Elisha’s Bones (14 page)

The road passes beneath us as I guide the SUV through the mountains. Antonio has the other truck on my bumper. I’m going too slowly for him, but he’ll have to live with it. I’m not as adventurous in my driving as he is.

Beside me, Esperanza sits silent, brooding. I’ve done my best to keep the mood light but, despite the fact that we’ve found something of real significance, she’s in one of those dark moods I remember from our old days together. And she’s not even the one wrestling with her future. It’s me who will have to study what we’ve discovered and either return to the Reese mansion and tell a dying man that I can’t follow this thing further, or make the decision to invest my foreseeable future in the pursuit of relics that may or may not exist. Of course, it’s not as simple as that—knowing what I now know.

Espy’s astute enough to know that something else is going on. She can tell that I’m rattled. Hardy’s arrival has made it simpler to explain away my newfound irritability, but the fact is that knowing the man I saw at the bar in Rubio is the same man from the KV65 dig has brought me to a different place, one that’s still too painful to visit.

Gordon Reese’s little project now has larger, more dangerous parameters. It’s not what I signed on for, even if the intrigue of an Egyptian connection makes it perhaps the most important discovery of the century. Truth be told, I’m worried where this will lead.

Just below these misgivings is a simmering anger that now has a focus. I’m not used to the feeling, and I don’t much care for it, even as I realize that it might be a good thing. And the wound isn’t raw enough to cancel out the fact that there’s a part of me that wants to keep on task, to dig into this thing and figure out how all the pieces fall into place—and where my mystery man fits.

Hardy’s arrival complicates matters. He’s in his own vehicle, trailing the second truck. It irritates me that Reese has sent his pet to keep an eye on things. I force myself to remember that my employer has invested a great deal of money, and that sending someone to ensure the proper use of that money is within his rights. In fact, it’s not much different than the inspectors utilized by the SCA. Still, it’s irksome. It’s this sort of miscalculation that does not fit with what I know of the billionaire. It’s a desperate gesture, and while I can suspect his reasons for wanting to hasten the recovery of the artifacts, why would he sabotage his best hope for success?

With that in mind, I pull out my cell phone and thumb the display. Duckey’s message count is now at six, and it gives me some perverse pleasure to know I’ve vexed him.

“What are you doing in Venezuela?” It comes out loud through the earpiece—enough so that I draw the phone away, losing the next sentence.

I wait for a break before repositioning the phone. “Hey, Ducks.”

I hear the intake of a long breath on the top half of the world, followed by a calmer voice.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Feliz Navidad.”

“Venezuela?”

“Didn’t you tell me to get out of the apartment?”

“What are you doing in Venezuela, Jack?”

“Actually, I’m thinking about leaving. It doesn’t quite have that holiday spirit.”

I can almost hear him grinding his teeth.

“You hate planes. You seldom plan anything. And you don’t have any friends except for me and Angie. So forgive me for being surprised.”

This is new territory. It’s one thing to trade barbs in familiar surroundings, where everything is wedged between the siren songs of classes and department meetings. Duckey’s trying to make sense of my global position, to force it to mesh with what he knows about me. I feel a measure of sympathy.

“I need a favor, Ducks.”

“Of course you do.” As he says it, I can hear relief in his tone. It seems I’m always in need of a favor, and Duckey’s good at handing them out. It’s a familiar role and he knows how to handle this portion of the conversation. “What is it this time? Out of money and need plane fare home?”

“There aren’t a lot of casinos in this part of the world so, no, I’m good.”

“Couldn’t be that simple, eh?”

“Ducks, I need you to find out everything you can about Gordon Reese.”

It’s one of the few times I’ve rendered my department head speechless, and I’ve said some odd things over the years. In the ensuing silence I can hear sounds in the background and I can almost see Duckey sitting in someone’s kitchen, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, surrounded by three generations of family. I’ve never felt more separated from another human being.

“Billionaire Gordon Reese?”

“Yep.”

