Illegal Page 27

  The pain was a roaring fire, a welding torch applied to ribs and spine.

  Marisol did not even try to struggle as Zaga squeezed the breath from her. She was facedown, Zaga on top of her. He shifted position, dug an elbow-sharp as a pickax-into her ribs.

  Breath shot from her lungs.

  Then a sharp jab in her lower abdomen.

  The pruning shears!

  In the pocket of her apron. The thumb lever that locked the blades now tore at her flesh through the thin fabric.

  If I can get my hand under my body, I can grab the shears.

  The cellar was lit only by the narrow beam of her flashlight, aimed above her head. She tried to judge just where Zaga's face would be in the darkness. Pictured herself plunging the curved blades straight through an eye. But his weight kept her pinned to the dirt floor, the shears trapped in place.

  Zaga made a sound, a half laugh, half snort, as he ran a hand up the back of Marisol's right leg, tearing at the fishnet stockings.

  "So they finally dress you like the puta you are."

  His hand slid under the short dress and pulled at the elastic of the lacy underpants. "What do you think? One rapidito before you leave us?"

  "Let me up, and I'll treat you good, Mr. Zaga."

  Another snort-laugh. "Oh, you'll treat me good, but you'll do it facedown in the dirt. You and your precious almeja you don't share with nobody."

  He slid a finger into the crack of her ass.

  His phone rang.

  Zaga adjusted his weight, reached into a buttoned pocket of his Western shirt, and pulled out his cell phone. He checked the LCD display and answered, "Sim, I was just gonna call you."

  Marisol sucked in a breath, drawing in dust along with oxygen. Above her, Zaga was silent, listening. If he stood, she would have a chance to go for the shears.

  "He did what? The bastard!" Shouting into the phone.

  Another few seconds of silence.

  "Sure, I know where she is. I got her right here. Bitch was trying to run."

  Why is el jefe asking about me?

  "Jeez, Sim. Why dirty your hands? I'll take care of her. Then me and Javie can go after Payne."

  Another pause. Then, "Okay, okay. I know who's boss. And Sim, I'm sorry about those Elberta trees. I know how you felt about them. Jesus."

  Zaga clicked off the phone and slipped it back in his pocket. "The boss got a hair up his ass. He wants to do you himself."

  Zaga got to his feet, dusted off his jeans. "No use arguing with the biggest bull in the pasture."

  He grabbed Marisol by one arm and slung her to her feet.

  As she rose, Marisol grabbed the pruning shears from her apron. Her momentum carried her close to Zaga. She swung the shears in a tight, hard arc. An uppercut he didn't see in the darkness.

  The curved blade buried itself in his neck, catching the cartilage just below his voice box. He gasped and made a choking sound.

  Her thumb found the lever, unlocked the mechanism, and the spring-loaded blades flew apart, widening the wound.

  A wet, gurgling sound bubbled from inside his throat. He staggered back a step, then wobbled to one side. She yanked out the shears. A hot breath of air whistled from the wound. Misting blood showered her face. She stabbed again, deeper into the soft tissue of his neck. She must have hit an artery. A gusher of blood poured over her.

  His body spasmed and his legs buckled as if his spine had just melted. He dropped to his knees, like a parishioner in church. The rest of him followed, collapsing slowly and neatly, straight down, like one of those old hotels demolished by well-placed explosives.

  Marisol stood there soaked in his blood, breathing hard, her body trembling. She was about to pick up her change of clothes and head through the tunnel door when the staircase lights blinked on.

  "Mr. Zaga. You down there?"

  The guard.

  "Mr. Z. You okay?"

  Barefoot and bloody, Marisol grabbed the flashlight, swung open the iron door and, flailing at cobwebs, plunged into the black hole of the tunnel.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Wired and edgy, Sharon believed it would be a sleepless night. She was holed up with a twelve-year-old boy in the hotel room. Jimmy was out there in the dark somewhere, playing lumberjack with some old peach trees.

  Trespass.

  Malicious mischief.

  Destruction of property.

  And just maybe, getting a young woman and himself killed.

  She hadn't been able to talk him out of it.

  Foolish. Reckless. Dangerous. Pure Payne.

