Morrison nodded. "Sometimes ordinary is extraordinarily comforting."
"Amen. So why are you not for sure about surveillance?"
"Saw a small truck pass by two different times over the course of an hour or so. Slow passes. Strange little truck. More like the front half of a skinny Nissan van with a pickup truck bed attached to it. Looked like some sort of delivery vehicle. White. Plate number EQ-93-74. It didn't stop anywhere that I could see."
"How slow were the passes?"
"Just a hair too slow, you ask me."
"Did you see who was driving?"
"Same driver both times. Guy with a black knit cap. There was a passenger too. But I couldn't see him."
"A panel truck could be making fresh bread delivery runs from the bakery up the street."
"Could be. Probably was. Just thought I'd mention it."
*****
Morrison shifted to the art gallery as Arkin took up position at the far end of the street. An hour later, Morrison came back out to the street as Arkin went to the restaurant, where he ordered a bowl of rice—the cheapest thing he could find on the menu.
A light marine fog settled over Valparaiso as darkness fell. By that time, Arkin sat on a seemingly derelict stoop, pretending to read, by streetlight, a travel book he'd borrowed from the hostel. Still, nobody came or went. The windows that appeared to be those of the address were dark.
He and Morrison met up around the corner.
"I think it's safe to say that nobody is in a big hurry to pick up their mail," Morrison said.
"If any of them are even located in the area, let alone the country," Arkin added, once again beginning to worry that the office was just another voicemail dead letter box. He turned and looked down the street that curved down toward the waterfront, observing a group of three young men who were staggering drunk, shouting things at the night, at nobody in particular—or so it seemed to Arkin. "Screw it," he said.
"What?"
"Let's break in. I didn't see one person go through that doorway all afternoon. It's a Tuesday, isn't it? Not a Chilean national vacation day or anything?"
"You want to break in?"
"What else are we going to do? Sit here for days, maybe weeks, hoping some lackey shows up to get the mail? Go back to your hotel and change into dark clothes. Meet you back here in an hour."
TWENTY-EIGHT
Arkin went back to the hostel, wolfed down an enormous bowl of the house rice and beans in the vacant dining room, then repacked his few belongings, getting them ready to grab from under his bed just in case he had to run for it—though he probably wouldn't even bother returning to the hostel if anything went wrong. Visualizing his approach to the Pesquera Mares Verdes office, running through his planned reactions to the most likely scenarios, he felt the excitement of coming action. This would be his third break-in in less than six weeks. It was almost like the old days.
He pocketed a butter knife from the dining room, donned his baseball cap, pulled it low, and stepped back out into the dark and foggy street. Things were surprisingly quiet, considering it was the dinner hour. The air was still, and he could just detect the scent of someone's cooking nearby. Something sweet, made of yeast dough and dusted with cinnamon.
He met up with Morrison again, and they figured out the best place from which Morrison could keep an eye on the street. There was a clump of bushes and two tiny trees in a small recess fronting one of the colorful row houses half a block down, so Morrison did his best to conceal himself in it.
After making one last scouting pass by the address, strolling down the street with his hands casually jammed into his pockets as if he were on his way to meet friends for a drink, Arkin rounded the block and made his approach. The windows were still dark. He did his best to scan the surrounding area without looking suspicious, mindful of the surprise he had met with in Vancouver. He doubted the group would be expecting him here, unless they'd just happened to catch news coverage of his handiwork at Santiago Airport, and if, against all likelihood, they recognized him from the low-quality security camera footage. Just the same, there was no reason not to be careful.
