Red, White & Dead

by Laura Caldwell

  The building where he held Charles McNeil was perfect, owned as it was by a Mexican “company,” one that provided drugs and runners to Dez’s operation. Right now, the company was behind. Way behind. They had taken a lot of money from Dez, but then fallen back on providing what they’d promised. And now they were running scared. Rightly so.

  Disposing of the McNeils would not only be an eventual signal to the System that Dez was truly in charge in the U.S. and someone to be taken very seriously, it would also act as a clear signal to the Mexicans. To the authorities it would appear that Family McNeil had tried to save their wayward, drug-troubled brother but their attempt had gone wrong, and they’d all died. There would be no warning-not for the McNeils, not for the Mexicans. Not for any of them.

  58

  Christopher saw his life in two different ways. The beginning of his life-the life he had led with his mother, father and Elena on the East Coast-was in color. They were a typical family. Everything they did, from the summer vacations at Jones Beach to the winters they spent tucked in their little house, was typical. Although they didn’t necessarily think such normality made them happy at the time, in looking back, he could tell they were.

  Later, once his father died, Christopher McNeil’s world shifted from one of bright tones into…how should he put it? It wasn’t that his world went straight to black and white, because that would imply sharpness in some way. No, it was more of a sepia life, where all the edges were muddied and brown.

  And yet…And yet here was his daughter with her bright orange hair and her blazing green eyes against this white airplane seat. His whole life had suddenly caught up with him and shifted back into color.

  She changed seats with Maggie, and then asked that they move another row of seats ahead so they would have some privacy. He followed her request without saying a word.

  He watched now as she threw her shoulders back, glancing out the plane window as they climbed above the Italian night, then back at him. He watched as her face cleared.

  “Okay,” she said, and even that one word was commanding. “Let’s go back and establish some things, just so I can understand.”

  He nodded. For decades, no one ran the show except for him, and it felt oddly soothing to have someone establish authority like this. He felt a swell of pride, which he knew he had no right to feel.

  “Elena told me…” Izzy stopped, glanced over her shoulder at Elena two rows back. She and Maggie were in a quiet conversation, and Christopher was relieved to see that, for now, his sister appeared calm.

  “Elena told me,” Izzy said, her voice lower, “that this all really started when the Camorra came to your parents and told them they wanted to get you involved in the business.”

  He nodded. “They said I was perfect for the Camorra. I could infiltrate different groups and circles of society without anyone knowing who I really was. I had the McNeil name, a name no one would ever associate with Camorra, or even the Italians. They said they would let me go to college for a year or two and then I would come home and work for them, eventually heading up their U.S. operations.”

  “What about Elena? Did they want her to do the same?”

  He shook his head. “You have to remember that at that time, women were looked at differently than they are today. Women were essentially prized for their ability to have children and raise the family.”

  “And what did your parents do when they heard this?”

  He sighed. “My father told them no. They were in the living room, and I had been out with some friends. I remember I thought it was strange when I got home, because it was warm out, but all our windows were shut. I came in the house from the garage and I heard arguing. I stood there and listened. My father protested. He insisted that I would never be brought into the Camorra. He said he would never allow it. I remember hearing my mother weeping.” My father’s face contorted. “I’ll never forget the sound of her crying. It was like a cat mewing.”

  “Did they know you were there?”

  “No. I listened to the conversation, then I left. When I came back inside, I made lots of noise. I just wanted to forget what I’d heard. Plus, I was sure my father would win the argument. He was such a strong man. You always felt protected by him.” He dropped his head. “But two days later, he was dead.”

  “That must have been horrible.”

  “It was.”

  “So you decided you would get back at them another way.”

  “Yes. I already knew much about the Camorra from growing up. I knew about the different clans and that they were always warring, which meant they could be pitted against each other. I knew that although they continued to assert their presence in the U.S., many had melded with other American Mafia groups. They’d never really had success on their own. But after what happened to my family, I knew they were trying hard.”

  “What was your major in college?” The hard tone of her words had changed, softened, and his daughter had asked this last question as if she were speaking with a friend. The quietly personal nature of it broke his heart and yet made it soar.

  “Originally my major was going to be Business,” he said, “but I changed it to Psychology so I could officially go into profiling.”

  “When did you start working with the Feds?”

  “In college. I had my counselor contact someone at the FBI, saying I wanted to learn about job potentials there. I got a meeting with someone, and I told him I had no money, that my father was dead and my mother was struggling, but if they put me through college, I would work for them for the rest of my life, and I would help them find and put away members of the Camorra. At that time, the FBI didn’t allow its agents to work close to home or with any kind of culture they were familiar with. I’m not sure if it’s the same now, but it went back to the days of J. Edgar Hoover. They thought if you were close to the subject of the investigation then you could get personally involved, and that could cloud your judgment.”

  “But they let you get involved.”

  “Yes, the Camorra was what they called an ‘old dog’ within the bureau, a file that had been on the books for a long time and that no one had been able to crack.”

