by R. A. McGee
Florida Avenue ran north for several more miles until it became State Road 41. The state road would take you as far north as you wanted to go, merging with Nebraska Avenue and several ancillary roads. Porter knew just where he wanted to take Quintana.
Pasco County bordered Hillsborough County to the north. As a county, it was less populated and more rural. It had been experiencing a bit of a boom due to urban sprawl, but it was still quiet in most places. Porter stayed pointed north for nearly an hour until he found the place he was looking for.
When he was still a federal agent, Porter had worked a case that involved a methamphetamine cooking operation. The amateur chemists had bought a farm with thirty acres and used that as their base of operations. There were trailers and mobile homes everywhere on the land, and all were used as meth labs. The property was seized by the government as part of the investigation and would be auctioned off. Porter hadn’t checked on the status of the sale in over eighteen months, but in his experience, the government system was so slow that it was likely the auction wouldn’t be held for several more years.
Porter took a left at a closed and shuttered gas station and drove the van off 41 and onto the smaller surface streets. He idled down an unlit gravel road and came to a large gate made of round metal pipes. Posted to the front of the gate were several official-looking, laminated pieces of paper: seized property notices, no trespassing signs, the number for a twenty-four-hour law enforcement call center if anything happened on the property.
Chains barred the gate, but they were no match for the van. Pulling onto the property, Porter stopped the van, got out, and tried to set the gate as right as he could. He wasn’t sure why he bothered; if he remembered right, there were no other farms down this gravel road, and the next neighbor was many acres away.
After pulling down the uneven driveway for several hundred feet, Porter found what he was looking for: the burned-out shell of a double-wide trailer. The meth lab that had previously inhabited it had caught fire and blown up, reducing the trailer to a charred husk. There were plenty of other trailers he could have chosen, but this one had the right ambiance.
Porter pointed the van at the trailer to take advantage of the lights, and left it running. He opened the double rear doors of the van and found Quintana fast asleep. He should have woken by now. The black eye was fully formed now—and worse, there was a raised welt the diameter of the plunger handle that ran the length of his head. Porter stifled a laugh.
Can’t make him any uglier, he thought as he hauled Quintana’s dead weight out of the van and hefted him to his shoulder.
Porter walked the man over to the front support pole of the trailer. Without letting the body fall all the way to the ground, he slid Quintana off his shoulder and stood him against the pole, holding him in place with one hand. With the other hand, he reached into his pocket and grabbed the electrical tape. Porter used his mouth to start the end of the tape unraveling and stuck it to Quintana’s forehead. He fed it around and around the support pole several times until Quintana’s head was immobile. The small roll of electrical tape didn’t go very far, so Porter had to settle for only wrapping Quintana’s chest to the pole as well. When he was finished, he gingerly took his hands off of Quintana and stepped away.
The tape held. The portly bus driver sagged, but was ultimately held in place, head and chest stuck to the pole, arms still tied behind him.
Porter was proud of his packing job. The bus driver looked like a caterpillar tied to a stick. Porter walked back to the van and sat for a couple of minutes.
Quintana wasn’t going anywhere.
Porter was going to question Quintana, there was no doubt about that. There were two options for how to deal with this situation, and they both had pros and cons. Too much shock and awe and Quintana would tell him anything just to get him to stop. The information might be worthless
On the other hand, if he was too soft-handed, Quintana would lie his ass off and dodge questions all night. Porter would be in the humid field much longer than he wanted to be. There was a fine line. In this situation, Porter hoped the fear of what might happen would be Quintana’s biggest motivator. He already knew Porter would hurt him—or at least, he would remember that when he woke up.
Porter wished he had bought another bottle of water from the Greek girl. This far from a city, it was pitch black out. The van’s headlights illuminated the thick cloud of mosquitos that swarmed the area. Porter had rolled down his sleeves, but they still gnawed at his exposed face and neck.
I’m going to have to get this going, or I’m going to get eaten alive.
He took out his phone and started a voice memo, then slipped it into the front pocket of his outer shirt. Porter then walked over to the trussed Quintana and gently smacked his face. His eyes cracked open, then slammed shut. Porter smacked again and Quintana’s eyes slowly opened.
Quintana was dazed and seemed to be having a hard time understanding where he was. He blinked hard a couple of times, then began softly crying.
Porter stood up, then leaned closer to the man. He wasn’t interested in this side of the man, at least not so soon. He reasoned that Quintana’s mind was still trying to process what had happened, and the crying was just a reflex, like when a baby wakes up in a strange place—which wasn’t too far from the case right now.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
There was no reply. Quintana just kept blinking the tears out of his eyes. Still, Porter saw a spark of understanding. Porter knew the man was coming around.
“You with me? Hey. Hey. You here?” Porter gave his face another smack. This time, Quintana focused on Porter. His lights were on again and someone was home.
“You’re back. Good. Remember what happened?”
Quintana blinked his eyes again. “I remember… I remember seeing you in the bathroom and that’s it. Why can’t I… why can’t I move? Did I get shot?”
