by Alice Sharpe
Thrust up through the earth’s crust in the distant seismic past, the towering rocks dominated the top of the hill. In the right light and from the sea, they were sometimes mistaken for an actual man-made structure. They provided a bevy of hiding places both for a child’s imagination and a grown woman with big problems.
Hannah found a spot where she could wiggle in under a slab of rock and look directly down on the beach parking lot. There were several cars in the lot, scattered here and there as people shared rides into town. For all Hannah knew, the man she awaited was already down there, waiting….
She searched each vehicle, keeping an eye out for Hugo Correa’s white Cadillac, Gary Jenkins’s red Volvo, Harrison Plumber’s blue SUV or Santi Correa’s sky-blue Mercedes.
None of them were down there.
For most of twenty minutes, no new cars turned into the car park, which wasn’t surprising given the intensity of the rain. She checked her watch again and again. The minutes were lazy, stretching instead of racing. She got a cramp in her leg. A gap between the rocks sent a steady trickle of cold water down her neck where it snaked along her spine, giving her newfound respect for the misery of water torture.
When a vehicle finally turned into the park, Hannah jerked in anticipation. Being a black van with tinted windows, it fit none of the suspects’ cars. Maybe another tourist needing a rest stop. Or maybe the man she was looking for had brought a different vehicle.
The van parked one row back from the bathrooms, facing the exit. Hannah held her breath as a figure got out of the van, but as the driver’s door was on the other side, she couldn’t tell who it was. The figure moved around to the back of the van, moving slowly despite the rain. Hannah looked through the scope as the person walked clear of the van.
Steel-gray slicker, black broad-brimmed hat, dark glasses, gloves. Black pants showing from beneath the hem, black boots. Cautious gait, no hair showing. All she could tell for sure was that the person was acting suspicious, looking this way and that, slinking toward the bathrooms.
The newcomer walked into the women’s room, back out and into the men’s, then stood outside, apparently taking a reprieve from the rain by standing beneath the slanted metal overhang of the building. Hannah wasn’t positive this person had anything to do with her. She couldn’t identify the figure by what she could see although she had the impression it was a male. Even size was difficult to gauge from the distance and through the rain.
And then a movement off to the east caught her quarry’s attention. Hannah lowered the scope to look toward the car park entrance where an old truck was rambling through the gate.
Jack. Damn…
She looked back at the bathrooms. The driver of the black van was gone. Hannah stretched out from her hiding spot a little, searching the car park as Jack came to a halt beside the van.
Where had the driver gone?
Jack got out of the truck, folded the seat forward and withdrew the shotgun. For a second, he stood by the truck, looking around. His mouth moved and she knew he was calling her name. She wiggled free of the rocks and was in the act of standing when a movement by the bathrooms caught her attention. Grabbing the rifle, she aimed it in order to bring the scope into range.
The person in the gray slicker had moved to stand behind the bathrooms, out of sight of Jack. There was no law against that, but why would someone act that way if they weren’t expecting trouble? She was about to look for Jack again when she saw the gloved hand dip into a pocket of the slicker and bring out a silver revolver which he or she raised.
Where was Jack? Frantically, she looked around and found him approaching the bathrooms. From where he was, he would not be able to see that someone held a gun on him. If he made a false move, would the armed person panic and fire? What should she do?
After ducking into each room, Jack stood with his hands on his waist, staring around, standing in almost the exact spot the other person had stood less than two minutes before.
The person with the gun inched closer, gun raised.
Hannah did the only thing she could think to do. She yelled.
Nobody heard her. The rain was too loud on the metal above Jack’s head, she was too far away. The gunman moved closer to the building, obscuring Hannah’s view. A second later, she saw a glint of the overhead bathroom light reflect off the end of the muzzle as it peeked out from behind cinder blocks. It was pointed right at Jack.
She raised the rifle. She hadn’t shot it in years, wasn’t sure how precise her aim was. The distance between Jack and the side of the building behind which his assailant lurked was less than eight feet. If she missed the building she could hit Jack.
She decided to fire at the van. Shattering a window would create a loud noise that would warn Jack.
The bullet hit the rear window of Jack’s truck instead of the van but it had an effect.
Jack immediately ducked into the shadow of the building, shotgun aimed straight up the bluff—at her. She could read his indecision though she couldn’t see his expression clearly. He’d expected trouble and she’d given it to him and the side effect of that was that he’d identified the danger—only it was misguided. No way the shotgun could hurt her from that distance, but what had happened was that his back was open to the real threat.
The thought had no more than skittered into her head than the gunman reappeared, his movements covered by the sound of the rain. He jabbed his revolver into Jack’s back. Jack slowly dropped the shotgun. She could tell they were talking though Jack was apparently told to keep looking ahead of him. The gunman clearly didn’t like Jack’s answers. His movements became jerky, his anger telegraphing all the way up the bluff.
Hannah squeezed the trigger again, her intent being to hit the Dumpster. The shot went wild but it was apparently enough to get the assailant’s attention, for he seemed to cut his losses. As he turned to run, the wind caught the brim of his hat and blew it off his head. Hannah gasped in recognition. As Jack scrambled for the shotgun, the gunman climbed into the van. Hannah fired again, but the van kept going.
