Out of the Black

by John Rector

  I saw another man kneeling in the far corner of the room. There was something familiar about him. He was older, and his thin white hair stood off his head in every direction. He had dirt on his clothes, and there was blood around his mouth and streaked down the front of his shirt.

  His eyes were swollen shut, his face bruised.

  He was holding a white rosary in both hands.

  I stared at him for a long time, trying to remember where I’d seen him, but my thoughts were clouded, and it took a while before I remembered.

  Then I did.

  He was the driver. He’d been parked across the street from the salon that afternoon.

  “I know you,” I said. “You’re—”

  The older deputy stepped forward and punched me. The blow snapped my head back, and sent jagged shards of pain tearing through my brain. I reached up, holding my nose in both hands, and stayed like that until tXe p.he pain began to fade. When I pulled my hands away, they were covered in blood.

  I didn’t say anything else.

  A minute later, there were footsteps in the hall. I waited until they stopped, then I looked up.

  The old man was standing in the doorway.

  Seeing him brought it all back, and I could feel my muscles tense. I started to get up, but the deputy stepped in and pushed me back down, holding me there.

  I looked up at the old man and said, “We had a deal. Where is she?”

  He stared at me, didn’t speak.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  The old man stayed in the doorway, watching me, hands folded over the top of his cane. Then he stepped in and crossed the room to where the driver was kneeling in the corner. He stood behind him, then reached down and put a hand on his shoulder.

  The driver jumped at the man’s touch and made a low cry in the base of his throat.

  The old man patted his shoulder and made a slow shushing sound that came out like a hiss. He said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand. When he finished, the driver looked up at him, his swollen eyes wide, and shook his head, talking fast through the tears.

  The old man listened until the driver’s voice broke off into sobs, then he held his hand out to him, palm down.

  The driver took it and kissed it and pressed it against his face, repeating the same words over and over.

  “Lo siento, lo siento, perdoname por favor.”

  The two of them stayed like that for a long time, then the old man turned to the younger sheriff’s deputy standing just inside the door.

  The deputy looked around, frowned, and backed out of the room.

  I listened to his footsteps trail off down the hall.

  Once he was gone, the old man pulled his hand away and crouched down next to the driver. He whispered something to him, and the man nodded, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

  The old man patted the driver on the back, then he stood and nodded to the man in the gray suit.

  The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a small-caliber handgun. He took a suppressor tube from his pocket and attached it to the end of the gun barrel.

  The driver didn’t notice. He just stared down at the rosary, praying, wiping tears from his battered face.

  I couldn’t move.

  I watched everything unfold in front of me. I wanted to scream out for them to stop, but I had no voice. At one point I tried to stand, but the man next to me closed his hand over my shoulder and held me in place. When I looked at him, he shook hd into the Tow

  20

  The man in the gray suit opened the briefcase and took out a wrinkled sheet of yellow legal paper. He smoothed it and handed it to the old man.

  He looked at the paper then held it out to me.

  I didn’t take it.

  “Is she safe?”

  The old man ignored the question. “I want to know about the people on this list. Who are they?”

  He offered the paper again, but I didn’t need to look at it. I recognized the paper, and I knew where he got it.

  “That’s not mine.”

  “It was in your pocket.”

  “I took it from someone else.”

  “Who?”

  I shook my head.

  The old man sighed and took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and slipped them on. He read down the list of names, one by one. When he finished, he stared at me over the top of his glasses and said, “You know these people?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  “Your name is on here.”

  I nodded.

  “What is the plot against my family?”

  “Plot?” I tried to say more, but I stumbled over my words. “I don’t—”

  “Who else was involved?”

  “Involved?” I looked over the old man’s shoulder at the man standing behind him. “There’s no plot. It was just a job.”

  “A job.”

  “That’s right.” I could feel my mind spinning away from me, and I bit down hard on the insides of my cheeks, letting the pain pull me back. “Just tell me she’s safe.”

  The old man turned to the deputy. “A chair, please.” the light the frontAK. It was

  The deputy went out.

  For a while the room was silent except for the slow drip of blood running from the trench into the drain. When the deputy came back, he had a metal folding chair. He opened it and set it in front of me.

  The old man eased down onto the chair and crossed one leg over his knee. He set the yellow paper on his lap and leaned back, staring at me, tapping his cane on the cement floor.

  “Do you know who I am, Mr. Caine?”

  “No,” I said. “Not really.”

  The old man smiled. “You didn’t think it wise to find out even the most basic details of the man whose wife you were planning on kidnapping?”

  “It wasn’t my plan,” I said. “I was hired to drive.”

  The old man nodded. “Yet it was you who contacted me. It was you who demanded I pay a ransom for the safe return of my wife. And it was you alone who arrived to pick up the money.” He paused. “That seems like a great deal of responsibility for a man just hired to drive.”

