The Trust

by Norb Vonnegut

“Then we do things my way. Got it?”

  I nodded yes again, even though my instincts were screaming, “No!”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  “Why do you need it?”

  “To save you from yourself.” He stretched out his hand, palm facing up.

  I passed him my BlackBerry. Father Ricardo split it open, yanked out the battery, and disappeared into my bathroom. The gurgle of a flushing toilet filled the room. He returned, minus one battery, and tossed the phone carcass onto my bed.

  “Was that necessary?”

  “You tell me, O’Rourke. Every time I turn around you’re changing the rules of the game. First it was the Catholic Fund’s sixty-five million. Now it’s the authorities.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You spoke with them this afternoon.”

  “How’d you know?”

  Father Ricardo’s face clouded over. His features grew dark. For a moment, it seemed like he might answer, “I didn’t.” He paused, and the silence lasted to the point of discomfort for both of us. He was bubbling up inside, letting his fury build. “You think these guys are stupid?”

  “No.”

  “You think they care about anything other than money?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re kind of slow,” he growled. “What was that refrain in the letter again?”

  “‘The woman dies.’”

  “But you don’t believe them. Is that your problem?”

  “I get it.”

  “Apparently, you don’t.” He was growing angrier by the moment.

  “I just want JoJo back in one piece.”

  “Then do as I say,” he ordered, yet again.

  “Okay, okay. But I need to call Biscuit. We’re meeting at ten.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Just to cancel?”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “I need to tell Claire.”

  Father Ricardo had been walking to the door. He stopped in his tracks and whirled round. “Who’s running the show, you or me?”

  “You. But why can’t we tell her?”

  He never answered the question. Instead, the reverend gestured to the door with a sweeping wave of his arm. “Let’s go.”

  “But I thought you didn’t know where JoJo is.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then where are we heading, for chrissakes?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The airport,” he explained. “That’s all I know.”

  Five minutes later, Father Ricardo got behind the wheel of his car. I hopped in the passenger side. There was a blue canvas bag on the backseat. After five minutes of driving, not one word between us, I noticed his directions were all wrong. “This isn’t the way.”

  “Relax. I know what I’m doing.”

  “North Charleston’s the other way.” I felt naked and defenseless without my cell phone.

  “Wrong airport. We’re flying private out of Johns Island.” He cranked the radio, apparently annoyed by my questions.

  Make no mistake. The destination scared me. Johns Island is a hard thirty minutes from downtown Charleston, a remote place where Spanish moss is the only excitement for miles around. It’s home to tomato farms and the 1,400-year-old Angel Oak, not to mention the tidal marshlands filled with alligators and crabs, and other bottom scavengers that eat everything but bones. The authorities might not find your remains for days, maybe even years.

  “We have a long night ahead of us,” he finally said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “JoJo’s captors are running us from one place to the next.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My guy, the mercenary,” he started.

  “What about him?”

  “He said this is how they do it.”

  “You must have some idea where we’ll end up, Father.”

  “Bermuda. Moscow. Taiwan for all I know.”

  “Not tonight?” My words were half question, half objection.

  “Are you backing out?”

  “I don’t have my passport.”

  That’s when Father Ricardo began to laugh. It was the strangest thing. He chuckled at first. But his mirth gained momentum and built into a big, roaring belly laugh. The kind that brings tears to your eyes. He almost ran a red light. I was ready to grab the wheel.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You don’t have a clue?” He rubbed the tears from his eyes.

  “Guess not.” What was I to say?

  “We’re going off the grid.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “We’re about to disappear.”

  * * *

  “Hey, it’s Grove. This phone is surgically attached to my hip.”

  Click. Dial tone.

  Biscuit finished the greeting. “So leave a message, and I’ll call you right back.”