“Nope, your legs work just fine. Does your face hurt? I imagine it does. Move your tongue around. I think you may be missing a tooth.”
Quintana tracked his tongue in his mouth and checked his teeth. Porter saw the tongue linger on the left side of his mouth. “What happened?”
“I cracked you in your face with a plunger handle,” Porter said.
Abel Quintana’s eyes went wide. His face flushed with hundreds of questions, but he didn’t speak.
“Yep, I cracked you right in your damn face. You know why?”
No words escaped Quintana’s battered face.
“Because you tried to bullshit me,” Porter said. “I don’t like that, Abel. I tried to be so polite.”
Quintana looked tentative. There was a lie on his lips, but he bit it off.
Good, Porter thought. Maybe we can speed this up a little.
“Did you break my neck?” Abel Quintana said.
“No, I didn’t break your neck. You can’t move because you’re tied up.”
“Where am I?”
“Do you feel these damn mosquitos? They’re eating me alive.” Porter walked over and unbuttoned his bowling shirt as best he could, tucking the flaps behind him. He unbuckled Quintana’s shorts as well, letting them fall down to the ground.
“Sorry, but I’m not going to be the only one getting bitten all to shit out here. You get to share the love.” Porter swatted his neck. “Where you are is a tough question to answer. You were asleep for quite a while. I drove you pretty far out of town.”
“Why am I here?”
Porter walked over and smacked Abel Quintana in the mouth. “Abel, don’t start that with me. I just told you why you were here. If I have to keep explaining this to you, we’re gonna be out here all night. I don’t want to be out here too much longer, on account of the bears.”
Quintana’s eyes shifted left and right. “Bears?”
“Shit, yeah. The bear population has boomed out of control these last few years.” Porter was telling the truth.
“They had to open the first hunting season o
n bears in decades.” Porter was still telling the truth.
“The Florida black bear is one of the most dangerous animals in the South. Every year they kill dozens of people.” Porter was not telling the truth.
While the black bear population had boomed, they were of minimal risk to humans. Porter was guessing the New York City-bred Quintana had no clue about bears. But there was enough truth to the story that the bus driver could have read something in the paper or heard on the news about bear-hunting season.
“God, no. God, no. I don’t want no bear.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want no bullshit.”
“But I can’t. I can’t, Mr…” Porter watched Quintana’s face struggle to recall his name.
“Porter.”
“Mr. Porter, I can’t. Please. Don’t make me tell you.”
“Why not? What’s the problem?” Porter said.
“He’ll know. He’ll know if I tell you.” Abel Quintana began to cry again.
Sixteen
“Who will know? Who will know you told me?”
Quintana stopped crying and looked up. Porter saw a flash of stubbornness. “I don’t have to tell you. You can’t do this to me, the cops will get you for this.”
“I doubt it,” Porter said.
“You can’t just hit people. You can’t kidnap people, it’s illegal.”
“Oh, but you can just rape and kill little girls? That’s what you’re telling me?” Porter walked back over to the taped-up man and gave him an open-palm smack to his black eye. Quintana cried out in pain. “You’re wasting my time, Abel.”
“I didn’t rape no kid. I didn’t kill no kid. She was alive when I saw her.”
“So you did see her?” Porter said. “I’m starting to get a little pissed at you.”
Quintana looked frustrated.
“Look, I can stay out here all night. I didn’t want to—shit, the mosquitos are killing me—but I don’t have anything else to do. Maybe I need a hobby. Want to tell me about bowling?”
“Someone will come, someone will see.”
Porter laughed. “You’re so screwed and you can’t even imagine. There’s no one around for miles."
Porter moved behind the immobilized man. “You hear that?” Porter said, about nothing at all.
“What was that?”
“Bear. There’s no telling if one will get you tonight or not. I figure we have time, since you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what I want to know. You’ll be out here for days in the Florida heat, with no food or water. What if you have to shit?” Porter feigned a shudder. “That would be the worst. Besides the bears, of course.”
“I have kids. Please.”
“So? Think they need a scumbag like you around?”
“I’m not a scumbag. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.” Quintana’s head sagged against the electrical tape.
“Boo-hoo. You still aren’t answering my question. What happened when Danny got off your bus?”
Quintana was quiet for several minutes. Porter let him be. Sometimes when people were at a tipping point, it was best to let them fall on their own. Finally, the balding man spoke. “You’re not gonna kill me?”
“Sorry?”
“If I tell you, how do I know you won’t kill me? You brought me all the way out here. I saw your face; I could tell the cops. How do I know you won’t kill me to make sure you don’t get into trouble?”
“I’m not too worried about it. If you tell the cops, they may talk to me. I’ll deny I did anything, and there’s no evidence to prove I was ever here,” Porter said.
Quintana didn’t look away. He wanted to be convinced. Convinced that telling whatever secret he was harboring could get him out of this situation alive.
