Fortunate Son

by J. D. Rhoades

  As soon as she’d closed her door, Mick stepped on the gas. Tires squealed on pavement as they accelerated out of the parking lot. “Mick,” Savannah said, “slow down.”

  He looked at her and she could see the uncertainty in his eyes as well. Now was the time for her to take control of this situation, now that she had some idea what to do. “We can’t keep attracting attention to ourselves,” she said. “That means not driving like a maniac.” He tapped an irritated rhythm on the steering wheel, but he let off the gas pedal. She breathed a little easier. “Okay. Now. We can’t head straight out of town. They’re watching for this car on the interstates and all the ways out of town. Baby, we need to get rid of it.”

  He looked at her as if she’d suggested cutting off a leg. “No. It’s my car.”

  “And it’s beautiful, Mick.” Actually, she’d never liked this model, which she privately called the “redneck racer.” But she knew how boys liked it, and she’d become an expert over the years at knowing how to use what boys liked. “It’s a beautiful car,” she repeated. “A classic. Which is why every cop in a hundred miles is going to have eyes out for it.”

  He’d reached the on-ramp. “I guess you can get us a new one. Like magic.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I think I can.” She reached into her bag and fumbled around for her phone. Her fingers closed around a hard plastic object. She pulled it out. Wrong one. She stuffed it back in her bag and pulled out her own phone. “Head back into the city. I need to make a phone call.”

  He didn’t answer, but pulled out onto the highway following the signs for Baton Rouge. She watched him for a moment, willing him to listen to her. Without speaking, he took an exit onto a side street, then followed the signs for the ramps that would lead them back to I-10, going back into the heart of the city.

  She breathed a sigh of relief and dialed the number she’d dredged up out of her phone contacts. She might have to make a bargain with the man on the other side of that number. That bargain might include herself. She fought the tears back. No one here was going to see her cry. A mother couldn’t afford that. Not if she and her boys were going to survive. She thought about the burner phone in her purse, the one she’d taken from the house, the lifeline she’d had to Winslow and Cahill. That was another bridge burned, she guessed. Only way to go now is forward, she thought.

  NONE OF this was going the way he’d planned.

  The idea had taken root for the first time the day he’d found out about Mick’s death. He’d been Mick’s roommate at the time, continuing the friendship they’d struck up in prison. They’d hung out, drunk beer together, chased women. And all the time, Mick had talked about the family he was going to see as soon as he got his shit straight and made some money. How nice it was going to be when they were all together. How beautiful his Mama was, and how she loved Mick and his brother.

  Kevin DeWalt’s family had been a horror show from the day he was born. At least that’s what he’d been told. Most of his memory of the time was a void, a blank space where he couldn’t remember anything at all. The therapist at the hospital where he’d spent most of his teenage years said that was a common reaction. The mind’s way of defending itself. But Kevin hated that blank space. It made him feel as if he wasn’t even real. Not an actual human being at all. He envied Mick for having his memories. Even the bad ones. He’d found himself wishing that those memories were his. Then he’d gotten the news that Mick had been killed. He’d been surprised when he discovered that Mick had put him down as his contact at the jail, but he guessed it made sense.

  When he’d shown up to ID the body, the morgue attendant had done a double take. “Were you guys twins?” he’d asked. Kevin had just nodded. It was easier that way. When the man had pulled aside the concealing sheet and he’d looked down into the face of the dead man, he’d seen himself lying there. At that moment, he’d come up with his plan. How he could have a family. A home. Memories that were his. When he picked up his roommate’s personal effects, he’d flipped the wallet open and looked at the driver’s license. It was his face looking back at him. He’d found pictures of Savannah and Keith. With his only close friend dead, he’d felt completely alone in the world. Until that moment. At that moment, he felt real. He felt like someone with memories. With a family. He’d vowed to himself on that day that they’d be together. He took Mick’s computer and picked up the trail he’d been following online to search for his mother and brother. The cipher that had once been Kevin DeWalt felt like a real person for the first time.