  The big man was sitting in the hotel lobby. He had left his first message at 10:15 P.M., the second at 10:30. Now it was 10:45, and he knew O’Rourke’s voice mail by heart. The stockbroker’s absence was troubling. Grove was not the kind of guy to be late or, even worse, to blow somebody off.

  Biscuit dialed Claire. “Sorry to call so late.”

  Half asleep, half surprised, she took a moment to identify his voice. “Did you hear something?”

  “No, nothing like that. Is Grove there?”

  Claire said nothing for a moment. She was processing the lawyer’s words. And Biscuit, suffering through the silence, began to regret what he’d said. You don’t phone a single woman, late into the night, and ask whether some guy’s with her. Not in the South.

  “I thought you were meeting for drinks.” Her tone turned cold, miffed from being woken up.

  “He’s not here. Sorry to bother you.”

  Biscuit called Agent Torres next. She answered without Claire’s cobwebs. She was awake, all business, her wits sharp. “What’s up?”

  “Have you spoken with Grove?”

  “No. Is there a problem?”

  “I’m not sure. We were supposed to meet at ten.”

  “He’s not there?”

  “I’ve tried him three times on his cell phone.”

  Torres put down her book, dog-earing the page where she left off. The agent didn’t know what to think. Fieldwork was always the same—lots of waiting for nothing to happen. Waiting in vans, loaded to the gunwales with surveillance equipment. Waiting for a phone call, not just any call, but one that would betray an adversary’s location. Waiting in cheap hotel rooms, like the “Bedbug Express” she was in now. Torres missed her kids and husband.

  “Might be nothing,” she said.

  “Or a real train wreck.”

  Something about Biscuit’s voice, the tone, the tension, made her hesitate. “Did something happen?”

  “No. But how much do you know about the Kincaids?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  AIRBORNE

  First things first.

  Flying is not my thing. I have zero interest in getting a pilot’s license, which is odd because my father flew bombers. I do, however, know a little something about planes. You can’t help it growing up on an Air Force base. Or when you’re a stockbroker and your clients own seven-figure toys.

  The Piaggio P180 Avanti is a twin-engine turbo prop. Some call it the “Ferrari of the sky” because the plane is fast, damn fast. It cruises close to 400 mph. And the Ferrari family, in fact, controls the manufacturer. They bought the company back in 1998 with a consortium of other shareholders.

  The aircraft is sleek, the styling Italian if somewhat unusual. It has a canard wing, the two horizontal fins mounted just behind the nose. Its engine props face backward, which makes the P180 Avanti a statement. You can’t miss it on the runways. It’s the last aircraft on earth I would choose for a vanishing act.

  But for all intents and purposes, I had disappeared on one.

  We boarded a Piaggio P180 Avant
i back on Johns Islands and climbed who knows how many feet. Father Ricardo was no ordinary priest in my opinion, if even a priest at all. You don’t charter a $5-million-plus plane on a Maryknoll salary. No wonder Torres suspected him of money laundering.

  He had sacked out on the plush cream-colored chair facing my direction. His black shirtsleeves were rolled neatly over his wrists, a few inches shy of the elbow. The cabin lights were dimmed, but I could still make out half a tattoo on his forearm. It looked like some kind of spider-sun, disappearing inside his sleeve.

  What the hell is that?

  His eyes were closed. He was indifferent to the rich smell of leather wafting through the air. The sights out the window, a blue-black night where all the stars had gone into hiding, held no special interest for him. Nor did the bar, stocked with top-shelf scotch, bourbon, and vodka.

  Me—I was wired. And it was not the kind of wired where you touch the wooden paneling or ask the pilot about all the gauges in the cockpit. Father Ricardo wasn’t telling me everything. I wanted to grill him, find out where we were going.

  I reached over to nudge his shoulder. Nothing more than a friendly jostle to wake him up. In that moment, even before I touched him, he exploded into a rolling ball of martial arts. Caught me off guard. Snatched my fingers. Bent them back. Ninety degrees, 110, 125, and still going. Shards of pain stabbed up my right arm. I flipped onto the cabin floor like a rag doll, his choice, not mine. The move saved my wrist from splintering.

