Songs for Perri

by Nancy Radke

  "What happened?"

  "One of our company's major clients needs help."

  "That's all? I've never seen you act this way."

  "The error's mine; I've always handled this man's books." He rubbed his eyes that burned with weariness. "I tried to find my mistake at the office. I've gone through everything, but I need to go back through his files. It's the only way."

  "Has he threatened you?" she persisted. "Has it anything to do with that postcard?"

  "No." He bit the word off. "No. Forget the card. It was nothing." He shifted his gaze to the endless stretch of desert beyond the ravine. "I'll be at my client's home. The number's unlisted, but if you have any messages, Luke Rogers will forward them. Just don't call unless it's important."

  "Do you have to go? Isn't there anyone else you can send?" Perri asked.

  "No. And you should get back to your life now. Move back home while I’m gone."

  Perri felt torn in half, the pain in her heart an overwhelming void that refused to be healed. She drew in her breath, holding it as if doing so would steady her resolve. "You're right, Papa. I must learn to cope."

  "I know you've been staying here to help me, but now would be a good time to take that buying trip you need to go on."

  "You're right.”

  "Good girl. Now what's for supper? It smells wonderful."

  "Baked potatoes and ham."

  "Great. What are we waiting for?"

  He left early the next morning, Thursday, his bags packed for at least a two week stay. He tried to act carefree, but the intensity of his worry permeated his movements and his speech. He couldn't hear how much his voice had changed during the past week, but Perri could. Its desperation frightened her. His step became that of a man much older than fifty-eight.

  After he left, the uneasy fear remained, a cold dread that lingered like a portent of evil, tightening its hold upon their lives. Walt rarely mentioned what he was doing, staying emotionally detached. Was this really something connected with his job? Couldn't it have waited?

  Three hours later, Perri stared blankly into the clear mirror tiles by the phone, trying to control her anxiety. Her blue eyes stared back at her. Periwinkle blue. Her mom had named her after the color.... She stroked the ivory pendant around her neck, running slim fingers over its carved surface as if to touch Crystal's love.

  She must get out of the house. She had spent all morning pacing the floor, unable to settle to any task. It was time to take a long trip...maybe to Morocco. She had asked her suppliers there to gather more of their own distinctive handcrafted items. With Walt away for an indeterminate period and Owen impossible to contact, she must get her own life back on track.

  The decision made, she found herself discovering lots of things to do. She cancelled Crystal’s cell phone account, removed the SIM card from the phone Crystal had left behind that day, and put the phone in with the last two boxes of Crystal’s things. She took them down to the local charity, ordered her airplane tickets, cleaned out the refrigerator and put a halt on Walt’s mail. Walt texted her that night and she was able to tell him where she was going. But she was unprepared for the call she received Friday morning. She had just opened the refrigerator to plan breakfast when the phone rang.

  "Aló. May I speak with Señor Putman?" The voice was heavily accented, and Perri switched to Spanish.

  "No. He's not here. May I give him a message?"

  "¿Dónde está?" the caller demanded.

  It was none of his business where Walt was, but Perri didn't voice her irritation. "Señor Putman is deaf, so you'll have to leave your message with me. I'll relay it—”

  "His son is in trouble."

  "Owen?"

  "Sí. He's in Mazatlan. Have Señor Putman come. The Hotel San Juan."

  "Mazatlan?" With shaking fingers, Perri wrote down the hotel's name. What was Owen doing in Mexico?

  "Owen will die if his father doesn't come."

  Her heart lurched wildly at his words and she clutched the receiver, squeezing it as if to force out the truth. "What happened? Was he in an accident?"

  "Someone's trying to kill him."

  "Kill him? Who is this?"

  "Juan. I am a friend of your brother's. He asked me to call because he cannot."

  "And he wants Walt?"

  "Sí. He trusts no one else."

  Closing her eyes, Perri forced her galloping imagination to slow down and let her think. "Why can't he call, himself? What's happened?"

  "He was injured."

  "Oh no! How bad is it?"

  "Bad enough. He'll survive. We're hiding him and his friend."

