Then he said, “You have a fine sense of timing. Are you from the Special Surveillance Group?” He wondered if the blue stakeout car was still parked across the street. “Where’s the rest of your team? Please, don’t tell me that I’m only worth sending one single Miliciana?” He laughed bitterly. “No, I guess that’s about right. One should be plenty to take care of such a meaningless task. But you know what? You’re too late.”
The woman spoke again after a moment. “I’m not from the Milicia or from any surveillance group—I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Now put down your gun—put it down!”
He chuckled again. “Oh really? Or what? You’ll shoot me? That’s pretty funny: you’ll shoot me.” Then he turned serious: “Well, go ahead. What’s stopping you?”
The woman shook her head, still aiming her pistol at him. Her voice lost its commanding tone. “No, no, that’s not why I’m here! So put down the gun…please?”
He gradually rotated the pistol around in his hands, until he had a conventional one-handed grip on it. “You know, I can make you do it.”
He slowly extended his right arm and the pistol straight out in front of him, toward the forgotten television. His face was turned toward her over his right shoulder; he was staring at her now with tired eyes.
“No, no, please, please don’t do this—at least, listen to me! We need to talk, so please stop!” She seemed to be growing frantic, but she kept her pistol’s sights on him.
“Just a little more…should do it,” he said, the gun held out on a wavering arm, which was slowly swinging toward her.
Finally, the woman sprang back out of the kitchen opening, sidestepping to get cover behind the wall. “Stop it, stop it! We need to talk—I need to know something important!”
Alex Garabanda continued to bring his arm—and his pistol—slowly around toward her. He knew that she would have to either fire or retreat in a matter of seconds. He wondered if she understood that the interior wall would barely slow down his bullets…if he fired at her. He didn’t know what he would do if his pistol made it all the way, before she stopped him.
“Please, don’t do this. Stop! Listen to me! It’s about Brian. Brian!”
He paused. It finally occurred to him that she had been speaking English all along, unaccented American English. His pistol ceased its traverse while aimed halfway between the television and the kitchen, where the woman was now crouching behind the wall.
He switched to English without thinking. “Brian? What about Brian?” His Sig-Sauer pistol was weaving around in little circles, not quite directed toward her. “Hey, you’re not from the Milicia, are you? So who are you then?”
“I’m Brian’s mother.”
This stranger’s armed intrusion during the final moments of his life had seemed like one last cosmic joke, but those three words struck him like a hammer blow. He choked out his reply, trying to claw his way back to sober, rational thought.
“His…mother? No, no, that’s not possible.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, fighting against the alcohol, trying to find the right words, trying to speak without slurring. “No, you see, I have just this very morning said farewell to Mommy Dearest, and to young Brian as well…”
“No, I’m his real mother, you moron! His real mother, damn you!”
The pistol slipped from his suddenly feeble hand, and dropped onto the carpet with a thunk. “You’re…Brian’s…birth mother?”
***
Ranya stepped through the doorway, and moved a yard closer to him. On the television, Governor Deleon collapsed backward onto the stage, unwatched. “Yes, I’m Brian’s real mother—even if I didn’t have the privilege of naming him! Even if I only had five minutes with him in his whole life, well—they were the first five minutes! Five minutes, before he was stolen from me and given to a pair of jackbooted thugs to raise!”
Garabanda had turned ashen and slumped back against the easy chair. “But that’s…impossible,” he whispered. “That’s not what happened! Brian’s birth mother is dead, she was killed in—”
She cut him off. “Do I look dead, you idiot?” Ranya advanced another step toward him, shaking her pistol at his face. “Do I look dead?”
He turned his head back toward her. “No...” was all he could manage to say.
“Do you think I came all the way out here to Albuquerque New Mexico, just to play some kind of a sick practical joke?”
“Um…no. I don’t suppose so.”
“No, you don’t suppose so! So tell me something, was that his mother—I mean—you know what I mean!” She struggled, unable to mouth the alien words. “Was that woman at the playground, was she Brian’s…oh, dammit, his ‘mother,’ I mean…”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re Alexandro Garabanda?”
“Yes…”
“And the lady who took Brian from the playground?”
“She—that was my ex-wife. Karin Bergen. Formerly Karin Garabanda.”
“So who was the other woman, the tattooed lady with the biceps?”
Garabanda shook his head slowly. “That…was Karin’s new ‘wife.’ Or maybe husband? Fiancée? I’m not quite up on their current legal status. If there was a wedding, I didn’t get an invitation.”
“What? She’s…?”
“Karin’s…gay. At least, she is now. When we got married? Who knows what she was then. That tattooed freak…”
“Enough—I got the picture. So, where are they going?”
He looked directly at her. “Where are they going?”
“You don’t understand the question?”
“California. They’re going to San Diego. Gretchen Bosch—Karin’s girlfriend, she got promoted and she was transferred.”
“Transferred? What’s that mean?”
