by R. A. McGee
Porter pulled new clothes from the drawer and changed. Arrington watched him until he took his pants off, then she turned around. He slid his feet back into his Chuck Taylors, cursing under his breath at the blood on his shoes. It was hard to get blood out of Chuck Taylors.
Porter grabbed his phone and wallet and left the house, getting his car keys from the front table on the way out. Time to get his arm fixed.
He knew just the place.
Twenty-Eight
The sun wasn’t even over the horizon yet and it was already muggy outside. As Porter drove away from his house, he saw that the crime scene guys had removed his weapons from the driveway and were unrolling yellow tape around the perimeter.
He had to be careful not to hit anyone in the crowd of nosy neighbors that had gathered.
Porter pushed the car out Dale Mabry Highway and headed north. This time of the morning, the highway was still quiet and hadn’t turned into a parking lot like it would during rush hour. He clicked through his phone, looking for the right song. Porter wasn’t a huge fan of the new stuff they called rap, but he liked many of the older albums. He settled on Biggie Smalls’s first album, Ready to Die.
Porter wondered if the Acres boys who had come into his house were ready to die. He wasn’t.
In fact, he enjoyed living very much and, while he didn’t want to kill people, in this instance he didn’t feel bad. He knew the media and psychologists would expect him to be broken up right now. If his life were a television show, there would be a close-up shot of him, alone, and his hands would be shaking. Or better yet, looking at himself in the mirror and having some sort of crying jag. Porter thought he was ugly when he cried, so he wouldn’t shed a tear for those assholes.
He wasn’t heartless, just pragmatic.
Around the time “One More Chance” played, he took a right on Highway 54. That area had exploded in the last five years. Porter saw strip malls and movie theatres, chain Mexican and Italian restaurants that he didn’t like. Before he bought his current place, he’d lived out this way for a few years. He preferred where he lived now. The older part of town was less frenetic, and the food at the mom-and-pop restaurants was better.
Porter turned into an enormous, pre-planned neighborhood in a town called Wesley Chapel. Some developer had realized he could make a neighborhood the size of a city. There were thousands of houses and several grocery stores; the developer had petitioned the county to build two elementary schools, as well as a middle and high school. The neighborhood even had its own post office.
Making his way through the cookie-cutter streets by memory, Porter soon approached his destination. The house was nothing special to look at; it was just one of many, but it was nice. It was down the street from one of the elementary schools, a five-minute walk for a parent and child. Behind the house was one of the community playgrounds. In the evenings and weekends, there were children playing everywhere while their parents chatted with friends.
Porter drove up in front of the house. The driveway was empty so he pulled in.
Must be parked in the garage.
Porter sat in the car for a minute, preparing himself. He felt a flutter of anticipation in his stomach. He hated that feeling, but he couldn’t help it. He’d had that anticipation since the beginning, and the feeling had never gone away. He checked his face in the rearview mirror to make sure he was presentable, then stepped out of the car.
Moving up the walkway, he noticed the lawn was being kept well and that there was a new bed of flowers under the front window. He stepped up to the front door and stood for a moment. He took a deep breath, blew it out, and then rang the doorbell. There was no answer. Porter waited a few seconds and then hit the button again, but still nothing.
I guess I’ll go to the ER after all.
Porter turned to go back to his Yukon. As he took a step away he heard the deadbolt unlock behind him. When he turned back around, there she was. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel and she was beautiful.
Twenty-Nine
“Telly?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
He winced. He hated that nickname. “Hey Trish. I thought you weren’t home.”
“You must have thought I was home if you came over.”
“I mean you didn’t answer, so I thought maybe you’d gone to work or something,” Porter said.
“Just in the shower. Got held over for an overnight. You would have known that if you had called me first.”
“Yeah, it’s just… it’s pretty early and if you were asleep I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“You just thought you would wake me up with the doorbell instead?” She smirked at him.
“I’ve never claimed to be the smartest guy,” Porter said.
“So is there a point to… oh my God. Why are you bleeding?”
Porter looked down at his arm and noticed that the gauze the medic had given him was saturated and some of the excess blood had trickled down to his forearm.
“That’s kind of why I came by. I got shot.”
Trish looked at him with concern. “Telly, how did you get shot? Why aren’t you at the hospital? You know what, never mind, just get in here.” She grabbed him by his uninjured arm, pulled him through the doorway, and shut the door behind her.
He had once carried her over that threshold; funny that she was dragging him over it now.
They went into the kitchen and she pushed him toward a barstool under the island in the middle. He complied and pulled the stool out to sit down. She disappeared into the room he knew was the bedroom.
Looking around, Porter was pleased to see that things looked almost the same as they always had. To be fair, there was a more feminine flair to the place now, but that was to be expected. He had always been the Great Wall of China, holding back the rampaging hordes of shabby chic and thrift store finds. Porter imagined she decorated freely now.
