hour Carlos arrived with the Ramirez brothers, along with two prisoners. Jackson had no time to ponder his grandfather’s passing or the fact that he himself had taken a human life. It was not that these events meant nothing, but rather they loomed so large on his horizon that he was only capable of seeing that portion which was closest to him. He put the puppy in the kennel and went to see the two men who had helped murder his grandfather. When he walked out the front door, they were kneeling in the courtyard with their mouths taped shut and their hands tied behind their backs. Their faces were bloody. It was obvious that they had undergone some rather brutal questioning.
