“Danny!” Miller screamed. “Danny!” But there was no one to hear. Danny was gone, disappearing as if he had never been.
“SO, WHAT does FBI-boy have that Ortiz didn’t?” Madrigal asked around his cigarette. “Or is that a stupid question?” He snorted out a noseful of smoke, impressed with his own humor.
Danny didn’t respond, testing the side of his head with delicate fingers, wincing at the rising lump.
“I mean, you were happy enough to let Ortiz die. But not some guy you met a month ago?” Madrigal took his eyes off the road, glancing at Danny’s face. “Don’t worry about that knot on your head. Pretty soon it’s going to seem like a hangnail.”
Danny looked out the window at bare trees whipping by and lawns turned brown and dormant. He wished he could have died in the spring, when everything was green.
They didn’t drive far, pulling into a cracked driveway less than ten minutes later. The asphalt heaved upward in ragged chunks, giving way to weeds and dirt. “Get out,” Madrigal instructed, stopping the car next to a house with plywood-covered windows, its once-white paint reduced to gray flakes that dotted the grass like dandruff.
The block was quiet, most of the houses abandoned—the kind of neighborhood where people kept their eyes straight ahead when they drove by, not wanting to see. Madrigal marched Danny up the back steps and shoved him through the boarded-up door that had already been kicked open, sharp splinters of wood littering the stoop.
Danny stopped in the gutted kitchen, empty squares visible on the filthy linoleum where a refrigerator and stove had once stood. The walls were pockmarked at irregular intervals with gaping holes, as though a giant had passed through, smashing in plaster with his fisted hands. Two metal folding chairs were the only furniture in the room and Danny coughed out a startled laugh, unable to help himself. “You carry those around in your trunk just for times like this?”
Madrigal popped him in the face with the gun and blood gushed out of Danny’s temple, hot and slick. “You know me, smartass, always prepared,” Madrigal said. “A regular Boy Scout. Now take off your jacket and sit the fuck down.”
Danny tossed his jacket onto the floor and sat, blinking back the blood clinging to his lashes. “What’s the other chair for? I thought you liked to move around while you worked.” Madrigal didn’t answer. He removed a cord from a black bag on the counter and tied Danny’s torso to the chair.
“The chair’s for me, Danny,” came a voice from the doorway, a voice Danny would know anywhere, the sound as familiar as his own breathing. Danny looked up, finding Hinestroza’s coal black eyes from behind a sea of red.
MILLER STOOD frozen in the parking lot. He wanted to move but didn’t know how. It reminded him of when he’d been stunned by a Taser gun at the academy, his brain issuing commands his body simply could not follow.
He’s going to die, Miller. He’s going to die if you don’t get your ass in gear.
He sprinted back to the motel room, his feet sliding out from under him as he charged inside, his hands pawing frantically across the dresser top, fingers clutching at his cell phone. Colin answered on the second ring, his voice cut off by Miller’s harsh words. “Madrigal has Danny. They’re gone.”
“What?”
“We need an APB out on a black Honda Accord, Missouri license number GHT 4783.”
“Got it,” Colin said, not wasting time with pointless questions.
“Call Patterson. Find out who her source was on Madrigal. We need to find out if they know anything more. Where Madrigal’s been staying, where he’s planning on going. Anything.”
“I’ll call you back. Stay where you are, Miller. I’m on my way.”
Miller slid his phone into his back pocket, catching a glimpse of his white, strained face in the mirror. How could Danny have done it? How could he have thought that this was ever what Miller wanted? How could he not understand that his death wouldn’t free Miller but would be a weight Miller could never shoulder, a burden that would crush him?
Without wanting to, Miller’s mind skipped to the police report on Ortiz, the details of how he’d died, how he’d suffered. “Fuck!” Miller sobbed out, his terror translating into destruction. His arms swept across the dresser, sending the TV crashing to the floor with a sharp pop of glass; the mirror was wrenched off the wall and smashed against the dresser top; chairs were heaved sideways, curtains were ripped halfway off their rods. And still Miller had a surplus of grief and anger left to spend.
Get it together. You can’t help him like this. You have to be smart. You have to be calm. Help him, goddamn it!
