“You refused them.”
“Yes. Like I said”—I wave a hand toward him—“I only just learned that you existed. I loved your mother very much.”
His face twists into a sneer. “You left her to die in the jungle.”
“She let me rot in a cage.” I shrug. “There is a lot that a cage can teach you. My point is that I do not want to be your enemy, Fernando.” I pause, as if gathering my thoughts. “I’d like us to begin to build a relationship.” A flicker in his eyes, just the hint of hope hiding behind those glittering jewels. “Let me tell you my plan, and then you can decide.”
He nods, and comes closer.
Yes, son, step into the trap…learn from the cage.
Mulberry
Frank lies on his side, front legs crossed, snoring like a steam engine at the foot of the bed. Nila, curled into a ball, rests with her back against the door, a low growl emanating from her chest every time someone passes by our hotel room.
Sydney left this morning and hasn’t returned. She did text that she planned to stop by Hugh and Santiago’s house—I’d like to see them too, but she didn’t invite me, and I’m desperately trying to follow Merl’s advice and not push.
Anita is out meeting with her press contacts, trying to change the narrative that Joyful Justice provided the means and inspiration for a mass shooting where innocent people died. I’ve got the TV on, flicking through the channels, doing fuck all about jack shit. The new story of my freaking life.
Nila stands up but doesn’t growl. Sydney must be back. I’ll wait for her to knock. Maybe she’s just headed into the adjoining room to take a shower, leaving me as her dog sitter until she’s ready—a knock at the door interrupts that bitter train of thought.
Nila gives a low woof of greeting and turns to look at me. What is taking you so long? Even dogs are judging me now, great.
Frank wakes up as I stand. He rolls over and flops onto the floor in a tangle of long legs and giant paws. Righting himself, Frank barks as if someone pushed him off the bed. “You did that to yourself,” I tell him as I open the door.
“Who did what to themselves?” Sydney asks, walking in with Blue by her side. She’s carrying two plastic gun cases.
“Frank is an idiot.”
She grins. “I love that about him.”
Nila and Frank both greet Sydney and Blue with unabashed enthusiasm. No one has ever been that excited to see me in my life.
My heart gives a quick thud—my child will be. Memories of meeting my father at the door when he got home from work flood my mind. His strong arms lifting me up, the scent of cigarettes and his cologne engulfing me…how my heart burst with love for him. I needed him.
“Thanks for watching them,” Sydney says.
I blink away the memories, the scent of my dad somehow lingering as I bring Sydney into focus. “Sure, they’re easy. How did it go?”
Sydney lets out a weary sigh. “Not great.” She sits on the bed, and Nila and Frank each lean against a leg. Blue pushes his head against my hand, and I rub his ears.
“Did you find Robert at his house?”
“Yes, but he didn’t tell me anything about the shooting.”
“What about the yacht?”
Sydney looks down at Frank. “Robert knows something, but he’s not sharing.” I hide a smug smile. She was wrong about him—he wouldn’t give her information like she’d hoped. “So I went to Hugh and Santiago's. They’re doing well.” Sydney glances at me and smiles.
“That’s good news.”
“I rested at their place for a while and tried calling Robert but he didn’t pick up, which is strange.”
“Is it?”
She drops her gaze again. “In the past he’s always answered my calls. Anyway, I went back to his house, and José was there.”
“Who’s José?”
“Robert’s chef—he runs the house.”
“That’s nice.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
Sydney stands and paces to the window. “Not so nice for José. He was tied up with this note around his neck.” She reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a folded piece of paper, holding it out to me.
“This was meant for Robert?” I ask after reading it.
“I’d guess so.”
“Robert cares about his chef enough to risk his life for him?” I ask, meeting Sydney’s gaze.
Her lips press together. “I don’t think so. I don’t know anyone Robert would risk his life for…”
“No,” I agree, holding out the paper. “I don’t think there is anybody he loves more than himself.”
Sydney takes back the note with one hand, the other touching her stomach. She turns to the window. A plane takes off, headlights cutting through the night and wing lights flashing. She turns to me. “I’m going to go at dawn.”
“Sydney,” I take a step toward her. “The note isn’t even for you. What makes you think they will give you the antidote?”
“I have to try.” Her eyes narrow. “I’m not going to just let him die.”
I shake my head. “Fine, let me go, then.”
“Anita already agreed to go with me; she can get me into the refugee center with one of her press contacts. Can you take the dogs again?”
“At least let me come with you.”
“We need someone here who knows where we went in case something goes wrong.”
“We can tell Dan.”
“I already spoke with him.” Sydney pauses, not making eye contact. “I don’t want to put anyone else at risk.”
“Please,” I step forward and take her hand. “Let me go instead of you.” She won’t meet my gaze, but she doesn’t say no either. “Please,” I say again.
She shakes her head. “I have to go.”
“Why?” The question comes out angrier than I wanted it to. Crap.
Sydney’s gray eyes flash with annoyance. “If Robert is there, I don’t want you two trying to kill each other.”
“Fine.” I grit my teeth and step back, giving her space. “Whatever you want.”
