by Dave Butler
The man now stood in the corner of the living room, aware that he looked as out of place as he felt. While others were clearly comfortable in tailored suits, his off-the-rack bargain felt and fit like a burlap sack. He attended few parties like this, and when he did, the gulf between him and the people around him was almost painful. Their backgrounds were different, their lives were different, and their economic situations were certainly different. It was as if he were an alien in their midst. He sipped a glass of cold beer. At least it was comforting.
Watching his fellow guests swirl around him with irritating insincerity, the man leaned against a massive half-circle fireplace. Along the mantel he saw a line of lilies, their green leaves and bright white flowers paying homage to Easter.
Across the room, he watched the hostess move between groups of guests, chatting and smiling, her delicate hand always on someone’s forearm. The man was enchanted by her, by the spell she wove on the room. She was beautiful, overtly confident, radiantly alluring. Her dark hair was long and luxurious and matched her coal-black eyes. It shimmered down her bare shoulders, continuing to her perfect buttocks. She wore a floor-length gown that flowed on her voluptuous body like a mountain stream. She paused to chat with a quartet of guests who stood to the right of a large ceramic figure on a wooden cross that was incredibly realistic, as if it were a visitor to the party, desperate for attention but ignored. The man saw the woman laugh, and then he gulped when her nipples visibly hardened under the diaphanous material of her dress.
“She is muy bonita, no?”
Startled by the quiet voice at his right shoulder, the man slopped his beer down the front of his pants. He turned his head and saw his host’s dark eyes burning into him, the perfect white teeth forming a smile that a wolf would envy, a smile about which nightmares were made.
“Ah, Mr. Castillo,” he said with a croak, “I was admiring your art on the wall there.” He gestured clumsily at a painting across the room, again spilling his drink, this time on the tile floor.
Luis José Castillo’s gaze was one of open contempt, though his smile did not waver. “Please … acquaintances such as you may call me Señor Castillo.” With a subtle flick of his hand, Castillo pulled a white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and bent down to dab at the wet spots on the tile. He threw the cloth into the fire.
“When I invite a man to my home,” Castillo said calmly, moving closer to the man’s right ear, “I expect he will enjoy himself.” He paused, his gaze sending a shiver of fear up the man’s spine. “But I also expect he will treat my possessions with respect.”
The man leaning against the fireplace knew that his host was not talking about the painting, the spilled drink, or the floor. Before he could respond or apologize, Castillo was gone.
The man hated how Castillo made him feel, and yet, every time they met, he was unable to find a way to turn the tables, to make Castillo feel as useless and bumbling. He felt his cheeks flush with anger and shame and then looked around guiltily as if Castillo might reappear or read his mind. It’s going to be a long night, he thought as he moved toward the kitchen to find another beer. He wished he were anywhere but in Castillo’s home.
He grabbed another glass from a passing tray and then heard the bass tones of a bell sounding from the end of a long hallway. This was his second time at a Castillo party and he knew the signal. His host was about to make a pronouncement.
The man trailed his fellow male guests down the hall. Somehow the women knew this was not for them. For some guests, this was their first time in Castillo’s home. But even for the others, it was unusual to be summoned in such a mysterious and presumptuous manner.
The man joined others as they moved into the house’s main entrance area. It was a massive open space soaring up to the second floor. A long stairway led up into darkness on their left; on their right were closed double doors carved in dark wood. The man watched Castillo open the doors with a flourish. The room beyond was instantly illuminated. Filing in with the others, the man stood in a dark corner with his back against a bookcase. He leaned there in relative anonymity, sipped his beer, and peered at the men around him. He saw prominent lawyers, wealthy realtors, two federal court judges, a United States senator, and two older gentlemen whom he knew were Castillo’s partners in one of the most successful construction firms in the inland northwest. As a mid-level government bureaucrat himself, the man felt like a scruffy alley cat in a pack of preening panthers.
