Open Carry

by Marc Cameron

  Astounded to be alive though her nerves were shot, Carmen set the stack of new clothes on the edge of the bed. She stood there for a long moment, eyes fixed on her injured knuckles. Taking off her clothes for a shower was unthinkable, but something in Garza’s eyes made her believe his simple requests were far more important to him than the large ones—or at least equally so. She glanced around the room, and seeing no obvious cameras, struggled to unbutton her blouse with wooden fingers. Too filthy to sit on such a nice bed, she stepped out of her flannel pants standing up, and pulled her T-shirt up over her head. Her body seemed much bonier than it had been even a day before, the treatment from Luis reducing it to a mass of black bruises. She put a hand to her swollen breast and, overwhelmed with pain and fear, collapsed naked onto the bed. A bloody scrape on her hip blotted the crisp cotton of the duvet. These were the sort of people who might murder her for soiling their boat with her blood—though they had been the ones to give her the wounds.

  She sighed, trying in vain to pull herself together. It couldn’t be helped now.

  The small shower compartment was even more cramped than the cabin, but Carmen found herself grateful for the hot water. She stood under the spigot for as long as she dared. Blood and filth ran down her skin and swirled in the drain at her feet—but there was plenty more blood to be shed.

  * * *

  Beti stood on the back deck of the boat, her hip cocked to one side, her bottom lip sticking out. Her blond hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail, her arms folded across her ample chest in a heaving sulk. “You gave her my finest blouse, mi amor,” she said. Her eyes shone with the rage of a spoiled child who’d been made to share her favorite toy.

  “I let her borrow a blouse,” Garza said, sounding and feeling fatigued. “I am sure it was not your finest.”

  “Well, I am certain it was,” Beti said in rapid-fire Spanish. “It was my favorite as well.”

  Fausto was at the helm, working to keep the bow pointed toward their destination, a bay located on the northwest side of the island where Luis and Chago had sunk the dead cameraman. It was a wonder that the girl hadn’t escaped completely. These two imbeciles had taken the time to sink a man on an island with a forest that was so thick a person might wander ten meters off the roadway and never be heard from again.

  They were heading west for the moment, along the southern end of the island, near the little cabin where this mess had all begun. The boat porpoised up and down in the rolling waves, fighting the wind and bashing against the approaching storm. Soon they would cut back to the north. Chago stood by, opposite Beti, waiting for orders. Luis was busy in the galley.

  Garza took a long breath through his nose, considering how best to proceed. He nodded at Beti.

  “Your favorite blouse?”

  “It was,” she spat. “And I do not know what you mean when you say you let that woman borrow it. I will not be able to wear it again after you kill her in it.”

  Garza shot a look toward the door, then put a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “We will discuss this later.”

  “But, Manolo, I—”

  Garza took two steps across the pitching deck and slapped her across the face. She staggered backward, but he caught her by the tiny throat, fighting the urge to crush it in his hand.

  “I . . . said . . . later!”

  Beti attempted to nod, but his hand kept her chin from moving. Her lips parted, allowing a pitiful gurgle to escape. She began to shake all over, like a little dog. Garza found himself wondering if this sort of reaction had worked on Camacho. He shoved her away and she caught herself on the rail of the boat. Her ponytail had come loose and the wind whipped her hair across her face. She put a hand to her neck, but said nothing.

  Stepping back, he tugged at the cuffs of his fleece jacket. Then he smiled and helped Beti back to her feet, swatting her on the buttock, more for her benefit than his. It was the behavior she was accustomed to, and he needed her to remain calm, for the moment at least.

  * * *

  Carmen sat on the bed, damp hair mopping her shoulders, and thought how foolish her swollen feet looked poking out the end of the expensive slacks. She almost laughed. It was idiotic to worry about her feet when her chances of survival were close to nil.

  She nearly fainted when someone pounded on the door. Whoever it was, they didn’t speak, but left no doubt that the knock was a summons to come topside.