More silence. I can feel through the phone the calculating going on as Duckey weighs any number of things, and I’m almost sure that trust is one of them. Duckey left the CIA long ago, and although he keeps former contacts in his back pocket, government-issue favors come with strings.

“What am I looking for?” he finally asks.

“Good question,” I say. “Any recent change in his circumstances. Something big.” I know I’m not giving him much to go on, and I feel some guilt for asking him to do this on his vacation. I don’t really know why I’m asking, when there’s a good chance I’ll be backing out of this deal, except that it’s one of those open questions I want answered—if only to satisfy my own curiosity. “Sorry, Ducks. I wish I could be more specific.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “But you’d better have an explanation par excellence.”

“Do you want me to make up something believable, or do you want the truth?”

“Surprise me.”

“Thanks, Ducks. This means a lot.”

He releases a sigh. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not yet.”

When I end the call, it’s with a smile, one that can only be granted by finding something familiar in the midst of uncertainty. I glance at Espy.

“You all right?” I ask.

“Just fine.” She adds a smirk, which is what I get for trying to get in touch with her feelings.

We drive in silence for a long time. I think the guy in the back—Marco—is sleeping, but it’s dark and I can’t see him very well in the rearview mirror. I feel myself drifting and I’m about to turn on the radio when Esperanza says, “Will you be catching a flight home tomorrow?”

Her question catches me without an immediate response, even though it’s one that should occupy the bulk of my mind. I let the question hang there while the road passes beneath us.

“I honestly don’t know,” I finally answer. It’s a hard thing to admit. This business, in the best of circumstances, is difficult. With all of the other things attached to this particular project, I have to face the possibility that I might not be able to keep up.

As the silence lingers, I realize that, yet again, I’m not on Espy’s wavelength. I’m still considering her question in terms of the job. There are areas in which I am none too bright, and I’ll be the first to admit that relationships fall within that province. Duckey will attest to that, as will Angie, and just about everyone else I’ve ever met. I think even my cactus is figuring that out. Here I am thinking that Espy’s foul mood has something to do with the task at hand, when it has everything to do with us.

“I’m sorry.” I let my eyes leave the road long enough to make sure she knows I’m not talking about Reese’s project. It’s difficult to see her in the darkness, but before I disengage I think I see surprise on her face. It’s a sentiment I share. “I’m sorry for leaving the way I did. If I’d had any sense . . .”

I trail off, not knowing how to navigate this type of terrain and feeling more than a little weird.

I guess she finds there’s little to say because she turns away. I’m out of my depth. My current closest relationship with a woman is with Angie, which consists of little more than our having coffee together, some innocent flirting, and a theft of miniature chocolates that by now probably approaches grand larceny. I’ve suppressed the knowledge that this week has to have been difficult for Espy. I’ve heard often enough that women need closure, but instead of that, I’ve given my former fiancée
open
-sure, or whatever you call it when you rip a scab off a wound that hasn’t yet healed.

What’s worse is that I may well still love this woman.

The SUV is bottoming out after a steep descent, where I bring it around a bend. I’m getting irritated because Antonio has his truck so close to mine that I can’t see the headlights in the rearview, just a diffused glow that tells me he’s there. I can see the lights of San Cristóbal not far off, and we’ll be coming off the mountain in a matter of minutes, when it won’t matter so much that he’s tailgating.

“Listen,” I say right before the windshield explodes all over me.

Esperanza screams as I slam on the brakes and try to keep the truck on the road. I yell for her to keep her head down, but before I can get a word out, Antonio rear-ends us. I bite down hard on my tongue and the pain is such that I’m blinded, and it’s never a good idea to lose one’s sight while navigating a mountain road with no guardrails. I force my eyes open just as our right front tire flirts with the drop-off. I overcorrect, angling for the rock wall to my left, when I hear a succession of popping sounds. More glass explodes, this time from the back of the truck. Marco shouts a curse in Spanish right as the SUV hits the wall. I have the sensation of flying, and then nothing.

