A Place in the Wind

by Suzanne Chazin

  Chapter 46

  It had been months since Max Zimmerman last got behind the wheel of his Cadillac Seville. Even so, he kept it waxed and cleaned and always had a full tank of gas.

  He drove just under the speed limit. It was a bright Saturday afternoon, but he put his headlights on and signaled at every turn. He took no highways or major roads, where speed patrols might be lurking. He could see Wil was panicked. He didn’t want to make him more so.

  Wil hunkered down in the crushed velour front passenger seat. He tilted the brim of his Yankees baseball cap low across his forehead and stared at the screen of his cell phone. His fingers dashed across the keys. He was having an intense conversation with someone.

  “Can you drive me down to the bus terminal in Warburton?” the teenager asked him.

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  “I’ll find out.” He typed another text into his cell and waited for a response.

  Zimmerman licked his lips and chose his words carefully. “Wil—listen to me. You need to think this through. The police aren’t idiots. They’ll check the bus terminals. They’ll be waiting for you. You run like this, they’re going to think the worst. Now, I know a lawyer—”

  “The cops aren’t going to wait for a lawyer,” said the boy. “Did they wait for a lawyer for my brother?”

  “You’re not your brother, mijo. You need to calm down . . . and stop texting whoever you’re texting. It’s only making you more agitated.”

  Wil looked down at his screen and cursed under his breath. “I can’t go to the bus terminals. The cops are already there!”

  “See? What did I tell you?” asked Zimmerman. They came to a traffic light near a one-story shopping center. A cop car shot out of nowhere, sirens blaring. Zimmerman slowed down and pulled to the side of the road. His pulse was racing. His fingers trembled as they gripped the steering wheel. He heard Wil mumbling prayers in Spanish and he mumbled a few in Hebrew as well.

  The cop car zoomed past. The sirens weren’t for them.

  It was a second or two before Zimmerman was able to catch his breath enough to put the Cadillac in drive and nose back on the road. He looked across the seat to the glove compartment. His .357 Magnum rattled about inside.

  “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to take my gun after all.”

  Wil pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I’m sunk.” At the next stretch of open road, he powered down his window and tossed his phone to the curb.

  “Why did you do that?” asked Zimmerman.

  “The cops will follow the signal. It may buy me some time.”

  “To do what?”

  Wil didn’t answer.

  “You know,” said Zimmerman, “sometimes, our first impulses aren’t always our best ones. You need to talk to someone.”

  “I was. Before I tossed my phone.”

  “Who? That wasn’t Adele.”

  Wil didn’t answer.

  “You don’t need someone’s advice,” said Zimmerman. “Just tell the police what you told me.”

  “They won’t listen.”

  “I listened. What am I? Chopped liver? You just have to explain yourself.”

  “Could you explain yourself when they accused you of flashing the neighbors?”

  Zimmerman shrugged. “Some explanations are harder than others.” They were coming to a T-intersection. “Right or left, mijo?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care anymore.”

  “But you must care. You must always care. If not for yourself, then for those who love you. What about your mother? She doesn’t even know about your brother, and you’re going to hand her this?”

  “I just don’t know what else to do.”

  “Then I’ll keep driving. And you’ll think.”

  * * *

  Wil turned his head and gazed out the side window. They’d been heading south to Warburton before this. But the old man had turned east on a two-lane that moved from cookie-cutter developments to pizzerias and chain stores. It had been sunny before, but a veil of clouds drifted in, papering over the sun, turning the symmetrical asphalt roofs and concrete buildings into an endless sea of gray. Wil closed his eyes, searching for a memory that might lift his despair. And she came to him, as always.

  Catherine.

  Her name felt like a tropical sun—warm and delicious at first blush, blistering in its aftermath. She was beautiful, of course. And for some, that might have been the allure. But to Wil, it was that smile. The way it unwrapped itself like a Christmas present, always full of surprises.

