Field of Fire

by James O. Born

  Chuck wrapped his hand around the door handle and shook the door lightly. “I think we could force this open pretty easy.”

  Duarte stopped pushing the glass and stepped in front of the door and placed both hands on the knob, prepared to give it a tremendous shove.

  Alberto Salez was a little stiff as a result of sleeping outside on the grass. It was still safer than being seen. It reminded him of sleeping in the grass with his family when he was a kid. He’d been six when they crossed into Texas and his mama, papa, two older sisters and him had slept on a giant tarp one night on the Mexican side then the next night on the Texan side of the border. It was an adventure then; now it was a big pain in the ass. Or, more accurately, a pain in the back. Although he considered himself in pretty good shape for a man of forty, he had gotten used to beds. Not necessarily comfortable beds, but something between him and the ground.

  He missed his family. After his father had been killed in a construction accident, he had lost his hero. It was tough for a ten-year-old to lose his father. Especially with nothing but women around the house. They had all lived in a two-room apartment near Laredo, and by the time Salez was thirteen he had learned to cross the border easily and found that he could make money doing it for the right reason. Sometimes he made more money than his mama brought in by cleaning houses in the border town. He never told her but he always had cash stashed away. By the time he was fifteen, he had had to bash a man’s head in with a rock to keep him from taking the cash. That was an important lesson to young Alberto Salez. Not only had killing the man saved his precious five hundred bucks; he had found over a thousand more on the man’s body. He had shoved the small man’s corpse into a gully on the Mexican side of the border, and never heard another word about the incident. He didn’t know if anyone had found the body or if anyone had cared. For all Salez knew, the skeleton was still bleaching under the blazing Mexican sun. But the early lesson was simple: killing solved problems. Over the years, he had found that rule to be one hundred percent accurate.

  Now he stood off near the corner pump of the giant gas station off State Road 7 near several of the few remaining farms in eastern Palm Beach County. He straightened his clothes that he had slept in. The guy at the big market who had traded clothes with him had been a size too small so when the sun set, before everyone headed back to the pickup trucks that brought in the extra day laborers, Salez had secured some more comfortable but not as clean clothes. A bloodstain on the back of the shirt near the collar was the only hint as to how he had come by the simple but comfortable clothes. The field where he had left the inattentive and relatively large Guatemalan man had already been cleared, so no one would find the body for a week or two when they started to plow and plant the strawberries. He had fit nicely between two of the mounds and no one seemed to have noticed. If the man had any friends, they would probably assume he had gotten a ride in another truck.

  Salez didn’t care. The cops wouldn’t look into a bludgeoned farmworker, just like they wouldn’t look into his death if the wrong person found him before he could do something about it.

  Now Salez tried hard not to look like a standard laborer. He needed a ride north. If he was lucky, a trucker might even take him a few states north. If he could get close to Virginia in the next day, he might be able to meet up with his friend before anything happened.

  All he had now were the clothes and a long, thin fillet knife he had found behind the Dumpster of this place where it looked like someone scaled fish on a regular basis.

  It was near midday, and he decided that if he could manage to steal a car he’d stop at his apartment first and clean up and pack a bag. It’d be a risk, but he had some cash hidden in the small bathroom and wouldn’t mind his own clothes.

  He thought about going out to the camp and retrieving the envelope he’d left hidden in Maria Tannza’s trailer. Then, after reflecting on it, he decided that it was safer there and that he could always get it later. If he was still alive. Besides, someone at the camp might recognize him. Or worse—might blame him for Maria’s son’s death. That was too bad. He’d liked the kid. He never would’ve hurt him. Unless he had to. Finally he decided his own apartment was the best choice.

  A Honda Element, driven by an attractive woman with long brown hair the same color as the car, pulled up next to the far outside pump. She looked like a thirtysomething Realtor and paid for the gas at the pump with her credit card. Salez wandered closer, since there were no other cars on this side of the store at the moment and the attendants inside didn’t have a clear view. He might see a chance here.

