Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  He sat back. “There is that.”

  “I am on one of those terrorist watch lists, either the original data base check list or that selectee watch list. Whatever, they run you through all kind of computer checks and extra screenings. I don’t know how or when everything went to hell, but Don Diego…”

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  She shuttered and shook her head. “Not now, maybe later. Suffice it to say, he is a very powerful man in the exile Cuban community.”

  “Why did he want your father dead?”

  She shrugged, indicating she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Not to mention raping you. They were gonna kill you after, you know.”

  “Yes.” She wiped her mouth. “I am no longer hungry.”

  “All right, enough is enough anyway. Not my business. Orlando International is less than two hours from here. It is midnight now and I don’t want to get there when it is not crowded. I’d say nine in the morning would be about right. The more people, the less attention.”

  “Then what?”

  He avoided her eyes. “I go on my way. You go your own way. We part. We’re done. Finished. It’s been nice, but no cards at Christmas.” His voice was hard.

  “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “I’ll give you money. Go anywhere. Hide out. Call a friend. You gotta have some.”

  “I don’t know who is compromised.”

  “Don’t gimme that spy talk BS.”

  “Not spy talk. A manner of speaking.”

  “There’s a rest stop up the way, maybe thirty miles, I disremember. On the east side of Lakeland. We will crash there until the morning and then head for the airport.”

  “Whatever, Mr. Atkins. I am too tired to think right now.”

  An hour later they were parked in the farthest slot at the state rest stop. They washed up in the bathrooms and returned to the truck.

  “It is so strange, no mosquito clouds,” said Atkins.

  “Other kinds of clouds.”

  “Okay, Pocahontas, didn’t mean to cheer you up. You can try to sleep in the truck, I am going to walk around.”

  She climbed into the truck and watched him walk through the rest stop. Call it reconnoitering. It was like he was just walking to stretch his muscles after a long drive. Yet she saw him check out the few other cars that were here. A security car was parked at the other side of the parking lot. At the end of the sidewalk, Atkins twisted his large torso, touched his toes a couple of times and turned to come back. A weary traveler. A car drove in and parked in front of the restrooms. Atkins avoided their headlights.

  He slid into the driver’s side. “I don’t know if they like you parking and sleeping, but that rent-a-cop doesn’t seem to care. There are four others doing the same.”

  He slid the bench seat back and rested his head against the window. “Lock your door.” He sat up and fished out the new briefcase from the back. He pulled out a revolver and an envelope. He put the revolver on the seat beside him and folded an AAA Florida map over it. He opened the envelope and sorted around inside. He handed her two credit cards. Then he removed a large manila envelope and pulled out several stacks of bills. These he dropped in her lap.

  “Now you’re set.”

  There was several thousand dollars in cash. She read the credit cards. A MasterCard and a Visa, both in different female names. “These are?”

  “Credit cards, College Girl. You’re a woman; don’t you know what a credit card is?”

  “You know the question, gringo.”

  “They’re safe, never been used. Don’t charge more than a grand at a time and you should be all right. Discard ’em after a week or two, depending on use. I had them to sell if I ever needed to.”

  “I am guessing there are other credit cards in those envelopes?”

  “Sure, a whole bunch.”

  “Credit theft? Identity theft?”

  “Not exactly. Got a bunch of good ones from a guy I know in Miami. Never used. I got money, but I don’t have good ID. Maybe you’ve figured that out by now?”

  She nodded.

  “Anyway, I have these for emergency use only. Otherwise, I wouldn’t dare think of drawing attention to myself. Sometimes credit cards are required. A lot of cash draws attention. Like airline tickets.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “Don’t matter,” he said. “Just be careful. If it feels wrong, leave it and walk away.”

  Apparently this Tommy Atkins was professional at hiding his identity and his trail. He’d planned all this out long ago. What did that mean? She was beginning to get a picture of him.

  “Thank you, I think.”

  He settled back against the side door and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.

  María Elena leaned back and realized he’d effectively deflected her problem. He was still going to dump her at the airport. Why there?

  At nine in the morning, they pulled off 417 to 528 to the airport access.

  “And I thought the traffic in Miami was bad,” María Elena said.

  “Lesson: consider it protective coloration. The more cars, the less you stand out.”

  He drove right into the south parking garage and up to the middle one. At the machine, he got the time and date parking ticket and put it in his pocket. He found a slot and stuffed all of his gear from the bed of the pickup into the cab behind the seat and covered it all with a plastic tarp.

  “Let’s go.” He carried her suitcase rather than drag it on rollers.

  Reluctantly, she followed, noting the parking row and location where he had left the truck. What was Atkins up to? Why the airport? Where was he going? Just who in the hell was Tommy Atkins? With a chill, she remembered that he had killed five men without any emotional reaction. Not your basic man-on-the-street.

  More importantly, what in the world was she going to do? There was no one, not since Don Diego had gradually separated her from her group of friends. She still had Papá’s contacts, but who was compromised? And, if not, could she trust them anyway? Diego had the power and people knew it.

  As they got onto the elevator, she tugged her Kyle Busch hat down resolutely.