  Never in his life had Wil felt handsome or sexy. When girls liked him in high school, it was always because he could help them with their homework—sometimes even do their homework. But Catherine wanted nothing from him—accepted that he had nothing to give. She seemed to take pleasure merely in his being. He didn’t know that was possible.

  He remembered the night they met. He was coming out of the Valley Community College library. Dreading the long bus ride home. That was his whole life. Bike to work. Bus to class. Sleep—with occasional excursions to hunt down Rolando and sober him up in between. He never had time to be a teenager. No parties. No movies or pizza with friends. No girls. How could he expect to meet girls? He had no money. No car. No permanent legal status. Hell, he wasn’t even good-looking.

  A rally was taking place outside the campus library. Some environmental group. Lots of peace signs and posters. A girl with purple hair and a pronounced hunch was leading the crowd with chants and fist pumps. Zoe, though Wil didn’t know her back then. Didn’t know how inseparable she and Catherine were. “Beauty and the Beast,” some of the frat boys on campus used to jeer when they walked past. Wil couldn’t tell who took those words harder: Zoe or Catherine.

  That night, there were no frat boys. There was only the chanting. Catherine was there, but not there. It was the way Wil always felt in any group situation. And yet, unlike him, she stood out, as striking and ephemeral as a shaft of light on polished chrome. He couldn’t look straight at her. He couldn’t look away.

  He assumed she was a student at Valley—a freshman like him. He supposed he was staring at her. He supposed any other girl would find it creepy and walk away. But she just walked up to him and pressed a flyer into his hand. Whatever was on it, sign him up. He didn’t care. So long as he could hang out with her.

  He searched for conversation and instead pointed out the constellations of Pegasus and Cassiopeia in the sky. What a geek! What a nerd!

  She smiled and told him that when she was a little girl, she thought a Pegasus was real.

  He fell in love with her then and there.

  They left the rally together. She must have told Zoe where she was going, but Wil had no memory of it. They walked over to a frat house party, where the beer flowed like water. They both got a little drunk. He wasn’t used to it. He stayed away from alcohol for the most part, especially because of Lando. But she held hers surprisingly well. It was still early fall back then. Indian summer. They found an alcove by the theater. They didn’t make love that night—just explored each other’s bodies. But the tension, the anticipation, was greater than any sensation he’d ever known.

  They met after that, on and off for several months. Always in secret. Sometimes on campus. Sometimes at the Magnolia Inn, where there was a little former maid’s room that only Catherine knew about. She gave Wil a key—and that key chain with her picture. At the end when he was angry, he threw the key back at her. But not the key chain. That he held onto.

  Their time together wasn’t just about sex. Often, they had no sex at all. just kissed and held hands and talked. About Catherine’s frustrations with her uptight parents. About Rolando’s drinking and how much Wil missed his mother. Sometimes they talked about nerdy stuff too. Quarks and atoms and brain circuitry for Wil. Politics and social issues for her.

  They kept their affair secret from everyone. But Lando guessed something was up.

  “You’ve got chocha on the brai
n,” he teased. “Pussy” in English. Wil hated hearing Catherine spoken of that way. He wanted to tell Lando what she meant to him. He didn’t know how.

  In seventh grade, Wil’s biology teacher told the class that for a plant to bear fruit, it must first grow leaves. To grow leaves, it must first develop strong roots. He knew the moment his teacher said those words that he was doomed. His life would never bear fruit. How could it, in a land where he could never put down roots?

  Then Catherine came along. And in her desire, Wil found the belonging he’d been yearning for. She was the rich, nurturing soil that made him flourish.

  He thought they’d go on like that forever.

  But they couldn’t. Of course they couldn’t. Anyone over the age of fourteen should have known that. She was from one world. He from another. Neither of their own making, but that didn’t change things. She figured it out before he did. She stopped returning his instant messages. She was warm and kind when he phoned her at the Inn. She told him he was “a great guy” and she wanted to “stay friends.”