  "Have you called the police?"

  "Aarah! Impossible. An informer is at work. There are men...many men searching for us."

  "Papa...Walt is crippled. He can't manage alone."

  "¿Es verdad? Then you come, with him."

  "Me?" The unexpectedness of his request shook her.

  "Sí. Walk around. We'll find you. You can take us to Señor Putman."

  "But I—” She was about to say she couldn't come; but stopped. What if her going made the difference? She loved her step-brother as much as any sister. If anything happened to him because of her refusal, she'd never forgive herself. She had to go. Scared out of her mind, but go she would. "How will I know you?"

  "We'll use your mother's name. Wear your pendant. And hurry. Every day things get—” He hung up abruptly, as if interrupted. It frightened Perri even more.

  Taking several steadying breaths, she pulled out her cell and texted Walt. “Emergency.”

  He didn’t answer. He often didn’t respond to the vibrating, saying when he got busy, he didn’t notice it.

  She dialed Walt's office, and asked to speak to Luke Rogers, but their secretary explained it would be an hour before his meeting was over.

  "I must get a message to Walt Putman," Perri explained. "Can you do that?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell him Owen is in Mazatlan. Someone is trying to kill him. Have Walt meet me at the Hotel San Juan. Have you got that?"

  "Yes. But you shouldn't go, Perri. Let us handle it."

  "That's ridiculous. Walt needs my help. I'll go on ahead and get in touch with Owen."

  "No." Her voice rose sharply. "You mustn't." The secretary's concern only added to Perri's fears. Why couldn't the woman just pass on the message?

  "Why not?"

  "It's dangerous. They could kill you, too."

  In spite of her mounting fear, Perri's resolve grew stronger. Ignoring the sweat forming on her hands, she gripped the phone harder. "I have to take that chance. Owen's friends will be looking for me. No one else. I promised them I'd come."

  "You mustn't go."

  "I must."

  Without further comment, Perri turned the phone off. Her whole body was shaking. Deciding not to allow herself any more time to think about the dangers involved, she dialed her regular travel agency, cancelled her Morocco tickets and reserved a seat on the next flight to Mazatlan. They were able to book her without any problem, but the flight left in two hours...and she was an hour and ten minutes away.

  Cramming her suitcase full, she forced the lid shut. It was altogether unlike her normal, organized departures, but Perri was determined to make the plane.

  As she slammed the car door, the phone rang. Probably Luke Rogers. With her decision made, she didn't want him weakening her resolve, so ignored it.

  She drove down the driveway, glancing to the left at the bottom. The slash of red dirt where her mother had crashed was still visible.

  Tears misted Perri's eyes. There was no longer any way Perri could help her. But she was going to help Owen. Crystal would have wanted her to.

  Turning right, she kept a lookout for the police as she zinged along, but noticed only a white sedan in front of her, also going to the airport.

  The man smiled as he put away his cellphone. The trap was baited. Now there was nothing to do except wait.

  CHAPTER TWO

/>   Walt lay on the bed, his crippled leg propped up on one of the hotel's large pillows, watching the expressions change on Hugo's face as he talked on the phone. The receiver covered the younger man's mouth enough that Walt couldn't see what he was saying, but his expressions made Walt extremely curious. He'd know soon enough.

  He was glad Hugo was with him. His best friend—outside his own family—Hugo had dropped everything to come to Mexico. It had taken two days to make the necessary arrangements so they could work undercover together, but Walt didn't want anyone else. He had trained Hugo personally. He knew his abilities...and his loyalty.

  Walt shifted his weight, trying to ease the cramps. Until they returned to the hotel room, he hadn't realized how much he'd pushed himself yesterday, walking up and down the hot Mexican sidewalks. Today he'd have to sit on a bench and watch the people go by. It was necessary for him to stay visible, since Owen didn't know Hugo. The two had worked out of different offices, different areas. Of his family, only Crystal had known Hugo.

  Dearest Crystal. Her memory cut him sharply.

