Saint Death - John Milton #3 Read online

  “The girl from the restaurant. The one you didn’t get. The Englishman is trying to keep her safe.”

  “And?”

  “I have her. There was a body in the park next to the stadium. She was there. Taking pictures.”

  “Where is she?”

  He nodded in the direction of his car. “In back.”

  “Get her.”

  Alameda went back to the car and brought the girl out. She was cuffed, her wrists fastened behind her back.

  “Do you know who I am?” Felipe asked.

  She spat at his feet.

  “She’s feisty,” Alameda suggested. “Took a good swing at me before I got the bracelets on.”

  “Where is the Englishman?”

  “Come mierda y muerte.”

  “If you help me get my son back I’ll let you go. You have my word.”

  “Your word’s no good.”

  Felipe shifted his weight. “Look around––you’re on your own. The Englishman can’t help you now. You don’t have any other choice.”

  * * *

  42.

  BEAU PULLED the Jeep into the motel parking lot. Milton opened the rear door, stepped outside and pulled Adolfo out with him. Beau followed close behind, the barrel of his pistol pushed tight into the small of the Mexican’s back. Milton unlocked the door and opened it.

  The room was empty.

  “Caterina?”

  The bathroom door was open. Milton checked. It was empty, too.

  “Where is she?” Beau said anxiously.

  “I don’t know.”

  Her laptop was on. Milton checked it: a police scanner application was open, the crackle of static interrupted by occasional comments from the dispatcher. A scrap of paper was on the desk next to the computer. A note had been written down.

  “There’s been another murder. She’s gone to cover it.”

  “We don’t wanna be hanging around, partner. The sooner we get them both over the border, the better.”

  “Not without her.”

  “I know, but we’re not on home turf here.”

  “It’s not open to debate. You can go whenever you want, but he stays until I have her back.”

  Milton’s phone started to ring.

  He looked at the display: an unknown number.

  “Hola.”

  He didn’t recognise the voice. “I think you have the wrong number,” he replied in Spanish.

  The caller spoke in accented English. “No, I have the right number.”

  “Who is this?”

  “I am Felipe.”

  A pause.

  “You know me now?”

  “I’ve heard of you. Where’s the girl?”

  “In a minute. I don’t know your name. What shall I call you?”

  “John.”

  “Hello, John. You are the Englishman from the restaurant?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have caused me some––awkwardness.”

  “I’m just getting started. Where’s the girl?”

  “She’s here. Safe and sound. Where is my son?”

  “With me.”

  “He is––?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “We seem to be at an impasse.”

  “Seems so. What do you want to do about that?”

  Felipe paused. Milton knew he was trying to sweat him. Pointless. “I’m waiting,” he said. There was not even the faintest trace of emotion in his voice.

  Felipe was brusque. “We each have something the other wants. I don’t know why you have involved yourself in my business, but I am going to propose a short truce. An exchange: the girl for my son.”

  “Where?”

  “There is a village south of Juárez. Samalayuca. Turn right off the 45 and drive into the desert. We can meet there. Tomorrow morning. Nine.”

  “You wouldn’t be thinking about trying to ambush me, would you, Felipe?”

  “A truce is a truce.”

  “I know you don’t know who I am.”

  “So why not tell me, John?”

  “All you need to know is that you don’t want to know me. Don’t do anything stupid. You might think you’re a frightening man, and people around here would say that you are, but you don’t frighten me. There’s nothing here I haven’t seen before. If you try anything, if the girl is hurt––if anything happens at all that I don’t like––I give you my word that I will find you and I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

  When he replied, the man’s voice was tight, with fury behind it. Milton knew why: he was not used to being threatened. “I believe I do,” he said. “Let’s make this exchange. After that––well then, John––after that, well, you know how this is going to turn out, don’t you?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Yes, I do. And so do you.”

  The line went dead.

  “They have her?” Beau said.

  Milton nodded.

  “Ignorant dogs!” Adolfo gloated. “You––”

  Milton did not even look at him; he just backhanded him with a sudden, brutal clip that snapped his head around and sent him toppling backwards onto the bed. When Adolfo sat back up his lip was dripping with blood.

  Milton wiped the blood from his knuckles. “Put him in the bath. If he tries to come out, shoot him.”

  Beau did as he was told. Milton took his phone and found the number he had been given at the police station three days earlier. He entered the number and pressed CALL.

  It connected. “Plato.”

  “It’s John Smith.”

  “John––what can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to you. It’s the girl.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s been taken.”

  An audible sigh. “When?”

  “A couple of hours ago.”

  “You said you were going to the hotel.”

  “I’m here now. I went out and she’s gone.

  “You left her?”

  “Temporarily. She left on her own.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “She left a note.”

  “How do you know she––”

  “I just had a call from Adolfo’s father.”

  “Cojer!” Plato cursed.

  “I’m guessing he’s in charge around here?”

  “Felipe González. El Patrón. He is La Frontera. What did he say?”

  “I’d rather not talk on the phone. Can we meet?”

  Milton heard the long sigh. “You better come over here. Do you have a pen and paper?”

