Deep Dirty Truth

by Steph Broadribb

  ‘Sure.’ Ain’t that the truth.

  I drop my go bag onto the other bed. My body aches, and the throbbing in my left arm around the site of my bullet wound has got steadily worse over the past few hours. Peeling off my leather jacket, I take the supplies I got from the drugstore back in Fort Lauderdale from my bag and head to the bathroom.

  After locking the door, I remove the bandage from around my arm, then slowly peel back the dressing from the wound. It hurts like a bitch and isn’t pretty, but there are no signs of infection and for that I am thankful. The antibiotics must have caught it just in time. Undoing the top of the bottle with my right hand, I angle myself over the washbasin and pour the antiseptic lotion over the wound. I cuss under my breath, gritting my teeth as the antiseptic stings my raw flesh. It’s near on forty-eight hours since I last took a look at it in a motel mirror, and hurt as it does, it looks and feels a whole lot better than before.

  Patting the skin around the wound dry with a cotton-wool pad, I attach a new sterile dressing over the wound. Although the dressing’s self-adhesive, I double-up with an extra length of bandage wrapped and tied around the dressing.

  I remove the green contact lenses and splash water over my face. As I freshen up, I try to swallow down the nerves that are building inside me about facing the Old Man tomorrow.

  It’s only as I turn to leave that I catch a look at my face in the mirror. The fluorescent lighting is unflattering for sure, but that’s not what makes me do a double-take. Sure, the bobbed brunette hair stops me looking like myself, but it’s not the change alone that unsettles me.

  It’s because I look like the Old Man’s dead daughter. And that causes another level of concern about seeing him tomorrow.

  The Old Man is big on respect. Old school, like North says. My family’s lives rely on the Old Man listening to North and me and I sure as hell don’t want the way I look to give him any excuse not to hear us out. Will he think I’m disrespecting his daughter’s memory by being dressed up this way?

  We’ve come too far: been shot at, ridden a freight train, stolen a car, rented another and covered well over five hundred miles today. I’ve no idea if Carly made it out of her apartment alive, or if Luciano’s men managed to get our plans out of her. What I do know is that, given the damning evidence North has against him, Luciano won’t rest until he’s silenced us, and that Special Agent Jackson Peters will work just as hard to get the pair of us into custody.

  The plan has to work. I can’t fail my family.

  Back in the room, North’s lying on his bed, fully clothed and snoring. Taking off my boots, I step across to the other bed and sit down. I know it’s late, near on three o’clock in the morning now, but I can’t sleep without giving JT’s cellphone another try.

  I hold my breath as the call connects, then breathe out fast when his recorded voicemail message starts to play. I bite my lip as I listen to the gravelly rasp of his voice and wish that I knew where he is, how he and Dakota are doing.

  When the message ends, I hang up and try Red’s cell. It goes straight to voicemail too. Ending the call, I plug the cell in to charge and lie back on the bed.

  I try to swallow down the fear that something real bad has happened. Try reassuring myself with the fact that JT and Red are resourceful and experienced, and that they’re honourable guys who’ll fight to the death to keep my baby safe.

  It doesn’t work. Sleep doesn’t come easy.

  When it does take me, my dreams are filled with an eternal loop of gunshots, blood and slow-motion images of gators taking a victim for a death roll. Frantic, heart racing, I try to help them, but I never get there in time. The gators thrash beneath the water until the surface is coloured with crimson.

  In every loop, the victim is JT.

  49

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 06:12

  I toss and turn, sleeping fitfully until I wake with the dawn, the small chink of light blazing through the gap in the drapes enough to rouse me. I roll over and see that North’s still asleep on top of the other bed.

  The tension builds in my chest as I unplug my cellphone and dial JT’s number. As before, it goes straight to voicemail. So does Red’s. And so does Dakota’s. I clench my jaw, fighting back tears. Know that I need to focus on what we have to do today, but it’s real hard when it feels as if my heart’s going to burst out through my ribs.

