Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  He reached behind the seat and rummaged around. He came out with a large square of printed cardboard. He showed her.

  STEP

  Save the endangered panther

  He took it over and affixed it to a lone Australian pine tree.

  He got in and they drove off.

  “Two plus two,” she said. “Your own decoy.”

  “Smart girl, Pocahontas. Them enviro-freaks are dangerous, no?”

  Eventually, they graduated to a gravel road. Which itself T-ed off on a country back road. Which eventually led to a more traveled thoroughfare. She took off her baseball cap and brushed her hair, finally parting it in the middle and gathering it in the back. She found a rubber band on his shifter and snapped it around her hair in the back.

  As they slowed to turn west, María Elena saw a couple of buildings with two airboats behind in a short canal leading into the swamp.

  “Get your head down,” Atkins told her.

  She ducked.

  “Indians,” he said. “They pay attention and we don’t want them to tell anyone they saw an attractive young lady driving out of here.” He waved at somebody. “They’ve seen the smoke and heard the explosion and they are curious. Jesus, it’s eating at them.” He laughed. “Soon as we’re out of sight here, they’ll be in one of those airboats heading out toward the smoke.” He shook his head. “Nice guys, those Seminoles. Got my mail and picked up stuff in town for me if I wanted. This particular family didn’t make it into the casino business.”

  The road was smoother and they accelerated. “Okay, you can get up now.”

  She sat upright.

  “These lands, nothing is out here. I do not blame the Indians for moving to Ft. Lauderdale. If I were with them, I would too.”

  “Some call them ’Glades Indians,’ and some of them don’t want anything to do with big cities and their like. When I was growing up everything south of Lake Okeechobee and between the east and west coasts of Florida, they used to call the Everglades. Now both coasts are steel, glass, and concrete and creeping toward each other. Now they got the Big Cypress National Preserve, the Fakahatchee Strand, with the Everglades tucked in and about and below these. Sometimes you don’t know where you are and you don’t care: it’s all the same scrub and swamp and sawgrass and palmetto plains.”

  They drove along for about twenty minutes.

  “I don’t really want to know, Pocahontas, but I can’t help but noticing your father is deceased illegally and you ain’t hollering for a cop.”

  “I don’t really want to know, amigo, but I can’t help but noticing you just destroyed every trace of your existence out here instead of hollering for a cop.”

  CHAPTER THREE: HIM

  He was watching her as he drove.

  “No,” she said. “No, I am not afraid of you.”

  He shrugged.

  “After what you did? What we’ve been through?” She touched his shoulder. “I am too exhausted to care anyway.”

  “Okay, then, Pocahontas, I want you to think of where you want me to drop you off. Next stop Naples.” He drove west toward the coast on the ragged coral road.

  She ignored him. “I suspect you have as much or more to fear from me.”

  “There you go.” He was wondering what to do with her. Would she call law enforcement on him? Somehow, he didn’t think so.

  She removed her hat and began brushing her long, black hair again. It was drying out and more manageable. There was an animal scent about her, strangely reminiscent of cinnamon.

  He pulled over and got the M-16 from behind the seat. He walked to the edge of a canal and tossed the weapon as far as he could.

  In the truck he hid the shotgun in the seat springs under the driver’s seat. He could get to it quickly if necessary.

  “Awkward to have a recently fired weapon like that if a cop pulls you over.”

  He could see only a waft of smoke back from whence they came.

  He turned onto State Road 29 and eventually they connected with the Tamiami Trail and headed for Naples on the southwest coast.

  They soon were in town.

  “Gimme your hat a minute.” He held out his hand and she carefully pulled it off her head, and then patted her hair down to insure it was still in place. He took it and grinned at her vanity. “Sunglasses in the glove compartment.”

  He put the hat on low over his eyes and she retrieved a scratched pair of sunglasses and put them on.

  He went into a drive-through line at a bank and stopped at the ATM. She looked away as to not show even a profile to the mandatory camera’s eye.