He nodded at a local construction architect with whom he’d met a week ago. While they’d reviewed a set of drawings for a multi-storey parking garage, he hadn’t missed the smell of alcohol on the architect’s breath. He remembered pointing to the numerous building code violations he observed in the drawings, advising the man that a permit could not be issued. “You and I both know,” the architect had said, his red eyes resigned, “that when Mr. Castillo wants something by a specific date, those minor details are irrelevant.”
The man watched Castillo pause beside a massive mahogany desk and then turn to face the group. He held a champagne flute in his right hand, gripping the edge of the desk with his left. He waited until all conversation ceased.
“Mis amigos … my friends,” Castillo began, “I am honoured that you have graced me with your company this evening.” His smile swept through the room, alighting on each and every guest in turn. “I wish each of you a feliz semana santa. Happy Easter to you and your families.” When Castillo’s dark eyes met his, the man felt like he’d been strip-searched by airport security.
“I consider each of you to be a special associate,” the host said after his eyes had circled the room, taking possession of everyone in it. “I am pleased you have joined me for this celebration. Our company had a very successful year, and that is in large part due to the unique services each of you has offered to me and my partners. And I hope you all brought your cheque books tonight. If my wife hasn’t approached you yet to donate to her charity, she soon will.” Many in the room chuckled and nodded their heads.
The man knew why he was in Castillo’s house on this night. He was an assistant chief inspector in the Spokane County Building and Code Enforcement division, and he was expected to ensure that Castillo’s Spokane-area construction projects received building permits, swiftly, efficiently, and without question. He’d done this many times over the past five years, too many times to count, despite the fact that few of them met building codes. He was aware of the risk he faced. But Castillo compensated him handsomely for that risk. And ever since the first time he’d taken it, he’d had no choice but to act when asked. And he knew that Castillo would keep asking and keep expecting him to deliver. Each time, the risk grew like rows of bricks in a wall. He wondered what others had done to receive their invitations to this party.
Castillo continued with his speech, breaking the inspector’s train of thought. “Thirty-two years ago, I left the Mexican mountain town of San Cristóbal de las Casas to come to America, with only a suitcase of clothes and, like all new immigrants, the hope that I could find the American dream. My parents sacrificed their own dreams so I could come to Gonzaga University here in Spokane to study engineering. When I stepped off the airplane in late August that first year, I had no idea where my education would take me. I worked evenings in my uncle’s restaurant while studying and attending class during the day. Today, I am proud to have a beautiful wife and two amazing daughters, and proud to lead a growing and successful corporation that employs hundreds of people.” Castillo smiled.
“To you, my friends, each of whom has helped me on this journey, I raise a toast. Salud.” He raised his glass and his greeting echoed across the room.
“Now, I have something special to share,” said Castillo. He paused for dramatic effect, the silence its own power in the room. “As many of you know, I love the hunt with a passion equal to my passion for my family and my company.”
The inspector saw Ca
stillo touch a panel on the side of the desk, and the upper reaches of the room grew brighter. When he looked up, he saw trophies of wild animals arranged on the walls. This was no redneck hunter’s den. He saw species from around the globe, clearly prepared by a taxidermist with world-class skills. They appeared almost alive. Almost. A black rhino, its ears perked forward, its tiny eyes shining. A gemsbok, the face a mask of black and white, the horns long and sharp. A mule deer with thick branched antlers. A massive cape buffalo with curved horns and black beard, menacing even in death. A grizzly bear, its toothy mouth open, snarling as if ready to charge. But between the trophies, there were empty spaces.
“I am about to devote myself to a quest to obtain a trophy from every major game species in the world,” said Castillo. “I have already begun pursuing my goal and I will invite many of you to accompany me on parts of that journey. Over the next few years, I will be travelling to Alaska, Canada, Africa, and Russia.”