  “Yes.”

  Milton took down the address that Plato dictated.

  * * *

  43.

  JESUS PLATO SLID underneath the hull of the boat, hooked the pot with his hand and dragged it toward him. He dipped his brush into the paint and started to apply it. He had been looking forward to this part of the project for weeks. There were few things that made an old boat look better than repainting it. The Emelia had a tatty, ancient gel coat finish and Plato was going to replace it with two new coats of urethane paint. The paint wasn’t cheap but he figured it’d be worth it for the difference it would make. It was calming work, too––meditative––and something where the gratification from the job would be quick.

  A taxi turned into the road. He looked up as it slowed to a halt. Milton got out, paid the driver and walked up the driveway. Plato slid out from beneath the boat and then stood, pouring a handful of white spirit into his palms and wiping away the stained paint. “In here,” he said, leading the way through the open garage door. He hadn’t told Emelia that Milton would be coming over and he didn’t want her to worry.

  The boat’s gas engine was in pieces on his work desk. He had a small beer fridge in the corner and he opened it, taking out a couple of cans.

  “Thanks––but I don’t drink.”

  “Suit yourself.” Plato put one back, tugged the ring pull on the other and drank off the first quarter. It was a hot d
ay and he had been working hard; the beer tasted especially good. “You better tell me what’s happened.”

  “I met a man at the hospital. He’s a bounty hunter. He’s here for Adolfo González.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “He says he can help get the girl over the border and set up on the other side.”

  “He’s doing that out of the goodness of his heart?”

  “Of course not. I said I’d help him find González.”

  Plato sighed.

  “I was going to meet him to talk about it. A restaurant. González was there. We’ve got him.”

  Plato watched him carefully over the rim of his can. “You’ve got him?”

  “Baxter does. The bounty hunter.”

  “Beau Baxter?”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him. He used to work on the line before he got into what he does now. Border Patrol.”

  “And?”

  “Back then he was old school. A hard man. But I don’t know about now. You don’t normally get much integrity out of men in his line of business. You saying he’s got Adolfo now?”

  Milton nodded.

  “And you don’t think he’ll just up and leave? Get him over the border and get paid?”

  His icy blue eyes burned with cold. “I saved his life. And he’s not that stupid.”

  “Alright.”

  Milton clenched and unclenched his fists. “When I got back to the hotel the girl was gone. It didn’t happen there. No sign of a struggle. Nothing disturbed. I looked through her stuff. She’d written this down.”

  Milton handed him a piece of paper. Plato recognised the address. The note said that she had gone to investigate a murder.

  “There was a body found here earlier,” Milton said. “Another of the dead girls.”

  “That’s right. It was on the radio. She must have gone to cover it.”

  “I’ll ask around. Maybe whoever was there might’ve seen her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This phone call you had with Felipe––what did he say?”

  “He’s knows we’ve got his son. He wants to exchange. Her for him.”

  “You do know you can’t trust anything he says?”

  “Of course. I’ve dealt with men like him before, Plato.”

  “I doubt it,” he said, shaking his head. “Not like him. Where does he want to meet?”

  “A village south of Juárez. Samalayuca.”

  “I know it. It’s off the 45. Not a good place for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Open ground. No-one else around for miles. And he’ll know it well. I’ve been out there more than a few times over the years. One of their favourite places for dumping bodies.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I’m going to need some help.”

  Plato shook his head.

  “There’s me and Baxter but I don’t think that’s going to be enough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I need someone who’s good with a rifle.”

  “No, Smith, I’m sorry––I just can’t.”

  “Don’t think about me, Lieutenant. Don’t think about Baxter. It’s the girl. You know if we don’t do something they’ll kill her.”

  “I know that and it’s awful but she knew the risks and it doesn’t make any difference. I still can’t. Look––let me tell you a story. I’ve been dealing with the cartel about as long as they’ve been around, least in the form they’re in at the moment. Before El Patrón, there was another boss. They called him El Señor de Los Cielos. Lord of the Skies, on account of the jumbo jets they said he had, packed full of cocaine up from Colombia. He was Mr Juárez for years. And then La Frontera came over from Sinaloa, trying to muscle in on his turf. There was a war, a proper one, a shooting war.”

  He took another long pull on his beer.

  “Bad things happened. Over the years, I got to see some pretty awful shit. The line of work I think you’re in, I’m guessing you’ve seen those things, too. And I’ve met bad men. But recently, things have gotten worse. The men have gotten worse––younger, and the old rules don’t apply. The one I remember more than all the others, he was just a kid. Fourteen years old from out of the barrio. This kid had been given a gun and told to shoot two dealers for the Juárez cartel. They were trying to sell on a corner that La Frontera was claiming for itself. And he did it. Point blank, one shot each in the back of the head and then another while they were on the ground. We picked him up. He didn’t try to run. I interviewed him. Looked like he wanted to talk about it. Like he was proud. He told me that he’d been wanting to kill someone since he was a little boy. Said that if he got out, he’d do it again, and I believed him. There are others like him. Dozens of them. What does that say for the future, John? What chance have we got?”