  Garza was sitting at the dining table when Carmen stepped up from the lower level into the main salon. He pushed himself to his feet at her approach. Had she not known him for what he was, she would have thought him a gentleman. Chago stood by the door that led out to the deck. Beti lay back on the settee across from the dining table. Knees up, she glared over the top of a German fashion magazine called TUSH. The smell of garlic and onions hung heavy in the close confines of the boat, but it only made Carmen’s stomach slither deeper into her gut. Thankfully, instead of food, a nautical chart was spread out on the dining table. Garza tapped it with his index finger.

  “Chago tells me the bay where your friend was sunk is here,” he said, tapping again on a spot on the northwest side of the island. He spoke as if he were talking about a favorite camping spot, rather than Greg’s mutilated body. “We are going there now.”

  Carmen nodded. “Okay.”

  “I want to be certain I understand,” Garza continued. “There were only two copies made of the footage?”

  Carmen gulped back her fear, trying to be brave—and more than that, smart. Bravery alone wouldn’t keep her alive. “Other than what you have now, that is correct.”

  “And one of the remaining two is in a plastic bag in the pocket of your friend,” he said.

  She nodded again, afraid her voice would shatter if she spoke.

  Garza took a long breath through his nose, looking down at the chart. “I thought I might simply forget about that one,” he said. “Unfortunately, the bay where my witless men left your friend’s body is less than fifteen meters deep. The combination of a low tide and this storm could possibly drive the body onto the shore—and lead to the discovery of the media card.” He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. “And so I find myself with an immediate problem. We have two sets of dive gear aboard this vessel, for examining the propeller and through-hulls, but only one of my men knows how to dive. I do not suppose—”

  Carmen shook her head. “I can barely even swim.”

  She felt stupid the moment the words left her lips.

  “I see,” Garza said. He drummed his fingers on the table, glancing at Chago. “It looks as though one of you will have to learn.”

  “Of course, Patrón,” the larger man said.

  Carmen looked at the chart, racking her exhausted brain for some kind of plan. In order to reach Kaguk Cove they would motor past Craig and Klawock—the most populous areas of the island. If she could get outside, there was a chance she could get attention. She could jump in, but the odds against her drowning or dying of hypothermia were only slightly better than being murdered on the boat.

  Garza put a hand on her shoulder, sending her recoiling as if she’d been shocked. He smiled widely, relishing the power he had over her.

  “Come,” he said. “Luis is almost finished preparing our pasta. Let us all go out for some fresh air while we wait.”

  Chago opened the door and stepped to one side, allowing his boss to exit first. Stopping just outside, Garza turned to flick his fingers at Beti, who was still on the couch. “Come with us, my dear,” he said. “The air is incredibly fresh.”

  Beti let her magazine fall to the floor and gave Carmen another hateful glare. She slipped on a pair of low rubber deck shoes and trudged toward the door like a child on her way to do a chore. She took up a spot beside the stern rail at the far aft of the boat, out of the wind, putting distance between herself and Carmen—as if she knew what was coming.

  Garza put his hands together and brought them up to his mouth, toying with his top teeth with the tip
of his index fingers. At length, he let his hands fall, clapping them together in a loud pop.

  “Miss Delgado,” he said. “It is very important that you tell me the location of the second media card.”

  Carmen gasped. “I want to,” she said, her gut churning. “I really do. But please understand—”

  Garza raised his hand. “I do,” he said. The wind blew a strand of black hair across his eyes. He pushed it back into place. “You sincerely believe that by withholding this information, your life will be prolonged.” He shrugged. “And while in theory, this will obviously be the case, those remaining hours of your life will be more unpleasant than anything you could possible imagine.”

  “I don’t have to imagine,” Carmen said, hit by a sudden flash of anger. “I watched the way your men treated my friend when he was trying to tell them he had one of the cards. I saw—”

  Garza drew a black pistol from under his jacket. Chago stood by passively. A wide smile spread across Beti’s face.

  “So,” he said. “You judge me a man with whom you might bargain?”