  “Just being careful,” he said. “You can never tell.”

  They repeated the process several more times.

  “I know I shouldn’t ask?”

  “No problem, Pocahontas. I got a grand or two in several accounts. Raise no suspicions. And I didn’t empty the account. It sits there if I ever need it again.”

  After the last bank, he said, “All right, María Elena. Where you want me to drop you off?”

  She didn’t answer and he drove through a McDonald’s for drinks.

  “Don’t hurry with your answer,” he prodded as they returned to the road.

  She still didn’t answer. He could see confusion on her face. It didn’t matter. His own survival was at stake. He’d done his best for her. Never fucking mind the connection that had grown between them. Even as he recognized that, he dismissed it. He neither needed nor wanted complications, and he’d already helped her more than she could reasonably expect.

  He headed out Pine Ridge Road for the Interstate.

  “Well, Pocahontas?”

  “I on’t know.” Her voice was quiet and meek.

  “Goddamnit.” He saw which lane he needed to get on I-75 north and soon they were riding in the right lane going the speed limit.

  He gave her hat back and she flashed him a weak smile. “I am raggedy in these clothes,” she said.

  “Bullshit, Pocahontas. You look good in anything and you damn well know it. Listen, next stop Ft. Myers in less than an hour. You figure it out by then.”

  Once in Ft. Myers, he exited on Daniels Road and cut over on Tamiami Trail once again until he found College Parkway. He saw a big mall and pulled in the parking lot.

  He parked far out for privacy. The sun was going down.

  “All right, girl. What now?”

  “I on’t know.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I do not know what to do.”

  “Friends?” he asked. “Family? Johnny Law?”

  “Papá was my family. He is gone.”

  “Friends?”

  “I do not know whom to trust.”

  “Cops? I couldn’t help but notice a murder and attempted rape and attempted murder.”

  She shrugged. “No proof now. And Don Diego has friends, official friends, everywhere.”

  “Come up with something PDQ.”

  “I think the best thing for me is to remain hidden for now. Until I can determine what to do. And it would confuse Don Diego.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Please? Do not blaspheme?”

  “Ever since I met you, Pocahontas, I been doing that. And I ain’t done yet.”

  She slumped in the seat and tried but failed to pout.

  “Don’t matter anyway,” he said with finality. “Go underground, hide, find a cop, I don’t care. Just do it and do it without me.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Where would I go? What would I do?”

  Atkins leaned back and closed his eyes. “Why me, Lord?”

  She shifted uncomfortably.

  “Okay, girl. Here’s Plan B.” He fumbled in his pocket and came up with a wad of bills. “Here. Maybe a grand. Go into that mall before they close. Get some clothes, okay?”

  “You’ll wait for me?”

  “No, I gotta make a final big withdrawal. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “You won’t. No,
you will leave me.”

  It was his plan, lame as it was. He was almost ashamed.

  “Nah, I can’t leave you, Pocahontas. I got a proprietary interest in you.”

  She brightened. “Promise?”

  “Sure.”

  She looked at him with a piercing glare.

  “Lookit, girl. I done killed at least five men today. So promises don’t mean much to me right now. But I will come back for you.”

  She snatched the money out of his hand and jumped out of the truck. She slammed the door and looked at him pleadingly. She knew that he could dump her anytime and if he was going to, this was as good a place as any.

  As she turned away, he called out, “Get some ibuprofen for your shoulder, too.”

  Her face lighted up as if he’d somehow confirmed to her satisfaction that he would in fact return for her. She headed across the parking lot to the mall.

  He drove off and headed for the self-storage facility. He was angry with himself. No way he could encumber himself with her. Too much baggage. He regretted lying to her, but that’s life. He’d done more for her than she could possibly expect. Actually, what he should have done was put her down. Now he was exposed. Too many years alone and hidden: not any longer. But there was something about her. He acknowledged to himself that most women would have been a ton of trouble: but she’d pulled herself together after her father’s death and then made a quick choice to deal with him and not the paramilitary types. She’d performed just right when the chopper appeared, becoming the bait, the distraction to give him a better opportunity. Naah. Shame to waste a woman with those characteristics.