“Look, if you tell the cops I will find you and kill you. Is that what you want to hear? Keep your mouth shut. Simple, really. You weren’t hard to track down the first time; I imagine you can’t run too far. If I kill you, your wife will probably start sending me a Christmas card to thank me. Who wants to be married to a kiddie murderer?”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“Doesn’t matter. What I’m telling you is this: I could easily kill you out here. And I would get away with it. I could find you and kill you later and I would still get away with it. It doesn’t matter. The only hope you have of getting out of this alive is to speak up, unless you want your wife to be a widow.”
Quintana looked at Porter and was silent again, but this time only for thirty seconds. Then he caught Porter’s eye and spoke. “It was my brother. Damn it. My brother took her.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Who’s your brother? Give me a name.”
“Hector. Hector Quintana.”
Porter looked at him for a moment. “Hector? Hector from the Acres? That’s your brother?”
“Yes.”
“And the cops didn’t realize the two of you were related?”
“He never talked to them. No one else would, all they knew about him was his first name.”
Miss Leona was right, Porter thought; it was the devil she knew. “So, Hector took Danny. How did you figure into this?”
“All I did was let him onto the bus. He took her and he walked her to his car. There were no other kids around.”
“I thought Miss Leona usually picked Danny up. How did you know she wouldn’t be there?”
“I didn’t. He called me, told me he was coming onto the bus and to shut up and do what he said. All I had to do was let him walk the girl off the van.”
Porter sat down on the burned-out steps and thought for a few moments. Things weren’t making complete sense to him. He doubted he would be able to get the full story from Quintana, but he still didn’t know enough. “How many times have you done something like this for Hector?”
“Just the once. Never any other times.”
“Why? Why would you let him take the girl?” Porter said.
Abel looked embarrassed. “He’s my little brother but… I know how he is. He could hurt me. Maybe kill me. If you knew what he did to our father…”
“I don’t give a shit about your dad,” Porter said.
“I know, I know…”
“So you are a scumbag. You let your brother take a girl. An innocent little girl.”
Quintana was silent. Porter glared at him.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” Porter said.
“I’m a scumbag.”
“That’s what I thought.” Porter stood up and walked over to Abel Quintana. “Where did he take the girl?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. All I did was let him take her.”
“All you did?” Porter said.
Quintana didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything else to say.
Porter stood in front of Quintana. He looked him over for a moment, then drew his pistol. He lifted it and pressed it into Quintana’s nose. The man’s breath grew short and ragged.
“I thought—I thought… you… said—”
“I changed my mind. Unless you have something else you can tell me, I don’t see why we should keep dragging this out,” Porter said.
“I don’t—I don’t … know… anything… I don’t know… I don’t know…” repeated Abel Quintana, with his eyes closed. “I just… want… to see my… kids… my… kids… kids…”
Porter regarded him for a moment. He was telling the truth. Porter had wanted to take one last prod for any latent info, but Quintana had none.
“Tell you what, Abel. I think you’ve told me all you’re going to.” Porter slipped his Glock back in its holster. “I don’t know what you’re so scared for. I told you I wasn’t going to kill you.”
Quintana opened his eyes. He was still breathing fast, but no longer seemed to be on the verge of blacking out. “You aren’t?”
“No.”
“You’re gonna let me go?”
“Shit, no. I never said that. You still have to pay for what you’ve done. I figure
a little time out will do you good. In a couple days, I may call the cops and tip them off that you’re out here.”
“A couple days?”
“Yeah, more or less. I’ll play it by ear.”
“Please, Porter, just cut me loose now. Please. I want to see my kids. I won’t do anything, just be with my kids and work every day a—”
“I didn’t tell you? You have to quit your job. One of the terms of our deal. I just added it.”
“If I quit, I won’t be able to make a living.”
“I don’t give a good damn,” Porter said. He placed his face inches from Abel Quintana’s. “You never drive that bus again. Whenever I let you out of here, you go home, get your family, and move. Your Tampa privileges are revoked. Entiende?”
Quintana hesitated before answering.
“Listen to me. If I ever see you again, our deal is off. You know what that means?”
“I understand.”
“Convince me,” Porter said.
“If you ever see me, you’ll kill me.”
“Good.” Porter walked away from Quintana and didn’t look back. He hadn’t brought anything with him, so he walked past the still-running van and kept going. He made his way to the metal gate and hopped over it. When he got to the street, he couldn’t see Abel Quintana or the van’s headlights in the dark. He looked left and right and walked left. He reached into his pocket for his phone, shut the voice recording off, and redialed the last number.
“Hello?” a groggy voice said.
“Tina. It’s Porter. I need a ride. Bring a bottle of water, too.”
Seventeen
Ninety minutes passed before Rivera met Porter. He had walked back to the main road, to the dilapidated gas station he’d passed earlier. He was sitting on a large windowsill under the front window of the station when she pulled up. She wasn’t in a county car, Porter could see by the license plate as he walked over and slid into the passenger seat.
“Spill it. You call me at one in the morning, you tell me you have info, you get me to drive all the way out here. Talk. Now.”