Bennett 06 - Gone

by James Patterson

  You would need how many men for something like that? I wondered. Fifty? Probably closer to a hundred. I thought about that, about Perrine, out there somewhere, free as a bird, coordinating a hundred highly trained hit men in five cities, like markers on a board. Then I stopped thinking about it. It was way too depressing.

  Because it really was an unprecedented power play. The American Mafia had been running the underworld show since—when? Prohibition? Perrine, obviously, was out to change that. He was upping his cartel’s influence and operation, branching out from Mexico and into the good ol’ US of A.

  It was truly very scary news that Perrine was on the scene again. Coming from a penniless ghetto in French Guiana, he’d somehow made his way to France, where he joined the army and worked his way into the French special forces. His fellow squad members in the French naval commandos described him as incredibly intelligent and competent, extremely competitive yet witty at times, a talented, natural leader.

  What Perrine decided to do with his charismatic talent and elite commando military experience was to return to South America and hire himself out as a mercenary and military consultant to the highest-bidding criminal enterprises he could find. Two bloody decades later, he had risen to become the billionaire head of the largest and most violent cartel in Mexico.

  You would have thought that his career was over when I bagged him in New York about a year ago. It wasn’t. He’d had the judge at his own trial murdered and actually managed to escape from the fourteenth floor of the Foley Square Federal Courthouse via helicopter. I should know, because I was there at the time and actually emptied my Glock into the chopper to no avail as it whirlybirded elegant, intelligent Manuel Perrine away.

  So you can see why I was concerned as I sat there. Wanted international fugitives usually try to spend their time hiding, not expanding their criminal enterprises. Reports were saying that in the past few months, he had actually joined together his cartel with that of one of his rivals. Los Salvajes, they were calling this new supercartel. The Wild Ones.

  And Perrine, at its head, was fast becoming a popular folk hero. Which was a head-scratcher for me, since this Robin Hood, instead of robbing the rich and giving to the poor, smuggled drugs in metric-ton loads and decapitated people.

  I began to get extremely pissed off after a bit more reading. So much so that I turned off my phone and just sat there, fuming.

  It wasn’t the loss of five Mafia kingpins that I cared so much about. Despite the sweeping, romantic Francis Ford Coppola and HBO portrayals, real mobsters were truly evil, bullying individuals who, when they weren’t ripping everybody off, loved nothing more than to demean and destroy people at every opportunity.

  For example, I knew that one of the dearly departed godfathers, Michael Licata, had once pistol-whipped a Bronxville restaurant waiter into a coma for not bringing his mussels marinara fast enough. The fact that last night Licata had been blown up in his own house was something I could learn to live with.

  What was really driving me nuts was that Perrine had done it. It was completely unacceptable that Perrine was still free, let alone operational. American law enforcement had never looked so pathetic. I mean, who was on this case?

  Not me, that was for sure. After Perrine’s escape, I’d been blackballed. Then, to add insult to injury, after Perrine had left a truck bomb out in front of my West End Avenue building, the feds had put me into witness protection. I’d basically been mothballed.

  I love my family, but I can’t describe how upset I was as I sat there, taking in the helpless, hopeless situation.

  Perrine was the one who should have been hiding, I thought, wanting to punch something.

  CHAPTER 3

  I QUICKLY TUCKED MY smartphone away as I heard the screen door creak open behind me.

  Mary Catherine, dressed in worn jeans, Columbia University hoodie, and her own pair of trusty wellies, came out with the coffeepot. Her blond hair was in a ponytail, and she looked great, which was pretty much par for the course for my kids’ nanny, even this early in the morning.

  I hated this farm about as much as Mary Catherine loved it. I’d thought she was going to be devastated when she was forced into hiding along with the rest of us. It turned out the opposite was true. Even a cartel contract couldn’t keep my young Irish nanny down.

  “Howdy, partner,” she said in her Irish accent as she gave me a refill.

  “Hey, cowgirl,” I said.

  “You’re up early,” she said.

  “I thought I saw some rustlers out yonder,” I said with a gravelly voice.

