by Cate Noble
And if Maddy was aware of the demand, she’d deduce that for herself. She knew the score. How many times had she and Rocco joked about how the Agency’s unwritten “good-of-the-many” weighted hierarchy sucked when you were “the few” on the bottom layer?
Don’t worry, Maddy. I won’t forget you.
He moved his black rucksack closer to the door, mentally inventorying the contents. It was difficult to plan an offense at this stage, so he’d stuck to basics. Lots of cash stashed in hidden pockets, two sets of fake IDs and passports, one for himself and one for Maddy.
While the packing crate wasn’t proof positive that she’d been smuggled out of the country, Rocco felt certain that Maddy was being held at one of Minh Tran’s strongholds in Thailand. Talk about a home-field advantage.
Frustrated, Rocco looked at the clock again. One minute, forty-five seconds. Call now, damn you. Let’s do this.
To his surprise, his cell phone started vibrating, the ringtone delayed. Rocco hurried back to the coffee table and activated the digital recorder he’d wired to his cell phone, simultaneously praying this wasn’t another delay tactic on Tran’s part. If the caller said Maddy still wasn’t available, Rocco would have to assume the worst.
Picking up his phone, Rocco groaned when he saw the number illuminated on caller ID. His former boss and friend: Travis Franks. That Travis was calling this late meant little. The man never slept. Travis had most likely just gotten wind of the fiasco at the office.
Rocco hit IGNORE and watched the screen fade to black. He would call Travis back in a few. For now, this line had to stay open.
Hell, Rocco had even ignored his sister’s call earlier. If Adele needed money, Rocco would send it tomorrow. But if she’d broken up with another boyfriend and wanted a sober shoulder to cry on, she needed to look elsewhere. Rocco’s sympathy for drunks had declined since their mother died of alcohol-induced cirrhosis last year.
He checked the time.
Fifteen seconds.
Ten seconds.
Five.
Two.
One.
“Blast it, ring,” Rocco muttered.
Nothing. Then … vibration. Buzz. PRIVATE CALLER the display read. He snapped the recorder on.
“Taylor,” he answered.
At first no sound came across.
“Rocco?” Maddy’s faint voice hit him like a battering ram in the spleen.
“Maddy! Oh, Jesus, honey! Are you okay?” She sounded sick. Drugged most likely. “Tell me—”
“Silence!” Heavily accented English came across the line.
“Put Maddy back on the phone.” Scumbag.
“You got your proof of life. Here are your instructions.”
“I don’t consider one word proof of life.” Rocco struggled to control his temper. Antagonizing the man might make circumstances harder for Maddy. “That could have been a recording.”
The man exhaled noisily. Static sawed at the connection, causing Rocco to worry the man had hung up. A second later the line cleared with a faint beep, confirming that electronic jammers were being employed to thwart tracing.
Rocco could hear the man shouting in an indistinct Thai dialect. There were other sounds, other voices, but he couldn’t catch the words.
Maddy’s voice came back across the phone, but this time at a distance. As if the phone was being held out.
“No!” she shouted. “Nooooo!” She was sobbing now. “Rocco … make … them—”
Maddy’s words broke off as she started to scream. Then the line went dead.
Chapter Two
Sugar Springs, TX
October 4, 12:05 A.M.
“Last one!” Gena Armstrong slid the screwdriver back into the leather tool belt at her waist. Stepping back, she took a moment to admire the newly hung bedroom door. Appreciation was a habit she’d picked up after years of watching and working with her friend Vianca.
Prior to her untimely death three months ago, Vi had been one of the few Hispanic female commercial building contractors in the country. She’d been damn good at it, too. I miss you, Vi.
Gena swung the door shut and checked the hinge alignment before testing the lock. Snap. Click. She tugged the handle. Perfect. It didn’t budge.
As locks went, this one wasn’t substantial, but neither was the door itself. The knob on the opposite side had a hole designed for easy picking in the event a young child accidently locked himself or herself in.
