The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey)

by Wells, Tobin

  "Yet," added Mario.

  "Right. Not yet, but he certainly knows about Paloma and I fear she is who he will target. He promised to make my mental anguish be the death of me. The only way he does that is if Jen or Paloma are victimized. I already have Jen safe and on her way to my bunker in West Virginia, but Paloma,” Porter’s voice trailed off as he considered the horrific possibilities.

  “I will talk to her within the hour,” said Mario. “Or I will use every resource I have to locate her. You have already rescued one of my daughters. We'll protect Paloma together.”

  *****

  True to his word, Don Mario called Porter 59 minutes after they hung up. “I have not been able to reach Paloma, but don’t be alarmed. You know she leaves her phone when she is exercising or having coffee with friends. But just to be careful, I have a team in Chicago en route to her apartment and another to yours.”

  “Thank you, Mario,” said Porter. “But I am at my apartment, and she is not here.”

  “I am not sending them just to protect her,” said Mario, his implication understood by Porter. “As soon as they arrive...”

  Porter interrupted, “Hold on, Mario, she’s calling in right now.”

  Porter frantically answered the other line. “Paloma?”

  “Yes, my love,” she answered with no hint of concern. “What is so urgent that both you and my dad have been blowing up my phone? Can’t a girl go for a run in peace anymore?” she asked jokingly.

  “Oh, thank God!” said Porter earnestly. “Listen, we’ve got to get you safe. Holland is on the war path for you. So I need you to go to your apartment right now. Your dad has a team of his men on their way for your protection.”

  “I’m in my apartment,” Paloma said, fighting the panic welling up inside of her, “But none of Dad’s guys are here. When did he send them?”

  “Within the last hour,” Porter responded. “When you came in, did you enter the building from the front?”

  “No, I came in the side."

  “Then go to your balcony and look out to see if his men are out front,” he ordered. “But stay low. If the others are there, I don’t want them to know you’re in the apartment.”

  “Ok,” said Paloma as she hurried to the balcony's sliding door. “The door is still locked. Gracias a Dios,” she as she crouched down and shuffled to the edge to see below. “Nobody,” she whispered into the phone.

  “All right,” started Porter, “Leave the apartment now. Go through the back and go to the coffee shop on 13th and South Prairie. I’ll call your dad and have him reroute his men there.”

  “Got it. I love you,” she said, her words carrying her uncertainty.

  “You are my world, Paloma. I will not let anything happen to you. Now go!” he commanded.

  Switching back to the other line, Porter reassured Mario that his daughter was fine and instructed him to send his men to the coffee shop.

  “Why? Are they not at her home?” asked Mario.

  “No,” answered Porter.

  “Hijo de Puta!” shouted Mario. “Then they have been compromised. They called me fifteen minutes ago from her lobby.”

  “It’s fine. She came in through the side door and now is going out the back. Just call your men and send them to the coffee shop. I’ll wait for your call when you've confirmed that they are okay.” Mario offered no goodbye but immediately called his men.

  Porter ran from his penthouse to the elevator. The 57 story descent felt inordinately long to Porter’s heightened awareness. Adding to his worry, there was no cell signal while in the elevator. This cocoon of silence and bad lighting allowed his mind to form the images and feelings of indescribable joy he had when with Paloma. Her soft touch on his face and chest. The way her head tilted down, ever so slightly, when she smiled at him. The light behind her eyes every time he gazed into them. I will protect you, he thought.

  The bell announcing the elevator had reached the bottom floor broke Porter from his trance. He looked to his phone for a signal but none showed. As the doors opened, he glanced quickly to both sides for signs of Holland’s men waiting on him, or better yet those of Mario's. Seeing neither, he sprinted out the exit and onto Michigan Avenue while dialing Mario. Mario answered on the first ring. “Were your men there?” asked Porter frantically.

  “Calm yourself my son,” answered Mario. “It was as you thought. They missed her because she went through the side. They just intercepted her as she was running to the coffee shop. She is safe.” Emotion overwhelmed Porter to the point that he could neither speak nor stand.

  “Porter?” asked a concerned Mario. “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes. I’m just sitting on the sidewalk breathing a sigh of relief,” answered Porter. “Where are they going to take her now?”

  “They are driving her to Indianapolis where she will board,” but Mario did not finish his sentence. “Porter, in the event that either of our phones is being monitored, I will withhold the destination.”

  Porter interjected, “Mario, passenger records are much easier to monitor than tapping our phones. Are you sure you want to put her on a plane?”

  “I did not say she would be on a plane,” answered Mario. “And even if she were, disguising one’s identity is not that difficult. As I am certain you are aware.”

  Porter smiled. “Of course. Thanks Mario. Keep her safe.”

  *****

  Jennifer picked up Porter's call after only one ring and asked without hesitation, "Did you kill Mitch Frazier?"

  "What?" Porter asked in response.

  "Glenn!" she pleaded. "I've just had three hours to think about what you've told me and the only murder that has happened in our county in forever just so happened to be when you were there. So, did you kill Mitch?"

  Porter said nothing.