  I wanted to explain, but I knew it wouldn’t make a difference, so I kept my mouth shut.

  The old man stared at me for a moment longer, then he took a deep breath and said, “To be honest, there’s not much you would’ve discovered. Other than occasional charity work, I’ve made it a priority of mine to keep a low profile over the years. I’ve found it makes things easier.” He paused. “My name is Roman Pinnell. My wife, who you’ve already met, is called Rose.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Now, Mr. Caine, I’d like you to tell me who else was involved in this job of yours.”

  “No one,” I said. “It was me and the guy who had that paper. That’s it.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “And this other person, where is he now?”

  I hesitated. “He’s dead.”

  Pinnell’s eye twitched, and I felt a streak of ice run all the way down my spine. I thought about expanding on my answer, but I decided it would be better to keep quiet.

  For a long time, neither of us said a word. Finally, Pinnell sat forward and took off his reading glasses. He slipped them into the inside pocket of his coat then turned and nodded to the man in the gray suit.

  The man reached for the briefcase on the bed across from me. He dialed the combination, popped the locks, and took out a small leather case.

  Pinnell brushed his knee with the side of his hand. “My wife is flying home tomorrow.”

  I was staring at the leather case, and I barely heard him. When I snapped back, I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t say anything. As it turned out, I didn’t need to.

  Pinnell kept talking.

  “Even after all these years, she’s never quite adapted to life in the city.” He smiled. “Did you know, the village where we grew up ha
s fewer than one hundred souls.” He nodded, waved a hand in the air. “I will miss her, but I can hardly blame her for wanting to return home, especially in light of recent events.”Xgasi b

  “My daughter,” I said. “She shouldn’t suffer because of me.”

  “Everyone suffers for those they love,” Pinnell said. “It can’t be avoided.”

  “She’s a child,” I said. “She doesn’t deserve—”

  “Deserve?”

  Pinnell laughed. The sound came out in one long, unbroken breath, hollow and humorless, like a dry wind.

  I waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t.

  “She’s innocent,” I said. “She’s a little girl. She doesn’t know—”

  “Mr. Caine.”

  I stopped talking and listened.

  “My only concern is the plot against my family.” He held up the yellow sheet of paper. “And with the names on thishe floor.

  21

  I tried to ask what they were going to do, but the pain in the side of my head had spread, and my jaw felt heavy and numb, making it hard to speak.

  The man in the gray suit unzipped the leather case and took out a syringe and a small glass vial.

  The old man paced behind the folding chair. His cane clicked hard on the cement floor, and the sound echoed through the cell.

  I watched the man in the gray suit uncap the syringe and push the needle into the vial and pull the plunger. When the barrel was fXs as came to meull, he held the syringe up to the light and tapped out the air bubbles.

  I found my voice. “What are you going to do?”

  Pinnell stopped pacing and turned to face me. “I’ve never been a patient man, Mr. Caine. It’s always been a failing of mine, one of many I’m afraid, but one I’m always looking to improve on.”

  “I told you,” I said. “I don’t know those names.”

  Pinnell reached up and rubbed the spot between his eyebrows with one finger. “Do you know the Bent Tree Gardens on the west side?”

  I shook my head.

  “They’re lovely.” Pinnell looked up and stepped closer. “Every morning I go there. Sometimes to walk, other times to find a quiet spot where I can sit alone and think, but I never miss a day.” He paused. “The routine calms me, and I believe the daily practice has helped me discover ways to be more patient, although sometimes, like right now, that patience is tested.”

  Everything inside me turned cold.

  Pinnell crossed the room to the corner and slowly knelt next to the driver’s body. “I’d known this man for nearly twenty years. He swore loyalty to my wife, to protect her from harm, but he was lazy and he was arrogant. He allowed your team to take her in the light of day.” He glanced over at me. “An absurd plan that only succeeded because of his total incompetence.”

  “There was no team,” I said. “I told you, it—”

  “He failed me.”

  The old man looked down at the body then reached up and put the first two fingers of his right hand into his mouth, pulling them out wet. He mumbled something that sounded like a prayer then pressed both fingers into the bullet wound in the back of the driver’s neck, forcing them in deep.

  It took effort, and I heard a series of wet pops as he worked them in up to his knuckles.

  I felt my stomach turn.

  The old man, still praying, pulled his fingers out. They were coated dark with blood.

  He turned to me.

  I shook my head and started to stand, but then the deputy stepped in behind me and wrapped his arm around my neck and squeezed. I fought him at first, trying to pull his arm away, but each time I did, he only squeezed tighter.

  My vision wavered and the strength ran out of my arms.

  I watched the old man get closer until he was standing over me. His eyes were half-closed. He was still praying.

  No, not praying.

  He was chanting.

  I tried one more time to break free, but my strength was gone, and there was nothing I could do.