Cheap hollow-core doors were designed for privacy , not security. And most of the women who would stay at the New Beginnings II shelter—once it finally opened, that is—had firsthand experience with doors like this one being kicked down. Locks only enraged an attacker.
“Don’t ever lock me out of our bedroom, you worthless slut!”
Furious that her selective memory had once again served up a nasty remnant from her past, Gena yanked the door open.
“Lupe!” Gena took a reflexive step back, not expecting to see someone there.
Lupe Del Fuego, the young woman who’d been helping paint walls and trim in the evenings, stood in the doorway, her hand poised to knock. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to, what is the word? Make you jumpy-scared.”
“Startle. And it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t hear you come up.”
“I am done with the paint.”
“And I am done with these doors.”
Lupe nodded at the door. “Looks like brand new.”
It was brand new. Gena had arrived that morning only to find the vacant shelter had been vandalized during the night. That was twice this week. So much for the promised increase in police patrols.
“Evidence of GMW activity in the area,” the responding officer had noted in his report. GMW was local cop talk for Gang Member Wannabe. Juveniles. Which meant the complaint was viewed as more nuisance than criminal.
Gena was grateful the damage hadn’t been worse.
The red spray paint graffiti had been confined to the downstairs family room and had been less costly to fix since that was the one room that hadn’t been painted, thanks to drywall repairs from the GMWs’ prior visit. It had taken two coats of white primer to cover the red, but at least now it was ready for a final coat of sage-colored paint.
The upstairs damage had been more costly and time-consuming to repair. Four of the six bedroom doors the vandals had kicked in were beyond repair. And since the shelter’s construction budget couldn’t take another hit, Gena had paid for the new doors with personal funds. Call it obsessive, but it was vital to Gena that everything be perfect for tomorrow.
And what about the day after tomorrow? Once the shelter was complete, she was out of a job, which shouldn’t bother her since she’d never intended to stay in Texas this long to begin with.
“Now we pass inspection, si?” Lupe’s anxiety furrowed her brow.
“Si.” The doors wouldn’t have been critical enough for the county inspector to hold up their certificate of occupancy any longer, but at this point Gena wasn’t taking chances.
After weeks of setbacks ranging from screwups by a lowlife electrician to theft of construction supplies— including the kitchen appliances—it finally appeared the tides had indeed turned.
The first inkling of change had coincided with a visit by delegates of the Sugar Springs Garden Club, who had wanted to take on the shelter’s landscaping as a group project. When the club’s committee learned of the shelter’s other problems, they’d donated funds to have the structure properly rewired. Then they went a step further and convinced a local business to donate replacement appliances.
The shelter residents, currently living in a ramshackle building on Eleventh Street, had prepared a thank-you luncheon, which in turn created a bond between the two organizations.
Helen Newton, the shelter’s founder and longtime director, had high hopes for an increased sense of tolerance within the community at large—especially since the Garden Club’s president was married to one of the county politicians who viewed t
he battered women’s shelter as a necessary evil, something to be hidden in the worst part of town and forgotten.
To Gena it was a familiar sentiment. A fourth-generation Texan, she’d grown up in the lush Rio Grande valley and knew all about the love/hate relationship between the haves and have-nots. For decades the area’s citrus and agriculture barons, including Gena’s late father, relied on the largely Hispanic migrant population to work fields and harvest crops. Though the barons’ wealth depended on the migrants, the barons preferred that the help live elsewhere.
Many of the old-school prejudices had faded as the ethnic make-up of power had shifted. But not all. Power had a dark underbelly that superseded race, creed, and religion.
Overall, in the four years since Gena had returned to Sugar Springs, she’d witnessed mostly progress. There was still a divide between rich and poor, but the majority of prominent families and business owners—the new haves—were Hispanic.
Even the plight of the have-nots had brightened. St. Anne’s Church had opened a day care center for low-income individuals, allowing some migrant workers to seek other lines of work. The farm workers had stronger labor unions.
