by Paul Knox
It was all a beautiful show of massive support, but the thing he wanted most was to see Zaki.
The crowd parted as he rolled into his driveway. Shanahan stumbled out of his pickup, glancing around. The crisp October air was warmed by the hearts of all nearby.
Overwhelmed, Shanahan tried to focus.
His baby boy was nearby, being read a picture book in the front yard by the Nohpalli barista, Austen. Zaki appeared to be in good hands.
“Shanahan!” Maisie ran up and hugged him. “I’m so glad to see you. Don’t worry about Zaki. We’re all taking turns watching him.”
“I can see that. I can’t thank you enough.”
“If he stays around any longer, I’m gonna have to teach him ‘bout scrappin’ with me and Oliver.” Jaxson approached and firmly gripped Shanahan’s hand, squeezing a little longer than normal.
“Speaking of scrapping, can you recycle a couch or mattress? There’s metal inside, right?”
“Too much fluff. The recyclin’ scrapyards don’t take that stuff. You gettin’ rid of some things?” A full-time scrapper, Jaxson made a living by scouring the land and local businesses for junk metal to recycle. It paid the bills for the hard-working, direct descendant of a don’t-take-no-one’s-shit cattleman.
Shanahan shrugged. “Out with the old, in with the new.”
“I hear ya, partner.” Jaxson tipped the brim of his twenty-gallon cowboy hat in respect.
“The wedding’s coming up, isn’t it?” Shanahan asked.
“Only one more month!” Maisie’s overexcited tone quickly morphed into empathetic concern. “You and Reece will find her, Shanahan. I know you will. And we’ll all be there together when you do.”
“Is Reece here?” he asked.
Maisie awkwardly glanced around. “Not yet. She will be.”
Looking away, Shanahan found it difficult to embrace the togetherness vibe. He appreciated their help and everyone’s concern, but right now, he had to rely on himself.
Zaki’s face lit up when Shanahan lifted him from Austen’s lap. “Hey, little guy,” Shanahan cooed. “I’m not going to be around for a few days. I have to find Mom.”
“Ma-wa,” Zaki babbled back.
“Yes. Momma. I won’t rest until we’re all back together. As a family.” Shanahan whispered, “You hear me? I love you, Zaki. And I love Momma. I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.”
After Shanahan kissed Zaki on the forehead, he held him in his arms for a good, long moment. It felt like there was no one else in the entire universe, except for them two.
After remembering that people holding candles surrounded them, he looked up to discover Austen drying his eyes. Maisie had her hand over her heart, glimmering in authenticity. Jaxson looked away, as though his presence was an intrusion on the tender moment.
Beryl stepped forward. “Darling, she’s coming home.” Clear and full of life, Beryl’s eyes penetrated Shanahan’s heart.
For a minute, Shanahan saw past her wispy hair and funky, colorful scarf, to a wisdom in her old age he hadn’t known she possessed.
“I believe you.” Shanahan stood and handed Zaki back to the sniffing barista, who not only made excellent lattes and other various craft drinks, but also read books to babies.
“Can Zaki stay with you tonight, Beryl—without me? There are a couple things I have to do here in the morning.”
“Of course, dear.”
Trying to show his appreciation for the large turnout, Shanahan made a few rounds and shook a few hands. It should’ve felt good having everyone there.
But it didn’t.
A news reporter—the Heatmaker—tried interviewing him, but Shanahan couldn’t do it. Shanahan stood there, dizzy, with the camera punching him in the face. He couldn’t even say a single word.
Where is Reece?
Not long after, Shanahan headed inside his home, hoping his mind would rest for a few hours.
Seventeen
M. Knight hung up on the detective as quickly as his big fingers could maneuver. Of all people who could call that phone, why her?
Pain filled his entire body. But he was alive. And he could still move.
He sat up, just a little, and coughed up blood. He put his hands to his chest. Sticky. But the bullets hadn’t hit his heart or, probably, any major vein or artery connected to it. He might still have a chance.