By now Jack had reached his truck but he didn’t get far in hot pursuit. The second or third bullet had apparently taken out a tire, maybe two. He got out of the truck, perused his tires and swore. Well, Hannah wasn’t positive he swore, but it sure looked as though he did. He raised his gaze and looked up at the rocks. Hannah flipped on the safety and held the rifle above her head, then she turned and ran back to her car. She drove as fast as she could to the car park, arriving within a few minutes.
Jack, soaked through to the skin, stood by his lopsided truck watching her approach with anxious eyes. He held the rain hat in his hands.
“Are you okay?” she asked as the window rolled down.
He grabbed the door and peered in at her. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes. Jack, I know who it was. The wind blew his hat off. It was Hugo Correa, Jack. And he limped away after he bent over you. I can hardly believe it, but I got a good look. I don’t know what he wants, but—”
“I recognized his voice. He wants a tape. That’s what he said when he poked that gun in my back. ‘Where is she? Where’s the tape?’”
“What tape?” Hannah gasped.
“I don’t know.”
“The only tapes—”
“Are the ones you forgot to send to David’s mother.” He ran around the car and jumped in. “Let’s go.”
JACK KNEW THE MINUTE he walked into Mimi’s house that someone had been there before them. “We may be too late,” he said as he glanced at the pulled-out drawers and open cabinets.
“I don’t think so. It was this way this morning when I came for Grandpa’s rifle. If they’d found what they wanted, why try to bash you at the car park?”
He kept his mouth clamped shut. She may well have saved his life just now, but she’d come into a house that was compromised without him and set everything in motion—again without him. Some bodyguard he was turning out to be.
T
he box was in the closet right where they’d left it. If it didn’t hold the right tape, he had no idea where to turn next.
“I forgot about the VCR tapes,” she said as they dug through the contents. “Grandma has an old player hooked up to her bedroom television. Come on.”
Carrying the box, they continued down the hall to Mimi’s bedroom. Jack squelched when he walked—his clothes were hopelessly wet, right down to his shoes, but there was no way he was going to risk taking the time to dry things. If the police decided to look for either one of them, this was the second place they would come.
If Hugo Correa decided to come out in the open, he knew where Hannah lived….
The wedding tape played on as Hannah disappeared to change clothes. She returned after a few minutes wearing the black outfit she’d started the day in.
“This is all I can offer,” she said, handing him wool socks.
“Better than nothing. So far the tape is just a wedding,” he added as he took off his shoes, peeled off his socks and put on the dry ones.
“Can we fast-forward?” she asked.
“I don’t see why not.” He handed her the remote and pulled on his boots, then he dug through the box for the audio tapes. “This could take hours we don’t have. We can stop if something looks suspicious. Do you have an audiotape player, Hannah?”
“In the car.”
There were five classical tapes, several pop, some heavy metal and even an opera or two. Some were home-recorded with titles and artists written in indelible ink on the plastic boxes. They were probably the best bets and when he got his hands on a player, he’d try those first. Unfortunately, there was no label marked “blackmail tape.”
Hannah pulled out the wedding tape and popped in the flying lesson.
Jack, growing impatient, paced. When Hannah’s phone rang, he took over the VCR duties. On the screen, a blue and white Cessna touched down on the tarmac and a few moments later, lens zooming in for a close-up, David waved from the window.
The tape went into static that he fast-forwarded through just in case something had been recorded afterward. Hannah finished her phone conversation. “Grandma is in a town called Ferndale at a B & B having a ball.”
“We need to take the audio tapes and get out of here,” Jack said.
“Let me call Jill first. It’ll only take a second.”
She was true to her word, conducting the briefest of conversations. “Jill said the baby is awake and staring at her two-year-old. She says I can leave her there forever.”
“And you told her no thanks.”
“I told her I might have to take her up on an extended visit. She said that would be fine.”
“There’s no need for that. In fact, go to her now. Stay at Jill’s house until I figure this out.”
“No way. This is about my family being attacked by people I thought were my friends. I just can’t wrap my head around Hugo Correa entering this house and stealing my baby. I can hardly believe it.”
Jack knew what she meant. He didn’t know Hugo well, but he’d been the man’s bodyguard down in Tierra Montañosa for a few days, and he’d been left with the impression of a soft-spoken man who had always been in his father’s shadow. He’d also seen him in the guerilla camp, witnessed a guard whacking his face with the butt of an automatic weapon. Hard to believe someone could live through all that and then be so cavalier with other people’s lives.
He put an arm around Hannah and drew her closer. “Hannah, listen to me. Abby needs you. You’re all she has. I don’t have anyone depending on me. If I die, I die doing what I’m supposed to be doing, guarding you and her. But if something happens to either of you—”
He stopped because she’d pulled his head down and planted her mouth on his. He tasted the same longing on her lips as he did on his own. He ran his fingers along her throat as he lost himself in the sensation of kissing her. He wished for time, wished for peace, wished for the future in a way he’d never wished before.
