The Cain File

by Max Tomlinson

  -28-

  In early-morning darkness, Gauman backed the eighteen-foot aluminum fishing boat into a secluded inlet dripping with vines. Maggie, Cain, and Lita climbed aboard. Once out on the Napo River, equipped with a 90-horsepower outboard motor, they skipped past barges and transports like a giant skeeter bug, hitting a swell now and then that knocked the boat sideways, but it was momentary; they barely touched the water all the way back to Coca.

  Gauman let them off in the back of a boat yard, where a guard dog straining on a chain barked nonstop at their arrival. Under severe lights by a fence topped with barbed wire, Lita and Cain hustled Maggie into a rusted Chevy van, a ’70s’ throwback with mag wheels and faded stripes on its side.

  And soon they were on Highway 20, shooting toward Quito.

  Maggie sat shivering in the back seat by the window in her denim jacket soaked with river spray, over her mud-caked jeans and once-white T-shirt. Next to her, keeping a watchful eye out, sat Lita, with Maggie’s backpack, and her right hand resting on a Beretta perched on her thigh. Cain sat in the front passenger seat, wearing a throwaway plastic poncho that had left pools on the floor mats. Underneath, he carried a small Lercker pistol that looked like a cap gun. The larger firearms had been left back in the Yasuni; in populated areas, the last thing Cain and Lita wanted to look like was militia. Gauman drove.

  No one spoke.

  Toward Mulauco the sun rose, a gray haze casting first light across the windshield.

  Maggie needed to get hold of Ed. After last night, the situation was edging out of control. She needed backup. Soon.

  Lita had her laptop.

  As they approached Mulauco traffic turned sluggish, lines of trucks from the countryside funneling through the small town.

  Maggie leaned forward, gripping her belly. She gave an Academy-worthy groan.

  “What?” Lita said.

  “I need the toilet.”

  “When we get to Quito.”

  “With this traffic? It’ll take over an hour.”

  “Cross your legs, like the rest of us.”

  “I’m not going to make it. You want a mess all over this seat? Because that’s what we’re talking about.”

  From the front seat, Cain turned and eyed Maggie. His tongue moved under his bottom lip, as if he were trying to determine whether she was telling the truth.

  “I’m serious as a heart attack,” she said. “I’ve been trying to hold it.”

  Cain frowned, turned to Gauman. “Pull over—up ahead.”

  The driver slowed, guiding the van into a vacant lot with weeds cracking the asphalt.

  “Lita,” Cain said. “Go with her.”

  Maggie said: “If you think I’m squatting in the back of this damn parking lot with a ton of traffic going by, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  “La-de-da,” Lita said. “We do have a real live duchess on our hands.”

  “What you’ve got is someone who is going to have a real live accident any minute now. I don’t know how old those anchovies were, but they went right through me. Can I make it any clearer?”

  “Tough shit, lady.”

  “And that’s exactly what it’ll be.” Maggie noticed trucks up ahead, pulled up under an orange-and-yellow Primax sign with a jagged chunk out of the corner, a bare bulb burning away the remnants of night. “Stop there,” she said. “That truck stop.”

  “Go ahead,” Cain said to Gauman. “Lita. Go with her.”

  “Give me your pistol,” she said to Cain. “This one’s too big.”

  Cain and Lita traded guns. Lita slipped the smaller Lercker into a jacket pocket. Gauman hopped out, ran around, heaved open the sliding side door.

  “Let’s go, little doll,” Lita said to Maggie. “You are in a hurry, aren’t you?”

  The two of them headed back behind a restaurant closed for the night. Filthy wasn’t the word. The woman’s toilet had no lights and the floor was a good inch deep in the kind of stuff that should never cover a floor.

  Next door, the men’s toilet was only slightly better off. But at least there was a bulb lit and places where you could step that didn’t involve used toilet paper adhering to your shoe. Maggie entered, Lita right behind, hand in her pocket, clutching her pistol. The smell was less than captivating.

  Two truck drivers stood at a long encrusted urinal, relieving themselves. One did a double take when he saw Maggie and Lita walking in.