Peering through the windshield of the truck, M. Knight watched Lucky in the blazingly bright headlights. He seemed oblivious. Breathing hard and dripping sweat, Lucky was out there digging a grave—for him.
M. Knight would’ve loved to shove Lucky straight down that hole.
But now was not the time.
The rock music covered the sound of the large man opening the back door, ever so quietly, and sliding out.
Stumbling through the desert night, he alternated hands on his chest, held over the holes. He fell to his knees a few times, and needed to rest often, but he kept moving. His life depended on it.
He pulled a dead bush from the ground and wiped his tracks behind him so Lucky wouldn’t be able to follow.
M. Knight traveled alongside the dirt path, but from a distance.
About an hour later, he came upon a paved road. There was no one around. No cars. Nothing.
Going into shock, his body shivered in the chilly night’s air. M. Knight began to follow the asphalt, hoping someone would stop. He wouldn’t last forever walking alone under the desert moon with two bullets mucking around his insides.
He needed water. And rest.
And then something miraculous happened for M. Knight. An eighteen wheeler came rolling on down the way. Walking straight into the middle of the street with his hand waving, M. Knight hoped the trucker would see him.
At first, the trucker honked his horn. And then he honked again. When he finally rolled his window down to yell obscenities at the large man blocking his path, M. Knight took the opportunity to yell back.
“I need help! I’ve been shot…by a hunter. Crazy accident!”
“What that hell?” The trucker hopped out and ran over, offering help.
M. Knight asked for a ride. He had all kinds of underground ideas about where he needed to go, and revenge he wanted to enact.
Instead, sitting in that comfortable passenger seat, safe inside the truck, all he did was pass out.
◆◆◆
Hours later, Lucky finished digging. He was tired, drenched and dirty. His Hawaiian shirt smelled, and he needed a long shower with a lot of soap.
Now to get the bodies.
He shuffled over to his pickup and opened the driver’s side cab door. To his surprise, the bodies weren’t bodies anymore.
They were now a he. One body. El Hijo Rico lay there, stiff, but M. Knight was gone.
Lucky ran around the side and noticed some blood on the ground. There were footprints in the soft dirt leading away from the pickup.
M. Knight was alive. And he got away.
This was not good news.
That giant behemoth escaped. I should’ve shot him between the eyes.
Lucky scowled, thinking about how tedious it would be to dig another six-foot-deep hole if he didn’t hurry up and find M. Knight. Driving around for a good hour or two, Lucky peered between cactus and boulders, and explored the narrow spaces where his truck fit, but there was no sign of M. Knight anywhere.
After cursing a book, and even inventing a few novel phrases, Lucky went back to the grave and dumped the body of El Hijo Rico. He buried him, grunting and spitting the entire time.
Would M. Knight die in the desert, only for the sheriff’s deputies to find his body—and a trail that would lead back to him?
Or worse, would M. Knight make it back to civilization to tell the tale?
Eighteen
Reece Cannon slammed her fist against the steering wheel of her parked Jeep. The night was getting late, and soon she’d have to get some sleep.
The giant thug had somehow evaded her
at Galaxsea. Sandy had said that M. Knight left without explanation, but Reece was skeptical.
Even though she’d never caught Sandy in a lie, somehow he was always one degree of separation from the criminal or the crime.
Adding to her frustration, later when she’d arrived to Shanahan’s candlelight vigil, he’d already left for the night. And no light shone from inside his home.
Beryl and Zaki weren’t there anymore, either. Kevin had tried to talk to Reece, but she hadn’t indulged.
Reece had talked with some of the neighbors and lit a candle. Watching the wax drip and the last of the candles melt down to their final minutes of life, Reece was reminded of her brother’s funeral all those years ago.
Reece had moved to Los Angeles after high school, before he died, exploring the big city and making a life for herself. Maybe she’d also been running from the pain of her dad, Sandy, running out on them.