Unfortunately, while working conditions in the fields had steadily improved, the poverty levels hadn’t, particularly for illegal aliens. Tougher immigration laws made it harder for undocumented workers to earn money but did little to check the flow of people sneaking across the border.
Like Lupe.
Barely eighteen, Lupe looked like a weary forty-year-old. That was ten years older than Gena! Alcohol and physical abuse were only part of the tough life that had prematurely aged Lupe.
Gena watched as the young woman bent to retrieve paint cans before limping toward the staircase. Both of Lupe’s feet had been broken by her husband when she’d tried to run away after a beating. The bones hadn’t healed properly, and as an “illegal” Lupe risked deportation if she sought medical assistance in the U.S.
It was a too common tragedy and eventually prompted Helen’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy at the shelter. Helen was careful not to hire undocumented workers, but her nonprofit shelter turned away no one in need. Unlike the place Gena had once turned to.
Don’t go there.
After loosening the buckle on her tool belt, Gena gathered up the packaging from the door hardware and made her way down the hall. She made a mental note to replace a cracked light switch cover near the bathroom. Ditto the caulking around one of the sinks.
Though not a licensed contractor herself, Gena had worked with Vianca for over three years and could do anything required on a site. Gena had kind of fallen into the profession by virtue of the fact she had desperately needed a job and her skills as a translator hadn’t been in high demand in Sugar Springs. As it turned out, however, she loved construction.
Vi had insisted Gena learn every aspect, too.“Noth-ing heals the soul like hard work.”
A stranger to physical labor and completely inept with any tool more complex than a desk stapler, Gena had been surprised to learn that sweat and hard work kept her demons at bay. Her soul had indeed flourished in the process. Thanks, Vi.
Near the bottom of the staircase, Gena paused to admire the tiled entry. From this viewpoint, the intricate mosaic design appeared upside down. But to anyone crossing the threshold, the scene from the Nativity was a message: there was always room at the inn.
Vi had begun that particular project, but in the end Gena had been the one to finish it. Giving the angel above the manger Vi’s dark hair and brown eyes had been Gena’s private tribute to her friend.
She made her way toward the back porch off the kitchen, where they’d moved the excess supplies. Next on Gena’s agenda was painting the family room.
“What are you doing?” Gena asked Lupe when she reached the kitchen.
The young woman was balanced precariously on a three-legged stool in front of the sink. She held out what looked like a dirty white feather hanging by a piece of black thread.
“Myabuela did this to keep away evil.” Lupe turned back and proceeded to wrap the thread around the window latch above the sink.
“A chicken feather?”
“A special chicken feather.” Lupe’s tone was reverent. “The bird must watch its own body be severed from its head. The blood sprinkled from its neck ties the chicken’s spirit to the feathers and keeps evil spirits away.”
As superstitions went, this one was mild. Gena had heard of much worse. Still she tread carefully. “And did your abuela’s feathers ever protect you?”
Lupe shrugged. “She said not everyone deserves protection. But you do. This place does. Now if those vandals return tonight—”
“They will find me waiting.” Gena carried her tools to the back door and laid them on the floor, not wanting to admit she had her own superstitions. They were literally hours away from opening and she wasn’t about to leave anything else to fate. “I’m spending the night here.”
“There are no beds!”
“I’ll sleep in my car.” Actually, Gena doubted she’d get any sleep. In addition to painting, there was a punch list of odds and ends, like installing the closet shelves in the pantry and towel racks in the bathrooms.
“But—”
“The inspector and contractor are due here at seven.” One of Vianca’s cousins, also a licensed contractor, had stepped in at Vi’s death. Even though Gena and a two-man crew did all the work, the job required a licensed contractor for permitting.
Luckily, Vi had framed out the entire building before her death. Finishing it hadn’t been easy, but without a doubt, the lioness’s share of the work had already been done.