  Carmen stood still, her mouth open.

  “I assure you,” he said, pointing the gun at Beti. “I am not such a man.”

  He shot the Colombian woman in the belly.

  Beti dropped one hand to the wound. The other clutched at the rail as she struggled to keep her feet. A tremulous pink tongue touched her upper lip as she slid to the deck.

  “Mi amor . . .” she whispered. Her words were torn away by the wind.

  Garza shook his head. “Oh, my dear,” he said. “Just because you were Camacho’s whore does not mean that you are mine.”

  Carmen sank to her knees and began to vomit on the deck.

  Garza stood in the wind for some time, studying her. At length he looked up at Chago and flicked his hand at Beti.

  “Tie her to one of the spare anchors and sink her so we can be on our way.” He turned to walk inside, then wheeled back after one step, holding up a hand. “But please, Chago, be certain we are over deep water.”

  Beti cowered at the stern rail, blinking, trying to swallow. Black blood pressed between tiny fingers at her trembling belly.

  “Of course, Patrón,” Chago said. The big man raised a thick brow. “She has not yet expired. Shall I finish—”

  “Do not bother,” Garza sighed. “The sea will take care of what the Beretta did not.” He returned the gun to his belt and ducked inside without another word.

  Carmen wiped her mouth and locked eyes with Chago. She shook her head in disgust, in spite of the danger. Spray from the breaking waves washed across the deck and she sat in the wet with her arms wrapped around her knees. Survival was impossible among these people. Life was not merely cheap with them; it was worthless.

  Chago walked by, muttering to himself.

  “Very soon,” he said, “we are going to run out of spare anchors.”

  CHAPTER 29

  WAILING ROCK COVE HAD TAKEN ON A MACABRE, CARNIVAL-LIKE atmosphere with the discovery of Millie Burkett’s body. The line of cars and trucks wedged into the alders on either side of the gravel logging road stretched inland a quarter mile from the beach. Children, unaware of the terrible circumstances that caused the party, ran and played in the dark woods that surrounded the bay. Cloud bunches rolled overhead. Virtually everyone on the island had heard about the Burkett girl’s disappearance—and those who could spare the time made the drive south to see what they could see.

  Trooper Sam Benjamin stood at the tailgate of his Tahoe. A black DUI dry suit and the corresponding quilted undergarment were folded down around his waist so he didn’t overheat. He fiddled with the regulator on his scuba tank while he talked with Officer Simeon and a second trooper, who’d just returned from the investigation in Port Protection. This one was a decade older and carried a little paunch to go with his experience. Benjamin introduced him as Trooper Allen, a recent lateral transfer from a police department in Idaho. Burkett’s body was already bagged and loaded in the back of a trooper pickup parked inside a ring they’d cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape.

  A handful of reporters had gotten wind of the body recovery, one from the public radio station having already flown in from Ketchikan, even with the approaching storm. All but one of the reporters respected the barrier tape—not to mention the fact that there was the body of a dead teenager in the truck just a few feet from where they stood. The lone idiot of the bunch was a twenty-something kid with a Jedi braid festooned with beads. He strained against the tape, leaning in with his camera to try and get footage of the body bag.

  Simeon looked up from where he was attaching the regulator to a second steel tank identical to Benjamin’s. “That FISHWIVES! asshole is getting on my last nerve,” he said.

  “I thought I recognized him,” Fontaine said.

  “He was at the house when we went by,” Simeon said. “One of the camera operators. But he makes a little side money working for some online feed, regurgitating news. You know, the kind that puts up a Tweet, then repeats exactly what the Tweet above already said to fill up space, and then calls it news. He thinks he can break in to the big leagues if he elbows enough people out of the way.”

  Cutter shook his head. He’d met plenty of good reporters over the course of his career, but asshats like Jedi-braid made him suspicious of all of them. He watched as a young woman holding a toddler walked up to the tape and waved.

