by Marc Cameron
“Bitch!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I am going to cut y—”
Carmen was vaguely aware of a shadow looming above her, then Luis flew away as if launched by a cannon, rolling with a loud whoomf into the ditch.
* * *
A half hour later Carmen sat on a rock beside the fire. Surprisingly, her hands and feet were still free. Luis stood across from her, soaking up the heat from the fire while he nursed his wounded nostril where she’d cut him with her fingernail. Chago stood back at the hood of the Jeep, looking sad. Neither man spoke of the attempted rape, or of their fight that had stopped it.
“I never been so cold, Chago,” Luis said, his teeth chattering, as much from the beating Chago had given him as from the cold. “I think that cold water last night mighta done something to my bones.” He looked over his shoulder, staring daggers at Carmen as if his predicament was all her fault. He nodded slowly, unable to keep from giving her a lascivious up and down stare.
Chago stepped toward the stump, putting himself between Carmen and his foul partner.
“I told you,” he said, his voice a gravel whisper, “this one looks like my sister.”
“I’d do your sister.” Luis shrugged and then backpedaled quickly, nearly tripping over the fire.
Carmen thought for a moment Chago would kill the skinny murderer, but he let the comment pass, turning to her instead.
“Look,” Luis said. “I don’t want to go back to the boss any more than you do, but I’m tired of this shit. I say we kill her and call it good.”
“Shut up,” Chago said. He turned back to Carmen. “You have had time to think. Tell us, are there any more copies of the video you took of the boat?”
Carmen sat on the stump, her eyes shifting between the two men. One wanted to rape her, the other thought it would be a mercy to kill her quickly. She was absolutely certain that her life was over as soon as she told them what they wanted to know. Greg had tried to talk to them, and the crazy one had murdered him anyway. They’d made a mistake by backing her against a wall like this. Apart from a quick and merciful death—which she doubted they’d give her anyway—there was nothing left for them to bargain with.
Her own voice, hoarse and strained, startled her when she spoke.
“Let me understand,” she said. “I tell you what you want to know and you will make it quick?”
Chago looked at her with dead black eyes.
“I would do this for you, yes.”
Carmen laughed out loud, rocking back and forth with both hands on top of her head. “Holy shit, Chago! I don’t know if you realize this, but that’s the worst incentive on the entire planet.” Too exhausted to think clearly, the smile bled from her face. “I saw what you bastards did to Greg. You won’t believe me no matter what I say. Even when I tell you, you’ll only torture me to make sure.” She pointed at Luis, wagging her head though pain from the movement made her nauseous. “That one will say he has to rape me to be sure that I’m telling the truth, but the truth is it makes him feel good to hurt people.”
Luis drew the knife from his belt. “I don’t have to listen to this!”
Chago stopped him with an open palm to the chest. “Idiot! She is trying to make us kill her.”
“Good Lord, Chago.” Carmen rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to die.”
Chago cocked his head to one side, looking at her. “Then why do you hide the footage?” he asked. “It is not as if you are protecting your national security. Your silence does not make you a martyr. This video means nothing to you.”
Carmen wanted to scream. “You never even told me what you wanted until after I saw you stab Greg! Now I’m just trying to stay alive.”
Luis snorted. “That is never going to happen.”
Chago held up his hand. “Please,” he said. “What do you propose?”
She took a deep breath, knowing it might well be her last. “There are two copies.”
Chago slammed a fist into his open palm. “I knew it!”
“Shit!” Luis said. “Where?”
“You killed Greg because he tried to negotiate,” she said. “But what do you expect people to do?”
Luis grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head backward over the top of the stump. Chago watched him do it and made no move to stop him. It exposed her throat to his blade.
“I expect you to tell me what I want to know,” Luis hissed. “You got no room to bargain.”
Carmen thought her heart might stop until Chago stepped in and loomed above them. Luis backed away, nicking her neck with the blade in the process.