  Her job tonight was to keep Tino safe. They had talked for hours, the boy chattering about going to a Dodgers game with Jimmy and enrolling in some school Jimmy had picked out, and Jimmy somehow getting them immigration papers, even if he had to fudge the truth a little.

  Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy.

  Tino was the president of the Jimmy Payne Fan Club. Maybe its sole member. The boy worshiped him. But would he still, after tonight? What if Jimmy didn't rescue Marisol? What if his actions led to her death? Sharon couldn't help but think of all the horrible possibilities.

  Tino couldn't sleep, either. Together they watched television. Sharon made microwave popcorn. In typical male fashion, the boy asked for the remote, then hop-scotched through the channels. Just like his hero.

  Sharon couldn't keep her mind on the programs. Jay Leno's jokes seemed duller than usual. Sports Center 's nightly baseball clips all looked the same. Tino clicked through one channel after another, settling on a shopping network that sold diamond rings for thirty-nine dollars.

  Tino stared into space, his attention wavering. Sharon could only guess what fears plagued him tonight.

  Then he surprised her. Without warning or prelude, he said softly, "Himmy told me what happened. To your son."

  "Oh."

  "Himmy's really messed up about it."

  "I know."

  Tino picked up his baseball glove-the one Jimmy bought him-and pounded a ball into the pocket. "Maybe the two of you will get back together. You know, help each other with all that bad stuff."

  "Did Jimmy tell you to say that?"

  "No way. I just see how he feels about you."

  "I'm hoping he'll get over that."

  Tino gave her a look. Too serious for a twelve-yearold. "But will you get over him?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "If you didn't love Himmy, you wouldn't have come up here."

  Before she could process that, the door burst open, splintering off its hinges.

  Sharon dived for her shoulder holster, slung from the bedpost.

  "Freeze!" Rigney in the doorway, aiming his Glock at her.

  She obeyed, hands inches from her gun.

  Tino jumped out of bed and pivoted like Omar Vizquel at shortstop, sidearming the ball straight into Rigney's chest. The cop howled and staggered a step backward but didn't drop his gun. "Punk! You little punk greaser."

  "?Chingate!"

  "No, fuck you, kid."

  "Put the gun away, Rigney." Sharon glared at him. "Jimmy's not here."

  "No shit. He's out playing Paul Bunyan." He gave her a gotcha grin while using his free hand to gingerly touch a rib where the ball had nailed him. Moving toward the bed, he grabbed Sharon's holster from the bedpost.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Enforcing the law." He flipped over a badge hanging around his neck. "Duly appointed deputy, named by the chief himself."

  Sharon felt like spitting at him. "How much they paying you, Rigney?"

  "Take it easy, Detective. I'm saving your ass."

  "What about Jimmy? You saving him, too?"

  "Your ex is dead meat. But I got nothing to do with that." Rigney turned to Tino. "C'mon, kid. Let's go."

  "No fucking way," Tino said.

  "Relax. I'm taking you to your mother. The chief's gonna send both of you back to Mexico. With some cash, for all your trouble."

  "Is that what Cardenas told you?" Sharon said.
>
  "He's a cop, for Christ's sake. What do you think he's gonna do-kill them?"

  "You are so dense, Rigney. Cardenas works for Rutledge."

  "So what? Who do you think we work for, the Red Cross? Money buys everything and everyone. Rutledge is no different than the bigwigs in L.A. He just wears cowboy boots instead of Italian suits."

  "We're supposed to fight corruption, Rigney."

  "Losing battle." He reached into a jacket pocket and tossed a pair of handcuffs to Tino. "Cuff her to the bed frame."

  "Chingate," Tino said for the second time.

  Rigney grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and shoved him toward the bed.

  "Go ahead, Tino," Sharon said.

  Tino hesitated. Rigney clopped him on the side of the head with an open hand. "Now!"

  "Do as he says, Tino," Sharon said.

  The boy snapped one cuff around Sharon's right wrist, and the other to the metal frame.

  Rigney pulled out a roll of duct tape and tore off a piece. "Someday you'll thank me, Detective." Before she could reply, he covered her mouth with the tape. Then he grabbed Tino by the arm and said, "C'mon kid, smile. You're headed to a family reunion."