  “The woman’s room is out of commission,” Maggie said, rushing over to an empty stall, going in, slamming the door. She pulled her jeans down, sat on the pot.

  Maggie coughed as she got out the phone and pretended to do her business. Shifting the volume down, she quietly tapped out a text to Ed:

  on my way to Moshis. Beltran hopefully there. things getting dicey. cant talk. need backup. will ping u later

  Lita’s hiking shoes appeared by the stall door. “What the hell are you doing in there?” Lita said. “Hurry up already.”

  Maggie hit send, hoping her text would go through. But in the middle of nowhere, who knew? She watched the spinning blue circle, then saw a message pop.

  UNABLE TO SEND. BALANCE IS 0. PLEASE TOP OFF YOUR ACCOUNT. THANK YOU FOR USING AGUILA CELLULAR.

  Goddamn!

  She saw Lita’s eye through the side crack in the door.

  “What the hell is that?” Lita said. “Are you on a fucking phone in there?”

  Maggie jumped up, shoved the phone back down her bra. She flushed, yanked up her jeans, exited the stall. Lita grabbed Maggie, spun her around, slammed her against the tiles. Hard. A big man in a ball cap standing at a urinal turned his head, mouth agape.

  “All better now?” Lita screamed, shoving her sharp nails down the front of Maggie’s shirt, ripping out her phone. “You damn puta!” She hurled the phone against the far wall where it smacked the tiles a foot from the pissing man’s head. He spun around, a stream of urine following.

  “What are you looking at, boludo?” Lita growled. “Get lost before I beat your ass!”

  He zipped up as he fled the bathroom.

  Lita pulled her gun, about to strike Maggie.

  Maggie said, “You’re in love with him.”

  Lita stopped, pistol midair. “What the hell do you know? What do you know about anything? Money—that’s all you know!”

  “Yeah,” Maggie nodded. “And I thought love was a no-no with you revolutionary types. But he’s not your regular commie with BO and a scratchy beard reading Chairman Mao, is he?” Maggie gave a knowing squint. “Come on, look at him.”

  Lita blinked back, her gun arm dropping to her side.

  “Yeah, he’s something all right,” Maggie said. “Any woman with one good eye can see that. Who wouldn’t want to go a few rounds with Comrade Cain? And he’s got that fire burning inside to boot. What a combo: looks and passion. But do you really think he’s gonna be happy with some trigger-happy revolutionista, eating sardines out of a can in the jungle for the rest of his life? You think he’s gonna hold your rough little hand when he’s got two million pavos itching away in the other?”

  Lita took a deep breath, the gun by her side forgotten. “That money is for Grim Harvest.”

  The stiffness and openness of her reply let Maggie know she’d hit a direct target.

  “It’s meant to be,” Maggie said. “But he doesn’t buy that Marxist mumbo jumbo. I’ve never seen anyone look so bored at your little meeting. And he didn’t much like your attitude out on that road last night, did he? You two sure have your differences when you get right down to it. He doesn’t want to give the money up either—like you do. Why is that?” Maggie raised her eyebrows. “You’re right—I do know about money. It’s the heart of everything. And two million U.S. buys a lot of everything. Especially around here.” She saw her words sinking in.

  “You don’t know anything about him,” Lita said.

  “I know he’s a got a woman in Bogotá who wrenches necks when she walks down the street. Yeah, you know who I’m
talking about. In your gut, you sensed it. You’re not alone. I’ve got a guy back home who cheats on me right under my nose and I still want him.” Maggie shook her head. “You think Commerce Oil didn’t do their homework on Cain? He’s going to take that money and run, babe. Leave you high and dry with your band of dreamy revolutionaries. Because that chica in Bogotá has an insurance policy. His kid. Oh yeah.” Maggie gave a sympathetic frown. “All those hushed phone calls he makes? You’d be an idiot if you didn’t suspect. And you’re not an idiot. Not by a long shot. No, you’re just in love.” Maggie patted Lita’s cheek. “Poor Comrade Lita. In love with the wrong guy. Join the club, sister.”

  Lita looked up, blinking. “Ernesto.”

  “If it makes any difference, he’ll leave her too. His type always does. But not for a while. Not with his kid sucking on her tit. And definitely not for you. It’ll be someone new.”