  But didn’t stop the pain.

  Ricardo rolled on top of me. His iron knee crushed my chest. His left hand choked my throat. He reared back and readied the right like an open skillet, poising to mash nose and nostrils into the gray of my brain.

  I couldn’t breathe. But I could smell the violence. Sweat and adrenaline oozed from his pores. Perspiration and fury curdled with his talcum, and I wanted to wretch.

  “What are you doing?” His tan face turned crimson with rage, the sides of his mouth damp with spittle.

  “Trying to wake you up.” I croaked the words in a faint rasp. I could feel my mind shoving off.

  “Oh.”

  Ricardo released his bulldog grip. He backed off my chest. I started to wheeze, gulping oxygen into my lungs, hacking it out at the same time. The act of breathing felt like somebody was rubbing sandpaper inside my throat. Back and forth. Dry and rough. And once my lungs were settled, I watched the stars lift as my consciousness returned.

  “Sorry, Grove.”

  “What the hell was that?”

  I rolled onto my side, pushing his knee away, feeling the heat rush to my face in a wave of embarrassment. That’s what happens when you get your ass kicked. I hadn’t managed any defensive maneuvers. Not one fucking swipe of his hand. Not even a raised elbow for chrissakes. I was down and dying before I knew what was happening. And the words from my kickboxing coach came roaring back:

  “You got no street in you.”

  Ricardo tried to help me back into my seat. I pushed him away. “What kind of priest charters a private plane?”

  “Not me.”

  “You learn those moves in the seminary?” I rubbed my throat.

  “No. But they keep me safe in Manila.”

  Ricardo’s eyes twinkled. He had kicked my ass, and now he was savoring the thrill of victory. The momentary smirk was subtle, easy to miss. The smug look washed from his face before most people would notice. But I saw the half smile, the dancing eyes. He had dropped me like a washed-up lightweight, and I wanted another shot at the title.

  “Is the Catholic Fund paying for this plane?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  “I told you.”

  “Told me what?” Damn, he infuriated me. “Would you finish a thought for once in your life?”

  “They’re running us around.”

  “On a private plane?”

  “Did you go through security?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Did anyone ask to see your identification?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think there’s any record of us on this flight?”

  “No.”

  “You’re finally catching on.” Ricardo smiled, the right side turning up more than the left.

  “Then where are we going?”

  “Fort Lauderdale.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The pilot told me.”

  “Is he one of them?”

  “I keep telling you: I’m a priest, not a cop.”

  And I’m Mother Teresa.

  “What happens once we get there?”

  “Planes, trains, automobiles.” He rolled down his sleeves, hiding the tattoo. “I have no idea.”

  I sat back in the gloom of the cabin and didn’t say another word. I just watched and waited and paid attention. There was no way Ricardo would get the drop on me again. I visualized a jab to the nose, a roundhouse kick to the chest, an uppercut to the gut that would drive the air from his lungs.

  This wasn’t over.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  OFF THE GRID

  WEDNESDAY

  Shortly after midnight we landed at Opa-locka, the private airport about ten miles north of downtown Miami. While exiting the plane, Ricardo grabbed a canvas bag. There were no logos on the sack. It was just blue and bland. I wondered, for all of two seconds, if his passport was inside.

  Florida feels hot even when it isn’t. And outside the balmy night slapped us, a stark sauna against cool cabin air. Ricardo tugged off his white clerical collar and shoved it into the bag. My thoughts turned dark as I remembered that travel documents were the least of my problems.

