The Death Box (Carson Ryder, Book 10)

by J. A. Kerley

  She had spun to a man sitting in her living room, legs crossed and a drink in his hand. He looked relaxed. There were boxes on the floor beside him. She recognized the voice.

  “It is a dream to live here, señor.”

  It was not a lie. There was running water, even agua caliente. An inside toilet. A bathing tub where water foamed in circles. Buttons that performed miracles: lights, cold air from the floor, fans spinning in the ceiling, flames from the stove … it was more than she had ever dreamed.

  “I’m sorry to have startled you. Are you about to prepare dinner?”

  “Yes, señor,” she said, swallowing hard. “I-I would be pleased if you would join me.”

  “I thought we’d go out to dinner. To get acquainted, and perhaps to talk a bit of business. I know several very nice restaurants.”

  “I am afraid I have not the clothes for such things, señor.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a few dresses. You’re a petite, right … about a size four?”

  Amili still owned the dresses, four lovely gowns. And the jewelry. And – for almost a year – a job in the enterprise. Her job required little beyond basic bookkeeping. There were many different accounts, each with its own income stream, a phrase beloved by her benefactor. Money flowed out for supplies and suppliers, profits poured in. The second half of the equation was by far the larger.

  Because of the nature of the enterprise, the funds needed close tracking. On the outflow side, one did not wish to pay a bribe twice, or get double-billed for necessities. On the inflow side, one had to be assured that money arrived in the correct amount and in a regular manner. If a payment was too low or late, Amili assessed a penalty charge. Or, in the case of Mr Chalk, the freak, itemize the various medical charges and add a handling fee plus the fees lost due to the downtime of the machinery.

  It was time consuming, but quite simple.

  Amili phoned for a taxi and watched through the window until it arrived. For eight months she had lived near the Burgos Medical Center in a three-floor Spanish-style apartment complex built in the forties and renovated in 2007, its walls solid and perfect for privacy.

  Walking to her door she drifted her fingertips across a wave of red bougainvillea cascading over the wrought-iron fence lining the sidewalk and breathed deep the elegant scent. This was the only apartment building in a neighborhood of colorful houses shaded by palms, homes without grates on the doors and windows. There were no gang signs on walls. People raised children here, good children who went to college.

  And using only her wiles and the gifts of nature, she, Amili Zelaya, had risen from pulling pitos in a filthy parlor to a fine apartment in a decent neighborhood.

  Amili entered her apartment, the shades drawn against the sun and the air cool and smelling of the sandalwood incense she’d burned this morning. She turned on a small lamp in the corner, its blue shade cut with celestial shapes. When all other lights were off, the lamp painted the ceiling with stars.

  She removed her clothes, a cobalt Kate Spade jacket and pencil skirt over a chiffon blouse, peach. Her hose were dark and ended in simple black flats. She put the blouse in the wash basket and carefully hung the jacket and skirt back in her closet.

  “Why do you dress like a banker and not to highlight your many charms?” Orzibel had once asked, the usual leer on his face.

  “One, because I am a business person,” she had replied coldly, thinking it obvious. “And two, because I do not wish my neighbors to think I am a whore.”

  Amili changed into a silk nightdress, pink, the kind she had dreamed of as a child. She returned to the living room, getting on her knees to retrieve the small brown pouch tucked into the springs of the couch, unzipping it and removing a syringe, a platinum spoon and a glassine bag of white powder.

  She reclined on the couch, tapping white powder into the spoon and adding a few drops of purified water. She held the mix above a butane lighter until the powder combined with the water. She loaded the syringe and put her foot on the coffee table, spreading her big toe from the adjoining digit. It was a poor injection site, but hidden from all eyes.

  Amili slid the needle into her flesh and watched a tiny balloon of blood pump into the glass tube. The sight of her blood made her gasp. She pushed the plunger down. An electrical charge gathered at the base of her spine, then began to climb her vertebrae. When the charge reached the base of her skull it dissolved into a high and warm musical chord that kicked her head back and filled her brain like a symphony.