  EIGHTY-THREE

  The bed of a farmer's pickup truck could be filled with a pile of fragrant manure, or sacks of lung-searing pesticides, or a basket of rusty rakes and dirt-clodden hoes. Simeon Rutledge's green Ford, built during the Korean War, smelled of polish and gleamed with wax. Had a moon been peeking through the rain clouds, the truck would have shined in the dark.

  Payne lay on his back in the short, stubby cargo bed, Adam's Louisville Slugger at his side. The truck was parked in the circular driveway in front of the farmhouse. If someone drove up-say, Enrique Zaga, hauling Marisol along-Payne would leap over the low side panel and flail away at the man's skull, like Juan Marichal on Johnny Roseboro in Candlestick Park.

  The other option was Rutledge driving to wherever Marisol was being held.

  Payne heard the front door of the farmhouse bang closed. He fought the urge to peek over the side panel. Rutledge's cowboy boots crunched the gravel, his steps quick. The driver's door opened, and Rutledge's weight settled into the front seat.

  The old Ford coughed and cleared its throat. Rutledge put it in gear and spun out of the driveway, spraying gravel.

  Payne stayed down, bracing his feet against the back of the cab. He lost his sense of direction after several turns. Asphalt. Unpaved road. Potholes the size of canoes. The painkillers must be wearing off. His temples throbbed. His head was filled with billiard balls, clacking into one another. At the same time, some gremlin with a hammer was engaged in carpentry on his hip bone.

  Lightning flashed from the southeast, a summer storm born in Mexico, crashing toward the valley. The heat of the day gave way, the air cool and moist, the smell of rain even stronger now.

  The truck bounced along, branches of sycamore and birch trees forming a canopy over the bed. The dirt road gave way to another stretch of pavement.

  Thunder rumbled across the sky. Zeus hurling thunderbolts. Angels bowling. God farting. Whatever.

  Payne crept onto his knees and peered cautiously through the window into the cab. Rutledge's right hand rested on the spindly gearshift shaped like a question mark. His left elbow stuck out the open window.

  A jagged lightning bolt creased the sky and exploded somewhere close by. Payne pictured a mighty oak tree splintered and smoking. Raindrops, fat and cold, pelted him, pinging off the truck bed.

  Rutledge's cell phone rang, and Payne strained to hear. Over the noise of the wind and the engine, he couldn't make out what the old man was saying. But a second later, the brakes whinnied like a tired horse, and the truck skidded to a stop.

  Rutledge jumped out of the cab, cell pressed to his ear. "That bitch! I don't fucking believe it! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

  He paced in front of the truck, rain soaking him. The thunder sounded like a mallet banging a kettle drum.

  Payne edged to the side panel. Saw Rutledge framed in the headlights. Jeans, boots, a black felt Tejano hat with a silver buckle. A Western holster was tied to his right leg. It housed a big-ass revolver, an old Colt. 45. The gun called the "Peacemaker." As if Rutledge had just arrived by stagecoach from Deadwood. On his left leg, a scabbard held a foot-long Marine fighting knife.

  Raindrops shined in the headlights, silver daggers from the sky.

  "Dammit!" Rutledge yelled into the phone. "The little gook was supposed to be watching her."

  What the hell's he talking about?

  "Payne must know where she is," Rutledge ventured. "That's why he cut down the trees. A diversion so she can run. It's all planned."

  News to me, Payne thought, wishing he'd been that smart. Playing those words over in his mind.

  "…so she can run. It's all planned."

  "I can't believe Z's dead," Rutledge said. "Goddammit, I can't believe it."

  Enrique Zaga? Oh, Jesus. Had Marisol killed Zaga and run for it?

  "Me and Z grew up together. Little fucker was like my brother."

  Payne ducked as Rutledge strode back to the truck, hoisted one boot onto the running board, and stared straight across the cargo bed. Water dripped from his hat brim, splashing Payne's face. If Rutledge looked down, he'd spot Payne, flipped on his back like a tortoise.

  "Javie, you find her, and quick."

  Javie. Javier Cardenas. Rutledge's private police force.

  "Bring her to the old pump station. I'm gonna clean up this mess once and for all."