  He cleared his throat and said “Need a hand?” as he walked up to the boxy vehicle’s front bumper.

  The woman’s head snapped up.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” He made an effort to hide even the light accent he had. He didn’t want her to assume he was just a farmworker.

  She smiled and continued pumping gas. “Think I’ve got it.”

  “Where you headed?”

  She looked up, assessing him. She was no idiot. He realized immediately he wasn’t going to do this the easy way.

  The woman said. “My husband is inside using the restroom.”

  Salez nodded. He knew she was full of shit. He had seen her drive up. Resting his hand on his hip where the handle of the fillet knife stuck up above his waistline, he stepped closer. “Hope he likes the restrooms. I just cleaned them.”

  The woman smiled again. “Oh, you work here.”

  “Yeah, my brother runs the check-cashing store and I handle the maintenance.” He edged closer. “The pump should be working well now.”

  She looked at the dial and said, “Seems fine.”

  Salez stooped down and picked up a discarded paper towel and tossed it in the large garbage can. He looked at the pump too and nodded. Then he stepped right past the woman to the rear of the car. “Let me know if you need anything or if your husband is unhappy with anything inside.”

  She smiled and nodded, as the pump clicked off, and she re-hung the nozzle.

  He walked around the other side of the Honda and acted like he was cleaning up garbage. Then he said “Uh-oh” as he stooped and looked at her front tire.

  “What is it?” She hurried around the rear of the car, no longer wary of him.

  Still on his haunches, he said, “Something’s hanging down from under the car.”

  “Where?” She squatted next to him.

  Now they were both out of view if someone from inside looked out. He leaned his head toward the cement and said, “Just under the door.”

  She leaned her head down trying to see the imaginary debris. “Where?” she asked.

  He had the knife in his hand and came down in a violent arc before she even expected an answer. The thin, pointed blade entered just behind her ear and traveled up into her unprotected brain in a fraction of a second. She collapsed like someone had turned off the electricity to a light. In a way, that’s what he had done. Her jaw was already slack by the time her head traveled the five inches to the ground. There was almost no blood.

  He casually opened the passenger door and hefted the deadweight into the seat. Her head lolled to one side, then the other, as he fastened the seat belt around her to hold her in place. Then he just walked around the car and hopped in the driver’s seat. In a minute, he was northbound on State Road 7, and would be at his apartment shortly. He wondered about where to drop off the sleepyhead next to him and decided the farther north the better.

  He made a quick check of the glove compartment and saw on the vehicle’s registration that the owner was Cheryl Kravitz of Palm Beach. He looked over at the corpse. “What’s a nice girl like you doing off the island?” He chuckled and cranked up the CD of the Beach Boys, California Girls, and started to sing out loud. He knew his passenger wouldn’t mind, and it was one of the few songs he knew all the words to. He disagreed with the idea that California cornered the market on pretty women. He thought Florida was better in that depa
rtment. Texas wasn’t bad either. But this girl next to him right now was perfect. Pretty, and definitely the quiet type. At least she was now.

  In front of Salez’s apartment, Duarte checked for any witnesses. He and his partner, Chuck, crowded in front of the door, gathering their weight to push it open, when he and Chuck heard a voice behind them that made Duarte release the handle and spin quickly. A tall man with short, dark hair and a dark complexion asked, “May I help you?”

  Duarte stepped away from the door and automatically reached for his identification and badge. Chuck stood surveying the man.

  Duarte said, “Do you live here?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Duarte held up his credential case and said, “ATF. We’re looking for a man we think lives here.”

  The man smiled, stepped forward and said, “I’m Ed Norton, the building manager. Who’re you looking for?”

  “Alberto Salez.”

  The man smiled. “I thought so.”

  “Why did you think so?”

  “He was the only resident who’s under sixty-five.”

  Duarte nodded. “He did live here?”