In a twist of good luck, he found that the office’s enormous wooden front door was locked by nothing more than an antique rim latch. He glanced up and down the street, took the butter knife he'd requisitioned from the hostel out of his pocket, and with a quick turn of his wrist, popped the latch from its receiver and opened the door. He slipped in and shut the door behind him, standing still while his eyes adjusted to the dark. The air smelled of beeswax polish and old varnished timbers. He was in a short hallway with a pair of opened doors to either side. Four offices in total. No other exit. It took him barely two minutes to establish that nobody was there, that the offices were apparently abandoned, and that there wasn’t a shred of useful evidence from which he could deduce anything. As he'd feared, the place was probably just an address of record for a phone line that automatically forwarded calls to some other number, or went to a remotely-accessed voicemail service, just like the group had set up in Port Hardy, British Columbia, years earlier. All he found was empty wooden desks, rubbish bins with nothing in them but a single chocolate bar wrapper, and haphazard sprinklings of mouse droppings—everything covered in a fine coating of dust.
Damnation.
He didn’t want to have to loiter in the area for however long it might take for someone to come collect the mail—assuming anyone would bother. After all he’d been through, it was very possibly another dead end. He put his hands on his hips, let his chin drop to his chest, then exhaled through pursed lips, feeling utterly exhausted and defeated.
*****
Meanwhile, Morrison watched the street from his concealing clump of bushes, realizing, too late, that it was the place where every dog in the neighborhood came to urinate. The stench made his eyes water.
Only one vehicle had passed in the time since Arkin had disappeared through the front door. A blue Suzuki compact. One new pair of headlights had crested the hillside and was making its way toward him. As it crawled past, Morrison could see that it was a skinny white Nissan half-van, half-pickup truck. It was too dark to read the license plate. But as it reached the address for Pesquera Mares Verdes, it came to a brief stop. It blocked Morrison's view of the door. But a moment later, it resumed its slow roll down the street and then disappeared around a corner.
Shit!
Had it dropped someone off? Had that someone dashed through the door of Pesquera Mares Verdes? He had no way of knowing.
His heart pumping, he broke cover, crossed the street, and speed-walked straight for the door, pulling his pistol from the rear waistband of his pants and racking the slide to put a round into the chamber.
*****
Arkin heard the click of the front door lock as someone outside turned a key. He quickly ducked down behind one of the derelict desks and squatted there, silent, listening. Whomever had come in knew a thing or two about covert movement. Arkin couldn't hear a thing. No footsteps. No breathing. Nothing.
Slowly, silently, he reached back and pulled out his gun, then raised his head until he could just peek over the top of the desk. Before he could see anyone, he was blinded by a muzzle flash from just outside the open doorframe of the office he was in. The clap of the gunshot rang in his ears as a chunk of wood from the desktop splintered and flew against the wall behind him. He dropped back down and rolled to his left as two more gunshots rang out in rapid succession, each sending more splinters of desk wood flying. But then Arkin heard gunshots from farther away. Somewhere closer to the entrance.
Morrison.
There was a rapid exchange of fire—six or seven shots in all—before things went quiet.
"Nate!"
"I’m alright."
"He's down."
Arkin emerged from the back office to find a man flat on his back on the floor, blood pouring from three bullet wounds in his torso, as well as a wound in his face. His lower jaw was gone. Arkin took the man's
gun from off the floor, felt for a pulse, then, satisfied he was dead, turned to see Morrison's leg sticking out through the doorframe of one of the other offices.
"Bill?"
"Still with you."
Arkin turned the corner to see Morrison holding a palm against his lower abdomen. "Oh, no!"
"I'll live," Morrison said, gritting his teeth, his voice laden with pain. "But you need to get me to a hospital. Now."
Arkin gave Morrison a quick look. "There's no exit wound. He practically hit the dead center of your lower torso. Why the hell weren't you behind cover?" he asked, unable to help himself.
"I was behind cover, jackass. The damned wall is made of quarried stone. Ricochet got me. That's why there's no exit wound."
"In a city of tin and wooden buildings. What luck."
"I think it got me in the bladder."
"Can you stand?"
"With your help."
"Alright. Keep the pressure on it. Try to not let any of your blood drip on the floor. We don't need anyone gathering evidence of your visit. Let's get the hell out of here."