It can’t be much later that I awaken, because the wheels of the belly-up truck are spinning. I smell gas. As my senses right themselves, I hear the sound of tires screeching, receding. It’s black outside, except for the beams from the headlights that cut at an odd angle into the darkness. Somehow the hazard lights were activated, and their steady blinking casts the landscape around the truck in a periodic yellow light. My side hurts and I run my hand over the spot, feel the ripped shirt, then something protruding from the flesh. There’s a slickness that has to be blood. I shift position and pain shoots through my torso. I resist the urge to pull out whatever it is that’s stuck in my side. For all I know, it’s all that’s keeping me from bleeding to death.

From what sounds like far away I hear another volley of gunshots. They propel me to my feet, despite the agony ripping through my body. Stumbling, working hard to keep my feet under me and my eyes focused, I make it to the truck, the smell of gas much stronger now. The tank is ruptured, the fuel dripping its last onto the ground. I try not to imagine my body doing the same thing, but my hand is soaked where it’s pressed up against my side.

Right now, checking on Esperanza is more important than anything else. I can see the truck’s passage down the road; we must have slid two hundred feet. It’s amazing that we didn’t slide off the mountain. It’s the kind of accident that can kill instantly, and I feel more than a little panic as I sink to my knees and peer into the cab. Marco is the only one inside, in the back, his neck twisted at an odd angle. Even though it’s pointless, I reach between the broken glass and feel for a pulse. Nothing. I feel something catch in my throat but I quickly force it back down. I must find Espy.

I push myself upright and scan the road. As I take a step away from the truck, out into the darkness, there’s a hollow sound of metal on metal, and I feel something whiz by my right ear. I lunge and my knees buckle, and as I hit the ground, the object in my side dislodges. I ignore the pain and scramble over the dirt, the ground behind me getting shot up in staccato clods. My path carries me into the darkness, toward the mountain wall. After I regain my footing, I stumble over something near the road. I drop to my knees and am about to feel for Espy’s pulse when something hard strikes the back of my head and darkness claims me.

More than anything in the world, I need an aspirin. My head feels as if several very small men are on the inside of my skull, using equally small hammers to work over the gray matter. I open my eyes but can’t see anything, and I feel a moment of panic that I’ve been blinded.

Everything comes back in a rush.

Where am I? What I know is that I can’t see, my side hurts, my tongue hurts, I have a headache, and I can’t move my hands. I try to bring my arms around to the front, but they’re pinned behind me. It occurs to me then that I’m sitting up.

“Hello?”

There’s no answer. I rock in the chair, testing the strength of whatever it is that binds me. It’s thick, coarse rope that rubs against my skin the more I struggle, and I stop when the pain in my side approaches unbearable. I wonder how much blood I’ve lost. I try calling out again and there is an echo, which doesn’t tell me a lot. I’m worried about Espy. I have no idea if she was alive when I stumbled over her, and the more I think about it, the sicker I feel.

I hear footsteps, then someone is touching my head and the hood is yanked off. The lights in the room are bright and I blink several times. I’m in an office, but one of those that’s attached to a warehouse or factory. There’s a large glass window that makes up one wall, with pallets of boxes as far as I can see. These observations are secondary, though, to the sight of the three men in the room with me. Two of them, the ones with guns, are strangers, while the third, the one sitting behind a desk, is not.

“Hello, Jack,” he says with a smile.

Ernesto Ramirez is one of those men who perpetuates the caricature of a South American drug lord from the movies. The difference is that he isn’t very successful at it. Contrary to prevailing belief, it’s not an easy matter to send large quantities of drugs into the United States. It takes more connections, money, and intelligence than this man possesses. To supplement his income, he has a hand in just about everything that passes through San Cristóbal, illegal or otherwise. Few business deals get done here without Ramirez getting his cut. He’s been successful in this venture because the logistics are nowhere near as complex as they are in drug smuggling. All he needs are hired muscle and meanness, and he has both of these in abundance.

“It’s been a long time, Jack.”

“It certainly has,” I manage to say. “How have you been, Ernesto?” I wear a cheerful smile, ignoring the incongruity of not being able to move.

“I’m well, thank you.”

“This is about the money, isn’t it?”