“Thank you. I’ll bring Nila and Frank by before I go.” She points to the gun cases on the bed. “Those are dart guns—I got them from Robert’s gun case. I’m not going to be able to take any weapons in with me, so I’ll leave them with you.”
“Fine,” I say again, refusing to look at her as she and the dogs leave.
I flop back onto the bed and start flipping through stations, but that doesn’t last long. Restless energy forces me onto my feet. I’m staring at the door that connects our rooms when my phone rings.
Robert Maxim wants to talk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sydney
The tall façade of the sports arena looms into the morning sky, part of its roof missing, the entire structure battered and slumped. For as bad as it looks, it smells worse—a rancid mix of urine, feces, and rot. A shelter of last resort.
Several camouflage-painted National Guard trucks with canvas bed covers are parked near the main entrance. Armed soldiers blanket the area. To maintain order inside or to keep the wrong people out?
“The shooting was the last straw,” Anita says. “There had already been one murder, multiple sexual assaults, and a suicide. Not to mention the gang activity and drug dealing. They didn’t have enough food or water. The city just wasn’t prepared.”
“How many people are sheltered here?” We cross the parking lot toward the fortified entrance. Anita had parked next to a black Mustang she recognized as her contact’s ride, a good distance from the armed men. Give them plenty of time to see us coming.
“At the height there were 20,000—I think about half that sheltered during the storm, and afterwards they brought a lot of people who were rescued here. I’m sure you saw footage of people on their roofs.” I nod. “There were about 5,000 remaining when the shooting took place. Now there are only about a hundred left. They had already started moving people before the shooting but after…”
<
br /> Barbed wire surrounds the trucks and entrance, creating a protected area. Following my gaze Anita answers my unasked question. “The National Guard is separating themselves from the citizens—a guardsman was murdered even before the mass shooting.”
“Terrible.” There is a heaviness in my chest. I left this city in a luxurious, private helicopter while people fought to survive in such desperate conditions. The world just might be totally fucked.
I grip the handle of Blue’s harness as he moves forward. Dark sunglasses shield my eyes, and I’ve got on a baseball cap. I appear blind to the casual observer. This alias is my least favorite—pretending to be blind goes way past tasteless—but also the most effective.
A man in a baseball cap with a press pass around his neck steps away from where he is talking with one of the soldiers and comes to us.
“Good to see you.” He smiles at Anita.
“Jack,” Anita greets him. “This is my friend, Sarah.” She introduces me. I put out a hand and Jack takes it, glancing down at Blue.
“This is my dog, Champion,” I say.
“Nice to meet you. Anita tells me you are considering donating to our site. I’m happy to hear it.” I’m pretending to be a wealthy heiress looking to support his investigative journalism website—specifically to cover the aftermath of the hurricane.
“Yes, the work you’re doing is so important—independent journalism is crucial to the survival of our democracy.”
Jack nods and then flushes—this happens a lot when I’m pretending to be Sarah. Jack assumes I can’t see him nod and is embarrassed by his inability to clearly communicate. Humans use body language almost as much as dogs—our bodies communicate in ways that are more trustworthy than our words. Same as dogs can be trusted more than most people.
“I agree,” Jack says, suddenly talking fast to make up for the nod. “The major networks left when most of the hurricane refugees cleared out. Those left behind are mostly poor, many of them undocumented. I’ve also heard from a source, though it’s not confirmed yet, that there are some men they didn’t want to move—gang members .” His focus shifts behind me. “My photographer is here.”
I don’t turn, keeping up the facade of sightlessness. An African American man in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a camera around his neck and a backpack, joins us. Jack introduces us and we move to the security checkpoint.
The guardsmen who checks my ID wears body armor. The AK-47 strapped to his chest is the same make as the one used in the shooting. A name tag over his heart reads Private Unrath. He chews gum, his stubble-lined jaw working hard. Unrath glances at my face with tired eyes but does not linger… or ask me to remove my sunglasses. He hands back my ID and waves me through.
As we step into the lobby of the sports arena the scent hits harder—it’s revolting. Main doors leading to the arena floor and its surrounding stands are flanked by guardsmen but Jack points us upstairs. “We can get a good picture of the whole situation from the balcony.”
We follow Jack to the top of the stands and look out onto a wide open space littered with trash about thirty feet below us. A small group of people—men, women and some children—crowd together at one side, separated from the guards by barbed wire. “The smell is so strong,” I say.
“There is a canal on the other side of the building that flooded part of the first floor,” Jack says. “The water, as I’m sure you’ve heard, is a toxic mix of bacteria, waste, chemicals and petroleum.” He clears his throat and glances at Anita before returning his attention to me. “Would you like me to explain what we can see from up here?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He describes the scene for the sightless Sarah and then continues. “The remaining refugees are supposed to be moved out today or tomorrow.”
“Where will they be taken?” I ask.
“I’m still trying to get that information,” Jack answers. “Have you heard of April Madden?” I cock my head, acting as if I’m not sure. “She’s a big Her prophet figure. Goes around the country preaching her gospel.”