  He spat out the window, for there was a bad taste in his mouth. She shouldn’t be so trusting. Yes, let this be a “teachable moment” to her.

  He found the self-storage and drove to his unit.

  Parking in front of it to block any view of the door, he dialed the combination and removed the lock. After insuring no one was watching, he lifted the aluminum door, went inside, and lowered the door. He turned on the light, a simple protected bulb in the back.

  The unit was almost empty. But on the bare concrete floor sat a trunk, two suitcases, and a brief case. He pulled the brief case out and opened it. Inside were dozens of business size envelopes. He sat it aside and opened the trunk. He picked up four large manila envelopes. He glanced inside and saw each was still stuffed with cash. He dropped these into the briefcase.

  Next he removed a covering plastic wrap and there rested several handguns and another sawed off shotgun. Alongside these were boxes of ammunition. He got a gun cleaning kit out and oiled and disassembled and reassembled a .380 revolver. This he put into the briefcase with the money. He added a box of shells for it and a box of shotgun shells. The briefcase was over full, but he rearranged it and it fit better.

  The suitcases contained clothes and he had enough from the cabin. And he did not want to be carrying around too much.

  Back in his truck, he found Anderson and followed it to I-75. He took the on ramp north and settled down at sixty for in town driving. Soon he crossed the Caloosahatchee River. Dark was falling quickly, speeding from east to west. He turned on his headlights.

  He tried to keep his mind off María Elena. She was a bright woman. She’d find her way. He certainly needed no complications. He had to disappear once again and find and begin a new life. He resented María Elena for causing the upheaval of his life. Intellectually, he knew it was not her fault, but still.…

  Ten minutes later he slowed. “Goddamn it!”

  He took the exit, made the butterfly, and returned to I-75 heading south.

  Forty-five minutes later he cruised into the empty mall parking lot. The place had shut down. “Shit.”

  He drove over toward the main entranceway shaking his head. Atkins hoped she would make good decisions.

  He drove to the end of the parking aisle to find an exit and his headlights swept over the walkway and a forlorn figure sitting hunched over on the curb. Her silhouette was strange since her posture was usually straight as a ruler.

  María Elena’s face lighted up like a Christmas tree. Behind her was a suitcase on wheels and a department store plastic bag. She was wearing new slacks, a blouse, and loafers. And a new baseball cap, this one a NASCAR, #18. Kyle Busch, he knew, from Las Vegas. Natural driver with an edge. Already a star and bigger things ahead.

  She jumped to her feet and lifted the suitcase into the bed of the pickup and climbed into the cab, stuffing the bag behind her seat. She beamed at him. “I knew you’d come.”

  He smelled a phantom cinnamon odor.

  “Yeah, right,” he grumbled. “I got hung up.” It sounded lame even to him.

  “Does not matter, you are here. I trusted you. See?”

  “No. Hell, I was dumping your ass, Pocahontas. I don’t need you. For that matter, you don’t need me. You ain’t seen trouble yet until you been with me.”

  “I don’t believe you. God sent you to me.”

  He shook his head angrily. Anger at himself more than her. “Don’t count on me as a guardian angel. I am no angel.” He laughed out loud. “I’ve never seen myself as the weapon of God.”

  She shrugged happily. “Where to, amigo?”

  “Three to four hours. International airport, Orlando.”

  She leaned back, her sense of relief obvious. “Wherever.”

  CHAPTER FOUR: HER

  Two hours later she woke, fuzzy, suddenly unsure of where she was.

  Then memory flooded over her. Her heart sank. Papá was dead. Diego had finally shown his true colors, a condition that had been building for years now.