  He grimaced from the pain, both physical and mental. He hadn't told Hugo about her death; it had no bearing on Owen's troubles. He didn't want it clouding his friend's mind while they were searching for his missing son. Time enough to tell him when they succeeded.

  The younger man hung up and turned to him, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard. He was Owen's age—thirty two—with the strength and energy of a dynamo.

  "Who was that?" Walt asked, unable to wait any longer.

  "Luke."

  "And?"

  "You won't like this. Your step-daughter's on her way here."

  "What?" Walt jerked upright, then wished he hadn't and lowered himself slowly back against the pain. He felt his heartbeats accelerate with the added strain of the new information. “Perri...coming here? How? Why? Who?”

  "She got a message, somehow. Found out that Owen was in trouble and took the first plane down. Be here in less than two hours."

  Walt rubbed his hands, hard, up and down upon his face, his thoughts racing randomly, searching for answers. Who could have contacted Perri? Only a few in the company knew of Owen's mission; fewer knew him as Walt's son. Or had Hugo and he taken too long to prepare things before coming down, so that Owen himself had called? Owen wouldn't be that thoughtless, would he? He should have known the postcard was enough. "What a mess."

  Hugo shrugged. "Just send her back. She should have known better than to come down here. Tomorrow morning if there are no more flights out tonight."

  "Does Luke know where she's staying?

  "The San Juan."

  "Get a room there for yourself."

  "And you?"

  "I don't want her to see me. She thinks I'm doing an accounting job."

  Hugo plopped himself into an overstuffed armchair by the bed. "You mean, you still haven't told her? Crystal said you were going to."

  "No. At first she was too young. The less she knew, the safer we all were."

  "I understand that, but why not later?"

  That was a question Walt had wrestled with often. "You know me...I've always operated on a strict "need to know" basis. Besides, how do you tell a person you are not who they think you are?"

  "You told Owen."

  "Owen was different. He thought being a secret agent would be neat...they were the only jobs worth having; while Perri thought they were terrible jobs, filled with dishonesty. You know about Crystal's first husband, don't you?"

  "Yes. A no-good bum."

  "He had visitation rights, so Perri saw him often enough to get a good dose of his true character. It turned her off anyone whose occupation requires them to play a role. She once said people in the CIA told so many lies, you'd never know when they were actually telling the truth."

  "Ouch."

  "She had a point. I'd just lied to her a few minutes earlier about where I’d been. Crystal looked at me and we both shook our heads."

  Hugo had never seen Walt so depressed. The man had aged ten years since Owen had disappeared. He didn't need this new worry hanging over his head. "What'll you do, without me?" he asked, then rose and picked up his large suitcase which he always kept packed and ready to go.

  "I'll stay here until I hear from you. Blast it! Why didn't she stay home? She can endanger us all."

  "That's for sure. I assume she doesn't know what Owen's doing, either."

  "Right. She has no idea what she's walking into."

  "How do you suggest I get her to leave if I can't tell her what's going on? Luke said she plans to stay down here to help you look for Owen."

  "Did he say how she knew he was here?"

  "No."

  "Hum. Did he say how he knew I was here. I didn’t tell him.”

  “Perri did. She found out somehow. He had plenty to say about you coming down on your own until I told him who I was. Should I act the bad guy and threaten her?"

  Walt shook his head. "I doubt it would work. Perri has a deep sense of loyalty. She won't abandon Owen...it would just make her more determined."

  Just like you, Hugo thought, and said, "You'll have to describe her. Do you have a photo? The only ones I’ve seen was when she was young."

  "No, not when I'm working. But you can't miss her. She'll be the prettiest girl at the airport." He smiled at Hugo's look of exasperation and added, "Look for a slender, effervescent female with ash-blonde hair. She'll stand out like a silver maple in a stand of firs."

  "What else?"

  "Five-five; hundred and twenty. Twenty-six years old... although she looks younger. A replica of Crystal, except for the haircut. Perri’s is longer, but all over the place. Cut so it doesn’t lie down very well."