  Lita gave a heavy sigh, nodded, put her gun away, the look of anguish vanishing back under a veneer of tough terruca.

  “I have my mission,” she said. “We need to get back to the van.” Lita stormed out in a huff, turning the corner to exit the restroom.

  Maggie saw her cell phone—Abraham’s cell phone—lying on the floor in front of the urinal. From where she stood, she could see the glass was cracked, one side hanging loose, but it still looked more or less intact.

  “Come on!” Lita shouted from the door.

  Bending down swiftly on her way out, Maggie scooped up the phone, gave the power button a quick press, and saw it flicker red. Slipping the phone in her left jacket pocket, where it would be obscured from view by the rest of the van when Maggie resumed her seat in the back, she followed Lita.

  -29-

  Late-morning sun clawed its way through low clouds as the van ascended into a bad part of town, of which there were many in Quito. This one was north of the old airport, up along the mountainside where the few sidewalks were broken up and overgrown with wildflowers. Metal bars obscured every window. Graffiti made an urban camouflage across the desolate buildings.

  Gauman pulled the van over next to an open space where an abandoned car without wheels lay in the weeds like a metal skeleton. Maggie watched Cain and Lita as they got out of the van, waiting for that precious second or two when their backs might be turned. Cain pulled his poncho off and Lita helped him with it. Gauman was checking his phone for messages.

  No one watching.

  Maggie pulled the shattered cell phone from her jacket pocket, out of view from the open van door. She stuffed the phone down the crack of the bench seat behind her. She would bet the thing was still functional, capable of sending a GPS signal if nothing else.

  “Let’s go!” Cain said, turning around to glare at Maggie as he threw the crumpled poncho onto the passenger seat. He was getting nervous. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not, but she suspected it wasn’t.

  Maggie climbed out. Gauman drove down to the end of the dirt street, making a 180, then shut off the engine.

  Outside the thin air bore the metallic tang of pollution.

  “This way,” Cain said. He and Lita flanked Maggie, practically pressing her in between them, hands in the pockets of their jackets where they gripped unseen pistols. Lita carried Maggie’s backpack. They guided her across the street toward a multistoried apartment building with outdoor stairwells, a structure that looked more like a jail spray-painted with slogans and obscenities than anything else.

  Lita hadn’t said a word since her confrontation with Maggie in the highway restroom. Maggie hoped that meant her “revelation” about Cain had taken hold. With any luck, she’d begun to drive a wedge between Lita and Cain.

  Cain and Lita hustled Maggie to the third floor up to a red door. It had a silver swirl of graffiti across it. From within, a television brayed with canned laughter.

  Lita knocked four times. The volume of the TV dropped. Footsteps approached the door. “Who’s there?” an older woman said.

  “Justice,” Lita said matter-of-factly.

  The door opened partway. A pear-shaped woman in her sixties wearing a blue housedress and floral apron gave a frown at the dried mud on the cuffs of Maggie’s jeans before she stuck her head out, looked around, then stepped back and held the door open. “Tell her to brush that off,” she said to Lita. “I don’t want it in the house.”

  “It’ll give you something to do,” Lita said, pushing Maggie past her. The woman sighed as she stood back, letting them into a tiny living room. She jumped with surprise when Cain appeared. “Oh, Comrade Cain! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  Cain nodded deferentially. “Think nothing of it, Comrade.”

  All the blinds were drawn. An intense-looking man, about thirty, with a long gleaming braided ponytail, wearing a black-leather motorcycle jacket, had risen from an armchair where he scrutinized the arrivals from behind thick framed glasses. His eyes glistened behind them. Another guy, a lanky teenager wearing a reverse ball cap, loose black T-shirt and baggy jeans, lay on the floor, head propped up in one hand, flipping a remote control with the other. He settled on cartoons. A .38 lay by his unlaced sneaker. Otherwise, the small room was neat, with twin doilies positioned equal distances apart on a table pushed next to the wall by the door.

  “Get up!” the man in glasses hissed to the boy, who turned, saw Cain, immediately jumped up, almost at attention.