  "Ok, now I'm freaking out," she said. "The idea that you killed others was more like it was out of a movie when you said it. Now that I know a guy, and his poor wife..." her words trailed off as she considered Laura. "Did you even think about Laura?" she said in disgust.

  "Every day for the two weeks I was in town before Thanksgiving," Porter responded coldly. "There are no words to diffuse the anger you're feeling. I know it well. I'll only say that every single action I have taken was justified. If a female was being abused and no one knew it, I was the one who freed her from her prison."

  "Mitch was beating Laura?" Jennifer asked with surprise.

  "Every single person I have helped was being abused."

  The siblings again went silent.

  More concerned with his sister's safety than her opinion of him, Porter broke the silence. “So, to my point, Holland is gunning for me and now Paloma and you are both on your way to safety, but you have to follow my instructions to the letter. Can you do that?”

  “Fine. I'll do what you say," answered Jennifer. "But tell me about Paloma.”

  “Ok, but this information won't comfort you about who your brother has become. You sure you still want me to bare my soul?"

  "Without a doubt."

  "All right then, but hang on. Paloma is from Mexico and her family is obscenely wealthy, and very influential. And it’s very difficult to become influential in Mexico legally.”

  “So you’re saying her family is made up of criminals?” asked Jennifer.

  “Criminal is not a big enough word for who they are. If we were living in medieval times, they would be one of the Royal families of Europe; good hearted and decent towards their own, mixed with a ruthlessness devoid of any humanity. They don't question using whatever measures they have to in order to maintain and expand their power. I don’t know how much you know about the Mexican legal environment, but life down there is made up of acceptable and unacceptable crimes. Paloma’s family occupies both spaces. But because they are so powerful, their unacceptable crimes are overlooked. That and they pay off just about every federal and local official in Mexico, as well as thousands of peasants.”

  Jennifer stayed silent fo
r a moment before she responded. “So my little brother is an unpaid, unsolicited hit man who’s dating a member of a Mexican criminal enterprise, and is being pursued by the Attorney General of West Virginia. Did I get that right?”

  “That’s about it,” Porter laughed.

  “So how does all of this end? Do you or Holland have to be in a body bag for it to be over?” she asked half-jokingly.

  “Yes,” Porter answered without emotion. “Right now I don't know which is more likely, but your safety is the most important thing. To insure that, Holland has to die. As for my safety, I'm not afraid of death. It's not like I can avoid it."

  "And you're not concerned your actions will, well you know, send you to Hell?" she asked pensively.

  "Oh that. Well, I know there's a Savior who died for you. I’m just not sure he did the same for me. Since there’s nothing I can do about that, I don’t worry about it. Either I'm granted a longer life to alleviate others’ pain, or I take a bullet trying to alleviate yours...and I would gladly accept the latter.”

  “That's a pretty callous attitude about eternity,” added Jennifer.

  “It is," he said. "But if God knows everything, then he knows who he will save. If that’s the case, then I never had a say in it. It was his call all along. The choices I'm making in life are to help others, and he knew that to. So I’m just living out the life he knew I would. And I’m not trying to earn his favor, because I can't. If he is the Creator of the universe, then my attempt to gain his approval is like a grain of sand trying to show how important it is to the rest of the ocean. It probably is valuable, but hardly. And there are times when I fume over not being one of God's chosen but," he paused for effect, "despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage."

  "Did you just quote the Smashing Pumpkins?" asked Jennifer with a smile.

  "Very good," laughed Porter. "I may be the rat that never gets out of his hellish cage, but I'll do my best to help the other rats escape theirs. Then God can judge me and that will be that.”

  Jennifer sat in stunned silence once again.

  “Tough to hear, I know,” said Porter, “but that’s where I'm at. So how about enough of Theology According to Porter? For now, just do what I told you. When you are with Luis, you have to follow what he says because I will only be communicating with him. I won’t call you anymore in case they are bugging your phone. And you won't be calling me because I'll be destroying this phone as soon as I hang up.”

  "Jen," he began, pausing to choose his final words to the sister he once lost, “if this is the last we speak, please know that I love you…and my grief over failing you will follow me even after death.”

  Softly, Jennifer responded, “I love you, Mr. Porter Brown. Now, go get that son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 18

  Political Edge

  April 2012

  Noon on April 5th was cold and wet in Charleston. James Holland had meticulously planned every detail of tonight’s event, from the guest list to the thread count of the cloth napkins. Most of the well-connected citizens, unions, and business leaders already knew Holland was the one who ran the state, but securing an invitation to his gubernatorial announcement had them more frantic than the unwashed masses desperate for a lottery win. The political and social climbers understood access to the formal evening, and quasi coronation, would offer them the opportunity to heap praise on their present and future leader, as well as to grease the palms of those with whom they would cut deals and influence the legislative agenda for the next eight years. Holland knew this and was very strategic to whom he granted an invitation. Porter Brown was not on his list.