“Oh, right,” I nod. “I’ve heard the name.”
“She is coming today, wants to make a point that she does not condone violence—is bringing supplies and donations.”
Fantastic, my mom is on her way. Just what this shit-show needs.
I step to the edge of the balcony, and keeping my head straight up so I don’t appear to be looking, scan the crowd below. There is something invasive about being so close but above them—like we are observing animals in a zoo from a safe distance.
“So there is no way in or out except through the guardsmen and their barbed-wire enclosure?” I ask. “That sounds like a prison.”
“There are other exits and entrances,” Anita tells me. “The National Guardsmen are protecting themselves, not imprisoning the people here. The people are staying because they have nowhere else to go.”
Louie, the photographer, is snapping pictures. He pauses to switch a lens. My eyes catch on a man below—at first I think it’s Robert Maxim. But he’s much younger…he smiles at me. I suck in an involuntary breath of surprise.
It must be Robert Maxim’s son, Fernando.
“You okay?” Anita asks.
Fernando ducks his head, a hat covering his face. He begins to move through the crowd, stopping at a clump of young men to speak for a moment and then disappearing under the balcony beneath us.
“You said something about gangs?” I ask.
“Yes,” Jack answers, but before he can elaborate, the clump of men Fernando spoke with begin to move toward the fencing at the main entrance, catching his attention. Tension spreads through the crowd like a gas. The powder keg is about to ignite, and Fernando threw the match.
Like father, like son.
Jack is looking down at the crowd, his face set in lines of concentration.
The men begin to pump their arms as they reach the fencing. “Be Brave!” they chant. Hearing the Joyful Justice slogan yelled with such anger and aggression sends a chill down my spine. They are trying to destroy everything we stand for…smart.
Families separate themselves from the chanting group, moving away; children cling to their parents, men wrap arms around women. “What’s happening?” I ask as Louie switches to video on his camera.
The guardsmen line up along the fence—their shoulders tense, weapons held tight.
“You should get out of here,” Jack says, turning to Anita.
I need to go after Fernando.
I pull on Blue’s harness and he turns us around. Anita takes my elbow and we start toward the stairs as the chanting grows louder. “Follow me,” I tell her when we enter the stairwell.
The sound of a gunshot freezes us both. Screams echo in the building. I start down the steps, taking them two at a time.
“Where are we going?” Anita asks as I burst out the emergency exit leading out the back of the building. The canal is straight ahead, almost a football field’s length away. There are two figures arguing on the edge of it.
“I just saw Robert’s son.”
“He has a son? What!” I start to run—Blue pulling me forward. Anita moves with me, her stride long and even. “Sydney, what is going on?” Anita huffs.
I should have told her about Fernando… but it seemed personal, like I'd be betraying Robert somehow.
The two men look up—the resemblance is staggering and disturbing. Robert must have gotten my messages. He came for José. Or is this a trap?
My feet slow at the thought. Robert frowns deeply. Anita is breathing heavily next to me. “What the hell is going on?” she whispers.
“Not sure,” I answer.
Robert says something to Fernando and then jogs the last 20 yards to us. He’s wearing a suit—the jacket buttoned, as if he’s walking into a business meeting. It probably costs more than the families we just left behind collectively have in the entire world. My teeth grit with the injustice of it.
“Take this,” Robert says, stepping in
front of me, as if blocking me from his son, and pushing a pill bottle into my hand. “It’s the antidote.”
I glance down at it. “Why can’t you take it to him?” I ask, standing on my tiptoes to see behind him. A speedboat bobs in the canal’s putrid waters.
“I have to go with him.”
“He wants to kill you,” I point out, calm as can be.
Robert touches my cheek with gentle fingers, drawing my attention. “I’m not so easy to kill. Now go.” His voice is low and velvety soft.
“Sydney,” Anita says. I glance at her. She points to a bus pulling up to the entrance we ran out of…it has a giant picture of my mother on the side and the words “Release the Wolf #IAmHer” printed in bright red ink.
Great. My mom’s here.
Mulberry
I shift my weight, the tarp under me crinkling as I turn my attention away from the video on my tablet back to the scope on the sniper rifle. The one-legged assassin.
I’m a decent marksman, but never considered myself an expert. I don’t need to be for this task, though.
The national guard’s radio communication crackles—they are not prepared for this kind of revolt from the refugees. And why should they be? They’re supposed to be on the same side. But the soldiers are tired, angry, and scared.
Frank sits next to me, his nose in the air, sniffing the breeze coming through the broken window. Nila, her booties crunching over broken glass, circles the abandoned office space, checking for threats among the overturned desks and waterlogged carpeting.
Sun glints off the canal as I steady my crosshairs on Robert. This office building gives me the perfect view. Scanning the area, I see Fernando come out the back exit and start running toward his father.
“Be brave! Be brave!” The chanting of the crowd draws my focus back to the tablet. They are pushing up against the fence. A shot is fired; I’m not sure which side. “They are firing on us,” a voice announces.
Savage Grace (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #12) Page 19