  “But I love you,” he’d blurted. A mistake. He could tell right away by the silence that followed.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  She didn’t message him again until those last few days before she died to tell him she might be carrying his child. His phone was dying. His reception was unreliable. Frantically, he borrowed his brother’s cell. He called her and told her he loved her. He’d marry her. He’d care for the baby. Anything she wanted.

  What she wanted was to move on. Without him.

  * * *

  Mr. Zimmerman’s Cadillac crested a hill and began its descent. In the front windshield, Wil could see a distant swath of lint-colored water. The old man cleared his throat.

  “When the police were looking for your brother, you called Adele, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. But I’m way beyond her help now.”

  “Not beyond her boyfriend’s.”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “Better one than a hundred—don’t you think?” asked Zimmerman.

  “The police are gunning for me.”

  “Says who?” Zimmerman thrust his chin at Wil’s empty lap. “Says your text buddy? The one who told you to go to the Warburton bus terminal? Then told you not to?”

  Wil didn’t answer.

  “What if I took you someplace the police won’t think to find you?” asked Zimmerman.

  “I don’t know anyplace like that,” said Wil.

  “I do. I keep the keys in the glove compartment. We could ask Adele to find Jimmy and have him call you back. It beats driving in circles, waiting for the police to surround the car.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Wil. “I know you’re tired.”

  “Tired? No. But an old man like me? My bladder can only hold out for so long.”

  Chapter 47

  Vega drove south to Warburton, the biggest city in the county. There was a large bus terminal there—a dull, Band-Aid–colored building, where assorted charter companies did a brisk business in cheap transportation. Everything from ferrying seniors to the casinos, and students to college, to providing an easy, passport-free way for the undocumented to travel. It was America’s last great melting pot. An unvarnished amalgam of people all scurrying about in a haze of diesel fumes and the promise of a destination that was, at least temporarily, better than their own.

  The cops weren’t being subtle about their presence. Vega saw a Warburton cruiser at the main entrance and another at the side. There were uniforms everywhere. He double-parked across from the terminal and asked the first officer he saw, a big black sergeant, if there had been any word.

  “We thought we got him about ten minutes ago,” said the sergeant. “Just north of here. But it was just his cell phone. He must have ditched it to throw us off. There was also a reported sighting over by Port Carroll. But the police couldn’t confirm it. That’s so far east of here, I’d put more stock in the cell phone lead.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Vega got back in his truck and asked himself where a nineteen-year-old Guatemalan murder suspect might travel unnoticed with an eighty-eight-year-old Jewish Holocaust survivor.

  He didn’t have a clue.

  Vega’s phone rang. Adele. She’d heard from Max.

  “He won’t tell me where he is,” she sputtered. “But he’s okay. Or at least I think he is. He convinced Wil to turn himself in.”

  A truck gave Vega the horn. He wasn’t going to be able to stay double-parked much longer. “Have you contacted the Lake Holly PD? They’ll need to make the arrangements.”

  “I did,” said Adele. “But Wil will only surrender to you.”

  “I can’t be involved in this, nena. I got kicked out of the squad the last time I did something without clearance. I could get fired this time.”

  “But there’s no time to get clearance,” said Adele. “I gave him your number. He’s going to call. For God’s sake, Jimmy, Max is with him! Do you really think a man his age can survive that?”

  “All right,” said Vega. “Give me the number. Maybe I can convince him to turn himself in.”

  “If something happens to that old man,” said Adele, “I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

  * * *

  Max’s cell phone went to voice mail when Vega dialed. He left a message. He couldn’t believe the patrols hadn’t picked up a sighting of Max’s Cadillac by now. Except for that unconfirmed report from Port Carroll, there had been nothing.

  Vega nosed his truck back on the road and headed for Port Carroll. If the report was wrong, at least his friend Danny Molina was a cop there. He might be able to offer some help. Vega made it to the outskirts of Port Carroll before his phone rang. He pulled into a shopping plaza and picked up. Never had he been so glad to hear that Eastern European inflection.