While living in the big city, her family back home fell apart. She hadn’t been around when her brother died. It had devastated her mother and sister.
Nothing had ever been the same.
She couldn’t shake the disappointment of missing Shanahan and felt guilty for not being there for one of her closest friends.
I hope he understands why I was late.
Reece now sat in her Jeep, thinking. Contemplating.
Where was M. Knight or El Hijo Rico?
Where was everybody?
At this moment, Reece only had instincts to act from.
Asking herself how Lucky got his name, her mind drifted to card games and poker chips. Where else do you need luck more than when you’re gambling?
On a nothing-to-lose hunch, Reece headed for Casino Del Sol, the biggest casino this side of Arizona, owned by the Pascua Yaqui tribe.
After entering the adult wonderland, to her surprise, the first person she asked—a cage cashier—knew exactly who she was talking about.
“Lucky? Sure, I’ve seen him. He looks like that guy from the old TV show, Magnum, P.I.”
“Tom Selleck?” Reece had seen all the classic cop and detective shows from the 80s.
The cashier continued. “Except, he’s a little older and wears a straw fedora. I think his hair is graying underneath, can’t be sure, but his mustache is a solid chestnut brown.”
“Does he ever come in with any Hispanic gentlemen?”
“I don’t think so. He’s usually alone. But he was just here a day or two ago with a white guy—who the valet attendants said drove a flashy green Lamborghini. You might want to talk to them.”
Reece thanked the cashier. She left the inside of the mechanized oasis for the quiet midnight landscape just beyond the sliding glass doors. Outside, the only sound came from her shoes tapping against the concrete sidewalk.
Two young Native American men dressed in valet uniforms greeted her warmly as she approached the small outside counter. Reece asked about the sports car and its occupants.
The valet attendants guiltily smirked at each other before one of them answered. “The green Lamborghini? I remember. The guy driving had an accent. Might have been Polish or Russian or something.”
“What was that smirk about?” Reece asked. “Did he leave you a good tip or have some pretty girls with him?”
“No, no, nothing like that. He threw us a twenty, but nothing big.”
“Did you drive it?”
“Yes—I have to, to park it.”
“Did you see anything inside? Anything that had a name on it?”
Once again, the attendants regarded each other like they knew something, yet didn’t want to say it.
“Look, guys, it’s obvious you saw something. Let me know. It might save the life of a kidnapping victim. You could be heroes.” Reece explained the abduction and her investigation.
The attendants shuffled their feet and nervously glanced around.
Reece steadied her gaze. “Help me save a life.”
One of the valet attendants nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s not my job to call the police or anything, you know? He was a customer here, and I wasn’t supposed to be looking around.”
“Doing the right thing counts for something.” Reece held his gaze with hers. “You’ll sleep better with a clear conscious.”
“There was a duffel bag inside. It was filled with cocaine or something. White powder stuff.”
“You opened the bag?”
“I normally don’t do anything like that—never. But this was a super-rich car, and the bag was just lying in the back. My curiosity got to me. No wonder they could afford that thing. There were tons.”
“But no name or business card or wallet?”
“No, I’m sorry. And the guy he was with, with the mustache, I’ve never seen him before either.”
“The mustache guy doesn’t come through valet?”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Anything stand out about the other guy except his accent?”
“His arm was covered in tattoos. Almost looked tribal. Not Pascua Yaqui, but white-guy, Celtic or European tribal. Symbol stuff. You know what I mean?”
“I can picture the style, sure. Here’s my card. Call me immediately if you see them again, either one. And don’t say anything. I don’t want to scare them off.”
The attendant read her card. “You got it, Detective Cannon.”
Reece drove past El Hijo Rico’s apartment one more time before retiring to her own, empty home for the night. Nothing. No one.
She also called Galaxsea again. M. Knight hadn’t been seen all night.
Reece went over the new facts in her mind, wishing Shanahan was sitting across from her, giving his input and ideas.
Instead, she sat with a cup of chamomile tea, surrounded by the sounds of music softly playing over the silence.