She spoke directly to Chago, feeling a flimsy glimmer of hope. “Each camera was set to record on two cards simultaneously. You have two of them, but there are two more. I’ll tell you where one of them is as a sign of good faith. Then we’ll have to figure out a way for you to let me go—or I promise you that the second card will be found and the video will come to light.”
Luis spat into the fire.
“Chica,” he said. “I once cut out a woman’s rib and beat her to death with the bone. So don’t think you can threaten me.”
Carmen gulped, then decided to press on, even if it killed her—which it was very likely to do. Her voice began to tremble so badly she could hardly speak. “This is not a threat,” she said. “But this is the way things are. If you kill me, there will still be a card out there—and I won’t be around to tell you—”
A stiff wind blew in from the water and kicked up the fire. Chago’s voice rose with the flames. “Both of you shut up!” he said. “I need to think.” At length, he glared down at Carmen. “Okay. Tell us about the first one then.”
Carmen felt hope grow into a painful lump in her throat. “Greg said we had something important as soon as you started chasing us,” she said. “We had no idea what it was, but he said we should each hold on to one of the cards, just in case. He hid his in a plastic baggie in his pants pocket.”
Luis’s knuckles clenched white around his knife. “What did you say? I swam that guy’s dead ass all the way out there and he had it on him the whole time?” He shot a look at Chago, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Her nerves were on edge, but Carmen had no trouble following the meaning. “We’re good then, right?” Luis said. “I mean, the guy’s sunk.”
Chago turned to Carmen, studying her. “Would not the water kill the media card?”
She shook her head. “The baggie should protect it,” she said. “Salt won’t do it any good, but it’s solid state, so even if the water gets in it might still be all right. Put it in a bag of rice and it could be dried out enough to retrieve the data.”
Chago turned to Luis. “Will he stay down?”
“Shit!” Luis pounded the top of his head with an open hand. “I think so. . . .”
Chago’s face grew dark. His breath came faster. “Tell me now. Where is this second media card?”
Carmen swallowed her fears. “Chago, I . . . I can’t,” she said. “That wasn’t the deal. Maybe I should talk about this next part with your boss.”
Chago stooped down to look at her nose to nose. She could feel the heat coming off his body. “You want to talk to my boss?”
Carmen fully expected him to stab her to death at any moment. “I . . . do,” she said.
Luis looked skyward and broke into a fit of nervous laughter.
Chago wiped his hands together, as if washing them of any responsibility. “You think El Guiso is cruel,” he said. “But when we deliver you into the hands of Manuel Alvarez-Garza, remember, chica, you asked for it.”
CHAPTER 22
OFFICER SIMEON PARKED ON A GRAVEL APRON ON THE OCEAN SIDE of the pavement. Across the narrow road was a two-story cedar home with a white Alaska State Troopers Tahoe and another half dozen assorted island vehicles parked haphazardly along a semicircular driveway. As much as Cutter loved his home state, he had to admit that the AST golden bear on the Tahoe’s door was a little cooler than the Florida Highway Patrol’s orange.
The house perched on a lot that was cut out of the mountain, against a wall of black rock and dense evergreens. Wood smoke poured from the chimney, curling through the moss-covered branches in a hazy cloud. Behind the house were several freshly cut cedar stumps, their tops bright orange against the prevailing blacks and greens. Apart from the house itself there was nothing level about the place. At least twenty people milled in the small front yard, some leaning against trees, others huddled around a weathered picnic table that looked like it might come careening down the mountain at any moment.
A fleshy redhead with twin braids draped over the shoulders of a purple fleece jacket studied Fontaine’s approach. Her patched denim skirt looked as if it was sewn from a pair of faded blue jeans. Alternately bawling as if she’d just been beaten and screaming in fits of red-faced rage, she was attended by two younger women as if she were royalty. One young woman held a box of tissues within easy reach. The other, a mousy thing, appeared too frightened to get within striking distance of the seething monster. A few feet away, a brunette wearing extremely tight yoga pants and a cowl neck sweater stood sobbing with a tissue to her nose. A young man with a long beard, braided like something straight out of a Viking movie, tried to console her. The place looked like some kind of beard convention with more than half the men in the yard sporting similar facial hair. Several men and at least two of the women wore dreadlocks of varying lengths. Half of them, including the men, were crying. Most looked like they’d walked out of an REI catalog photo shoot.