  “Mr. Zimmerman. Are you all right?”

  “Meh. My hip could be better. I didn’t bring along my blood pressure pills. But who knows if they work anyway? I’m not the one who’s got troubles, though.” Vega heard mumbled conversation. A handing off of the phone. And then the uncertain voice of Wil Martinez.

  “Hello?”

  “Wil? Where are you?”

  “I don’t want Mr. Zimmerman to get hurt.”

  “I don’t want that either,” said Vega. “Tell me where you are. I’ll make sure you can give yourself up safely.”

  “No police.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Vega. “Every step of the way. But I can’t promise there won’t be police.”

  “I was told you’d say that.”

  “By Adele? Wil, I have to follow—”

  “Mr. Zimmerman said I should trust you, not my friend. But my friend said you’re going to lie. No matter what I say at this point, the police will shoot me on sight.”

  “Who said this? Who?” Vega demanded. “No cop is going to shoot you on sight, Wil. Not unless you aim Mr. Zimmerman’s gun at them. Or at him. You’re not going to do that, are you?”

  Vega heard Max mumbling to Wil in the background. He couldn’t catch the conversation, but it sounded like Max was getting frustrated with the teenager.

  “Wil,” said Vega. “Mr. Zimmerman doesn’t deserve to be in the middle of this.”

  “I didn’t force him to come.”

  “Wait. You mean . . . ?” Vega straightened. The whole interior of the truck seemed to vibrate with the teenager’s words. “You didn’t take him at gunpoint?”

  “I was going to run away on my own. Mr. Zimmerman asked to drive me. He brought the gun. He always carries it for protection.”

  So Max figured he could talk Wil into surrendering. That would be his style. The old man wasn’t afraid of the boy. Not just because he had his gun, but because . . .

  “Wil, can you put Mr. Zimmerman on the phone for me?”

  “You talked to him already. You know he’s safe. He knows this park better than I do.”

  “Park? You’re outdoors?”

  “Not that kind of park.�
�� Wil took a deep breath, like he was coming to terms with his predicament. “My friend is driving down here now to take Mr. Zimmerman home. Don’t worry, he won’t get hurt.”

  “And how about you?”

  Silence. The teenager didn’t have a plan. Or maybe he did. The plan of last resort. Vega massaged his eyelids. This wasn’t the ending he was hoping for.

  “Please, Wil. Just tell me where you are.”

  The boy disconnected the call.

  Chapter 48

  Wil and Max were at a park. In the dead of winter. In a place remote enough that no one would notice the old man’s light gray Cadillac. A place this friend could drive to and take Max home.

  That narrowed the list down to only about a hundred parks in the county.

  “Not that kind of park,” Wil had said.

  What other kind was there? An office park? Only developers ever called office complexes, “parks.” A car park? Americans didn’t generally refer to garages that way.

  Vega would have felt better if he knew who this friend was. A friend who’d convince Wil that the cops would shoot him on sight didn’t seem like much of a friend at all.

  Adele knew Wil and Max much better than Vega did. She’d know who Wil’s friends were. She’d know if Max had a favorite park. Vega called her from his truck and told her about his conversation.

  “You’ve got to let Lake Holly know that Max isn’t a hostage,” Vega explained. “He’s there to convince Wil to surrender. Wil isn’t even in possession of the gun. Max is.” Vega would have called the police himself, but he wanted to keep his line free in case Wil called back.

  “I’ll let them know as soon as I hang up with you,” Adele promised.

  “So who’s this friend Wil keeps referring to?” asked Vega.

  “I don’t know,” said Adele. “Between work and school, he doesn’t have much time to socialize. Plus, I can’t see anyone getting involved this deeply, especially now that Wil’s been charged with . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. “Did he . . . admit to it?”

  “I didn’t ask him.” As a cop, Vega knew that confessions were best obtained in an interrogation room with a video camera running. Besides, everyone on the run says they’re innocent.