  But it hadn’t worked out that way. Now Mama was mad at him. His brother was scared to death. And every cop in the state was looking to gun them down. Mick clenched his teeth. He wasn’t going to let that happen. This was his family now, and he was going to protect them. Whatever it took.

  THEY HAD BLINDFOLDED Winslow before guiding him into the back of the SUV. Before that, his new captors made sure he saw the bodies in the car that had been chasing him. He couldn’t tell if one of them was Zag. All he could see was blood and grayish-white streaks that may have been bone or brain matter on the car windows. After that, the black bag had gone over his head and he’d been hustled into the back of a vehicle. He tried to count the turns as they took him further and further from the farm, even though he knew it was useless. Eventually, he gave up.

  Finally, the SUV stopped. He heard the door open. A hand on his shoulder led him out of the vehicle. All he could hear at first was his own heavy breathing. Then, the sounds of nature began to penetrate the fabric and he could pick out the deep calls of bullfrogs and the steady drone of cicadas. Eventually, he was guided inside a building and the insect sounds grew softer. The hand on his shoulder sat him down in a chair that wobbled alarmingly as he collapsed into it. The hood was jerked from his head so roughly it made him gasp. He looked around, trying to get his bearings.

  He was in a large interior space with corrugated metal walls. There was no floor beneath his feet, only dirt. Some kind of barn, then, which made the man seated at the rough wooden table in front of him look even more out of place.

  He was a man of medium height, his perfectly trimmed jet-black hair streaked with gray. His beard, as immaculately cut as his hair, was also shot through with patches of gray. He was reading something inside a file folder in the harsh white light of a pair of propane lanterns set at either end of the table. The perfectly tailored cream-colored suit he wore gave him the air of perfect assurance, like a general being briefed at a battlefield command post. The man dressed in army fatigue pants and a black t-shirt who stood off to one side, an AK-47 rifle slung on his shoulder, completed the impression. Winslow was aware of other presences in the room behind him. He assumed they, too, were armed and kept his eyes resolutely ahead. “You’d be Caspar Gutierrez,” he said.

  The man behind the table held up an index finger to indicate he’d be with Winslow in a moment. He spoke in a low voice to the man with the AK-47 and closed the file folder. The man in the black T-shirt nodded, took the folder, and left without another word. Only then did the man behind the table turn his attention to Winslow.

  “Yes,” he said, “I am Caspar Gutierrez. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Agent Winslow.”

  “I doubt that’s true.” Winslow looked around. “So where is Angus Charlebois?”

  Gutierrez leaned back, his eyes bright with interest. “And why would you like to know? Is he perhaps someone you want to protect? Perhaps a source of information?”

  Winslow knew he was treading dangerous ground. If Gutierrez thought he was lying, he’d torture Winslow until he was satisfied that what the DEA man told him contained the truth. But the truth could subject Charleyboy to the same unimaginable agony. He decided on a version of the truth. “He hasn’t told us anything. We were going to take him in and sweat him and see what he gave up.”

  Gutierrez nodded. “Ah. And what was it that made you think he might have something to give up?” Winslow didn’t answer. Gutierrez smiled. “Perhaps it
was something his girlfriend spilled to you? In exchange for federal help to find out something she wanted?”

  Winslow felt a shock run through him. There was only one way Gutierrez could know that. Before he could speak up, Gutierrez looked over Winslow’s shoulder. “Bring in Charleyboy.”

  In a few moments, a pair of men, dressed in the same fatigue pants and black t-shirts, came in holding the stumbling figure of Charleyboy propped up between them. His face was chalk-white, and he clutched a blood-soaked handkerchief to his right hand with his left. One of the guards slammed a wooden chair down next to Winslow’s while the other shoved Charleyboy into it. Charleyboy stared at Gutierrez with all the terror of a rabbit seeing a snake peering into its warren.

  “Charleyboy,” Gutierrez said, “I believe it’s time we were honest with one another.”

  “I’m not lying,” Charleyboy whimpered. “I swear it.”

  One of the guards made a sudden lunge toward him and he flinched away with a moan of terror. Both guards laughed. “Let us take another finger, jefe,” the one who’d feinted towards Charleyboy said to Gutierrez. “He’ll be singing like a little bird after that. I promise.”

