In Desperation (28 page)

Phoenix, Arizona

T
hree Sheriffs' SUVs cut a fast-moving line over the scrub, stretching toward the abandoned buildings of the airfield.

A hot wind lifted desert detritus with the dust clouds churning in their wake. Their wigwagging emergency lights underscored urgency. Deputy Pate was driving the lead car. FBI Agent Bonnie Larson was his passenger. As they arrived, Larson scanned the structures. No vehicles, people or indications of activity.

“Let's start with the hangar. The doors are open,” Pate said into his shoulder microphone. “Chet and Marty, take the east entrance. We'll take the west. Somers, Briscoe, take the back side.”

“Ten-four.”

Pate got his shotgun, Larson unholstered her Glock-27 and they positioned themselves on either side of the hangar's west doors, which were open to a gap of some fifteen feet. Larson's heart rate picked up and she started processing the situation.

One thing for sure: It was quiet.

Deathly quiet
.

 

Before Hackett pulled away from Virginia Dortman's property, he made a judgment call.

He had no grounds to detain Gannon and Cora, but he knew that after he'd invited them to identify Tilly's shoe—evidence that she'd been present—they'd get to the airport, one way or another.

“I'll lead you in. You follow me in your car. But you do as I say,” Hackett instructed Gannon before they set out across the expanse to catch up to Larson and the deputies.

Hackett knew it ran up against the rules, but it was a matter of control. They were closing in on Tilly's kidnappers and he couldn't risk Gannon rushing off on his own and jeopardizing the work of the task force.

Not at this stage.

Hackett would keep an eye on him.

As they neared the buildings, Hackett saw the SUVs and the deputies holding their positions. In his rearview mirror, he found Gannon and Cora's small Pontiac. He lowered his window, stuck out his arm, signaling for them to stop and keep back, way back, behind him.

At that moment the radio on Hackett's passenger seat crackled with a dispatch from Larson.

“We're going in, Earl.”

 

Waiting for their eyes to adjust to the light, Larson and Pate inched around the big doors and assessed the hangar's interior.

Soaking wet trash and rags were strewn everywhere.

Disgusting
.

No sounds, until Pate's command boomed. “Maricopa County Sheriff! Come out with your hands open and held up above your head!” No response.

After a full minute and a few soft dispatches on the radio, they moved in. Larson was suddenly reminded of her grandfather's cabin in northern New York; the gas smell of his small outboard motor. Before she became an agent, Larson worked as a state trooper. In that time,
she had seen people who'd been shot, drowned, burned, frozen, stabbed and buried alive but she'd never seen anything like…
Oh Jesus
… She was overcome as she and the deputies realized what the garbage was….

“Oh Jesus Christ…oh Christ!”

Staring at the drenched rags, Larson soon picked out arms, legs, a head, then another, all severed.

The floor was slick with blood.

Larson saw the blood-splattered chain saw. “Oh Jesus!”

Struggling to make sense of the scene, she stepped back and held the back of her hand to her mouth as some of the deputies shouted and pivoted with their weapons extended, wary of suspects at the scene.

Someone got on their radio and called for an ambulance.

It didn't matter. Everyone was dead.

 

Larson's radio crackled.

“Bonnie, I heard shouting. What do you have?” Hackett asked.

Outside, the wind had carried the chaos beyond the hangar and over the desert to Hackett's car, where his radio blurted Larson's response.

“Homicides, at least three, possibly more. They look fresh.”

“Any indication on the victims?”

“Three adult males, two appear to be in police uniforms. They could be our kidnappers with the Norte Cartel. It looks like we have additional body parts, two severed male heads. It's really bad, Earl— I've never—”

Upon hearing the distant voices of alarmed cops, Gannon and Cora rushed from their car to Hackett's.

“What is it?” Gannon leaned into the open passenger window.

“What did they find?” Cora's eyes were rimmed with tears.

At that moment Hackett's radio crackled with another dispatch from Larson as she fought to keep control of her emotions.

“I've never seen anything like this, Earl. Do not come in here. You do not want to see this!”

That transmission stole Cora's breath. Hackett fumbled to turn down the volume but he had the radio with the loose swivel knob.

“What is it?” Cora's eyes bulged. “What's happened?”

Hackett shot a look to Gannon that demanded his help.

“We don't know for certain,” Hackett said. “They're assessing the scene.”

“Is my daughter in there?”

Gannon tried to pull Cora back to the car but she broke away, ran toward the hangar before he caught her. She fought him, battled furiously, refusing to surrender to the horror that awaited her while Gannon and Hackett got her back to her Pontiac Vibe.

Hackett radioed for an ambulance.

They opened the front passenger door, Cora sat sideways, her feet on the ground, staring inside her car, the car she drove Tilly to school in, the car they drove to church in, to the mall.

Then Cora stared at the hangar, shaking her head.