  She reached behind her and turned off the lamp on the end table, leaving only the lamp in the corner. The room became roofed with stars. As the ceiling stretched into the night sky of her childhood, Amili stepped from within her body and flew through the cielo until sleep found her and tucked her safely beneath the dark horizon of the world.

  Orzibel paced his office as he dialed his phone, the heels of his boots muted in the purple shag carpeting. One wall was fully mirrored. The street-side wall was painted black and the windows hung with plush scarlet drapes. The ceiling and two walls rippled with burgundy velvet, hundreds of square meters of fabric. Orzibel had taken the idea from Elvis’s game room in Graceland. Instead of Elvis’s Tiffany-style shade, Orzibel had opted for a cut-glass chandelier stolen from a silent-film-era theater in the process of restoration: six feet in diameter with three levels of dangling crystals. Luckily, the ceilings were tall, so he could almost pass beneath it without ducking.

  He heard a pick-up on the other end and pressed the phone to his face.

  “Miguel?”

  “Ay … is that Orlando?” Miguel Tolandoro said, his voice at the edge of slurred. Mariachis played in the background and there was the sound of talk and laughter. “The connection is …”

  “Get outside where you can talk. Now.”

  “Momentito, mi amigo.”

  A scraping of a chair and the scuffing of a phone in a palm. The sounds grew distant. “I am in the street, Orlando.”

  “Do you never leave the cantinas, Miguel?”

  A wet laugh. “I am a shark on the prowl, Orlando. There are young ladies here and if I am successful, they may soon be there, no?”

  “I don’t want cantina whores, Miguel. I need—”

  “There is a church festival here, Orlando. The nearby villages have emptied into the streets and I have approached many sweet and simple girls who yearn for a better life. You will soon meet several of them, I expect. Why do you sound so angry, my friend?”

  Orzibel closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “My apologies, Miguel. The day has been difficult. Do you recall Leala Rosales?”

  “How can one forget such a perfect treat? So pretty and yet so smart.”

  “It’s the smart that troubles me.”

  “Why, Orlando? What has the girl done?”

  “She remains an independent spirit and has become a danger. I need you to make an example of her mother, and quickly. Then I will arrange a call where the mother can tell the girl what her foolish behavior has caused, and what will further happen if little daughter does not behave.”

  “Fingers, Orlando?”

  “An eye. Not pricked, removed.”

  “La mamacita is in a tiny village thirty kilometers distant. I will pay a visit tomorrow.”

  “Gracias, Miguel. It will save me much trouble.”

  “De nada, Orlando. It is a simple task.”

  22

  It was time to explore the basement. Leala let what she felt was an hour elapse. Judging by the increased volume from above it was late. The paper plate beside her bed held the day’s ration of cold frijoles refritos and uncooked tortillas de maiz. Needing strength for what lay ahead, Leala forced the tasteless food down her throat. The discoteca above me is very large, she thought. The basement will be very large as well. One could not gauge its size because, behind the heavy door of fence that prohibited escaping upstairs, the basement had been chopped into many tiny rooms. There was the central hall that was
two meters wide, but from it were many tight passages, like tiny dark alleys. Sometimes the alleys led to other alleys, sometimes they stopped at a wall.

  It was a laberinto.

  She headed deeper into the labyrinth, where there was no light. Light came from bulbs in the ceiling, you pulled a string and could see. Leala waved her hand in the dark, found the string and pulled. She saw a dead end filled with fast-food bags and beer cans. An expired rat decomposed on the floor.

  Leala inspected every passage that fell from the main hall, finding walls made of bricks, and walls of concreto. The latter would be the true walls of the foundation, the others added to make the little prisons. A passage from the basement to the outside, she reasoned, would go through a concrete wall.

  Leala returned to a section of the foundation wall. The alley between it and the brick wall was as black as the bottom of a well. She took a deep breath and entered the dark, hands feeling both walls as she stepped down a path barely wider than her shoulders.