  The worst form of verbal abuse takes place inside our heads. I flogged myself for joining Ricardo. For thinking a posse of two, him leading the charge, could possibly save JoJo Kincaid. Agent Torres had voiced the FBI’s suspicions. And Annie had expressed a different concern: “You won’t do something stupid?” After Ricardo kicked my ass on the plane, I knew the good reverend was no Maryknoll priest after all. He was in league with the people who’d amputated JoJo’s pinkie, with some guy from South America named Moreno.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  Regret and anger about bad decisions are the wrong mind-set for a rescue mission. But that photo of JoJo, the one we saw in the conference room, kept me going. It was her bandaged hand and duct-taped face. It was the horror that stained her eyes. I wanted JoJo back in one piece and forced myself to forget what might happen to me.

  Ricardo hustled to a parking lot outside the terminal, forcing me to keep pace. An unremarkable Lincoln Town Car was waiting for us, one of those black boxes that nobody buys except morticians and limo drivers. The driver said nothing to me. But every so often, he glanced in the rearview mirror and yammered to Ricardo in Spanish.

  My sense of direction is the pits. But I have clients in Florida and know my way around. When we turned south on I-95, I spoke out. “Wrong way to Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Forget it.” Ricardo stared out the window. He never bothered to face me. And I stared at the back of his head, hair so black it looked blue.

  I thought about confronting him. “Where’s JoJo?”

  Instead, I pressed around the edges and avoided a direct confrontation. It was better that way. For as much as I distrusted Ricardo, I believed he could take me to Palmer’s wife. “Is JoJo in Miami?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me where she is?”

  “Give it a rest,” he snapped. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Ricardo whirled around. For a second, I thought he might throw a punch. Right then and there in the back of the Town Car. His piercing eyes glowed in the ambient light of Miami. His mouth twisted into a bloodless grin, the kind you see on a piranha. But he said nothing and turned away. I said nothing, and we all continued in silence.

  We crossed over the Rickenbacker Causeway. Inside Virginia Key,
our driver turned left at the Miami Seaquarium and cut right onto a dusty old road circling a monstrous sewage treatment plant. About a quarter of the way around, the Town Car stopped and Ricardo said, “Get out.”

  If there was ever a time when my fear got the best of me, that was it. No lights. No cars. It was dark, deep into the night, and there was nobody around. Not a soul in sight. There was a sewage plant on one side of the road, trees and scrub on the other. We were in the boonies, a great place to pop somebody. And nobody would be any the wiser.

  Ricardo pushed through the bush, a damp tangle of cypress and live oak, cabbage palm and wild coffee. The ground was soft underfoot, the mud a Gucci-eating quicksand. There were black spiders everywhere, waiting and watching from their silky lace. And I’ll be the first to admit: the hair, the legs, all eight of them, and the ominous colors—I hate those fucking things.

  The air was all mosquitoes and malaria, thick with bullfrog a cappella and the roar of incoming tide. Virginia Key is home to sea turtles and manatees. But every rustle from the underbrush, the flap of wings, the occasional swish of sea grass, and I thought an alligator was charging us. Or a venomous snake was slithering before the inevitable strike.

  We pushed through an overhang of mangrove, water coming up to our ankles, and found a rickety old dock that started three feet too late. There was a large boat at the end, forty feet at least, two people on board.

  Ricardo hopped up on the rotting planks. “We’re here.”

  “Is JoJo on board?”

  “No.”

  “Where is she?” I stepped out of the water, grateful to see my feet.

  “We’re going to her now.”

  “How long before we get there?”

  Ricardo ignored my question. “Do yourself a favor, and stay away from the captain.”

  “Who’s the woman?” I asked.

  “Girl Louie, the first mate.” Ricardo took two steps toward the boat, but stopped and turned around. He waited for my undivided attention. “You really want JoJo back in one piece?”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Keep your mouth shut, and everything will work out fine.” In that moment, he gave up pretending to be a priest. And I gave up pretending to believe him.

  * * *

  Girl Louie checked her lines on the boat. Hearing a disturbance in the water, a sound unlike any night calls in the Florida Keys, she looked in our direction and gaped at Ricardo.