Officer Simeon shot a glance at Cutter. “And that,” he said, “is FISHWIVES!”
A squat but thickly built man stepped out of the open front door, blocking their way with folded arms. He was a head shorter than Cutter, with a buzzed flattop. Somehow, he’d poured himself into a black T-shirt that was two sizes too small. The sleeves were rolled up making it impossible for anyone to miss his sculpted biceps.
“The trooper’s busy with a crime scene,” the man said, not yielding.
“This is Kenny Douglas,” Officer Simeon said. “He thinks because he’s a security guard for a television show he outranks me.”
Douglas wagged his head, his grin dripping with derision toward the Native man. “Firstly,” he said. “I am a security consultant, not a security guard. The difference being about eighty K a year. Secondly, the trooper told me I should stand here and watch the door. And, lastly, this isn’t the city of Craig, so technically, I do outrank you.”
Fontaine was slightly ahead, so Cutter held back to see how she handled this. She fished her badge out of her jacket pocket and flashed it, nodding toward the door. “US Marshals.”
“So?” Douglas said. “Missing persons aren’t a federal matter.”
The deputy studied Douglas for a long moment, sizing him up. “You’re right,” she said at length, stepping forward to invade the man’s body space. She stood so close her lead foot was directly between his feet, her knee a fraction of an inch from his groin. “But we often assist locals, sometimes just by jerking a knot in the ass of some smart guy who’s hampering the investigation.”
Douglas backpedaled enough that Fontaine was able to push her way through the door without actually getting physical.
“Pity,” Cutter said as he went by. “That would have been fun to watch.”
Officer Simeon leaned in to Cutter as he followed them in. “I really like your partner,” he said.
The living room was in shambles. Flat-screen monitors, tens of thousands of dollars in cameras, and a variety of video equipment lay strewn around the floor. Across the room, where it connected to the kitchen, the trooper stooped beside the open back door, examining the leading edge. He stood and peeled off a black nitrile glove to shake Cutter’s and then Fontaine’s hands in turn. “Sam Benjamin,” he said. “You must be the marshals.”
“We are.” Cutter nodded. “Officer Simeon says you’ve had two more go missing?”
“Looks that way,” Benjamin said. “No witnesses so far, but as you can see, these two didn’t exactly just wander off.”
Cutter stepped around the trooper to have a look at the back door. There were no tool or pry marks. “You think someone picked the lock?”
Benjamin shrugged. “That’s my guess. Her reality show’s a pitiful excuse for entertainment, but Carmen Delgado’s a smart woman. I don’t see her leaving a door unlocked with all this equipment in here.”
Fontaine moved closer to the door, having a look for herself. “Delgado works on the reality show?”
“She’s the big cheese,” Benjamin said. “The producer. From what I hear, the entire thing was her idea. And I gotta tell you, that doesn’t exactly endear her to some of the folks on the island.”
Cutter stepped out to look at the ground around the back door. The trooper had already poured dental stone, taking casts of three possible tracks.
“So she has some enemies?” Fontaine asked.
The trooper looked around the room. “I wouldn’t have said anyone hated her bad enough to trash the place . . . and yet, here we are. Carmen’s gone, along with one of her cameramen, a guy named Greg Conner. I’ve already dusted for prints, but I’m not hopeful. If someone’s enough of a pro to pick the lock, I doubt they’re going to leave fingerprints.”
“Looks like they were after something,” Cutter said. “Do you know what’s missing yet? It’s none of my business, just curious.”
“Another couple sets of eyes don’t offend me,” the trooper said. “You’re not hurting my feelings at all. My partner’s working a sexual assault up at Port Protection near the north end of the island. Our only Forest Service officer’s down in Seattle visiting his new granddaughter. Craig PD’s down one, and one is off island. The officer from Klawock is at the academy and the brownshirt came down with food poisoning last night. Simeon’s the only one around now, besides me.”