  She was stepping ahead when her left hand fell into air, the wall no longer there. Leala touched ahead and to the right: walls. The path turned left. Leala followed it another several steps and nearly screamed when something touched her head. It went away, returned. She tentatively reached into the darkness.

  A string. She tugged it and a bulb high in the joists came on. Another door of the heavy steel mesh was ahead, but the lock was hanging loose. The door swung open to a lit room. Against one wall were boxes labeled Frijoles Refritos and holding large cans of the dismal refried beans she was fed twice a day. A bin beside the boxes was over-filled with empty cans, tortilla bags and water bottles, the refuse spilling across the floor. Leala imagined the mean-eyed men filling plates with beans and tortillas before taking them to the prisoners.

  The room smelled of fresh cigarette smoke. Someone had been here recently.

  On the other side of the room was an opening and Leala stared down a tunnel twenty meters in length. At the far end was a series of concrete steps rising four meters, with a small platform at the top. And on the platform …

  Yet another door.

  Leala’s feet moved lightly through the tunnel. The door atop the stairs would be at street level, she knew. She crept up the steps and tried the handle. The door opened to the huge, windowless room of a brick warehouse. To her left was a small room with an open door, a toilet and sink inside. Several large crates were on the far side of the room, the nearer floor was cement and open save for a big white van, the words on its side saying A-1 Window Treatments. Behind the van a tall door reached to the ceiling.

  Leala remembered the vehicle from the day she stepped onto America, when the others rode in the van but Orzibel flattered her into the big black car. She staunched anger at herself and stepped into the room. If there was a truck door, there must be a people door. She stepped forward.

  “Voy a abrir la puerta!”

  A voice froze her in the center of the floor. There, to her right, a man sat inside a little room with big glass windows. He was on the phone and if he turned but slightly, would see her. Leala stepped back behind the door with her beating heart so high in her throat she feared choking. The man in the windowed room had almost turned her way, but when the big door opened he had looked toward the portal.

  She watched a neon green pickup truck pull next to the van, its bed stacked with brown cartons. Two men exited and Leala recognized one of them as the gangster type who brought the plates of miserable food. The men began unloading the cartons onto a two-wheeled cart. The other returned to his little office.

  “Andale, Raoul … Hurry!” one man said. “Let’s make the delivery and get done. My pito has a hot date.”

  “Your pito has a date with your hand. Why can’t we take the food through the club? Why roll it all this way?”

  “The policía might see us pushing beans and tortillas into the club and wonder what they are for. It’s not a supper club. It is only a place for men to find women.”

  “Ha! Who would look that close?”

  “It is orders from the Amili one. Things have changed since her arrival. Muy cautious, that one.”

  “I’ll bet she loses that caution in a bed. I would like to get her to my—”

  “Be careful of what you wish. She must surely be the property of Mister Double O.”

  “El Diablo! I will push the cart and wish no more.”

  Leala retreated down the steps and compressed herself into the recess in the wall, praying the shadows kept her covered as the men wrestled the cart down the steps and rolled by. Fortune lay on Leala’s side, she thought. She had chosen to seek escape on a night when food was being delivered to the laberinto. Otherwise the back entrance would have been locked as tight as the front.

  When the men entered the maze beneath the discoteca Leala ran up the steps. The watchman was not in the windowed room and the door to el baño was closed. Leala took a chance the man was relieving himself and ran to the office. As she had hoped, there was a door to the outside. She quietly slipped into hot air that smelled of stale beer and the exhaust of cars.

  The night was painted in an electric rainbow, signs beating brightly from every direction. Leala looked for the discoteca, but the warehouse was between them and she was on a side street. On the corner was a building the color of a canary, PALM BREEZE MOTEL, its sign blared, HOURLY-DAILY-WEEKLY. Next to the motel lights proclaimed PAWN SHOP – OPEN ’TIL MIDNITE EVERY NITE. A bar was beside the pawnshop, no windows, just a sign saying PACKY’S HOT SPOT, BEER and LIQUOR. The street seemed paved with trash: newspapers, food wrappers, paper cups, beer cans, cigarette butts. The smell of urine and vomit rose like fog from the gutter.