  “So you went undercover? That’s what Elena told me.”

  “Not right away. Despite what people think, not many FBI agents do undercover work. Instead they rely on informants.” He shrugged. “Eventually, I became both.”

  Izzy turned momentarily and looked out the window. There was nothing out there, just the black night, and yet, despite that blackness, just watching her, Christopher knew he was right. Because of her, he was back in color.

  59

  Victoria McNeil sat at the table in the bay window of her kitchen and looked outside at the flowers she had planted a few weeks ago. They were all blooming in red and white. Her patio furniture, heavy black iron with ivory cushions, was artfully arranged. She had envisioned that this summer she, Charlie, Izzy and Spence would spend a lot of time on that patio. But now Izzy was in Italy and, more importantly, Charlie was…Who knew where Charlie was?

  Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. Her little boy. The boy who skated in lazy circles through life, smiling all the while. The only time Victoria had really worried about Charlie was after he got in the accident with the construction truck. But even then, he had laughed it off. But where was Charlie now?

  Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. She couldn’t believe this. Why had he been kidnapped? She looked across the kitchen at Bunny Loveland, who was at the counter putting marshmallows into a bowl. She had announced that she was making Jell-O, that awful Jell-O with the marshmallows that no one liked, but Victoria appreciated the effort, appreciated Bunny’s cranky optimism.

  Her husband, Spence, was in the kitchen, pacing back and forth, the phone in his hand, while he jabbered at his friend George, who was the superintendent of police in Chicago. George had always been able to help them before, like when Izzy needed information last year. But now George was helpless, too. There were no leads in Charli
e’s case.

  Spence wore a light blue Oxford shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves up, past his elbows, as if ready to chip in with heavy physical work. Spence hated to be helpless. He was happiest when of service to his friends or family. She knew the situation was killing him.

  It was killing her, too. She could feel it. She was familiar with the signs of death within herself-the dying of her spirit, which she held on to tenuously anyway.

  God, Charlie. What was happening? She had never felt so useless in her life. She played with her cell phone in her hands, waiting to be inspired with calls to make, something to do. Surely something would happen soon, some direction, some action to take.

  Her phone lit up. She had a text message. Probably from Cassandra, her best friend. Victoria was not a huge fan of texting and only used the service with a few people like Cassandra and her kids. And Cassandra was the only one Victoria had told about Charlie. She had this idea-immature, she knew-that if she didn’t tell many people, it wouldn’t really be happening.

  Victoria looked at the phone and scrolled to the texts. There were two-or rather it looked like one message that was long and had been split into two by the phone company. And…Oh my God. The text messages were from Charlie! Alarm went through her body. She sat up straight.

  “Spence,” she said, but he was walking out of the kitchen, talking loudly, telling George that he would get Charlie’s social security number and other information right now. Bunny was muttering about not having bought enough marshmallows.

  Victoria looked back down at her phone.

  Charlie had written, Mom I’m okay. Don’t know how to tell u but got in trouble with drugs. These guys kidnapped me cuz I owe money. They say they’ll kill me if I don’t pay. But if the police get involved, they’ll kill me, too. Is there any way u could get $1200 and meet me tomorrow? Please don’t tell Spence or the cops.

  Victoria ’s back stiffened, reading the text message again. She felt a charge go through her, one of purpose. It was the opposite of the way she usually responded to a crisis. She fell apart so easily. She had always done that. She was never vocal with her emotions. And when she retreated, it was into herself. She disappeared piece by piece, alive on the outside, but dead inside.

  But now, instead of feeling herself recede, she felt as if she were stepping into her skin, coming into power. This was something she could do for her son. But then she shook her head. Could this really be true? Could Charlie really have a problem with drugs? Certainly, he was always drinking wine. And everyone said that people with drug problems usually started with alcohol, but she’d never seen any signs that Charlie had drug problems or even any drug usage. She thought then of Cassandra, whose own daughter had a battle with drugs, and when Cassandra found out about it, she’d had no previous idea. I never suspected for a second, Cassandra had said.

  Victoria squeezed her eyes, sick with the thought that Charlie was putting something horrible into his system. What kind of drugs? Where did he get them? Then she shook her head again. It didn’t matter.

  Spence came down into the kitchen, still on the phone with George. He was so involved with the conversation, so used to Victoria always waiting, never taking any action herself that he barely noticed her, just kept pacing through the kitchen, into their library and back.

  Victoria looked back at her phone, read the texts again and again and again, memorizing the words. Could this be a trick of some kind? But the words sounded like Charlie, and it would explain this bizarre occurrence.

  Once more she read Charlie’s words, and then a decision came to her. She was going to take action. She raised the phone and texted back one word. Yes.

  60

  I closed my window shade and thought about my conversation with the reporter, the one Mayburn and I had spoken to about the witness protection program.