“It's not true. She's not dead. Because if she's dead, it's my fault,” Cora said. “She can't be dead. Tell me it's not true, Jack. You tell me my daughter's not in there!”

“We don't know, Cora.”

“Oh God.”

Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. She slid from the passenger seat to the ground, pounding the sand. Gannon slid to the earth with her, holding her as the dust swirled around them, as sirens wailed and helicopters hammered
the sky. They stayed that way while investigators processed the scene.

Two scared kids in a Buffalo kitchen, waiting for Dad to get home
.

There are times in your life when you think, this is it. Everything important ends here. Gannon thought it was all over, that day in the kitchen when he was eight. He'd never forget that look in his father's eyes like something was lost. They'd wrecked his new car. All those overtime shifts he'd worked.

They'd taken something from him.

And Gannon thought it again when he was twelve and Cora, Mom and Dad were screaming at each other before she left. At first, all he felt was disbelief. Cora had to be kidding, she wasn't really running away. But time passed, tightening on him like a vice, crushing him with the truth: Cora was gone for real. Gone for good.

He'd lost his big sister.

How would he overcome the blow?

He'd reached another ending when his parents died in the car crash and he watched their caskets lower into the ground.

He'd lost his family.

Then days ago, out of the blue, he received a miracle in the form of Cora's call. Across a chasm filled with pain, he found the sister he thought he'd lost forever. He learned he had a niece.

But the miracle came with a tragedy.

His niece's face in the FBI's gallery of kidnapped and missing persons.

He sees the family resemblance and wants to reach out and hug her.

It can't end here.

It just can't
.

Gannon was numb, oblivious to how long he and Cora had kept a vigil in the desert until Hackett tapped his shoulder.

“We've conducted searches of every building, Jack, and we have not located Tilly.”

Cora blinked as if staring into a pinpoint light of hope.

“That means she's still alive?”

“There's reason to hope so.”

At that moment, Gannon's cell phone rang and he climbed to his feet and walked away to answer it.

“Jack, this is Isabel Luna. We need to meet immediately. I have information.”

“Isabel, this is a bad time. I can't come to Mexico.”

“I'm not in Mexico. I am in Phoenix.”

“What?”

“I have information that is critical to your case. Tell no one about this call and come alone to meet me at this location. Do you have something to write with?”

“Isabel, you'd better tell me.”

“Jack, this is absolutely critical to your case. Do you understand?”

Gannon glanced around to confirm he was out of earshot.

“Okay, go ahead.”

Somewhere South of Phoenix, Arizona

I
sabel Luna leaned against the airport rental she'd parked under the shady canopy of a pine grove near an abandoned mission that had been built by Franciscans in the 1800s.

She was about to check her watch again but saw chrome glint from an oncoming car. As it slowed to a stop, she saw Jack Gannon behind the wheel. She recognized his sister, Cora, from news pictures, in the passenger seat.

Gannon got out, uneasy as he scanned the isolated surroundings.

“Why are you here? What's going on?” he asked her.

“Do you know where my daughter is?” Cora was desperate.

“This is my sister, Cora. Tilly's mother.”

Luna nodded to her, but she was slightly annoyed at Gannon. She'd told him to come alone.

“Cora, this is Isabel Luna, the journalist I met in Juarez who's been helping us.” Gannon's attention went to Luna. “What's the important information you have on Tilly?”

“A meeting has been arranged.”

“A meeting? About what? With who? Where?” Gannon looked to the few empty buildings next to the old church,
now fearing that they'd made a mistake leaving Hackett at the airstrip.

“Please, if you know, tell me where my daughter is,” Cora pleaded.

Luna glanced around without answering.

“Isabel—” Gannon's frustration was mounting “—we've just come from some very bad scenes to this godforsaken place. We don't know where Tilly is or if she's been hurt. Your call offered us hope.” Gannon again surveyed the buildings, bereft of life. “Why did you come here from Juarez? What's going on? What do you know? If you don't give us some answers, I'll call the FBI, I swear, Isabel.”

Luna glanced at her watch.

“I'm sorry I have to be cryptic,” she said. “Please, come with me.”

They walked to the old church. Gannon saw fresh tire tracks in the sand near the front and sides, evidence of some sort of recent activity.

Are there other people here?

The old white building was constructed of clay brick, pocked and weatherworn by time. Its shutters dangled in surrender, the doors to the entrance had fallen off.

Upon entering they were met in silence by statues, heads bowed as if to hide the leprous disfigurement from the plaster that had blistered on their faces, hands and bodies. The roof had holes. Water had seeped into the walls and bled around the shattered stained-glass window. The wooden floors creaked as they moved forward, gazing at the rotting wooden pews leading to the altar.

The church was empty except…

Cora gasped.