The facts:
The dead man, Mickey Money, was directly tied to Columbian cocaine, but wasn’t Columbian. M. Knight, an obvious thug, but also not Columbian, was connected to the El Hijo Rico and cocaine, too.
There was no doubt that El Hijo Rico and Don Rico were related and had to be part of the same cartel.
Raymond Miller connected M. Knight and El Hijo to a Hawaiian shirt-wearing, mustached man named Lucky.
Lucky wasn’t Columbian either, and neither was his Polish or Russian friend who drove the Lamborghini.
The valet attendants would’ve remembered if the guy who ‘threw him a twenty’ had six fingers, so the Lamborghini driver wasn’t Jessie’s kidnapper.
And nobody said anything about Lucky having six fingers, either.
Yet they were all connected.
Lucky was somehow tied to all sides.
Lucky must be in the middle, the one who tied the Lamborghini driver, the Columbians, M. Knight, and the six-fingered man together.
It had to be Lucky who orchestrated Jessie’s abduction.
But why? Does Don Rico have something on him?
Who is Lucky?
Ninteen
Later that night, Lucky finally opened the bedroom door. Jessie’s slumped head jolted awake, and she had no idea what time it was. Unreal and hard to grasp, it felt early morning-hours late.
And he smelled terrible. She didn’t want to imagine what he’d been doing. He barely spoke a word as he plucked her from the chair and led her to the bathroom, dazed himself.
After flipping the bathroom light on, she noticed something weird about his face. His mustache. Something wasn’t right.
Trying to ignore the fog in her brain, and find strength, she clenched her jaw and reached into the depths of her mind, feeling for the memory of a plan.
As she sat on the porcelain with her robe bunched up behind her, she snuck images of the medicine cabinet. Lucky barely watched her. He seemed sleepy and tired.
Perfect.
With an element of surprise, Jessie jumped off the toilet and fell into the bathroom door, temporarily slamming it shut.
Her adrenaline surged, and all remaining remnants o
f her energy spilled into that moment. She reached in the cabinet and clasped onto the razor. She felt the metal in her hands—cold, heavier than the cheap ones. This wasn’t a throwaway handle.
Lucky thrust the door open.
Jessie was hit by the door and fell sideways, right into a bathtub. She slammed her head against the wall in the process, trying to make the fall look as real as possible.
Please work.
As Lucky rushed over to her, grabbing her right arm and yanking her up, she slipped the razor into her robe pocket with her left.
Then she winced, waiting for him to rip the razor from her robe and hit her with a baseball bat.
Lucky squeezed her arm. “What the hell was that?”
Jessie mumbled, “I haven’t eaten. I’m sorry, I’m dizzy. I slipped.”
“Be more careful,” he barked.
“Okay, yes, I’m so sorry. Please.”
After Lucky sat her down in the chair, he took off his hat and briefly wiped a bead of sweat from his head. And then, Jessie realized it.
The mustache. The hair.
Lucky zip tied her back to the chair. “I’ll be right back.”
A minute later he returned with an energy bar. “Eat this.” Then he gave her some more water before putting fresh tape over her mouth.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I hope he doesn’t find you tonight.”
Jessie couldn’t speak but she tried. “Hmmm?” she asked through the tape.
“Never mind. Don’t worry about it.” Then he closed the door and left the house.
Jessie knew he’d just left her there as bait, again. Or, maybe he’d just left her there uncertain of whether someone would find her. Someone bad. Maybe someone he’d just tried to kill.
If that person opened the door and found her tied to a chair, weak, what would they do to her?
She should’ve planned better. She should’ve put the razor in her sleeve, not her pocket. How would she get the razor out of her robe pocket, with her hands tied behind her back, fastened to the chair? And with her ankles zip tied, too?
But she did know one thing. Something shocking. The mustache Lucky wore was fake. The corner of it had slightly peeled off. When she’d glimpsed his hair, she suddenly pictured the man.