Miller gasped in breaths, his head hanging low. He felt untethered, as if the strings connecting him to Danny were being snipped one by one. The phone in his pocket broke the silence.
“What?”
“Patterson’s contact doesn’t know much.” Colin’s voice was strained, high with tension. “Just that Madrigal was scoping out abandoned houses earlier this week.”
“Where?”
There was a too-long pause. “He didn’t know, Miller. The most he could guess was somewhere on the East side.”
Last time he was here he used an abandoned house on the Paseo, Danny’s voice whispered in his ear. “I’m going,” Miller said, already moving out the door, grabbing his gun as he left.
“Miller, wait! I’m—”
But he couldn’t wait. Madrigal wasn’t going to stop and allow him time to catch up. If he wanted to save Danny, he would have to do it alone.
HINESTROZA TOOK the chair directly across from Danny, crossing his legs to balance one ankle atop his knee, careful not to mar the crease in his dark gray slacks.
“What… what are you doing here? The FBI said they couldn’t get you into the country.”
Hinestroza laughed. “I go where I please, Danny, you should know that by now. The FBI doesn’t frighten me.” He pointed at Danny with his unlit cigar. “I had to come up. The big shipment arrived this week and you weren’t available to oversee it. You left me… how do they say it,” he twirled his cigar in a small circle, “in the lurch. And I had to make sure Madrigal didn’t fall down on the job for a third time.”
They both turned their heads at the metallic clanking from the counter as Madrigal laid out his instruments. Danny could see the razor and a pair of pliers and—proof that an old dog can learn new tricks—a set of gleaming brass knuckles, all of it making Madrigal’s gun look so benign in comparison.
“Danny,” Hinestroza said softly, snagging his attention again. “I wish it hadn’t come to this.”
“Me too,” Danny whispered. Why did having Hinestroza sit across from him make this so much more difficult? It would be easier if it ended in a blaze of hatred, Madrigal’s golden eyes the sole focus for Danny’s anger. But Danny’s feelings for Hinestroza were too complicated for such single-minded emotion. Rage stewed in a melting-pot mix with respect and fear and the humiliating, aching need to be loved. Hinestroza’s presence made Danny feel weak when he so desperately needed to be strong—made him want to seek forgiveness and be granted absolution without even understanding the exact nature of his sin.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never wanted to testify against you.”
“But you were going to do it.”
“They threatened me. I didn’t think I had a choice.”
“There are always choices.”
“Yes, there are.” Danny thought of Miller, breathing free and out in the world. Some choices were worth whatever price life demanded in payment.
“I always liked you, Danny,” Hinestroza said. “I understand the feeling is probably not mutual”—he flashed his icy smile—“but I wanted you to know.”
Danny nodded and Hinestroza nodded in return. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
Madrigal stepped in front of Danny, blocking Hinestroza from view. He had the pliers in his hand. “When I used these on your wife, she screamed like a cat in heat. Let’s see how you do, Danny.”
D
anny cast his eyes up to the ceiling. He remembered how Miller had looked on the day they’d met, so hard and untouchable in the interrogation room… how scared he’d been when Danny had kissed him, his lips warm and soft… how Miller hadn’t hesitated when he’d come into Danny’s arms that snowy day in the apartment… how from the very beginning it had been about more than sex for both of them. He remembered that Miller was alive.
And the end might not come quickly. But it would come.
FORTY-SIX MINUTES. That’s the head start Madrigal had. Miller tried not to think about how much damage could be inflicted on a human body in that length of time. Maybe they’d argued first. Maybe it had taken Madrigal a while to get started. Maybe….
Yeah, Miller, and maybe they’re playing poker and having a beer. Find him!
He’d driven up and down the entire length of the Paseo, slowing down in front of each abandoned house, craning his neck for a glimpse of the black Accord. He’d ignored his ringing phone, every bit of his attention focused on searching, on finding. He pulled his car over to the curb and took steadying breaths, his hands shaking against the wheel. Forty-seven minutes. Now what?
Now you turn around and do it again, because what choice do you have?