There was the big island in the kitchen, with the quartz slab on it. Porter had wanted granite, but she’d said it was too en vogue. The cabinets were a roughed up white color. French farmhouse, Porter thought, or was it French revival? He couldn’t remember. From his stool he could see the big leather couch he’d left behind. Her spot had a folded-up blanket on it. He heard footsteps from the bedroom and turned towards them.
“I grabbed my old kit in the bathroom. I upgraded to a new one, but all the stuff in here is still in date. It’s a good back-up. You know, for whenever men who've been shot show up on my doorstep.”
“This happens to you a lot?” Porter said. “I guess the neighborhood’s not what it used to be.”
“Oh yeah, all the time. Last weekend the living room was full of shot-up people. I should have charged a cover. Pull your sleeve up.”
“Maybe I should just take my shirt off. It would be easier to get to it.”
“No way, hot stuff. There isn’t going to be any Chippendales action around here. Just the sleeve will do.”
Porter complied, rolling his left sleeve up as far as he could. It got caught on the gauze and snagged, and he winced a little.
“It hurts that bad? I always thought you were tougher than that. How bad is this, Telly? What am I getting myself into?”
“The paramedic who looked at it said there were three shotgun pellets. It looked rough, but he cleaned it and—”
“You already saw a paramedic?”
“Yeah,” Porter said.
“Then why are you here?”
“He didn’t take the pellets out,” Porter said.
“Why on earth not?”
Porter was quiet and looked down from his stool at her. When he didn’t reply, she paused rummaging through her medical bag to see why. She looked up at him and knew. She softened her look.
Freckles, Porter thought, always with those freckles.
She held his gaze for a few moments and then went back to looking for supplies. After a few more seconds, she was ready.
“Okay, let’s get these bandages off and see what we�
��re working with.” She peeled away the tape and gauze, and after a couple of moments had the wound exposed. It wasn’t looking too great.
“Look how angry this is,” she said. “You should have gone to the hospital. You need stitches, an antibiotic, and probably something for pain.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Porter said.
She didn’t laugh. She had always been a great nurse, caring and knowledgeable. Porter knew that after they had split up, Trish had dived back into her studies and gotten certified as a physician’s assistant. PAs had more duties and autonomy at the hospitals and offices at which they worked. He knew he was in good hands.
“Okay, so how do you fix me?” Porter said. “Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
“Yes, it’s going to be hard, Telly. This is why you need to go to a hospital. This isn’t a surgery center. You need professional help.”
“You’re a professional, aren’t you?” he said with a grin.
“This isn’t fix-at-home stuff. You need an x-ray to see if there are any chips to your bone, or fragments that may have splintered off the pellets. Go to the hospital. I’m serious.”
“Trish, I don’t have time for the hospital right now. I have some important things I need to take care of. I promise to go as soon as I can, but I can’t run around all day with my arm like this, can I?”
She gave him a noncommittal look.
“Come on, I’m serious. Patch me up and then I’ll be able to handle some things. Help me out here, babe.” It slipped out.
Trisha gave him a look that made him regret saying the word ‘babe.’
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s an old habit. I won’t do it again, I promise.”
“Telly, I can’t do this. I mean, I can fix your arm. But I can’t do… this,” she said, gesturing back and forth between the two of them. “If it’s going to be like that…”
“I know. I won’t do it again.”
She nodded.
“Thanks for fixing the arm. I appreciate it,” Porter said.
“You’re welcome,” she said as she turned back to her bag.
“Besides,” Porter said, “don’t you want me to tell you how I got shot?”
“Actually, I really want to hear that.”
For the next thirty minutes, Porter recounted the events of the last few days. He started with Ross’s billboard, ended with ringing her doorbell, and left nothing out except Ashley the pizza girl giving him her number. They might be divorced, but Porter wasn’t stupid.
Trisha spent the time asking further questions while she went to work on his arm. Putting gloves on, she first cleaned his wounds. Then, with forceps, she dug into each channel and fished around for the pellets at the end. It hurt Porter badly, but he gritted his teeth.
“Don’t be a wuss,” she said.
Once the pellets were removed, Trisha cleaned the entire area again, then pulled out her large suture needle and stitched him up. The wounded area was irregular and it wouldn’t be easy to stitch. Porter didn’t care that he wasn’t going to find work as a male biceps model. He was just glad that it was Trish working on him.
“You killed those two guys,” Trish said.
“I kind of had to, don’t you think?”
“Sure. Better them than you. But it seems so… serious.”
“Killing someone usually is,” Porter said.
“What I mean is, them coming to your house is serious. Why did they do it?”
“Because they know that I know what they did to Danny. That they kidnapped and killed her. They want to stop me from telling anyone. “
“I don’t think that’s it,” Trish said.
“Really?”
“Yes, Telly, really. I don’t think that’s it. They already got past the cops, right? I mean, the cops couldn’t find any evidence linking them to Danny’s disappearance.”
“No, but the cops suck at their jobs,” Porter said.