  “Right there.” The man pointed at the door he was about to push off the hinges. The manager crossed between Duarte and Chuck, standing between them and the door. He smiled, and casually grabbed the lowest window slat, then forced the whole set shut. Turning to face Duarte, he said, “Mr. Salez moved a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Someone live there now?”

  The manager nodded and said, “Yeah, since last week.”

  Duarte stepped away from the door toward the stairs. There was something familiar about the manager but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Did he leave any kind of forwarding address?”

  “Is he in a lot of trouble?”

  Duarte shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  The man smiled and shook his head. “No, he left owing me a couple of months’ rent.”

  Duarte nodded. That always seemed to happen with fugitives. He thanked the manager, and went back in the car with Chuck with no clear idea of where to look for the next hour or two before he had to fly to Virginia.

  10

  MIKE GARRETTI WAITED UNTIL THE ATF AGENTS HAD cleared out, believing his story completely, and then started removing window slats again. He chuckled at the thought that the two ATF agents didn’t even recognize the name Ed Norton. They were probably too young for the Honeymooners. Really, he was too, but he remembered watching it with his dad in reruns. His old man, drunk enough to think Jackie Gleason was the funniest guy who ever lived. Those two ATF agents would have gone “to the moon,” if he hadn’t stopped them from forcing that door. He now realized that planting the bomb here was a stupid idea. Either he’d wait the rest of the day for Salez or he’d just move on to another plan. He was inside and had the C-4 packed up in a few minutes. It took a little longer to resecure the window jalousies. He wondered about the other residents of the apartment complex. This was the third time he’d been in front of the apartment and he had yet to see anyone. He risked one more visit to his Toyota to stash the explosive in the trunk with the rest of his C-4.

  He opened the windows on the other side of the main room and then cranked open the front jalousies too. He didn’t care if Salez might notice—it was hot and stuffy in the apartment, and he needed some fresh air.

  He paced for a minute, then checked his pistol and placed it on the small end table near the couch. He sprawled out on the seventies-style couch, with its pattern of red, purple and blue stripes. Immediately his eyes closed lightly. He hadn’t realized how tired he was.

  Salez turned off Parker Avenue and drove past the apartment once. Nothing seemed out of place on the quiet block. Most of the residents of his apartment on the corner of the street were elderly. He occasionally saw one old lady at the mailbox. She’d always smile and say something pleasant. Finally, after he barked like a dog, she got the hint that he didn’t want to have anything to do with her or any of the other old farts in the dilapidated old building. He turned the Honda Element around, making his passenger slide under her seat belt, her long hair falling across her pretty face. He parked across the street and a building down. The only car close by was a Toyota in front of the building next to his.

  He looked at the dead woman and said, “Don’t worry, Cheryl, I’ll only be a few minutes, honey.” He popped out of the Honda and crossed the street quickly, then moved up the stairs, checking his neighbors’ doors to ensure no one was snooping.

  As he padded toward his door, he noticed the jalousies on his front window open and paused. He never opened those windows; it let in the noise from the street and the Publix parking lot. He considered the implications of the open window and slowly started to back down the stairs. After what happened to his classic Mustang, and knowing who was probably after him, he didn’t want to risk opening his door. He’d make do with the cash he’d found on his passenger and stop off I-95 for a shower and change of clothes.

  In front of his apartment, he looked back up at his door. He surveyed the street and wondered if the Honda with a dead lady might attract too much heat. He knew he could hot-wire a damn Toyota, and it looked like it was in pretty good shape. He walked past it and glanced in the window. There was a map and some papers on the passenger’s seat. He tried the door. Unbelievable—it was unlocked. If he took the car, he’d still have to leave the Honda somewhere else so it couldn’t be traced back to him.

  He went to the Honda and opened the door. He looked at the body slumped to the side. “Lady, you have any pliers or a screwdriver?” He crawled in and looked in the console. He reached past her and opened the glove compartment. Bingo. A Leatherman Surge, with every conceivable tool packed into one easy-grip, folding pliers. He left the door open, with the keys in the ignition, as he walked the few feet back to the Toyota. If he could get it started, maybe he’d take it anyway, and come back for the Honda in a few minutes. He just wanted to be away from the apartment.