  “Comrade, it is always an honor,” the man in the glasses said to Cain, bowing. The heavy bulk on one side of his jacket suggested a weapon.

  “Where is the prisoner, Paavo?” Cain said.

  “This way.” Paavo extended a rough hand toward the back of the apartment.

  Maggie followed Cain and Paavo down a narrow hallway painted bright blue, with a wooden crucifix on the wall. Lita stayed behind with Maggie’s backpack. At the end of the hall were two doors, one with a pickax handle leaning next to it. The key was in the doorknob. Paavo unlocked the door, picked up the pickax handle, and stood to one side, on guard. Cain went in, followed by Maggie.

  The small room’s single window faced the stairwell outside, but was boarded up with thick plywood, well-secured. The cramped size of the room and lack of air amplified Beltran’s sour body odor and the urine smell that drifted from a plastic bucket in the corner. A single bulb burned overhead.

  Beltran sat on a single bed. He stood up. He wore soiled gray suit pants and a shirt that was wrinkled beyond belief. A half-empty Styrofoam container on the floor held the remnants of a messy meal. Although he tried to remain composed, it was obvious Beltran was scared. His pockmarked skin looked sallow and his signature pompadour was disheveled, dirty and devoid of hair product.

  “You’re Cain?”

  Cain nodded once and Beltran glanced nervously at Maggie. “Am I getting out of here?”

  “Soon,” Cain said. “This woman needs to make sure you’re who we say you are. She’s making the transfer payment.”

  “Thank God,” Beltran muttered. His demeanor was a far cry from the night of the party when he’d marveled at Maggie’s derrière.

  Then he blinked at her in recognition. Before he could speak, Maggie said: “I work for Five Fortunes Petroleum,” squinting to shut him up.

  “Ah,” he said, getting the drift of things quickly. “And Five Fortunes is paying my ransom?”

  “On behalf of Commerce Oil,” she said, giving a dry smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll get the opportunity to return the favor. Many opportunities.”

  “I understand,” Beltran said. “I have no issue with that.”

  Of course he didn’t. “Have they been mistreating you?”

  Beltran eyed Cain, then looked back at Maggie. “No.”

  Maggie wasn’t so sure. “When I get you out of here, you’re coming with me. To the American Embassy. You’ll be sent back home after debriefing, but the first thing you will do is to get a girl named Tica Tuanama and six other prisoners out of Carcel de Mujeres prison. Is that clear?”

  Beltran nodded.
“I know the girl who you mean. And the others. The Yasuni Seven.”

  “Commerce Oil doesn’t want that kind of publicity. They’ve been all over the news. We want them out. Immediately.”

  “Fully understood,” Beltran said.

  Cain interjected, “But there are some things you won’t be talking about.” He gave Beltran a friendly pat on the arm. “We always know where to find you.”

  “Of course,” Beltran said quickly.

  “Good enough,” Maggie said. “I’ll authorize the funds transfer.” She turned and left the small room, with its smell of misery and confinement. Cain followed. The wedge-shaped woman was waiting outside. She went in, then came out carrying the bucket. It sloshed.

  To her annoyance, Maggie found Lita sitting at the small square table in the living room with Maggie’s laptop out and powered up. She waited, pistol to one side.

  The television had been turned off and the teenager was gone.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Maggie said.

  “Aren’t you going to make the transfer now? Oh wait, let me rephrase that: Are you ready to show me how to make the transfer?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m going to drive.”

  “Why wouldn’t you trust me? I want out of here as much as you want me out.”

  Lita gave an impatient sigh.

  “It’s not Facebook,” Maggie said. “There are quite a few steps to the authorization. Get one wrong and access will be revoked.”

  Lita gave a shrug. “I’m anxious to learn.”

  “Comrade . . .” Cain began.

  “I’m doing this,” Lita said with a steely voice, glaring at Cain. “She might pull some trick on us.”

  Cain exhaled. “Very well.”

  There was little Maggie could do. After the restroom incident Lita was watching Maggie closely. And Perhaps Lita wanted to know the true destination of the funds, to see if they might be going directly to Cain. The seed of doubt Maggie had planted might be bearing unwanted fruit.