  Gutierrez shook his head. “Not now, my friend.” He smiled at Winslow. “We are, after all, civilized men, no?”

  “It you’re asking me,” Winslow said, “you may not want to hear the answer.”

  “Hah.” Gutierrez sat back and clapped his hands in approval. “I admire cleverness.” He turned to Charleyboy. “But not too much cleverness. Now. Let me sum up what I think has happened.” The smile vanished and he leaned forward, dark eyes focused on Charleyboy’s face. “You were in debt to Wallace Luther. You learned I was hoping to establish my business interests in Louisiana, so you came to me, hoping to betray Luther and gain my favor. You would make Luther think you were setting me up, but I would be there first, and ready to take out Luther.” He sat back and sighed. “But your girlfriend, the beautiful Savannah, had other desires. She hoped to find her long lost sons. And to do that, she was willing to make a deal. And shop all of us to the DEA. Now…” He leaned forward again. “Tell me the truth, before I let my boys here start cutting more pieces off of you. Am I right or am I wrong?”

  Winslow thought at first that Charleyboy had passed out. He sat slumped in the other chair, head down. Finally, he raised his head up. His face was streaked with tears. “No,” he said, “you’re wrong. It was all me.”

  “Really?” Gutierrez inclined his head skeptically. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you believe it or not, you greaser spic bastard,” Charleyboy said. “It wasn’t her. It was me. I sold you out. And you know why? Because I hate you fucking Mexicans. You’re a goddamn cancer on our country.”

  The guard who’d spoken up before stepped forward and clouted Charleyboy on the back of the head. Gutierrez raised a hand. “Stop.” The man pulled back the hand he’d raised to hit Charleyboy again and stepped back. Gutierrez shook his head. “Charleyboy,” he said, and his voice was so sorrowful Winslow was tempted to believe it was sincere. “You almost convinced me. But then you had to go and lay it on too thick.” He sighed. “I know why you’re saying what you’re saying. To tell you the truth, it appeals to the romantic in me that you hope to save your lover, even though she has betrayed you. But you may find out that dying for love is not so sweet a thing as you have convinced yourself it is. In the end, dying is…just dying. It is messy and undignified. And, I assure you, very, very painful.” He gestured to the guard who’d hit Charleyboy. “Take him away. I’ll decide what to do with him later.” The man walked over and yanked Charleyboy to his feet. Winslow watched as he was led away.

  “Now, Agent Winslow,” Gutierrez said. “You, I’m going to let go.” He saw the look on Winslow’s face and smiled. “You don’t believe me. But I tell you, sincerely, I don’t want the blood of a DEA agent on my hands. I don’t need that kind of heat coming down on me.” He shrugged, that sorrowful look on his face again. “I am forced to admit it. I have failed. Louisiana has not, how shall I say it, worked out for me. So, I’m returning to Mexico. Perhaps we will meet again. But not soon.”

  “Uh-huh,” Winslow said. “And I suppose we won’t see Charleyboy anymore because…let’s see, he’s going to live on a farm upstate.”

  For the first time, Gutierrez looked confused. “Sorry,” Winslow said. “Guess you didn’t get the reference.”

  “I suppose not.” Gutierrez’s smile was back. He gestured to the other guard. “Take him and release him in the French Quarter. Let him make his way back to his agency.”

  Winslow didn’t believe for a moment he was going to be released, but he stood up anyway. “You know, this reminds me of something I said to someone else not too long ago.”

  Gutierrez had already dismissed Winslow from his mind, and having his attention drawn back to the man standing in front of him was clearly irritating him. “Yes?” he said.

  “Guys like you,” Winslow said, “you’ll always be assholes. We may not get you today. But someday, probably soon, you’ll fuck up some other way and we’ll get you then. We’re the U.S. Government.” He forced himself to smile, even though he knew it probably looked like lockjaw. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Gutierrez shook his head. “I understand why Charleyboy insulted me. He risks his own death as a ploy to try and distract me from his woman’s betrayal. But you, I don’t understand. What was the point of that?”