  Through barely open eyes, she glanced at Tommy Atkins. His face was stone, concentrating on driving. Suddenly, his right eye swiveled and found her watching him.

  “Hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

  She sat up. “Where are we?”

  They were exiting I-75.

  “Tampa, outskirts thereof. Now we’re getting on I-4 for Orlando.”

  “Orlando International Airport?”

  He nodded, looked over his left shoulder, and merged onto I-4 eastbound. This time of night traffic was light and I-4 east at this point eight and then six lanes wide.

  “Where are you going to fly to?”

  He shook his head. “My business.”

  “Sorry,” she said. Then she grinned. “They don’t allow shotguns on airplanes these days.”

  “Oh, well.”

  She knew full well he had a knife in his boot and likely a handgun or two in his duffels—not to mention, her curiosity peaked when she’d looked around earlier and saw a new briefcase, a large one. She held her tongue. All those weapons? Not likely he was going to get on an airline flight.

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “I haven’t eaten today.”

  “You should have grabbed something at the mall food court.”

  She glared at him. “I was in a hurry. I did not want you to have to wait on me.”

  A moment, then he said, “Oh.”

  A few minutes later he took the Thonotosassa exit, crossed over the Interstate and found a truck stop. Inside there was an Arby’s and a Popeye’s.

  They had fried chicken, French fries and large colas.

  Sitting at the table, she watched him devour four pieces of chicken.

  “Eat, Pocahontas. You need some meat on those bones.” He nodded. “And the energy.”

  “Yes, dear,” she mimicked and smiled. “How domestic.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, Miss six names.”

  “Seven if you count the hyphen.”

  “Jeez. You a English major?”

  “No. Political science, international affairs.”

  “I knew it. A goddamn college girl.”

  She shrugged, self-conscious. “That was many years ago, back when I was young.”

  “College Girl, you are young.”

  “Too many years ago, I graduated.”

  “Sorry I missed the ceremony. What college?�
��

  “Hillsdale.”

  “In Michigan?”

  “Yes. Papá liked the place for its politics, very straight-laced, don’t you know. Moral codes, written and unwritten. He thought I’d be sheltered up there.”

  “Were you?”

  “Pretty much, Tommy. Surprisingly, I learned a bunch.”

  “Great for you.”

  “And Hillsdale is very patriotic, a trait we Cuban-Americans hold dear.”

  “If you say so.”

  She began to eat with gusto, her stomach finally making her bend to its will. After a minute, she looked up at him. “A lot of politics. Cuban people are like that. So are we expats.”

  “You’re American. If you were born in Miami, you are an American citizen.”

  She nodded. “I am. But my heritage, it is Cuban. My father, my mother. They were Cuban.”

  “Were?”

  He knew about her father. She sighed. “My father ran an anti-revolutionary group, dedicated to the downfall of Fidel and Raul, and after them, their communist legacy. It is called January 13. Or, 13 de enero.”

  “Usually those kinds of dates have significant meaning,” he said.

  Her eyes were sad. “They do. On one January thirteen, some twenty-five years ago, they lined up my mother and her brothers and other anti-revolutionaries against a wall in Canaleta prison, in Ciego de Ávilia. They shot them all down, cruelly, one by one. No one knows what they, what my mother, went through before they killed her against that foul wall.”

  “Jeez. A lot for a kid to handle.”

  “My father and I were in Miami. They always kept me there, out of harm’s way, and they went to the island and organized the underground. I was five and did not understand why I would never see my mother again.”

  Atkins had stopped eating, eyes softening for a moment. “Yeah. Dead parents, that ain’t good for a kid.” His voice was reflective.

  She didn’t follow-up on the opening.

  He drank from his large fountain cup. “You’re saying the politics are keeping you from heading back home? You live in Miami?”

  “I do. We did. I dunno any longer.”

  “This is America, College Girl. You can do whatever you want whenever you want.”

  “You go tell that to my father.”