"Search the guy first."
"You sure?"
Morrison nodded, sweat already beading on his hairline and running down his forehead. "Make it quick."
Arkin went back and searched the body, digging through pockets, patting him down. But he found nothing of value. No wallet. No forms of identification. That was telling. A man prepped for covert action. A professional.
Arkin checked the soles of the man's shoes. A few fragments of what looked like sea shell were trapped in a couple of the grooves of the tread. The man's clothes looked Chilean. But the man looked northern European. And from what Arkin could see from his still-intact upper jaw, he was well-to-do—or at least had been at one time. He had expensive, highly professional dental work. His teeth were perfectly straight—an indicator of probable orthodonture. And his front teeth were veneered. Presumably, the man was self-conscious about his appearance.
He helped Morrison to his feet, then helped him shuffle-step back out the front door, scanning up and down the street as he did so, looking for the white van-truck. The street was dead quiet. They crossed it, then made their way down the block to a narrow alley that led to a stairwell down toward the main waterfront road where Arkin knew they'd be able to find a taxi despite the late hour.
Five minutes later, having flagged down a cab and successfully convinced the affable, English-speaking driver that he was helping his drunk friend go visit his ailing mother, Arkin was helping Morrison sit down on a concrete planter in front of the main emergency room doorway of Hospital Carlos van Buren. Then, reluctantly, feeling a tremendous sense of guilt, and with a nod to a thoroughly unhappy looking Morrison, he slipped off into the night.
TWENTY-NINE
The next day, Arkin laid low in the hostel until evening—reasoning that by then the bullet in Morrison's bladder would have been removed, and that he'd be all sewn up and in recovery. Probably on heavy painkillers. But probably—hopefully—coherent. Then, as the sun began to set, he walked the hilly, winding, one-mile route back to Hospital Carlos van Buren, keeping to alleyways and small side-streets wherever possible. Always keeping an eye out for the white Nissan.
Arriving at the hospital, he walked right past the reception desk as if he knew exactly where he was going, then walked the length of the first-floor hall, glancing in each office or room as he went. Not seeing Morrison, he ascended to the second floor via a concrete stairwell at the end of the corridor, then resumed his search.
He found Morrison, at last, in a third-floor room. He had the room to himself. Arkin was somewhat surprised to find that he wasn't handcuffed to the bed, having come in with a gunshot wound. He was asleep. His face a sickly white. There was an IV in his arm. Arkin tried to shrug off a vision of Hannah, attached to an IV, an oxygen cannula in her nose, her skin deathly pale, slowly dying in the hospital back in Durango.
"You look like you could use a foot rub," Arkin said.
Morrison opened his glassy, bloodshot eyes. A weak grin appeared on Morrison's face. "Not from you," he said slowly.
"How are you?"
"It hurts to talk," Morrison said, wincing.
"Ah. Well, I suppose that's the silver lining."
"Funny."
"Actually, you look pretty good for someone who took a bullet to his piss tank."
"Glad it didn't hit any lower."
"In a way, you're quite lucky. I checked that guy's gun. He was loaded with hollow points. If that hole in your belly had been from a direct shot, your lower back would be gone."
"Oh, yes. I feel so very, very lucky," he said, wincing again.
"Are you in pain?"
"Take a wild guess. Good news is they're feeding me some good opiates in this IV drip here. Could be worse."
"Have the police been here?"
"Not that I can recall."
"Then you're doubly lucky," Arkin said, amazed—certain that hospital protocol would require that they notify the police whenever someone arrived with a gunshot wound, and equally certain if the police had found the body at the Pesquera Mares Verdes office, they'd be very curious about anyone showing up at a hospital with a gunshot wound on the same night. Perhaps the police had been to the hospital, but when Morrison was unconscious. Perhaps they planned to return. Perhaps they were on their way there right now. At the same time, there was little reason to think the body had been discovered, it being behind locked doors in a derelict office and out of sight. If anyone had found the body at this point, it would have been other operatives of the Priest's group. And it probably would have been in their best interest to make it disappear.