  Hugo tried to imagine anyone as lovely as Crystal, and failed. Her beauty came from within as well as without. All other women seemed shallow in comparison. "Who do I tell her I am?"

  "Better go as Hugo Brandt."

  "Him, huh?" Hugo brushed his fingers across the top of his short cropped hair. He didn’t like wearing Hugo’s wig. "Not Joe? It's easier."

  A fleeting grin touched Walt's mouth, but went no further. "Hugo has a way with the ladies."

  "Yeah, well, that's sometimes an asset, but at other times a liability. I had trouble getting rid of that redheaded photographer this morning. She was trying to put me into every picture she took. She's now convinced that Hugo Brandt is a rude, obnoxious jerk."

  "Just be glad she won't be around when you meet Perri." Walt's expression became even more intent as he punctuated each point with his finger. "I want you to sweet talk my daughter into believing you're the answer to every woman's prayers. You stick to her like a lover while I try to figure out some way to make her go home without telling her I’m here."

  Hugo nodded as he opened the door, the knob hard and cool to his touch. "Good luck. If she's as stubborn as you are, we're going to need it."

  Adjusting the plane’s tiny stream of air, Perri glanced at her watch. The time had barely passed since she had looked at it last, unable to stop worrying about Owen. What could have happened?

  Owen worked for a large computer firm. Their business was global, and he was always going off to some country or other to help set up different systems. He was good at his job, and in high demand. What had he done to make someone want to kill him? Had he stumbled onto some deadly information? And why Mazatlan and not Bolivia? He’d said he was going to Bolivia.

  She would find out soon now; the plane was scheduled to land in a few minutes.

  She had tried to push back her thoughts by conversing with the middle-aged man seated next to her. Carl Freedman. He'd won a trip to Mazatlan for selling the most cars during a three month period. A voluble, jolly individual, he walked down the aisle, introducing himself to all, passing out his business cards, urging people to come see him when they were ready to buy a new car.

  He promised Perri he would get her the lowest price available; any car, any time. “A fa
vor for a traveling companion," he called it; but Perri figured it was just good business.

  He was thin and tall, loud in dress and talk...but then he was on vacation, so maybe he didn't always wear such ugly shirts. He had offered her the window seat which Perri declined. Heights made her feel sick, although it didn't affect her in an airplane.

  She had barely made the flight; only a couple of people got on after her. With little time to change clothes, she had scrambled into light cotton slacks and a lime-colored top with a shell neck. Around her neck was the ivory pendant. Why Owen had told his friend about it, Perri couldn't fathom.

  The pendant had been her mother's favorite piece of jewelry, a gift from a man both Walt and Crystal respected highly. It was all Perri had to start with. That and the Hotel San Juan. A large, luxurious place. She had walked past it, but never stayed there.

  Would Owen's friend be at the airport? No...it was pure luck she had caught this plane. He wouldn't expect her so soon. But if she could contact him right away, she might set things up with Owen before Walt arrived.

  This was no pleasure trip she was taking. Walt would need her feet and ears. Although he spoke fluent Spanish, he was like most lip readers, unable to read the lips of a person who spoke English with an accent. Also, several operations had left him with a normal-looking gait, but any long walk caused him severe pain.

  Whatever trouble Owen was in, it would take both of them to get him out of it. She swallowed hard, trying to overcome her anxiety. A passing stewardess stopped.

  "All you all right? Can I get you anything?"

  "No. Thank you." As the stewardess walked on, Perri stretched out her legs and tried to unwind by breathing deeply, willing her mind to relax. A veteran traveler, she could normally rest on a plane and arrive refreshed. But this could have been her maiden trip, for she was as tense as any first-time flier; her stomach tied into a tight, hard ball which sickly refused to consider airline food.

  She had to help Owen. Yet she felt so unprepared.

  The plane banked, and she clenched her hands. After what had seemed an eternity, they were finally circling to land.

  Mazatlan's dry heat hit her as she stepped onto the ramp, feeling drained of energy and dehydrated. She knew it was from nervousness, and stopped to get a long drink of water in the waiting room before joining the queue to hand over her tourist card.