  I squinted to enhance my Clint Eastwood spaghetti Western impression.

  “Turned out it was a couple of outlaw chickens. They started making trouble, so I had to wing one of them. Which actually worked out. I put a little hot sauce on it, and it was delicious.”

  Mary Catherine laughed.

  “Well, just don’t tell Chrissy. You know how much she loves our fine feathered friends.”

  “How could I forget?” I said, laughing myself.

  Chrissy, the baby of our massive brood, had taken a liking to one of our landlord’s chickens, whom she immediately named Homer, for some inexplicable reason. She’d even sworn off chicken nuggets after one of her ever-helpful older brothers informed her she was probably dipping a member of Homer’s family into the sweet-and-sour sauce.

  “So, what’s on the agenda today?” she said.

  “Well,” I said, “I say we grab the paper and some bagels down at Murray’s, then hop a Two train down to MoMA for the latest installation. Afterward, we could go to John’s on Bleecker for lunch. I’m thinking a large, with everything on it, and some gelato for dessert. No, wait—we could go to Carnegie for a Bible-thick pastrami sandwich. It’s like butta.”

  Mary Catherine shook her head at me.

  “MoMA?” she said. “Really?”

  “Sure, why not? You’re not the only one interested in culture around here.”

  “You never went to MoMA in your life. You told me yourself you hate modern art. And the Two train! Of course. I love taking the kids on the subway. It’s so much fun. Look, Mike, I love—and miss—the Big Apple as well, but don’t you think you’re laying it on a tad thick? Why do you continue to torture yourself?”

  I gestured out at the endless space and sky all around us.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “There’s nothing else to do.”

  “That’s it,” my nanny said. “Less moping, more roping, as Mr. Cody likes to say. You’re coming with us this morning. No more excuses.”

  “No, that’s OK,” I said when I realized where she wanted me to go. “I have plenty to do. I have to go over today’s lesson plan.”

  Due to the truly insane circumstances, we had decided to homeschool the kids. I was handling the English and history, Mary Catherine the math and science, while my grandfather-priest, Seamus—big surprise—tackled religion. I had never taught before, and I was actually getting into it. I wasn’t smarter than a fifth-grader yet, but I was getting there.

  “Nonsense, Mike. You don’t think I know you have your lessons planned at least two weeks ahead? You need to give in to it, Mike. I know you don’t like being here on a farm, but face facts. You are. Besides, you haven’t even given it a chance. When in Rome, you have to do as the Romans do.”

  “I would if we were in Rome, Mary Catherine,” I said. “The Romans have pizza.”

  “No excuses. Now, you can warm up the cars or wake the kids. Your choice.”

  “The cars, I guess,” I mumbled as she turned to head back inside. “If I have to.”

  “You have to,” my iron-willed nanny said, pointing toward the shed at the side of the house as she creaked open the screen door.

  CHAPTER 4

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, WE were rolling up the road toward our landlord’s farm.

  Seamus, Brian, Eddie, and the twins took our new Jeep, while Mary Catherine and I piled the rest of the kids into the vintage station wago
n that Cody insisted on loaning us. Cody’s awesome wagon was an old Pontiac Tempest muscle car that reminded me of my childhood in the seventies, when seat belts were optional, the cigarette lighter was for firing up Marlboro reds, and even station wagons could haul it off the line.

  I was truly impressed with Mary Catherine when I saw all the teens up and about so early. The kids were even talking and joking with each other instead of fighting. Which was saying something, since no one had eaten breakfast yet.

  “What’s up with everybody? They seem excited,” I said to Mary Catherine as we rolled up the half mile of dirt road for Cody’s farm. “Seamus hasn’t even insulted me once. What gives?”

  “They don’t seem excited. They are excited,” Mary Catherine said. “They love this, Mike. So will you. Watch.”

  Cody was already outside his huge modern barn. He was waiting for us by his old green Ford tractor. Behind the tractor was a hay-bale-littered trailer that the kids immediately started piling into after we parked.

  “Howdy, Mike. I see you decided to join us this morning,” Cody said, smiling as he shook my hand.