  Unable to lie still, I get up, pick some fresh jeans, a black tee and underwear from my go bag, and pad quietly across to the bathroom. The shower is weak and lukewarm, but still feels good. It’s a little tricky washing with my left arm out of the cubicle, but I manage.

  Plugging in the hairdryer, I dry off my hair and style it as best I can the way Gabriella used to do hers. I don’t have any contact lens solution, and didn’t pack the holder the green contacts came in, so I rinse them off and put them back in, then do my face while thinking on our next moves: find the Old Man. Get him to listen to North and view the evidence against Luciano and Tommy. Then get him to take the price off me and my family’s heads.

  Going back into the bedroom, I’m surprised to find North awake and watching the small television mounted on the wall opposite the beds. He hands me a mug of coffee and gestures to the screen, his expression grim. ‘That FBI agent is causing all kinds of shit.’

  I turn to the television and my stomach flips as I read the banner scrolling along the bottom of the screen: Breaking News: FBI Stakeout Mob Compound.

  Above the banner the picture shows a helicopter view of a high-walled, gated compound. Acres of land separate the buildings from the wall and the civilisation outside it. In the middle of the compound there’s a large ranch-house-style building, surrounded by barns or warehouses. Beyond the buildings I see a field with a herd of horses and then, as the chopper starts to turn away, a glimpse of the ocean.

  Shit. ‘The Old Man’s place.’

  ‘Yeah.’ North sounds pissed. A blonde reporter in a pink pant suit appears on camera. It looks like she’s standing a little ways from the compound; the outer wall is just visible in the distance behind her. North turns up the volume as she starts to speak.

  ‘At first light FBI agents set up roadblocks around the residence of the infamous Bonchese family, home to businessman, and alleged head of the Miami Mob, Giovanni Bonchese. We believe these precautions are being taken because the suspects from a shooting in Missingdon, Florida, where two FBI agents were killed and one critically injured, are believed to be heading to the residence. The FBI and local law enforcement are working together and caution the public not to approach the fugitives but to call the emergency hotline – number on your screen below – if they see them.’

  Our pictures flash up onto the screen, along with the phone-in number.

  ‘At least they’ve not updated our descriptions to how we look now.’

  I assumed that the cab driver who took us from Tallahassee to Jacksonville had called the hotline, but if that had been the case he would have given them updated descriptions. ‘That’s strange, isn’t it? Why not?’

  North shrugs. ‘Beats me. At least we know their game because of the news.’

  I’m not so sure. ‘If the driver didn’t call it in, that means Jackson Peters, or one of his team, guessed that we’d take that route back, probably using the same reasoning as us – that we couldn’t travel by road. They thought the easiest alternative would be train, and Jacksonville was the closest station to Missingdon for a straight run-through to Miami, so they set up that ambush on the platform.’

  ‘Could be. But at least that means they’ve not connected us to the drugstore last night, or figured out that we were heading out of Miami.’

  He’s right. North doesn’t seem at all fussed, but I sure as hell am. If he predicted our move back in Jacksonville, it makes me far more worried about Special Agent Peters. He’s career minded, according to Monroe, obviously smart, and he’s got into our heads, pre-empted our move. That makes him a whole lot more dangerous.

 
We’re back in the Jetta by seven o’clock and heading along Collier towards the villa complex at Lake Placid. As it comes up on our left I slow our speed and do a drive-past.

  North frowns. ‘I don’t see any vehicles outside the villa he always rents.’

  ‘Any chance he’d have picked somewhere else this time? He knows you’re on the run and that you’re aware of his movements here, so he could well have changed things up as a precaution.’

  ‘He always stays in the same villa at the same place. Has done for fifty or so years. He has an annual booking for the same dates. He’s a creature of habit, and he’s too arrogant to believe anyone would get to him.’ North looks back at the villa. ‘God knows, I tried to talk him into changing his routine often enough, but he never listened.’

  I brake to a halt. ‘Then what next?’