“Yes, I get that. You are much better at these things than they are.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s true,” Trisha said. “I’m not trying to inflate your ego. But Hector still should believe that there’s no evidence to link them. Why risk a shootout at your house in the middle of the night?”
“Maybe it was payback. I smacked a couple of their guys around a few days ago. I’m sure they didn’t like that. Then I man-napped the boss’s brother. Maybe they were fed up and wanted payback. Ego’s a powerful thing.”
“Man-nap?” Trisha said.
“It’s a thing I’m trying on for size.”
She shook her head and continued stitching. “I don’t think that’s it. It seems like they’re trying to protect something. Something they don’t want you to find out.”
“Something beyond their criminal enterprises?”
“Exactly. It doesn’t make sense for them to come after you the way they did. Will you quit moving?”
Porter was quiet for a few minutes and let her work. He thought about what she said. Would they have sent the goon squad just because he’d tied up Abel Quintana? They would have to assume he knew they had taken Danny by now, but so what? The cops couldn’t find evidence, so there probably wasn’t any readily available. And Hector Quintana would know that. He was starting to think Trisha was right.
She always was the smart one.
“What I never figured out was why they took Danny. Abel Quintana didn’t know. He would have told me if he did. I didn’t get a chance to ask the idiots that broke into my house. They aren’t in a talking mood anymore,” Porter said.
“Clearly.”
“I can’t figure it out.” Porter closed his eyes as the suture needle bit into his skin again.
“Well, why do people usually kidnap kids?” Trisha said.
“Most of the time it’s the parents, trying to hurt one another. Mom won’t let Dad see the kid, so he steals her away,” Porter said.
“If it’s the parents, where are Danny’s?”
“Both dead. Mom a few years ago, dad more recently. He got out of prison and they found him with a spike in his arm a few days later.”
“Right,” Trisha said, “they didn’t take her. What are other reasons kids get taken?”
Porter thought for a few moments. “There’s always the pervert angle, the weird guy in the van handing out candy looking for a victim.”
“I would usually guess that’s what happened, right? Some pedophile saw her walking home from school and was overcome by a creep-juice rush to the head and stole her. Maybe he saw her walking every day and got real lusty and couldn’t help himself. That’s terrible to think about, but that’s not what happened here either.”
“No, it isn’t,” Porter said. “This was premeditated; it wasn’t a pervert taking her in the heat of the moment. Besides, I have to imagine that several of the Acres boys knew about the abduction. Pedophiles keep their activities on the down-low. I can’t imagine Hector took her to rape her.”
“Doesn’t seem like it. So what other reason would a kid disappear off the streets?”
The question lingered as Trisha finished up her stitches. She smeared some white cream over the sutures and dressed the wound with some fresh bandages from her kit. “I have a wild theory.”
“How many stitches did you put in there?” Porter said as he looked down at his arm.
“Thirty-four.”
“Holy shit,” Porter said.
“I wanted to make sure everything was closed up. Do you want to hear my idea or not?”
Damn, that’s a lot of stitches, Porter thought. “Yeah, hit me with this theory.”
“I watched a documentary a few months ago about human trafficking. How they steal kids in other countries and bring them into the United States. There’s a big market for these kids.”
Porter was aware of human trafficking from his time as a federal agent. He hadn’t considered this, because those kids were usually getting moved by large crime organizations, which were based in other countries
. Sometimes cartels, sometimes terrorist organizations, they sold kids to people who had various uses for them.
It was the sort of thing that made Porter glad he didn’t have any children, although he regretted that he and Trisha hadn’t become parents. He’d always known she’d have made a great mother.
“You think Hector took Danny and sold her to someone?” Porter said.
“It sounds stupid when you say it like that, but sure. Why not? There has to be a reason they did it.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid. It’s just as good a theory as any. I’ll tell you what I need to do.”
“What’s that?” Trisha said.
“Have a talk with Hector Quintana.”
Thirty
Trisha finished wrapping Porter’s arm, then cleaned up the island top she’d been working on. She told Porter to hang on for a few minutes, then disappeared into the dark bedroom.
Porter stood up and stretched. He knew Trisha had done a good job on his arm. Even better, she had taken his mind in a different direction about Danny Hill. He wasn’t sure if she was right or not, but it didn’t matter. At the end of the day all roads led through the Acres and Hector. Trisha re-emerged a few minutes later, just as Porter settled on the couch.
She had taken the towel off her head and combed her hair. She was no longer a blonde, but a brunette. Her natural hair color was a light brown. Porter had always wanted her to let her hair be natural instead of dyed, but she had refused. She thought it made her look mousy. Porter disagreed.
“Nice hair,” Porter said. “Quite a change.”
“I hate it. I’ve been so busy the last few months that I haven’t had time to color it.”
“I think it looks nice,” Porter said.
“You always wanted me to be brown-headed,” she said as she sat on the couch. She took the cushion farthest away from Porter. “What’s the plan? How are you going to get to Hector and talk to him? I’d imagine he and his people aren’t going to be too happy with you. They’re never going to tell you anything.”