  The old man pressed his bloody fingers against my forehead, running them down then across. When he pulled them away, he leaned in close and whispered something to me in Spanish that I couldn’t understand. Then he stepped back and held out his hand, palm up.

  The man in the gray suit handed him the syringe.

  “No!”

  I saw what was about to happen, and once again I tried to break free. I managed to roll to the side, using all the strength I had left, but it was still no use.

  The old man leaned forward, and w the lightUGs out of hen he spoke, I could feel his breath, sour and moist, against my skin.

  “I’ve known some unpleasant men in my life, Mr. Caine. The worst kinds of men.” He reached down and grabbed my left wrist and pulled my arm out straight. “While they’ve proven to be useful from time to time, their tastes run in directions I find unsettling.” He looked up at me. “Your daughter will be quite a prize for these men.”

  I stopped fighting.

  I didn’t think I’d heard him right. I couldn’t have heard him right. The words swam together in my head.

  “You will answer my questions truthfully, or I will turn your daughter over to these men and their proclivities.” He tapped the bend in my arm with his finger. “She is quite young. She will not understand what is happening to her, only that it is happening because of you.” He paused. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  The deputy behind me tightened his grip.

  “She will expect you to help her, of course. What little girl wouldn’t look for their father during such a terrifying time? But you will not be there for her. And when her suffering finally ends, she will be alone, knowing you never came.”

  I couldn’t speak, but I managed to twist my head just enough to open my mouth and bite down hard on the deputy’s wrist.

  I tasted blood.

  The deputy cried out, and his grip loosened.

  For a second, I was able to breathe again. I sat up, reaching for the old man, but the deputy recovered quick and pulled me back, regaining his g17;s dead.R

  rip.

  Pinnell was smiling.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” His eyes were sharp and clear. “There is nothing more powerful than the desire to protect one’s children when they are in danger. It is an utterly overwhelming emotion, and impossible to explain to someone who isn’t a parent.”

  I tried to pull free. I waim that I’d answer his questions, tell him whatever he wanted to know. But the deputy’s grip was too tight, and there was no air.

  My voice wasnted to tell h

  PART III

  22

  The world came back in waves.

  The older deputy was standing in the corner. He had a long green hose in his hand and was spraying the blood off the walls into the drainage trench along the floor. His left forearm was wrapped in a clean white bandage, and he had his back to me.

  He was whistling “Wild Blue Yonder.”

  I watched him, but my eyes kept drifting to the hose. Following it from his hand, across the floor in front of me, and out the open cell door into the hallway.

  I stared at it for a long time.

  Something about the open door was important, but I couldn’t understand why. My thoughts were thick, and whatever I was searching for fell just out of reach.

  I tried to sit up. When I did, the walls wavered in and out, and I felt my stomach lurch.

  I rolled to the side just in time.

  The deputy turned and yelled, “Hey, Goddamn it!”

  I saw him point the hose, and then I was wet.

  The water soaked my hair and ran over my skin, dripping onto the floor under me.

  “You think I want to clean this shit?”

  I tried to breathe.

  Once again I felt my stomach clench, but this time nothing came up. When the feeling passed, I rolled onto my back and folded my arms over my eyes.

  I could feel the water soaking into my clothes and pooling under me, but I
didn’t care. My breathing was thin, and the shadows seemed to swirl around me like tiny fingers, reaching in and dragging me down, pulling me back into darkness.

  “Wake up.”

  The voice was faraway, insistent.

  I felt a sharp, stinging pain against my face, then hands on my shirt, lifting me up.

  Again the voice.

  “You have to get up. Now.”

  I opened my eyes and the bright fluorescent light burned through me. The younger deputy was standing in front of me, slapping my face. When he saw that my eyes were open, he stopped and stepped back.

  “Come on,” he said. “We don’t have much time.” the light felt aser than

  I watched him for a second then leaned forward, elbows on knees, and held my head in my hands. The pain behind my eyes was worse. I tried to remember what had happened, but all that came were flashes of faces and voices, all of them hidden behind a haze of images and dreams.

  The air in the cell was wet and cold, and I saw water dripping down the walls and running pink toward the trench.

  I stared at it and thought of nothing at all.

  “Hey.”

  I looked up at the deputy, tried to focus. His skin was smooth and unlined, and I noticed a ring of tiny blackheads along the side of his nose.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  He ignored me, said, “If you want see your daughter again, you need to come with me right now.”

  The words brought me back, not all the way, but far enough to remind me of where I was and what was happening. I could feel some of the strength returning to my legs, and I stretched them out in front of me and tried to stand.

  The deputy offered his hand and helped me to my feet. The door to the cell was open at the far end of the room, and I stared at it, trying to piece everything together. I knew where I was, but the details were faded, lost in the mist.

  Then it all started to come back.

  This time, the waves came faster, each one unfolding a small slip of memory: Pinnell, the man in the charcoal-gray suit, the driver.