  ‘We should check out the villa just in case.’

  It takes some sweet talking from North for the security guy at the rental villa’s entrance to let us in. But luck is with us, and eventually the combination of him recognising North from the previous year, and me acting as Gabriella Bonchese and talking about paying my daddy a surprise visit, and how mad he’ll be if I get turned away, does the trick.

  As the guard raises the barrier, he shouts across at us. ‘Not sure they’re there. The car left a little while ago.’

  I fake a smile to the guard and drive through the gateway. Soon as we’re inside I glance at North. ‘You think we missed them?’

  ‘The Old Man visits the spot his brother dies each morning. He lights a candle, and sits there in a silent vigil until noon. If they’re not here, I know where to go to find him.’

  We crawl the Jetta along the private road to villa twenty-three and park on the driveway.

  As we get out, I look at North. ‘You ready to do this?’

  He nods. He’s clutching the messenger bag with the iPad from the safety deposit box real tight. ‘Let’s get it done.’

  We step up onto the front porch, and I press the bell. The chimes are loud, easy to hear outside. But no one comes to the door.

  I try again. Still nothing.

  North cusses. Moving around the porch, he peers in through the front window. ‘Can’t see no one.’

  We move around back. Try looking in through the doors onto the small yard that runs down to the lake. I see a fancy kitchen, but no signs of life. ‘Looks like they’re gone.’

  ‘They could be. Oftentimes we’d drive straight back after the Sunday vigil. Could be they packed up before heading out.’

  Once they head back to Miami we’re screwed. With Luciano’s men and Special Agent Jackson Peters on the lookout for us, we’d stand no kind of a chance in getting close enough to the Old Man to talk sense.

  I stride back towards the car. Look over my shoulder at North. ‘Come on then. We need to find them before they leave town.’

  50

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 08:01

  North directs me to a place on the other side of Everglades City. The journey takes less than five minutes and, in the daylight, I realise, although it’s called a city, this place is little more than a small town on a patch of firm ground surrounded by lake and swamp.

  We park up in a lot and walk over to a squat wooden building painted yellow, perched where the ground meets the water. Over the door is a big hand-painted sign: Jack’s Hire.

  North gestures to the building. ‘This is the place the Old Man always gets his rental craft.’

  I scan the lot. ‘You see his car?’

  North takes a moment, looking around, then shakes his head. ‘Nothing stands out, but there’s a bunch of Florida plates. Could be his is one of these, or maybe he parked someplace else.’

  I narrow my gaze. ‘You said he was a creature of habit. He usually park here?’

  ‘Oftentimes, yes.’

  My gut tells me North’s lying, but there’s no way to prove it and, seeing as we both want to find the Old Man, what would be the point? ‘So what does he rent?’

  Rather than answering, North heads straight inside.

  The man behind the desk is wearing a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt and has an even more flamboyant mullet. His skin is baked deep tan and looks like aged leather. He smiles as we approach. ‘You folks looking to get out into the wild country?’

  My stomach twists at the thought.

  North raises a hand in hello. ‘We need a couple of kayaks for the day. You got any?’

  The mullet guy whistles. ‘Well, they sure are popular this weekend, but I got a couple just returned you can take. I’ll need them back by five though.’ He winks at me. ‘Got a load more pre-books arriving in the a.m.’

  ‘That suits us just fine,’ I say, the tremble in my voice betraying how I’m feeling about getting out onto the water. ‘How much?’

  ‘Eighty bucks.’ Mullet guy looks at North real expectant. ‘And your names for the register.’

  As North takes the money from his wallet, I step up to the counter. ‘You want me to sign?’

  ‘Sure ma’am.’ The mullet guy takes a battered journal from beneath the counter and opens it to the page marked with a ribbon. ‘Names, car registration, and cellphone number.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Taking the pen, I fill out our fake names – Nicole Bendrois and Bradley Knox – print the registration of the Jetta, and make up a bullshit cellphone number. I smile real sweet, softening the lie with a little sugar, and pass back the ledger. ‘Here you go.’