  I turned back to my father. “Families can enter the witness protection program together.” I said it as a statement and it was intended as one. I wasn’t asking him a question of whether it was a possibility that we could have all entered the program together, but simply why he hadn’t exercised that possibility.

  My father gazed at me somberly. He nodded. “But that program is no place to grow up. I didn’t want you to have to move and start over, and change your identities, and your friends, and your schools, and I didn’t-”

  “Are you kidding me? That’s exactly what we did anyway. We moved to Chicago. We had to get all new friends. It was an entirely new identity. And we had to do it all without you.”

  Neither of us said anything. I could feel Maggie and Elena looking at us from a few rows back.

  “But you were well,” he said. “You didn’t live your life in fear. That’s what scared me the most. I didn’t want my children always looking over their shoulder. You and Charlie and your mom…you have always done well. You have excelled and without fear.”

  I pursed my mouth to stop words from flying out. I studied him, replaying in my mind what he’d said. “Why do you sound so certain about that? That we’ve always done well?”

  No answer.

  “Have you been watching us?” The volume rose again at the end of my question.

  “I have been keeping tabs on you, of course.” He didn’t look chagrined about it.

  “Wait a minute. Have you been following us our whole lives?” My mind scrolled back to different times in my youth, times when I felt my father watching over us. Had he really been watching us, somewhere in the stands of the bleachers at Charlie’s baseball games? Somewhere on the street as I walked to school with a house key on a pink shoelace tied around my neck?

  “No. I have been in Italy. Usually. But I came to the U.S. from time to time to ensure you were all right.”

  “And for work, of course.”

  My father dipped an ear toward his shoulder, his salt-and-pepper hair hanging down a little at that side. His green eyes peered through his copper glasses, looking at me as if he didn’t understand.

  “Of course you were coming to the U.S. for work,” I said, “because isn’t that what’s most important to you?”

  A look of agony seared across my father’s face, causing lines to cut into his forehead. “No, of course not. Work is not the most important thing. You were the most important thing. Victoria was the most important thing. Charlie. That’s why I left.” Now it was his voice that rose, his features slightly contorted in anger, irritation, and something else. I couldn’t yet read him, but I could tell that he was struggling with his emotions. Almost as if it was the first time in a long while that he was experiencing any emotion at all.

  His face quickly drained of all expression, though. He settled himself back into place, but as he did, something else dawned on me.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Were you one of the people following me last year after Sam disappeared?”

  He said nothing. But I could tell he knew what I was talking about.

  Just to make sure, I said, “You knew that I was engaged and that my fiancé disappeared, right?”

  My father opened his mouth, but I could see the answer. I was correct.

  “No way.” My voice was filled with disbelief. “So you were one of those people.” Now my voice was very loud and very angry. “I got followed last year, and I was scared shitless.” Oops. There went my no-swearing streak. “I never knew when I walked out the door who was around, whether someone was tailing me. It was terrible. I can’t believe it was you.”

  My father shook his head and held his hand up. “Isabel,” he said with determination. In fact, he sounded very much like a father who had heard enough, and was about to set the record straight. “Isabel,” he said again. “Of course I have watched over my little girl and my little boy and my wife.” He cleared his throat. “My former wife. But I was never intrusive. I never followed you in the way you are talking about. Of course, I heard about Sam disappearing and your client dying, and then a few months later I heard about your friend dying and you being suspected of h
er murder. So, of course, I was around more at those times. That’s why I was still around when I saw you meet with Dez Romano. But I never tailed you so you felt watched, never so you felt me there. I had to make sure you were okay. Certainly you can understand that. I had to ensure that you were protected. I just could not believe when I saw who you were hanging out with.”

  “Hanging out with? What does that mean?”

  “Michael DeSanto.”

  “I wasn’t hanging out with Michael DeSanto.”

  He held up his hand again. “I realize that. I figured out that you were doing undercover work with John Mayburn. What I couldn’t figure out was if it was some kind of trap. I knew that DeSanto was working with Dez Romano. I knew Romano was in the new version of the Camorra in the United States. The thing is, Romano and these U.S. guys in the System work differently. I had no idea what was going on. It took me a while to determine that it was just a coincidence-an entirely freakish coincidence-that you were involved with them.”

  I stopped and thought about it. “That must have been bizarre.”

  He shook his head. “You have no idea.”

  We both chuckled, but then I stopped short.

  “What?” he said.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen your smile in twenty-two years.”

  That made him lose his smile. Both of us fell silent for a moment.

  “I never intended to step out of the shadows, Izzy. But then that night when Romano and DeSanto were running after you…” He shook his head, as if trying to shake off a horrid memory. “I had to save you.”

  “Well…thank you.”

  He nodded.

  After a minute of uncomfortable quiet, we began talking again. And we talked for an hour. It was a quiet conversation filled with short questions designed to find the most minimal amount of information without prying too much. We were like new parents dancing around a baby, not wanting to wake it up, afraid of what might happen if we did.