“She works for the IRS. Internal Revenue, Criminal Investigations Division. She’s an IRS Special Agent.”
“IRS, huh?” Ranya thought about this for a moment, still covering him with her .45. She kicked the empty jug of orange juice with her toe. “So what the hell were you doing here? Drowning your sorrows, and getting up the nerve to shoot yourself? What kind of a man would let all that happen to his son, and then shoot himself?”
Garabanda turned his head away. “No kind of a man,” he said miserably, “No kind of a man at all.”
“You let your son…MY son…!”
“Yes! And that’s not even the worst of it! You want to know the worst of it?” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Pull up a chair, watch the movie—we just missed seeing the governor catch a bullet. But the best part is coming, just wait. After you see it, believe me, you’ll want to do me a favor and shoot me. Yes, you will. A big favor.”
Ranya stooped and snatched his pistol from the carpet, then stepped away, shoving it into her jeans left-handed. That danger out of the way, she glanced toward the TV, and noted the video camera resting on the table beside it. “This isn’t a news program, is it?” She pointed at the television with her .45.
“No, it’s not.”
“You made this movie?”
“…I did.”
“FBI work?”
He snorted. “No, not FBI work. On my own. Sort of a hobby.”
She was confused by this cryptic disclosure, but let it pass. “I was there too, you know. Right on the stage.”
“You’re…joking?”
“No, I’m serious. See the guy standing there, in the cammie uniform? This is right after Deleon got shot.” Despite the low quality video, they could clearly see the governor’s body prone on the cement stage. Vicegobernador Magón was crouching over Deleon’s corpse, in the spreading pool of dark blood. The Comandante was standing behind Magón, while most of the remaining men and women on the stage were scrambling for non-existent cover.
Alex Garabanda focused on the television screen. “I know him. That’s Basilio Ramos, the leader of the Falcon Battalion.”
“Well, that’s me right behind him, wearing a beret. See the
pistol he’s holding? Here it is.” She tipped her .45’s barrel up, and briefly held it sideways for him to see.
“Oh…shit.” Garabanda glanced between the television and Ranya. The truth of it was obvious. She was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt both on the video and here in his living room. Only her headwear had changed. “Tell me the truth,” he asked her, “Have I gone insane? Are you for real, or am I hallucinating this? I’m drunk, but this is too…”
“Yes, I’m for real, and yes, I’m Brian’s real mother. That’s all the truth.”
“You were with Comandante Ramos, at the rally? But you said you weren’t Milicia.”
“I’m not.”
He looked from her back to the television. “But—she—you’re wearing a brown beret there, on the stage!”
“I know I was, I already told you that. Listen, it’s a long story about how it all happened, but take my word for it: I’m not Milicia. Far from it.”
“Then you’re undercover, you’re on an assignment?”
“No, I’m Brian’s mother, that’s all.”
Garabanda’s head fell against the back of the armchair. “New Mexico—and I thought it couldn’t get any crazier...”
“Crazier? You should talk—you were the one pointing a gun at himself.”
He cracked a wan smile at this observation. “Touché. Good point.”
“So—are you still going to try to kill yourself? Suicidal people make me kind of nervous.”
“Listen—I wasn’t planning to kill myself.”
“Oh, really? You always point guns at yourself when you’re drinking?”
“Okay, well—maybe. Maybe yes, maybe no. I mean, I didn’t plan it or anything. But that’s over. That’s finished.”
“Why? Sudden change of heart?”
He stared straight ahead, his jaw working soundlessly. Finally he said, “Because things are…different now. Everything is different. I want to hear your story, about Brian…about everything. But first, I want to turn off the television. I’ve seen enough. You know what happens next?” Garabanda used his remote control, and the television screen went black.
“I wish I didn’t. I was right there…right by the tree. The burning tree. The man with the bike—who was he?”
“He was my last friend. And I sent him there, to the rally. You see, he was my friend, but he was also my informant. He was close to the governor. Very close. His name was Luis Carvahal.”
Ranya made a soft whistling sound. “You know, you really suck at being an FBI agent, don’t you?”
He sighed. “Don’t worry…I wasn’t going to suck at it for much longer.”
“But you just said…”
“Oh, forget it,” Garabanda said despondently.
“Forget it? That’s fine for you, but what about Brian?”
He looked at her, and they held eye contact. “What about Brian?”
“You were just going to shoot yourself, and let Karin and that circus freak have him?”
“There was nothing else I could do. Nothing…”
“Just like that—you were going to give up?”
“Nothing is ‘just like that.’ I had no alternative, none! The court…”
“Okay, I get it. You gave up, you quit. Well that’s your problem— that’s on you. But at least tell me where they live in San Diego, before you do yourself in.”
“I’m not going to ‘do myself in’.”
“So you said. But just in case you change your mind again, why don’t you tell me where they live?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know, at least not yet. They’re moving out there now, and I just found out about it today.”