  Winslow shrugged. “I’m just a simple civil servant. I don’t do ploys. I’m not smart enough. I just wanted you to know how things are.”

  “Ah. And now that you’ve told me, do you feel better?”

  Winslow considered for a moment. “Actually, yeah.” He smiled. “I do.”

  “How nice.” Gutierrez nodded to the guard and Winslow was led away.

  SINCE COMING TO New Orleans, Savannah had seen a lot of ads for tours of the antebellum mansions of the area. This place just outside the city was never going to make it onto that circuit. The thick columns that held up the two-story roof over the broad front porch were cracked, the paint peeling in the humidity. One of the tall front windows had been broken and replaced with plywood. The others were too grimy to see through. Off to their right of the driveway sat a greenhouse with many of the glass panes shattered. The aggressive tropical vegetation of southern Louisiana was swarming over everything that stood upright, taking full advantage of years of neglect.

  The man standing at the cast-iron gate in the stone wall surrounding the mansion was painfully skinny, with long, lank black hair and skin so pale Savannah always thought of vampires. He swung the gate back and Mick eased the Firebird down the long dirt driveway. The pale man walked behind them.

  “Mama,” Keith asked. “Who is that guy? Why are we here?”

  “He’s a friend. Sort of. A friend of a friend, I guess,” Savannah answered. “Anyway, he can help us. I hope. He’s got…resources.”

  The pale man was motioning them off to one side. A long, low structure was hidden from the view of people coming up the drive by a high, wildly overgrown hedge. The building was an old carriage house, judging from the size and number of doors in the front. The pale man motioned them to where one of those doors gaped open like a cave mouth. Mick hesitated a moment, then eased the car in. The door slammed shut behind them with a shriek of rusty hinges and a bang that made Lana squeak with alarm.

  “Just let me handle him,” Savannah said as she got out of the car. There were no lights in the carriage house. The only illumination was provided by their headlights reflecting off the back wall. She took a deep breath and plastered a smile on her face. “Cully. Hey.” She held out her arms to the pale man. After a moment’s hesitation, he let her hug him. He felt awkward in her grasp, as if he didn’t know how to react. She hugged him harder. This had to work.

  KEITH COULD see Savannah embracing the pale man who had let them in.

  “Who the fuck i
s that freak?” Lana spoke up.

  Mick didn’t answer. He stared at the two people embracing for a moment before he killed the engine and got out, leaving the headlights on. He sidled through the narrow space between the front bumper and the pale green wall of the garage. Keith hesitated, then pushed the front driver’s seat forward and got out. There was space for multiple vehicles, but the only other one he could see was a nondescript white van. Mick had walked over to where Savannah and the pale man were and thrust out his hand, an aggressively friendly smile on his face. “Hey,” he said. “I’m Savannah’s son. I’m Mick.”

  The pale man looked at the outstretched hand as if it were a poisonous snake. “I’m Cully. Sorry, but I don’t shake hands.”

  Mick blinked. The smile slipped, and Keith was afraid for a moment that he’d start throwing fists or worse. The moment passed, and Mick dropped the hand, cranking his smile back up to full intensity. “Sure. Can’t be too careful. Germs, right?”

  Cully looked at him blankly for a moment, then turned back to Savannah. “You can come inside. But guns stay in the car. And cell phones.”

  “Whoa, just a minute,” Mick began, but Savannah interrupted.

  “That’s fine.” She laughed nervously. “Your house, your rules, right?” She opened the door of the car and reached into her purse, coming out with a slim black cell phone. She handed it to Cully. “There you go.”

  Cully shook his head. “No. Leave it in the car.” He looked at Keith, still standing on the side of the car opposite him. “How about you?”

  Keith held up his hands. “I’m good. No phone, no guns.”

  Cully turned his attention back to Mick. “How about you, cowboy? Okay to leave your popgun in the car?” When Mick hesitated, Cully went on. “Or you could just back this redneck piece of shit out of here and go off on your own.” Keith saw Mick’s face go slack, then tense with rage. Cully never lost his blank expression.