  The elevator took them down to a bottom floor where they followed directions and went up an escalator.

  “I’ll never understand life,” Atkins observed. “Sometimes you have to go down to go up.”

  He led her past the throngs surrounding the ticket counters. “This way.” He was following some of the signs above the concourse. In a central location, he stopped. The noise level was high. The ceiling several floors up. On one side an airport hotel. Concourses led off this central location. One fed into it marked ARRIVALS, DO NOT ENTER. Another led to a very large food court. Above them starting all around the central area, grew a Hyatt hotel, rooms circling the entire central area, accessible by glassed-in elevators. They stood under the giant flight information board. Atkins looked around and nodded to himself, yet he always kept his head down. “There.” He strode to a small side corridor. There sat a bank of sit-down telephones.

  “All right, Pocahontas, I know you got a plan by now.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Telephones. Must be one uses coins. If not, try one of those credit cards.” He sat her suitcase down and telescoped open the handle, twisted it around towards her and put it in her right hand. “Buy a ticket for someplace. Go to Vegas for a couple of weeks.”

  She felt stricken. What was she going to do?

  “Um, María Elena?”

  She looked up at him. What now?

  “If you could see your way to kind of forgetting you ever saw me? That thing would please me to no end. You really don’t want those complications.”

  “Don’t leave me, Tommy.” She was embarrassed her voice was plaintive.

  “No choice. I gotta catch a flight.”

  “Don’t leave me, Tommy.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. A passing couple glanced at her.

  “You’ll be fine, college girl
.” Gently, he took her shoulders and urged her toward the phones. He let go and patted her ass once. “Good luck, María Elena Alejandrina Ximena Vasquez-Guerrero de García.”

  She turned to speak and he was gone, already melting into the crowd. She felt an unaccountable sadness.

  She went to the end of the row of phones and sat down. What to do? The hell with him. She could handle herself. She’d passed the big three zero; she was no longer a kid. Deciding, she fumbled around in her new purse and came up with a cell phone she’d bought at the mall in Ft. Myers.

  Dialing the number from memory, she crossed her mental fingers.

  “Eduardo?”

  “Yes? María Elena, is it you?”

  “It is, Eduardo. I need help.”

  “What is happening, Alejandrina?” Eduardo was her father’s lawyer. And he was her Godfather. He always called María Elena by her Alejandrina name since she was named after Eduardo’s late wife.

  “I’m not sure—“

  “Where is your father? There are rumors.”

  “Eduardo, he is dead.”

  “Dear Lord.”

  “Executed. Don Diego put a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.”

  “Oh, Alejandrina. We’ve seen blood through the years, but now—“

  “I’m stuck at the airport in Orlando with nowhere to go.”

  “Where is your father?”

  “Don’t know that either. They took his body.”

  “I will tell you, rumors are flying here at the speed of light. Don Diego has some in with the authorities.”

  “He must pay for killing Papá.”

  “We need proof. He could be on one of his secret trips to the island.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking, Eduardo.”

  “I must tell you, the word is out if anyone hears from you, they are to pass the word to Don Diego.”

  “That means he doesn’t know where I am or if I’m still a player.”

  “Yes. What happened? How are you alive? You were with your father.”

  “I escaped. I will tell you about it later.”

  “Well, you need to keep out of sight until I can find out what is going on and make arrangements.”

  “Where can I go?”

  “I don’t know people outside of Miami. Not much anymore. My time is past. Go somewhere and hide for a few weeks and then call in sometime and maybe I’ll have some answers.” He hesitated. “But keep me informed where you are and how to reach you, okay?”

  Damn. María Elena was afraid of that.

  “I will tell you something else, my dear. I think the Task Force could be used against you. They have resources.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t use your credit cards. Likely they have a flag set up on them by now. They will hunt you down like a dog. They can call on local FBI anywhere or local police. You should really disappear. I can send you money?”

  “I have money.”

  “Then go and go fast for they might be monitoring my telephone.”

  He hung up abruptly.

  It was worse than she thought.

  She’d been working a thought while talking to him. No airline, no Vegas. Disregard what Atkins had said; she didn’t have sufficient ID to get on an airplane. Not to mention the terrorist watch list thing.

  She could, though, rent a car.

  No! She had no driver’s license. And if she did, it would be in her own name and that wouldn’t do, not now.

  Rent a car! By God, Tommy Atkins, I got you. He wasn’t about to fly either. Not with lists everywhere. When he got the parking ticket, he’d absently put it in his pocket. One reason: so they wouldn’t know when his truck had entered the parking garage. Thus no one would be able to guess when he’d left: whether by plane, taxi or rental car. The man was good. Where better to hide a vehicle for a long time? She admired his technique.

  Where did that leave her? Taxi? Okay. To where?

  She got up and walked swiftly. She followed the signs to the car rental area.

  There! Atkins’ large frame stood out as he talked to the agent. She stood alongside a pillar and watched. Finally, he was finished with the paperwork and headed out the door.

  María Elena smiled. With shotguns and duffels and briefcases, he had one choice: pick up his rental and drive to his truck for his belongings. She turned and went down the escalator to find the elevators to go up.