Gena opened the cooler sitting on the floor and fished out two cans of soda. “The city clerk’s office opens at nine. With luck, we can start moving furniture at ten.” She opened both cans and handed one to Lupe. “I say we take a break and propose a toast to our hard work. To new beginnings.”
Lupe mimicked Gena and clinked her can. “I am supposed to repeat your words,si? To new beginnings.”
“You learn fast.” Gena took a swig of the icy cola.
Lupe frowned at the can in her hand. “I am confused. How can you toast without alcohol?”
Realizing her gaffe, Gena started formulating an apology. Lupe had been struggling to remain sober, one of the requirements for staying at the shelter.
Gena recalled her own battle, how in those early days of sobriety it seemed everything was a reminder. A test. Beer commercials on television seemed like personal taunts. What’s one little drink among friends at social gatherings?
“You can do anything without alcohol, Lupe. Still, my proposing a toast was insensitive. I’m sorry.”
“You? Insensitive? Bah!” Lupe pushed her bangs to one side, still frowning. “Can I ask a personal question?”
As a general rule, Gena disliked personal questions. This was penance, however. “Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Do you ever get tempted? It’s so hard sometimes.”
“Yes. I am still tempted. I will always be tempted to drink. But I don’t give in. I know in the early days AA meetings were my lifeline.”
“Oh, um.Si.”
Gena sensed the slight withdrawal, and realized her response hadn’t hit the mark. “Is something else wrong?”
Lupe’s eyes watered as she nodded. “I talked to my abuela today. Carlos came by to see her.”
“Your husband? He’s returned to Mexico?” Gena knew Lupe’s grandmother still lived south of the border and suffered poor health. “Are you worried he’ll harm her?”
“No! He gave her some money and asked her to give me a message. He said he’s changed. That he really loves me. Even with my shortcomings! I want to believe that and yet …”
A warning signal pinged inside Gena’s skull. Lupe’s current temptation wasn’t with the bottle. Her battle went straight to the heart—after detouring through Lupe’s low self-esteem. All my shortcomings. Lupe believed she wasn’t wo
rthy of better treatment. To her, bad love was better than no love.
“How many times in the past has Carlos promised to change?” Gena asked.
Lupe wiped her tears against her sleeve. “Too many. That’s when I get tempted to drink. When I get … lonely. I’m just not strong, like you.”
“I wasn’t always strong, Lupe. I had to learn to be.”
“But you said you really loved him.”
Him. The warning ping inside Gena’s head grew louder. In addition to her construction job, Gena volunteered one day a week at the shelter.
At Helen’s behest, all shelter volunteers took turns participating in group counseling meetings to encourage the residents. While Gena had grown comfortable discussing her personal battle with alcoholism, her own experience with “bad love”wasverboten and she’d shared very few details about her own miserable marriage.
“You don’t ever think of going back to him?” Lupe pressed. “Or wish it was different?”
By him, Lupe referred to Gena’s ex-husband. If only bad love were that simple.
“I suppose it’s human nature to wish some things were different,” Gena began. But not with Harry. Never with Harry. Even if he were alive.
Now, Rocco … A vision of him popped into her mind. The forbidden one. Tall, tanned, rising up naked from an ocean wave like a mythical god. And how many other women shared that same vision of Rocco? Scores? Or just a few dozen? Gena shook her head. She so wasn’t going there.
“We can’t change history. It’s better to face forward.” Another thing Gena usually avoided was platitudes. Right now she grabbed for them, eager to change the subject. “The future lies ahead, not behind.”
Lupe’s gaze drifted to the digital clock on the microwave. “¡Ay caramba!” She shoved her soda can aside, suddenly panicked. “I’m late!”
“Don’t ask” meant Gena couldn’t acknowledge that she knew Lupe worked graveyard shift with a cleaning crew at the fertilizer plant in the next county. Like many undocumented workers, Lupe worked filthy, dangerous jobs for a pittance under the table. A pittance that was largely split between overpriced telephone calls to her grandmother in Mexico and wire transfers that were the old woman’s only source of income.