Saint Death

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 co

“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 day 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.”