  “Excuse me, Trooper,” she said. “We found the remains of a campfire over here. Just wanted to let you kno—”

  Jedi-braid had the camera pointed at himself. Angered that the woman had interrupted what he surely considered an eloquent line of reporting, he shrugged violently, as if to rid himself of someone on his back. The motion struck the woman with his shoulder and then his elbow. She tried to sidestep, but holding the toddler, lost her balance and fell, knees first into the gravel.

  “I was here first,” Jedi-braid growled.

  Cutter looked at Officer Simeon and the troopers and took a long breath.

  “Excuse me a second,” he said, striding toward the crime-scene tape.

  Behind him, he heard Simeon say, “You guys watch. This should be good.”

  Cutter flashed his badge. “You okay, miss?”

  She nodded, still on her knees, clutching the child to her chest.

  Cutter glared at Jedi-braid. “Are you filming?”

  “I sure am,” the kid said, hiding behind the camera. “I have the right as a journalist!”

  “First Amendment all the way,” Cutter said. “But be sure and get it all. You won’t want to miss this.” He leaned down to help the lady up. “US Marshals, ma’am. I saw what happened. Would you like to press charges?”

  Jedi-braid peeked from behind the camera. “Press charges for what?”

  “How about you do a little pan down here,” Cutter said. “Let’s get a record of the damage you did to this poor woman’s knees.” He scoffed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Every other journalist here is getting the footage they need without shoving innocent civilians to the ground.”

  The reporter from public radio and the guy from the local newspaper shook their heads in disgust, distancing themselves.

  “She snuck up behind me,” the kid said. “I just—”

  Cutter leaned in, looking directly at the camera. “I told you I saw what happened—as did a dozen other honest people.”

  Jedi-braid kept filming, then without warning, kicked a bunch of gravel at Cutter. The action was off camera. He surely hoped it would incite some kind of fight that he could catch on video, even if it cost him a bloody nose.

  Cutter would have let even that pass, but for the wind that blew a cloud of dust and grit from the gravel into the toddler’s eyes.

  “Tell you what,” Cutter said.

  He swatted the camera out of the way, then pulled the handcuffs from his belt, spinning Jedi-braid by pushing on one shoulder while he gave the other a quick yank.

  Thankfull
y, the kid had a temper and decided to fight back. Jerking free of Cutter’s grasp, he turned to square off. One hand held the camera, the other doubled into a fist. Cutter advanced quickly, stomping on the kid’s lead foot. Cutter had him by six inches and at least fifty pounds. Unable to retreat because of the weight of Cutter’s boot, the kid fell backward after a single openhanded slap to the side of his head. The camera landed in the gravel beside him.

  “You bastard!” the kid screamed, voice quavering like he might break in to tears. “This is police brutality!”

  Cutter reached down and grabbed Jedi-braid by his elbow. “Stand up, kid,” he said. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  Officer Simeon skidded to a stop in the gravel, eager to grab the other elbow.

  “I don’t have to stand for this!” the kid screamed. A crowd of onlookers pressed closer. He looked to the other reporters for help. “Call the attorney for FISHWIVES! Call the ACLU!”

  The other journalists turned away.

  “I don’t think they want to be associated with you,” Cutter said, ratcheting on the handcuffs. He leaned close, next to Jedi-braid’s ear. “You should be glad they’re here though, because if they weren’t, I’d rip off your arms and beat you to death with them for that kind of behavior.”

  The kid glared at Simeon. “Hey, you heard that!”

  The officer ignored him.

  “I said hey, Indian Joe,” the kid said. “You heard exactly what he said.”

  “I heard the wind,” Officer Simeon said, and he frog-marched Jedi-braid to his patrol car.

  * * *

  Cutter ducked in behind Sam Benjamin’s Tahoe and stepped into the quilted nylon undergarment before pulling on the black DUI dry suit, identical to the one worn by the trooper. Unlike neoprene wet suits, which warmed a thin layer of water next to the diver’s body, dry suits kept out all the water, relying on a layer of air and an insulating undergarment.