“Well, they just left a few hours ago! You’ve got a fast car, what were you sitting around here for? Why didn’t you go after them?”
“It’s not like that! It’s not that easy! They’re traveling in a federal convoy, for security. Ten or fifteen vehicles, and everybody’s armed. The convoys usually have armored gun trucks at each end, as escorts. They won’t stop for anybody or anything until Flagstaff or Phoenix, and then they’ll stay overnight on federal property, or on a military base. They’ll drive the rest of the way to California tomorrow. So there’s no chance of just grabbing Brian from out of that convoy. None.”
She thought about this, evaluating his truthfulness, and weighing the chances. The concept of federal agents traveling between states in armed security convoys was entirely new to her. “Okay, maybe I buy that. Maybe. But you can find out where they’re going to live in San Diego, can’t you? Even a really bad FBI agent should be able to do that, right?”
“Oh yeah, sure, even the worst FBI agent in the world could do that. But the address won’t be enough.”
“Get me the address, and I’ll take my chances. I got this far, didn’t I?”
He looked at her again. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” She thought for a moment about the pros and cons of disclosure. “My name is Ranya Bardiwell.”
“I just saw that name. Was that Oklahoma? There was an escape from the federal transit center last week. A female. You?”
“Oklahoma, yes. But not the transit center. From a detention camp for politicals.”
“For terrorists, you mean.”
“Whatever.”
“A federal officer was killed.”
“Yeah, well, they weren’t going to just let me walk out of there.”
“But, you killed a federal—”
“Don’t get all choked up, G-man. She was a warden. She made her play, and I made mine. I did what I had to do. Now I’m on a mission, and I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“To find Brian?”
“Not just to ‘find’ him. I’ve come to get him.”
“You know…he’s my son, too.”
Ranya angrily thrust her pistol back out at his face. “Like hell he is! And besides, weren’t you just about to shoot yourself? That sort of terminates your parental rights, don’t you think?”
“But I’m the only father he’s ever known, from the time he was an infant...”
“You, his father? You have no idea about his father! You don’t even know where Brian is going. His father!”
“Listen, I’m sorry for what happened, but you didn’t raise him. He was taken from you—stolen I guess, and I know that’s terrible, but you were in detention, and—”
“You don’t know anything! Anything!”
“I know you’re not going to be able to just go to California and ‘get’ him.”
“I got this far. I’ll get to California too.”
“But this screwed up place is New Mexico! Nobody’s in charge here, they don’t know which way is up in this state. The Three Stooges could do a better job of running this state! California is different. You’d be busted on your first day out there, and then you’d go right back to prison. One day, max.”
“Thanks for painting the rosy picture,” she said icily. “Coming from the world’s worst FBI agent, that means a lot, believe me. I think I’ll take my chances.”
“And how will you get there? Drive?”
“Yes, actually I was planning on taking an FBI agent’s Crown Victoria. He doesn’t need it anymore.”
“Just like that? Traveling alone, one car? You have a plan for getting through all the checkpoints? You have a plan for getting across the California state border? Where are you going to buy gas out there, when there’s almost no gas anywhere, unless you can get onto a federal base? Lady, you are so naïve, it’s a miracle you ever made it to New Mexico. You’ll never make it to California—much less ever see Brian again.”
She said nothing as they glared at one another. Finally she broke the impasse. “Okay then, tell me how to do it.”
“You? You can’t. It’s impossible.”
“It’s possible. Tell me how.”
He took a deep breath and said, “Well…there’s really only one way.”
“Okay, that’s enough, that’s all I need. How?”
Alex paused again before quietly answering. “I can take you there.”
She stared at him, thinking, considering the lack of available alternatives. “Does that mean you’re not going to shoot yourself, after all?”
“No. No, I won’t. Not now. That’s over, that’s finished.”
“So tell me, why would I want to take the world’s worst FBI agent?”
He managed one more partial smile. “Because I’m all you’ve got. You can’t get there without me. You get a better offer, tell me about it.”
***
Alex Garabanda had nothing more to say to her. She would accept his offer, or not. If she didn’t, he would not be any worse off than before.
After a minute of silence between them, she asked, “Do you have any pictures of my son around here? Albums, something?”
There were no framed photographs hanging on the walls, only nail marks. Karin had stripped away their memories.
“Pictures? I don’t know what my ex-wife left. You’d have to look around in the closets, I guess. She probably took everything. No, wait— my laptop. I’ve got pictures of Brian on my laptop.” His brain was functioning only at three-quarters speed. Now that he was attempting to sound half-intelligent, his tongue felt like a beanbag.
“So where’s your laptop?”
“In my car. In the trunk.”
“Do I need a password? To see the pictures I mean.”
“No, not for the family albums. Just click the camera icon on the desktop.”
“Okay, good. I want to see pictures of him, it would mean a lot to me.” She walked behind him and over to the window, peering between the horizontal blinds, glancing across the street.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 43