  I liked Cody. His son was the special agent in charge at the FBI’s Chicago office, so he knew and respected our whole situation with Perrine. He had actually offered his secluded ranch as a witness protection sanctuary a few times before. We really couldn’t have asked for someone better to hide us and watch our backs than the friendly former marine sergeant and decorated Vietnam vet.

  “We can always use another cowpoke in the gang, isn’t that right, kids?” Cody said, squaring his Colorado Rockies baseball cap. “But, of course, we’ll have to see how you do. We like to take on hands on a day-by-day basis around these here parts. How does that suit you?”

  “Sounds fair, Aaron,” I said, as everyone laughed at Daddy. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

  “Enough yappin’ to the greenhorn, Cody,” Seamus said, smacking the hood of the old tractor. “Time to saddle ’em up and move ’em out.”

  We all piled into the trailer, along with Cody’s three black-and-white border collies. I watched as my kids and the super-friendly dogs couldn’t get enough of each other. Mary Catherine was right. The kids really couldn’t have been happier as we rolled out over the fields, bouncing around like a bunch of jumping beans.

  We saw the cattle ten minutes later. There were about sixty head of them, milling along an irrigation ditch.

  “See, Dad? Those over there are cows,” my seven-year-old son, Trent, said, showing me the ropes as Cody opened the cattle gate. “They’re girl cattle, big but actually kind of nice. You can control ’em. Also, see that wire running along the other end of the field? That’s electric, Dad. Don’t touch it. It’s for keeping the cows in.”

  I smiled at Trent’s contagious energy. Back in New York, at this hour, he would have been—where? Stuck in class? And yet here, he was outside, learning about the world and loving every minute of it.

  As Cody got us going again, Trent suddenly pointed to a pen we’d passed that had a couple of truly enormous red-and-white bulls in it. They looked like oil tanks with fur.

  “Those guys there are bulls, Dad. Boy cows. They’re, um … what did you call the bulls, Mr. Cody?” Trent called up to the farmer.

  “Orn-ry,” Cody called back.

  “Exactly. Bulls are orn-ry, Dad. Real mean-like. You gotta stay away from them. You can’t even be in the same field as them. Once they see you come over the fence, you have to get back over it real quick, before they come runnin’ like crazy to mow you down!”

  “Why do I think this information comes from personal experience, Trent?” I asked.

  “Eddie’s the one who does it the most, Dad,” Trent whispered confidentially. “Ricky, too. I just did it once. Cross my heart.”

  The trailer stopped. Cody climbed down from the tractor. The border collies, whose names were Flopsy, Mopsy, and Desiree, immediately jumped over the rim of the trailer as Cody whistled.

  “Check this out, Dad,” my eldest son, Brian, said, putting his arm over my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” said Jane, as the dogs made a beeline for the cattle. “Step back and watch. This is the coolest.”

  My kids weren’t kidding. The cattle turned to watch as the three dogs ran in a straight line along the opposite side of the large field. Before the cows knew what was happening, the collies had followed the field’s perimeter and were behind them, with an occasional bark or nip at their hooves to urge them along.

  Cody, approaching the side of the slowly driven herd, whistled occasionally to his dogs as they weaved back and forth behind the none-too-happy-looking cows. In minutes, the cows were trotting past the tractor and trailer, jogging through the gate into the lane we had just come up, on their way to the milking barn.

  “How did you teach them to do that?” I said, staring at the dogs in awe as Cody came back to the tractor.

  “It’s not me,” Cody said, petting the happy, energetic dogs. “It’s in their blood. Border collies are the best herding dogs in the world, Mike. They never stop moving and circling; plus, they always look the cattle in the eye to show them who’s boss.”

  As it turned out, I wasn’t done being shocked that morning. Back at the milking barn, Mary Catherine blew me away as she guided the bawling cows into the separate stalls like a farm-girl traffic cop. Then she put on a smock and gloves and hopped down into the sunken gutter between the stalls and started hooking up the cows to the milking equipment. She worked the octopuslike snarl of tubes and pumps like a pro, attaching things to their proper … attachments. It was beyond incredible.