  She found the Ford pickup with no trouble. He wouldn’t be here for a while. He had to sign for his car and wend his way around and then back up here.

  She leaned against the truck and dialed her childhood friend.

  “Tillie?”

  “ME? Is that you?”

  “It is, hon. I need help.”

  “Do you ever. You’re hot, girl. Hot like radioactive. Like Day-Glo green. Like—“

  “I got it. I still need help.”

  “Whatever I can do, ME. You know that…”

  The word “but” hung unsaid. What could Tillie do? She was in Miami. María Elena couldn’t stay with her. Tillie would be suspected anyway, even without this contact. Tillie had a husband and three young children.

  “ME? A man came to the door this morning.”

  “Cubano?”

  “He asked politely if I knew where you were.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “He told me I had a nice home and three beautiful children and a fine husband.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah. I—”

  “Sorry I called you, hon. I won’t bother you again.”

  “Wait, ME, I want you to know I love you.”

  “Me, too, Tillie. Bye.” María Elena disconnected.

  Depression flooded over her. Damn. She castigated herself for not figuring that out sooner. She felt like walls were closing in on her. She had no idea of whom to trust, or what to do right now, for that matter. She realized she didn’t even know how to hide, not very well, not without resources, identification, and a lot of money.

  “Fuck it,” she said aloud. She dropped the Ford’s tailgate, tossed her suitcase into the bed, and hoisted herself up to sit and wait. She had no idea what to say to Tommy Atkins. He was her one best option.

  A short while later a gray Toyota SUV drove up slowly and stopped behind the pickup so that it didn’t block cruising cars looking for parking.

  María Elena put a grim look on her face.

  CHAPTER FIVE: HIM

  “I am not begging, Tommy Atkins,” she told him.

  “Not my problem.”

  She looked forlorn as he parked and got out.

  He opened the pickup and retrieved some of his gear. He took it to the rear door of the Toyota and tossed it inside and returned for the rest.

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  He could see that. “No driver’s license?”

  She nodded. “So I can’t get a car or a ticket to fly away.”

  “And doubtless you made a few calls.”

  She nodded again. “I am in deep trouble.”

  “Why am I not surprised? You been running with a bunch of vipers, college girl.”

  She shrugged self-consciously.

  “So you know, Pocahontas. Go on the web, and in a few Google clicks you can be in contact with a few websites in China. You email your picture and two hundred bucks and they’ll send you perfect fake ID. Like a driver’s license from any state you want, including a working bar code on the back which contains the info on the front. It’s almost the real thing.”

  He looked around and saw no one nearby, pulled the shotgun from the seat springs from behind. He held it close to his body and took it to the back seat of the SUV and put it under the floor mat behind the front passenger seat. He could lean back and grab it easily.

  She stood aside resolutely.

  A Lincoln edged around his car. Other cars were cruising up and down the parking aisles, echoing hollowly in the big structure, hunting empty spaces.

  “You got mone
y now, take a taxi or limo.”

  “I’ve nowhere to go. My friends have been threatened.”

  He didn’t need her. He needed zero complications. Nada. Nothing. He did feel a proprietary interest in her. For the first time in many, many years, he felt something strange. Damn it. For too many hidden years in outback Florida he’d had no complications. Now this. What was it about her? He couldn’t leave her. Maybe it was her body. Maybe it was her charm. Maybe it was her cinnamon animal scent. Maybe it was her intellect. Naah. This woman had character. Her father had just been shot to death and she was fighting hard against her attackers. She needed help and help only he could give her. There were not many people as qualified to help her as he was.

  He looked at her, from head to toe. She was dejected and devoid of hope. “You look like the genesis of a great Conway Twitty song.”

  In the end, he’d bought in when he’d interrupted the rape and consequent murder.

  He stopped in front of her and locked her eyes with his.

  “One thing, Pocahontas?”

  “Anything.”

  “You have to understand that being with me right now is perhaps more dangerous to you than a bunch of loco Cuban wanna-be soldiers.”

  “I trust you.”

  “You got a lot to learn, college girl.” He grabbed her bag and tossed it in with the others, closed up the pickup and slammed the tailgate back in place. “Let us go, my dear.”

  Her smile was almost worth it.

  They took the Florida Turnpike to the end at Wildwood, got on I-75 again, drove to the intersection of I-75 and I-10 near Lake City and headed west on I-10.

  “Tallahassee is a good place to stop,” he explained. “College town, lots of visitors, lots of Interstate customers for motels. We shouldn’t stand out.”

  Among the rolling hills north of Tallahassee, they found a roadside motel. He did not park right in front of the office; instead, he found a nose-in visitor-parking place.

  “If you don’t have to,” he said, “don’t go too first class. They pay too much attention to the customers. And they might remember you. Midsize is best.” He dug into his briefcase. “Here’s a couple grand, keep it. I want you to go inside and register us. Tell them you want to pay cash. This place looks family owned. They’ll keep the cash and not report the sale.” He laughed. “If they need, give ’em a credit card number for security, but tell them you’ll pay cash. Intimate you don’t want your husband looking at the Visa bill. Single room, two beds. Two rooms would draw attention.”