  A traffic signal changed down the block and the street filled with cars and trucks, horns and engines. A rusted station wagon rattled to the curb, the drunken driver leering out the window. “Hey chicka, how much por felación?” He mimed pushing a head into his lap.

  “What?”

  “I got twenny bucks, chicka. I meet you in the motel lot, no?”

  Leala walked away as quickly as her legs would carry her, the drunk yelling at her back. The traffic was frightening and Leala turned past a closed bodega. Three men sat atop a car in its parking lot, drinking from bagged bottles. They hooted and whistled at Leala, but didn’t get up.

  She kept moving.

  Within minutes the clubs and motels and bars turned into tiny houses on palm-fronded lots, the doors and windows grated, vehicles parked haphazardly in the street and across the pavement. Streetlamps dusted the night with a gauzy white, the air steamy and thick. It was a poor neighborhood, Leala knew, but safer than the busy avenue.

  After another ten minutes the houses and lots grew larger and their portals were ungrated. The flowers and palms seemed healthier and better-attended, and even through her fear Leala smelled the sweet perfume of jacaranda and bougainvillea.

  She heard a roar at her back and saw headlights veer onto the street. Leala ducked into a yard, crouching behind a tall agave until the lights passed. Struck by a crisp and pungent scent, Leala crept toward a picket fence beside a dark house. Behind it was a blue hole centering the backyard with a long plank of wood projecting across water lit blue from beneath.

  La piscina. A pool for swimming.

  Leala had been smelling herself and her clothing. Shooting glances at the house, she slunk to the edge of the pool and splashed the clean-smelling water over her face. When the house remained dark she edged into the cool agua, dress and all, taking a deep breath and dipping her head beneath the surface, staying under as long as possible, coming up for air, then submerging again, hoping the bright-smelling water was cleaning the filth from her body and her soul and renewing her for the journey ahead.

  23

  My phone rang and my eyes popped open. I blinked to find focus and read a blurred clock: 10:14 a.m. My hand scrabbled for the phone but my rum-afflicted eyes couldn’t discern the name. “What?” I barked into the device, noticing I was still
in yesterday’s clothes.

  “Not a morning person, I take it?” Morningstar’s voice.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Not this morning, at least.”

  “At least you slept, Ryder. Some of us have been working all night. I just thought you’d like to hear that you were right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “We’re nearing the bottom of the column and found two seams, which I’ll interpret as two additional and disparate dumping events in the cistern. Makes sense, right?”

  “I, uh …”

  “It will, Ryder. Go back to sleep.”

  I fumbled to my feet to face the excesses of last night’s pityfest. Fuzzy recollections arrived as I showered: A diminishing bottle of Myers’s. Gershwin cajoling me to the deck as he attempted conversation. Me waving it off and taking a swim, stepping on a lobster and getting my toe pinched before splashing back to shore. When I found Gershwin had left, I’d headed inside and tried to Skype Jeremy while leaning back in the chair with feet on desk and somewhere in there the chair tipped over backward and that’s all I could remember.

  The kitchen floor was strewn with limes for some reason. I drank a mug of coffee and headed to my car, figuring to drive to the site and see what Morningstar was talking about. My belly fought the coffee and my spinning head felt like monks had used it for gong practice.

  I retreated inside, dressed in cutoffs and launched my kayak. The day was already hot and the humidity was in wet-sponge range and I was sweating like a roofer within a minute. I paddled to open water and pulled intervals – racing full-tilt boogie for a minute, arms and shoulders screaming, heart roaring in my ears – then dropping to a lower rhythm for a minute. The toxins started clearing and along with them, my head. I returned to shore a half-hour later and was feeling halfway decent by the time I arrived at the site.

  Morningstar’s busy night was evident in the diminution of the column, now the height of a footstool, a gray circle in the soil like a Yap Island money disk. She was on the upper level with the tables and equipment, a coterie of techs dusting and bagging and labeling. To my surprise, Gershwin sat to the side, watching the process. His eyebrows raised at my approach.