  North hands over the cash, and I see from what’s left in his wallet that we’re running low on funds. If this doesn’t work – if we can’t find the Old Man – we’re going to be in trouble.

  Mullet guy pockets the cash and moves out from behind the counter. He gestures for us to follow him outside to a long rack of green and yellow kayaks lining the side of the building.

  He hands us an oar each. ‘Numbers three and four are yours. Enjoy.’

  As the mullet guy walks back inside his shop, I look out at the airboats bobbing against their moorings in the water a few yards away from us. Turning to North I say, ‘Couldn’t we take one of those?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Won’t fit where we need to go. The mangroves are too tight.’

  There are few things that scare me, but I shudder at the thought of getting in one of these little plastic boats and paddling out into the swamp. A couple inches of fibreglass don’t seem near on enough to shield me from the gators that make this place their home.

  North squints at me, sensing my uncertainty. ‘If I’m going to find the Old Man this is the only way. I’m going whether you’re coming or not.’

  Gritting my teeth, I think of everything I’m staking on this conversation with the Old Man. My baby girl and JT are depending on me. I haven’t come this far to give it up now.

  Striding to the rack, I pull number three, a bright-green kayak, from its stand and stare at North real defiant. ‘I’ll be damned if I’m letting you go alone.’

  51

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 08:33

  This place smells like death.

  As we paddle across the lake the sun’s beating on our backs, and the water sparkles like gold in the bottom of a prospector’s pan. There’s no gold below the surface of this water, though. What lies beneath is a whole lot more dangerous.

  North doesn’t seem to care. He guides his yellow kayak through the water in front of me, heading for a narrow channel on the other side. I call out to him. ‘You know where we need to go?’

  ‘Sure.’ He points towards the smaller waterway. ‘This’ll take us deeper in, towards the Ten Thousand Islands. I know the route to where the Old Man’s gone, I’ve done this a lot of times.’

  I should feel reassured by North’s confidence, but I don’t. As we reach the offshoot, and I use my oar to make the turn into it, I see the waterway gets narrower the further from the main drag we go. Pretty soon it’s just a couple of yards wide, and hell knows how many deep. A black vulture squawks overhead and I flinch, h
oping that it isn’t some kind of omen.

  Tightening my grip on the oar, I keep paddling.

  North leads me through the mangrove labyrinth. The trees crowd over us, casting dusky shadows across the water. In the damp crook of tree roots I see the occasional white bloom of orchids, the kind that only grow in places like this, far from civilisation.

  Another half-hour and the gully widens into an oval pool surrounded by gnarled mangroves. In the centre of the pool, North stops paddling and rests his oar straight across the hull of the kayak. He glances back at me. ‘You got water left?’

  I throw him a bottle. ‘We nearly there?’

  ‘Another half-hour and we will be. Take a few minutes break, what comes next is the hard part.’

  I sure hate the sound of that. My shoulders are aching from the paddling, and my left arm is starting to throb again around the site of my gunshot wound. ‘This is one godforsaken place.’

  ‘Some people think it’s beautiful.’

  I glance around me. There’s a natural beauty to the twisted mangrove roots and the way the sunlight hits the water for sure, but there’s danger here too. The water is still, and with no current, it’s stagnant, its smell pungent. Mosquitoes cloud above the surface, their bite impossible to avoid. Sitting in the kayak, it feels as if I’m floating in a fibreglass coffin.

  After taking a long drink from my own bottle of water, I ask North, ‘What happened to the Old Man’s brother?’

  North says nothing. Takes another gulp of water.

  ‘Did the gators get him?’

  ‘They would have eventually, for sure.’

  I hold the water bottle to my forehead, using it to cool my skin. ‘Eventually? So what happened?’

  North looks uncomfortable. ‘It’s a private story.’

  ‘Really? We’re kind of past private, don’t you think?’

  He looks down at the water.

  I wait. After a long minute he starts to speak.