  “Hey, Mike,” Mary Catherine said, stepping up into the stall, holding a bucket. “Thirsty?” she asked, showing me some milk fresh from the cow.

  I leaped back as I almost blew chow. Unlike the cold, white stuff we picked up in cartons from the cooler at the 7-Eleven, this had steam coming off it and was yellow and chunky.

  “Come on, Mike. I know you’re thirsty,” Mary Catherine said, smiling, as she sensed my discomfort. She waved the bucket menacingly at me. “Straight up or on the rocks?”

  “How about pasteurized and homogenized?” I said, backing away.

  “EAT LESS CHICKEN!” Chrissy suddenly yelled to everyone as a clucking chicken landed on the windowsill of the barn.

  “And drink less milk,” I said to Mary Catherine.

  CHAPTER 5

  AFTER THE MILKING WAS done and the cows were put back to pasture, the older girls went with Shawna and Chrissy to the henhouse to collect eggs.

  The girls returned shortly, and Cody insisted that everyone have breakfast at his house.

  “You want to keep the hands happy, you got to keep their bellies full,” he said.

  We filled our bellies, all right. After we hosed off the wellies, we were greeted by Cody’s short and stout sweetheart of a housekeeper, Rosa, who cooked us up a feast of steak and biscuits and scrambled-egg tortillas with lots of homemade salsa. As Rosa busted out the churros, I even put a drop of the superorganic milk Mary Catherine had brought in from the barn into my coffee.

  “Who says country living is boring?” I said to Mary Catherine, with a wink. “My horizons are expanding at warp speed.”

  It really was a great morning. Looking at my kids, hunched around the two tables Rosa had pushed together, eating and talking and laughing, I couldn’t stop smiling. We may have been dislodged from our lives back in New York, but they were actually making the best of it. We were together and safe, and that was all that really mattered when it came down to it. Team Bennett had gotten knocked down, but we were getting back up again.

  As the kids went outside to kick a soccer ball around the dusty yard with the dogs, I sat with Cody and Seamus, sipping a second cup of coffee.

  “You got things pretty good out here, Aaron. The view is amazing, you grow all your own food, have fresh water. I mean, you pay for—what? Electricity? You could probably get along without that.”

  “And have,” Cody s
aid.

  “You love this life, don’t you?” I said.

  “Love’s a strong word,” the weather-beaten farmer said. “I don’t love when the cattle get themselves stuck in a ditch at three a.m., or when feed prices skyrocket, as they do from time to time, but it’s a life, Mike. Don’t suit everyone. You have to like being alone a lot. All in all, there’s something to be said for it. It’s simple enough, I guess.”

  “I like simple,” I said, clinking coffee cups with the farmer.

  “You are simple,” Seamus said.

  CHAPTER 6

  CREEL, MEXICO

  IT WAS THE BEST moment of Teodoro Salinas’s life.

  His daughter, Magdalena, had been a preemie when she was born. As if it were yesterday, he could remember her impossibly tiny hand clutching his finger for dear life among the cords in the hospital ICU. But now, suddenly, magically, her cool hand was resting in his sweating palm and the guitars and horns were playing and all the people were clapping as they danced the first dance of her quinceañera.

  The whole event was like a dream. From the solemn Mass they had attended this morning, to the formal entry, to the first toast, and, now, to the first dance. His wife had told him he was crazy to hold the celebration up here at their remote vacation ranch, but Salinas had put his foot down. For his beautiful daughter’s coming-of-age, they would fly everyone in and put them up, no matter what the expense.

  Teodoro reluctantly released his daughter’s hand as the waltz ended. She was crying. He was crying. His wife was crying. It had been worth every penny.

  Salinas hugged his daughter, careful not to wrinkle the beautiful pale-pink tulle of her dress. He could feel the eyes of all the guests upon them, feel their tender emotions, their envy. Salinas was a tall man, a dapper dresser, and, even at fifty-five, still quite handsome. But he couldn’t hold a candle to his daughter, Magdalena, who was model thin and statuesque and exceedingly beautiful.