  At the service entrance to the Marriott Town Center, the crew from Angelo’s Catering hurriedly unloaded the last of their equipment. Each hotel entry had one video surveillance camera, except the service door which had three. Porter, his face shielded by five days of growth, picked up a small flat of drinking glasses, hoisted it on his left shoulder, and followed the rest of the wait staff through the back door. He wore the white button down shirt and non-pleated black slacks of the catering staff and attached a black ponytail extension tucked under a black ball cap with ‘Memini Quis Es’ embroidered on its front. Porter’s trigger phrase in Latin for all to see was an added touch of which he was especially proud. His hope was that after tonight he would still be able to remember who he is rather than was.

  Inside the cavernous staging area, Porter found his way to the control room. “Oh, sorry,” he said to the portly audio/video director whose affinity for Motley Crue was evident from his t-shirt and cap. “I thought I could cut through here to get back outside.”

  “No problem, dude,” said the heavy metal fan.

  “Wow, so this is where all the magic happens, huh?” asked Porter, feigning interest.

  “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” joked the technician.

  Porter laughed along and asked, “So you’re going to make whoever’s here tonight sound great?”

  “Oh, he won’t need any help,” said the man whose brown, shoulder length hair hardly moved as he shook his head from side to side. “Jack,” he said as he offered his hand to Porter.

  “Phil,” said Porter.

  “So, you don’t know who's here tonight?” asked Jack.

  “No idea. I’m just here to serve drinks for the next six hours, get my 60 bucks, and go drink it away before the pub closes.”

  “Right on,” answered Jack. “But tonight is not just any old banquet. The guests you'll be serving are the power brokers of West Virginia. If you get a chance to rub some shoulders it will probably serve you well.”

  “Is that right?” asked Porter. “Why, is this for the coal or medical industries?”

  “Neither," answered Jack, "But I'm sure each of those will be well represented. Tonight's deal is for James Holland, the Attorney General. He's announcing his candidacy for Governor.”

  “Wow. That is a big deal,” said Porter. “Are you handling the lighting from in here, or just the music?”

  “Come on, Phil. I’m not just a music monkey. I'll handle every aspect of the night. The lighting, the music, the video screens, and the teleprompter.”

  “No kidding," said Porter already knowing this answer. "Man, I would love to learn how to do what you do. Any chance you would let a guy you just met be your intern for the night? They're not going to miss me out on the floor."

  "You sure?" asked Jack.

  "Yeah, I’m sure. We've got enough servers.”

  Jack thought for a moment and said, “Why the hell not. It’s just me in here. If you’re willing to lose your gig to learn how to run the back stage, then I’m happy to help. Plus, if I need to take a piss, I’ll have somebody to cover me.”

  “Thanks, Jack. Glad to help out your kidneys,” Porter said with a laugh.

  *****

  As Jack concluded two hours of audio/video basics, Porter added, “Seems fairly simple.”

  “It is,” answered Jack, “but remember ‘no battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy’.”

  “Moltke the Elder,” said an impressed Porter, referencing the architect of Germany’s Wars of Unification.

  “Exactly,” said Jack. “And I’ll bet none of the elite who come here tonight could identify who that is, much less his tactics or leadership style.”

  “Isn’t that how it always is,” said Porter, playing into Jack’s contempt for the uneducated successful class. “We’re just two grunts in the background doing all the work to make these people even more successful and I’m sure we, well you for sure, know more than probably all of them combined.”

  “Damn straight,” answered Jack. “And I know I could run this state a whole hell of a lot better than they do.”

  “Absolutely,” answered Porter, certain he now understood Jack's motivation.

  Thirty minutes of political philosophy later, Jack asked Porter to stay in the room so he could grab a quick bite at the mall on the next block. “I shouldn’t be
gone more than a half hour. You sure you’re cool with staying here?”

  “No problem at all,” answered Porter. “In fact, let me cover your lunch as a thank you for being my instructor.”

  “Forget it, Phil,” responded Jack. “It’s been great just having someone back here, let alone someone who knows his political and historical shit.”

  “No, I insist,” said Porter as he handed him a $100 bill. “Call it lunch, tuition, or beer money between friends.” The crisp, new Ben Franklin quickly persuaded Jack to overcome his protest.

  “You’re the real deal, Phil. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

  “Take your time,” said Porter. We have three hours until this goes live and you have it all ready to go. So enjoy lunch. It’s going to be a long night. Just bring me back a cheeseburger.”

  “You got it,” answered Jack, already halfway out the door.

  Assured that Jack was not going to interrupt him, Porter opened up the program which held the teleprompter speeches and made some adjustments. To insure the night went as he had planned, Porter added a disruptor which kept the prompter from being turned off once it had reached Holland's announcement text. All Jack would have to do, is exactly what he normally does…turn it on and let it run.

  When Jack returned, he and Porter continued their political discussion until 30 minutes prior to the start of the activities. The control room offered Porter a superbly cloaked vantage point. Located directly behind the stage, Porter could see the entire ballroom through the darkened, one way glass. Multiple monitors showed him the images from the three cameras trained on the speaker’s podium. As the guests began entering the room, Jack said, “T-minus twenty five minutes. That’s our cue.” And he pushed the start icon on the presentation software.