  As he weighed the benefits of walking back from dumping the Honda, the passenger’s window next to him in the Toyota splintered and showed a spiderweb of cracks.

  He didn’t even realize what had happened until he saw fucking Mike Garretti with the black handgun pointed toward him. Then he ducked when he heard the muffled puff of the silenced pistol.

  “Motherfucker.” he said, yanking the Toyota’s door open and springing inside. Before his body had come to a stop, he had the Leatherman pliers open and across the steering column. It wasn’t as pretty as most of his work, but he twisted the pliers and felt the small car’s engine rattle to life. He didn’t dare stick his head up; he just stomped on the gas and felt a thump but didn’t look. At the corner, he dared a quick peek to his left, then hit the gas and spun south onto Parker Avenue. After a few blocks, he sat up, and then noticed the blood on his left arm. It took him a panicked moment to find the source. A bullet had passed completely through the top of his left ear.

  “Shit,” he said out loud. What was it with his ears?

  Mike Garretti had stirred from his brief nap and felt like something was wrong. He heard footsteps and sprang up to peek out the window to see Salez as he bopped down the stairs. He watched as he entered a Honda but didn’t close the door.

  Garretti grabbed his Ruger .22, with the silencer built into the bull barrel, and hustled out the door and down the stairs.

  He stopped when he saw Salez was out of the funny-looking Honda and at his Toyota. He didn’t hesitate to raise the pistol and fire, but he had overestimated his ability with the small handgun. His real experience with firearms was mainly limited to an M-16. The shot was way off, and it gave Salez time to react and dive into the Toyota. Salez yelled his name, then was out of sight. He fired twice more and paused, thinking he had hit his target, but then, to his shock, the Toyota came to life, and he had to dive out of the way as it lurched down the street. As it was, it still hit him a glancing blow and spun him onto the pavement.

  He
stood and fired once more as the car turned the corner. He looked around and noticed the Honda with the open door. He limped toward it, the pain in his leg much worse than he thought it should be, and jumped into the waiting vehicle.

  Inside, he froze when he realized there was a passenger. He looked at the motionless woman, then nudged her with the barrel of the pistol. No reaction. He set the pistol in his lap and checked the woman’s pulse in her neck.

  “Bastard,” he said out loud. That son of a bitch was a menace.

  He slammed the door and hit the gas, following the course Salez had taken. He punched the accelerator and was surprised at the speed of the little sport-utility. He looked over at the dead woman and wondered how Salez had killed her. Up ahead, in the slowing traffic, he caught a glimpse of his Toyota shifting lanes. The Honda had more guts, and maybe that asshole didn’t know he was being followed. He swerved around a slow Buick and then back into the lane. Salez was stuck behind a van and a school bus next to it.

  He hated the idea of shooting near a school bus with kids. He backed off, hoping Salez hadn’t noticed him.

  The bus turned, and Salez cut into the lane, although now he wasn’t driving as fast.

  Garretti, in the Honda, followed Salez as he turned west on a road named Forest Hill, then northbound on I-95. Maybe this could work out. The right shot on the interstate and all his problems could be over. If he could cause a crash, he’d act like he was trying to help, and make sure he recovered all the C-4 he had stashed in the trunk.

  He followed the Toyota for a mile, from five or six cars back. He occasionally got a glimpse of Salez moving his hands like he was scratching the side of his head.

  Near the airport exit, in lighter traffic, he started to ease the Honda up. He moved to the right so he could shoot from his open window and he’d be on Salez’s blind side. In the light traffic, he held his hand inside the Honda so that when he fired no one would be able to tell why Salez crashed. He pulled to within a car’s length, then saw Salez look up in the mirror as he started to move into the same lane. Then he looked over his shoulder, and it was clear the asshole had spotted the Honda after him.