“Please,” he whispered, tears backing up thick and heavy in his throat, making it impossible to swallow. “Please, help me.” He didn’t even know who he was talking to, whether it was God or Danny or the indifferent winter air. Miller couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed, but he wanted to get down on his knees and promise everything he had, offer up whatever sacrifice God demanded. He understood the desperation that led people to make deals with the devil.
Forty-eight minutes. Miller pulled the car into a squealing U-turn, steering with one hand as he leaned into the passenger seat to peer at each house. There was a row of five decrepit houses, all of them neglected for years. Miller slammed on his brakes as he passed the second one, as something peeking out from the back of the house caught his eye. There it was: a flash of black hiding where the driveway curved behind the house.
Miller’s stomach shrank into a knot, his hands flexing on the wheel. He turned right at the next side street and parked against the curb. He checked his gun, reloaded from the bullets he kept in the glove compartment. He came at the house from the back, picking his way through yards crowded with trash and debris, broken glass crunching beneath his feet. Miller jumped lightly over the ramshackle chain-link fence surrounding the house, skirting his way around the car to check the license plate. GHT 4783. Madrigal’s car.
There was no time for relief or fear. Danny was dying inside that house. Miller’s brain reverted to agent-mode automatically, noting facts with the ticking accuracy of a computer: only one car, kicked-in back door, no drag marks in the dirt—Danny had been upright when they’d entered the house—eye-level window on the side of the house missing half its plywood patch. Miller moved around the corner of the house, careful to stick to the clumps of dead grass, where his footsteps made no sound. He pressed himself up against the exterior, taking a deep breath and risking a quick look inside. The window opened into an empty room, the wood floors coated with a thick paste of dust and grime, the walls decorated by a graffiti artist’s multicolored spray cans.
The room led into the kitchen and Miller could see Danny tied to a chair, blood running from his hand onto the floor in thin streams, his elbow bent backward, snapped like a twig. His head was hanging forward, bloody and swollen. Miller put a hand up against the side of the house, heaving in air, fighting back the black spots swarming across his vision. What do you do when the person you love most in the world is dying right in front of you, being taken apart piece by piece before your eyes?
You fucking suck it up and get in there, asshole!
Miller glanced inside once more, noting Madrigal’s position next to Danny. He didn’t have a gun in his hands, but Miller could see one tucked into his waistband within easy reach. Another set of legs was visible, seated in a folding chair, but Miller didn’t have a clear view of who was there or what sort of weapon they might be holding. It didn’t matter. He had to go in. There was no time to stop and call Colin. It was a moot point anyway; by the time he arrived, it would be over, one way or the other.
Miller cocked his gun and then crept around to the back door again. He climbed the steps on silent feet. A deep voice floated out through the cracked doorframe. “I’ve had enough. Finish it.”
“But I barely started,” a voice Miller recognized as Madrigal’s protested. He sounded like a whiny child being denied a long-promised treat.
“I said finish it!”
Miller didn’t take time to think, instead counting on his years of training to guide him through. He burst into the room, the door exploding inward and slamming against the wall, the knob burying itself in the mealy plaster. “Don’t move,” he yelled, his rock-steady gun hand trained on Madrigal. “Or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
Madrigal froze, both hands rising slowly in the air. But Miller had to fight his trigger finger, which wanted—with almost undeniable force—to pull back, fire bullet after bullet into Madrigal’s body. Miller willed his finger to stop moving, glancing at the man seated in the folding chair across from Danny. Hinestroza. Miller refused to show his surprise, not wanting to give away a single advantage. “Get your hands behind your head, right now!”
Hinestroza complied. He didn’t seem agitated in any way, his movements relaxed. Miller moved to Danny’s side, reaching down with one hand to yank the restraining cord off his body. “Danny,” he said urgently, not taking his eyes off Madrigal. “Danny, can you hear me?”
Danny moaned, a low, desperate sound, his head rolling forward on a limp neck, a loose-hanging flap of skin near his ear giving Miller a glimpse of muscle underneath. Danny’s eyes shifted upward, the pupils so dilated that his green eyes looked black. But those eyes recognized him, Miller was sure. He rested a hand on Danny’s shoulder briefly. This was do-or-die time. He couldn’t hold Madrigal for long. Not with these odds. Any second now Madrigal was going to make a move; he couldn’t afford not to.