Cutter toed through the pile of video gear on the floor. “What’s a brownshirt?”
“Fish and Wildlife trooper,” Benjamin said. “Same training we have, just different uniform and duties. I can usually rely on him to back me up.”
“Sounds like a perfect storm,” Fontaine said.
“An everyday occurrence around here,” the trooper said. “They cover for me as much or more than I do for them. So, I’m happy for all the help I can get. Anyway, as you can see, it’s tough to tell if anything was taken without knowing what was here before the break-in. One of the field producers is supposed to come in and get me an inventory as soon as I’m done grabbing any prints and photos.”
Cutter nodded at some media cards on the floor. “These are all numbered,” he said.
“They are,” Benjamin said. “And from the looks of it, eight of them are missing. According to the cameraman I talked to, that really doesn’t mean anything. They’re probably with all the other field cameras at their apartments in Craig. He’s going to check and get me a list.”
Fontaine picked up a small plastic vial. “Blood?”
“Good eye,” Benjamin said. “You guys keep me on my toes. I got it off the table there by the video monitors. We can hope it belongs to an aggressor. It’s more likely one of the victims put up a fight.”
Cutter gave a somber nod. “You think this might be related to Hayden Starnes?”
The trooper gave a long sigh. “Could be. Carmen was his boss. It’s possible he came back and wanted his last paycheck and she told him to get lost.”
“That’s not what happened!” A shrill voice carried in through the front door. Cutter turned to see the emotional Fishwife queen standing there beside Douglas, the security specialist. She was a large but well-proportioned woman. The fiery braids and her tremendous size made her look like a Wagnerian opera singer missing her horned helmet.
“That’s Bright Jonas,” the trooper said, nodding at the woman.
“It was that nosy bitch, January Cross. She did this,” Bright said. “Anyone with half a brain can see it.”
Trooper Benjamin cocked his head t
o one side and looked at the deputies. “News to me,” he said under his breath. “Why do you suspect her?”
“Because,” Bright said, “she had a fight with Carmen and Greg last night when they came back in from an evening shoot. It’s not enough that she sneaks around trying to seduce our husbands. Now she’s gone and hurt Carmen.”
Simeon shook his head in disbelief. “Bright, you know that’s just a made-up thing for the show’s story line, right?”
“Where there’s smoke, Jeremy,” Bright fumed. “She did this. I’m sure of it.”
“Thanks, Bright,” Benjamin said. “Officer Simeon, would you mind showing Mrs. Jonas outside?”
“There’s no way January Cross kidnapped two healthy people,” Benjamin said as soon as the Craig officer had taken the talent outside and shut the door behind him. “More likely it was Millie Burkett’s father in a fit of drunken rage. Millie was doing some work for the production company and Burkett felt that work was responsible for his daughter’s disappearance.”
“Three missing people,” Deputy Fontaine mused. “And a wanted sex offender with a record for kidnapping. That doesn’t sound good to me.”
“You got that right,” the trooper said.
“Can we help out with anything?” Cutter asked.
Benjamin raised an eyebrow. “I’m about finished here,” he said. “But I need to talk with Gerald Burkett. You guys mind going over to have a chat with January Cross so I can tell Bright we checked her off the list? January’s relatively new on the island, but she’s all over the place with her boat. Everyone knows everyone around here, so there’s a good chance she’ll have a lead on Starnes anyway.”
“I’m happy to go talk to her,” Cutter said, “just as long as she’s nothing like that Bright Jonas gal.”
“Not even close,” Benjamin said. He looked at Lola Fontaine, then back at Cutter, thinking. “Mind if I take your partner with me? Gerald Burkett might calm down a notch or two if he thinks I brought the Marshals Service in to help me look for his daughter. Simeon can drop you off at my office. The receptionist will give you the keys to the extra truck the sergeant drives when he comes to visit. Feel free to wreck the hell out of it.”