  Milton looked at him. Had his face softened a little?

  “Look around, man––I’ve got a family. Wife and kids. And look at me. I’m fifty-five years old. I retire on Friday. I’m going fix up this boat, drink beer and go fishing. There’s no place for a man like me in a world like that. You always had to go to work knowing that there’s a good chance you might get shot today. I could live with that. But now it’s worse––now, they’ll go after your family, too, and I won’t do that. I’ve done my time. I’m out. You understand?”

  Milton did not answer.

  There was no disapproval, just a quick recalibration of circumstances.

  “I understand. This place––Samalayuca. Can you give me directions?”

  * * *

  DAY FOUR

  “One More Day”

  * * *

  The devil in Hell we’re told was chained

  a thousand years he there remained,

  He neither complained nor did he groan

  but was determined to start a Hell of his own,

  So he asked the Lord if he had on hand

  anything left when he made this land,

  The Lord said yes there’s a plenty of land

  but I left it down by the Rio Bravo.

  Johnny Cash

  ‘Mean as Hell’

  * * *

  44.

  BEAU BAXTER had his face in the dust. The toes of his boots were against the gravel of the ridge, his pelvis pressed tight against it, his elbows prised up against rough stones. His Jeep was back up the ridge, his jacket was hanging from a Joshua tree. He pushed his Stetson back a little, loosening the hand-braided horsehair stampede string that was tight up against his neck. The rifle on the ground next to him was a Weatherby Mark V Deluxe with the claro walnut stock and highly polished blued barrelled action, chambered for the .257 Wetherby Magnum cartridge. He had been here since dawn and it had been so quiet, he thought, that you could damn near hear your own hair grow. He had a pair of twenty power Japanese binoculars he had bought in Tijuana. He swept the scrubland below with them. The valley floor was made up of a reddish-brown lava rock that, depending on the angle of the sun, could turn a blackish lavender. There were tracks of wiry javelina pigs and mule deer but nothing human. Beau stuffed his mouth with chewing tobacco and waited like an grizzled old buzzard guarding his roadkill.

  He saw the dust cloud. It blurred in the shimmer and drifted north, the faint desert breeze catching it and pushing it back towards the city. It grew into a long yellow slash of dust, gradually rising, eventually growing to a mile long before he could make out the hire car Smith was driving at its head. It bumped off the asphalt and onto the rough track, greasewood bushes and pear cactus on either side, slowing to negotiate the deeper potholes. He put the glasses to his eyes and focussed. Eventually it was close enough for Beau to see Smith at the wheel and, in the back, Adolfo González. The cloud of dust kept drifting north.

  Beau still wasn’t sure that he was doing the right thing. He had Adolfo. All he had to do was cuff him, wrists and ankles, put him in the back of the Jeep, cross the border, pick up his money. Smith would have let him do it, too, if it ha
dn’t been for the girl. Beau had watched as Smith spoke to El Patrón and, although he had kept his voice calm, he had seen the flashes of anger in his eyes. He would never agree to let him have Adolfo now, not until they had gotten Caterina back again. Beau wondered for a moment about drawing down on him, just taking the greaser and bugging out for the border, but there was something about the Englishman that told him that that would be a very bad idea. He didn’t want a mean dude like that on his tail. That, and the fact that he had just saved his life.

  They had agreed to meet El Patrón out here in the desert, get the girl but try and get away with Adolfo, too. Beau was taking the risk with the bounty and so Smith had agreed that he should be the one with the rifle. Much less dangerous away from the action. Smith would make the exchange and Beau would provide cover, should Smith need it.

  Beau knew that he would.

  As a kid in the woods of southeast Texas, Beau had never really been good at much in particular with the exception of hunting. This talent was honed in Vietnam where he was trained as a sniper by the 101st Airborne in Phu Bai. He did his stint on a hunt-and-kill team with the Fifth Infantry Division out of Quany Tri Province. The team included rangers, recondos, jungle experts, snipers, special forces and even a mercenary who was trying to regain his US citizenship after previously hiring out to foreign governments. Beau reckoned that the reaper teams were the most deadly assembled group of specialists in all of ‘Nam.

  He learned plenty, like how to shoot.

  The sun behind him was a good thing: there would be no reflection off his glasses or the scope. It was climbing into a perfect blue sky, already blazing hot. There was no wind. No cloud cover. No shelter. The air shivered in the heat. The deep shadow of the ridge and the Joshua tree were cast out across the floodplain below him. A little vegetation: candelilla and catclaw and mesquite thickets. He put the binoculars down and mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief. He gazed out over the land. To the west and east were the mountains. To the south, the arid scrub of the barrial that ran out into the deeper desert. He saw another cloud of dust on the 45. He picked up the glasses again and found the road. It was another car, an SUV, with tinted windows. A narco car. It turned off the road and followed Smith down the same long track. He replaced the glasses, took a slug of water from the canteen shaded by his hat, and picked up the rifle. His vantage point was nicely elevated, not too much, well within the range of the Weatherby. He nudged the forestock around until he had the car in his sights. He thumbed off the safety and slipped his finger through the trigger-guard.