  Another lightning bolt hit, close enough to shimmy the truck. The air smelled of ozone.

  "Don't get on your high horse with me, Javie. Where's the fire in your guts? Your old man wasn't like that. Hector would have begged me to let him kill them himself."

  Rutledge listened a few seconds, then barked, "Don't give me that 'Calm down, Sim' crap. You know what your problem is? You're pussified. Your mother babied you. And I gave you too much. Just do what the fuck I say!"

  Rutledge clicked off and sank his butt onto the running board.

  Payne curled his fingers around the handle of the aluminum bat, gripping it so tightly the muscles of his forearm knotted. He could do it now. Beat the tar out of Rutledge. Split his skull wide open. But then, how would he find Marisol?

  The old pump station?

  Where the hell was that?

  For a moment, there was only the rain exploding like glass beads off metal. Then a wailing like brass horns, as startling as an orchestra in a desert. Simeon Rutledge was sobbing. Great, wracking sobs that sent tremors through his body and shook the bed of the truck.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  The smell of dust and creosote and rotting wood filled the tunnel, the air dank and rancid. Marisol's ribs ached and her skull throbbed. Springy cobwebs stuck to her face, feeling like desiccated fingers of corpses. Fractured beams-ancient railroad ties-sagged under the weight of the earth above her. The splintered plywood roof leaked funnels of dirt.

  She scrambled barefoot through the tunnel, hunched over to keep from hitting her head on the drooping beams. Fearing the worst. The tunnel a dead end or an endless maze.

  She followed the beam of the flashlight, one hand running along the side of the tunnel, rough and jagged to the touch. From somewhere, water dripped.

  She stumbled into a puddle, the splash as loud as a whale breaching. The cold water startled her.

  Another frightening thought. The guard, knife drawn, could be following her.

  She clicked off the flashlight, blinked against the darkness, and listened for footsteps. Only the drip she had heard before, but in the confined space, magnified into watery explosions. She turned the beam back on and continued deeper into the tunnel. Without warning, her right knee buckled, and she toppled into a hole, bracing herself with one arm. Pain shot through her wrist, and something sharp pierced her hand, which immediately started to bleed. It felt as if she'd fallen on a railroad spike or a piece of sharpened bam
boo.

  She scrambled to her feet, tore off a piece of her dress, and made a bandage, stopping the blood flow. Aimed the flashlight into the hole. What was that? A white, bony… oh, God… rib cage! A human skeleton lodged into the dirt. She had stumbled into a human grave and slashed her hand on a human bone. A woman from the brothel? A customer? Some personal enemy, a long forgotten victim of violence? The horror of a lonely death without prayers.

  Who would bless her, Marisol wondered, if she was entombed in this passage to hell?

  She played the flashlight across the floor of the tunnel. No other skeletons. No other holes. She picked up the pruning shears, which had fallen from her apron. Then hurried along, bent over, faster now, until she came to an obstruction.

  A door! The end of the tunnel.

  Old and ornate, with carvings of cherubs. A doorknob of green glass, an antique look.

  The door was locked.

  Marisol played the flashlight beam around the door frame. Dry-rotted wood. She dug at the frame with the pruning shears. Sawdust dribbled out; the wood crumbled. She freed the lock from its latch and pushed the door open.

  A dark room. Cool. A basement. Crates covered by decades of dust. She wiped off a box, checked the stenciled name: Valley Improvement Society. She was in the right place. The building next to the brothel, the place the rich politicians gathered before traveling underground for their pleasure.

  A set of stairs. A door open at the top.

  She moved cautiously up the stairs, flinching when they groaned under her weight. On the ground floor, an ancient pool table, a long wooden bar with a cracked mirror. More cobwebs, overstuffed furniture draped in dust covers.

  A haunted house.

  She raced to the front door. The knob turned but the door wouldn't open. She put her shoulder to it. It didn't budge. Shined the light along the door frame.

  The door was boarded with wooden planks, nailed from the outside. Pushed again, but the wood held tight. Thick, sturdy nails. No way to force her way out. She fought back tears.

  She checked the windows. The glass broken, but two-by-fours crosshatched the openings here, too.