"I assume they already removed the bullet," Arkin said.
"I assume so too. All I know is they put me under and when I woke I was sewn up. Looking forward to another bullet wound scar. Makes it an even four."
"Do they know you're American? Do they know you speak English?"
Morrison closed his eyes and paused for a breath before answering. "Not unless I talked while anesthetized."
"I don't think I should try to move you just yet."
"No."
"What are you going to do?"
"Not speak any English, that's for damned sure. Fake continued semi-consciousness and immobility until I'm well enough to move. Then I'll sneak out."
"Well," Arkin said, pulling a small metal handcuff key from his jacket pocket, "I'm going to leave this with you just in case someone at some point decides your condition is suspicious enough to warrant your restraint." He took a roll of masking tape he'd stolen from the hostel from his other pocket, placed the handcuff key in a piece he tore from the roll, and then stuck the key to the underside of the little side table attached to Morrison's hospital bed.
"Nobody from the group will ever go near that office again," Morrison said.
"Probably not."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I don't know. Don't worry about it. Rest. I'll figure it out later." Then he stared down at Morrison, looking regretful. "I suppose I'd better get out of here before somebody comes in and sees me. Can't be known to associate with hooligans like you. I'll check in on you tomorrow evening."
"Okay."
Arkin turned to leave.
"Nate, wait."
"What?"
"Want to know something cool?"
"The hospital serves blue Jell-O?"
"Guess what happened yesterday."
"Besides you getting shot in the bladder?"
"The Colorado River," Morrison said, nearly smiling through his pain.
"What about it?"
"It flowed all the way to the sea."
For a second, Arkin was speechless for reasons he couldn't quite grasp. "The Colorado River? What are you talking about?"
"Forgot to tell you. I read it in The Durango Herald online on my phone yesterday just before I left the hotel. They released a bunch of water from a couple of the big dams to restore th
e flow. Only for a little while. They called it a pulse flow. Still, for a few days, the Colorado will be a real river again."
Arkin paused again, feeling, for a fleeting moment, a strange lightness in his gut. "Thanks for telling me." He looked at Morrison, nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow."
THIRTY
As he left the hospital, sneaking out a back door to avoid the reception area, Arkin felt his sense of guilt and futility returning. Here they were, all the way down south in Chile. Their one lead was now all but certainly a dead end. Morrison was right. Nobody from the Priest's group would ever go near the Valparaiso office again. And they wouldn't be lulled into a trap now that they knew someone was hunting them. All Arkin had accomplished was to spend a bunch of Morrison's money and sick leave hours and get Morrison shot in the bladder. His quest seemed at an end. Yet he couldn't go home. Maybe he'd never be able to go home. And anyway, if he could, it wouldn't change the fact that Hannah had died. He had no one to go back to. It was a disorienting, lonely feeling.
Still, temporary or not, Arkin found the news of the Colorado River reaching the sea strangely comforting. The ancient Colorado—millions of years old—hadn't flowed all the way to the sea in decades, depleted to nothing by ever-increasing demand for irrigation and drinking water. But it did today. And it would again, long after Arkin was gone. Long after humanity was gone. The river would flow once again.
*****
As he walked, Arkin tried to calm his scattered mind with deep breathing exercises. Then, as he neared the hostel, an idea occurred to him. He picked up his pace. Back at the hostel, he un-cached his smartphone and Googled Pesquera Mares Verdes while reprimanding himself for not thinking to do so already.
The search proved difficult, as he expected. The company had no website of its own. The only posted contact information he could locate he found on a business-to-business sales platform for seafood trading companies. The company’s posting indicated that it was offering filets of farmed Atlantic salmon for bulk sale, on shipping terms described as "FOB Puerto Cisnes." It provided the same phone number he already had, but no other contact or location information.
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