A young man was perched on the prayer rail of a pew with his back to the altar and his feet on the bench. Facing the arrivals, he waited calmly. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. A massive cross bearing the crucified Christ looked down on him and the world below.

“Are you Angel?” Luna asked.

The young man nodded but held up his hand, stopping them cold a distance away at the back of the church.

“Father Ortero sent me. I am Isabel Luna, a reporter with
El Heraldo
.”

Recognition twigged briefly and died in Angel's eyes.

“And the others?” he asked. “You were instructed to come alone.”

“They are associates, here to bear witness to your legend and verify your account so police cannot lie. This is Jack Gannon. He is a correspondent with the World Press Alliance, one of the largest newswires in the world. Beside him is his assistant.” As Angel considered the situation, Luna reached into her shoulder bag. “Before we start, may I take your photo?”

Gannon stared in confusion at Luna. Cora was going to burst. She refused to believe Tilly was dead. She would never accept it, not while she could still fight to find her.

“Please,” Cora whispered, “let's get out of here and go back.”

Luna ignored her. Gannon noticed Luna was trembling as if she were standing before a rattlesnake.

“A photo, Angel?” Luna pressed. “To verify this moment in history?”

Wary and exhausted, he nearly smiled before he turned slightly to indicate two large sports bags on the altar. Gannon saw Luna's attention dart to the windows at the side of the church, then back to Angel.

“My donation to Ortero's church is in the bags,” Angel said. “Two million dollars. I have made my confessions to him. You will tell my story, then go to police with my offer to exchange information for a deal.”

Light flashed as Luna took Angel's picture without his objection. She stepped forward and took several more, licking her lips in nervous tension.

“Enough,” Angel said. “Let's get started.”

“Certainly.” Luna opened her notebook, nodding to Gannon, who, not quite understanding, pulled his out as well. “First,” Luna said, “as the Norte Cartel's number one
sicario,
how many people have you killed?”

“As of today, one hundred and ninety-five.”

Cora stifled a low cry.

“And you will confirm that you work under orders from the leader of the Norte Cartel, Samson Zartosa.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“And did he instruct you to murder the editor of my newspaper,
El Heraldo?
”

Luna's question exhumed a memory. His face confirmed what she knew: She'd found her father's killer. The realization caught up to Angel, but he shrugged.

“Perhaps. I just told you, I had nearly two hundred jobs—”

Near and unseen a soft muffle echoed. Instinctively, Cora started toward Angel.

“Tell me where my daughter is. Where's Tilly?”

In one motion, Angel reached down for the AK-47 assault rifle he'd kept out of sight and pointed it at Cora.

Gannon pulled her to him.

“You look familiar to me,” Angel said to Cora.

“I am the mother of the child your people stole and I want her back!”

“What is this?” Angel face contorted with rage. “I trusted the priest!”

Gannon noticed a shadow, a tremor of light outside.

In an instant, Angel yanked Tilly up from under the pew and locked his arm around her neck. Her eyes were filled with fear.

“Mommy!!!”

“Tilly!” Cora struggled against Gannon.

“Nobody move or I will kill her!” Angel said.

“Let her go!” Cora said. “I did not kill Eduardo Zartosa.”

“What?” Angel was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Look at you!” Luna shouted. “Using a child as your shield in a church. You are a coward who will never see heaven!”

“Neither will you!”

As Angel steadied his gun to shoot Luna, Gannon saw a piercing sunray reflected from a window on the scope of a sharpshooter's rifle as the muzzle flashed.

The sniper's bullet smashed into Angel's temple, tore through his skull and removed the back of his head. This was how Angel Quinterra—the
sicario,
the son of an alcoholic garbage picker from the shantytown near the Juarez dump—died. With his cranial matter splattered on the feet of the crucified Christ.

Tilly ran into Cora's arms.

Luna and Gannon turned to the window where Esteban Cruz, Isabel's stepbrother, lowered his rifle.

 

Numbed, the five of them moved to the front steps of the old mission.

They waited in the sunlight as Cora freed Tilly from her bindings and held her as she trembled.

“Mommy, he killed Lyle…he killed them all…. I thought I was going to die!”

Cora hushed and soothed her as both of them sobbed softly.

Gannon called Hackett and told him what had happened. Hackett said they were already on their way.

“A priest in Mexico had called the task force. He was concerned about the safety of a reporter from Juarez, who he believed had key information on the case. Then we got a call from a Mexican cop on the case.”

Afterward, Gannon called Melody Lyon in New York.

“It's over, Mel. We found Tilly. She's traumatized but alive.”

“Thank God.”

“You can put out a story alert. I'll file something over the phone later.”

“Thanks, but wait. Jack, how's your sister doing?”

“She's going to be okay.”

“And you?”

“It doesn't matter about me.”

After hanging up, Gannon and Cora thanked Luna and Esteban and they looked to the horizon, saying little until they heard the sirens.