She broke the connection and whispered into his neck, “What were you singing to Aubrielle the other day?”
“The lullaby? It’s called ‘Duerme, Niño Chiquito.’”
“What are the lyrics?”
“Let me think. Sleep, my little baby,” he began softly, his breath rustling her hair. “Sleep, my little babe, sleep, my…precious soul, I think that’s right. Sleep all through the night, my little morning star.”
She was quiet for a long time and then she abruptly switched gears again. “I forgot to tell you something. The police found a dead private eye out at the rock quarry.”
“I know, I was there when they pulled him out of the water and heard about his identity on the radio. A cop stopped me afterward, so the fact I was there is now on record.”
“Great. What if the private eye was working for Hugo? Maybe he was the one watching me and skulking around my house.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jack said. “Let’s listen to these tapes.”
THEY HUSTLED OUT TO HANNAH’S car. She automatically got behind the wheel.
“Drive a few blocks, just get away from this house,” he told her. After she’d put a half mile between her grandmother’s house and the car, she pulled up against the curb.
“Let’s start with heavy metal,” he said. “One of those that look like they were home-recorded.” He slipped the tape into the tape player. “We’ll fast forward through them all, pausing every few seconds to see if David taped over something. If nothing shows up, we can listen from beginning to end.”
She suppressed a groan. There were hours of music on the tapes and they might be looking in the wrong place; these tapes might be totally immaterial. Maybe they should just go to the police and turn in Hugo.
She took the box and looked through the tapes, pausing for a second with the classical. While Black Sabbath crashed and banged in the background, she perused the artists. Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven.
“Jack?” she said slowly and when he didn’t respond, turned down the radio volume. “Jack, do you still have that piece of paper I gave you, the one that was in the gym bag with David’s money?”
“In my wallet,” he said, digging his wallet out of his pocket. The leather was still damp but the paper he withdrew seemed dry. “9D 125 1-2,” he read.
Looking at the plastic case in her hand, she said, “Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Opus 125, Movements 1-2.
His lips curled into a smile. “That’s it.”
He ejected Black Sabbath and she popped in Beethoven and turned the volume back up. Violins filled the car. Hannah hit the fast-forward button for a second and resumed play. Trumpets, flutes and drums. She did this two additional times before the sound of men’s voices replaced the music. They were speaking Spanish too fast for Hannah to follow and there was a lot of background noise confusing the issue further.
She looked at Jack as she juggled the buttons until the precise moment the music stopped abruptly and a man’s voice whispered, “April 30, 11:20 a.m., Correa and Hurtado, Tierra Montañosa border, aboard Bell charter N480EX.”
A shiver ran down Hannah’s spine. It was jarring to hear David’s guarded whisper after all this time and though a Spanish conversation in the background became the focal point, she could still hear David’s excited breathing.
“Do you recognize Hugo’s voice or the man David called Hurtado?” Jack asked her.
“No. I’ve never heard of anyone named Hurtado, either. They’re speaking Spanish and it’s like they’re talking in a tin box.”
“Must be aboard the helicopter,” Jack said.
She pictured David on the chartered Bell. Maybe he’d been the pilot, maybe that’s why they’d taken him to Ecuador so he could pilot a helicopter to a secret rendezvous. Maybe he was listening to the symphony when he caught wind of a business meeting in the back. David understood Spanish. Maybe he’d realized he was sitting on a gold mine if he could just record what he was hearing and use it to blackmail.
&nb
sp; Jack turned the volume up and listened very carefully for several minutes as she sat there trying hard not to distract him. The tape suddenly went back to the music.
Jack turned off the player. She met his gaze. His eyes looked grim.
“What is it?” she asked. “What were they talking about?”
He rubbed his eyes. “I think David caught them in the middle of a conversation. They were plotting the ambush, they even talked about drugging me. Damn, remember how we both overslept? Hugo was staying in the same hotel. Maybe he paid someone to doctor the wine we ordered late that night.”
She remembered the woozy way she’d felt upon wakening. It hadn’t lasted long. When she’d shaken Jack awake and they both realized how late they were, there hadn’t been time for woozy. “Yes, Hugo was staying there. We all were staying there. We were all on the same floor.”
“I don’t think the GTM was actually involved in the ambush. It sounded like the other guy, Hurtado, like he was in charge of creating a group that would claim to be the GTM, that would blame the ambush and everything else on them.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To get the insurance money and have the credit go to the GTM who must have accepted the blame even though they didn’t actually do anything because it fit their agenda.”
“Hugo Correa shot himself?”
“No, I don’t think so. I doubt he was meant to be hurt. It must have been an accident, something must have gone wrong when they staged their supposed release. Or maybe the other guy, Harrison Plumber, maybe he was suspicious so Hugo took one for the team. You said it yourself the other day, the company only insured the top echelon—to get all the money, they needed both Correa and Plumber.”
“Then the Staar Foundation isn’t backing the GTM.”
“No, they’re backing their own phony look-alike group. They also mentioned something they called the ‘thirtieth anniversary plans.’ It sounded like something was in the offing for that day, too.”