“Turn around,” Miller commanded. “Put your hands flat on the counter.”
Madrigal turned, but too quickly, one hand grasping the pliers, throwing them hard at Miller’s head. He ducked and the pliers winged past in a blast of air, landing with a thud in the corner. Miller only lost his concentration for a moment, but that was all Madrigal needed, his arm shifting behind his body to grab his gun. Miller straightened, taking aim as Madrigal’s gun centered on his own head. It was a race to see who was going to get off the first shot, but before either trigger could be pulled, Danny launched out of his chair, bursting forward with a ragged scream, throwing himself at Madrigal.
“Danny!” Miller yelled, pulling his gun up short as Danny dove into his line of fire, driving Madrigal backward. Time stopped moving as Madrigal and Danny wrestled for control of the gun, Madrigal’s two good hands against Danny’s one undamaged arm—brute strength against a decade of pent-up vengeance waiting for its moment. Miller couldn’t get a clear shot without risking Danny and he didn’t dare move away from Hinestroza. This was Danny’s fight now.
The seconds spun out into eternity, the bright bang of a gunshot slamming everything back into focus. Danny wrenched free, his momentum toppling him backward, pulling Madrigal down with him, and the gun spun wildly across the kitchen floor. Danny pushed himself across the floor with his heels and single working elbow, Madrigal tangled around his legs, trying to climb over Danny’s body to reach the gun.
Miller moved around the chair in an attempt to grab the gun, or at least kick it away, his own weapon still pointed at Hinestroza. He pulled his foot back to make contact as Danny threw his arm over his head, hand scrabbling on the floor, fingers finding and tightening on their goal. He brought the gun up between his bent knees and aimed at Madrigal’s head.
He didn’t give a warning the way Miller had. He didn’t hesitate.
He bared his bloody teeth and blew Madrigal’s brains out against the worn plaster walls—bullet meeting skull, proving that it was possible to kill Madrigal after all.
It took Miller a moment to move, for his professional instincts to take precedence over the shock. He crossed to Hinestroza and tied him to his chair, taking pleasure in wrenching the cord tighter than he needed to, watching Hinestroza’s mouth curl up in displeasure as the soiled cord left a thin red line against his snowy-white shirt front.
Danny shoved Madrigal’s body off his legs with frantic kicks. He backed away, scooting up to a sitting position against the wall, the gun hanging loosely from his fingers.
“Danny?” Miller said, squatting down in front of him, trying to catch Danny’s wildly rolling eyes. His face was such a field of blood that Miller couldn’t tell what damage he’d suffered. “Can you get up?” He held out his hand and Danny covered it with his own palm, a small sobbing noise escaping him as Miller pulled him upright.
“I’m going to call—” Miller looked at the wall where Danny had been leaning. It was splashed with bright red, streaking down to pool on the grimy baseboards. “Danny.” Miller’s voice didn’t sound like his own, high and panicky. “Is that your blood?”
Danny looked confused, glancing from the wall to his own body. “I… I think he shot me,” he managed finally.
“Oh, Jesus, Danny,” Miller moaned, wondering how he could have missed the blood on Danny’s shirt, his left shoulder soaked dark red, his T-shirt ragged and torn. “Oh, Christ.”
Danny let go of Miller’s hand, slumping back down onto the floor, sliding sideways, his head coming to rest against the worn linoleum.
Miller dialed 911 with shaking hands, his voice ragged and barely coherent as he spoke to the emergency operator. He let the phone fall when he was done, lowering himself down next to Danny. “Please, Danny,” he breathed. “Please hold on.” He hoped he hadn’t exhausted all of God’s good wishes earlier, hoped God hadn’t had enough of this sordid mess and turned His back on them with a disgusted sigh. Miller knelt on the floor and used his palms to stanch the bleeding. He tried not to think, tried to concentrate only on Danny’s warm skin, refusing to feel it growing colder, looking away from Danny’s life bubbling up between his fingers.
Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits Page 65