The inspector knew of Castillo’s love of hunting and his desire to fill the room with mounted heads. He remembered a day in late fall of the previous year when he’d joined Castillo for an antelope hunt in south-central Montana. The trip was in appreciation for his efforts in expediting building permits for a large downtown office complex. But the thanks were tainted by Castillo’s reminder that the man’s career and reputation were at stake. “You and I will be in serious trouble if we have problems with that building,” Castillo had said. “So, we will have no problems, correct?” The man had squeaked out an affirmative response, even though the quality of the construction was not of his doing.
The hunting season for antelope had closed weeks before their trip, but Castillo shot three bucks that day. He took only the biggest of the three, leaving the other two corpses to the turkey buzzards circling above them. The man saw the antelope’s head on the wall above Castillo now and thought back to the speed with which the animal had moved across the short-grass prairie, slowing only to crawl awkwardly under a barbed-wire fence. That was when the big buck was felled by the shot from Castillo’s gun.
The inspector also recalled the look on Castillo’s face when he had turned, rifle in hand, and said, “I have honoured you with the chance to hunt with me today, and you will repay me by not breathing a word of this … to anyone. Do you understand?” They had been in the middle of a windblown prairie, miles from the nearest town. The man knew that the wrong answer to Castillo’s question could make for a very bad day.
“Thank you,” he had responded, feeling his face redden and his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “You don’t have to worry about me. My … my lips are sealed.”
He thought about the many ways in which Castillo could destroy his career and his already sad life. He could lose his pension and he’d probably end up in jail for fraud. It was something he tried not to think about during the day, but it haunted his dreams. His day-to-day existence was already so illusory, so fleeting, and yet he’d let Castillo take control. Each time Castillo introduced him to a friend or colleague, Castillo gave the inspector’s full job title, as though reminding him, over and over again, of the professional risks he faced. And he did the same with the others. So, like it or not, they were all tied together in a web of deceit and risk. A web woven by a master manipulator. But it was not like he could stand up to Castillo, demand Castillo stop pulling the strings that controlled his life. He remembered how he’d felt out on that windblown prairie in Montana, with Castillo’s dark, glowering eyes piercing his. He’d sweated and shivered at the same time, his heart banging like a drum. The Mexican was capable of anything. Of that he had no doubt.
As the inspector drove home from the party later that night, his disgust at himself and his situation grew like a malignancy, consuming him from the inside. He was angry because he’d allowed himself to be trapped in a classic no-win situation. He was sick at the power Castillo held over him. He despised Castillo for his possessions, for his ego, and for his success. And for the way he made him feel: weak, sad, powerless. He was a puppet, with Castillo the mad puppeteer, forcing him to dance, to do his bidding. He knew that Castillo took pride in his accomplishments and cared deeply about what people — at least those he considered his equals — thought of him. But the inspector understood that he was nothing more than a stepping stone to Castillo’s success, trampled by his handmade leather shoes, to be immediately forgotten when he was no longer needed.
By the time he unlocked the door to his rundown townhouse located in a very different part of Spokane than where Castillo lived, he’d decided that he wanted to do something, needed to do something, in order to take back the control he’d unwittingly lost along the way. What would it take, he wondered, to wipe the stupid smirk off that asshole’s face? Castillo clearly loved his family, his business, and hunting, not necessarily in that order. The inspector couldn’t touch Castillo’s family. That’s wasn’t who he was. He couldn’t expose Castillo’s illicit business dealings without implicating himself and destroying everything he’d worked for, as meager and pitiful as it was. It came down to Castillo’s hunting. He had to find a way to expose his illegal pursuit of trophies that could not be traced back to him.
The man sat in the dark, brooding, a plastic tumbler of cheap bourbon clutched in his hand. Small circles, tremors of energy, bounced across the surface of the liquid, colliding with each other and with the sides of the tumbler.
Chapter 8
March 28
Comfortable in the dark leather seat, Luis Castillo peered through the oval window of his private jet. The sleek wing was a dark silhouette against the setting sun. His eyes were unfocused, his mind lingering on that morning’s tearful departure of his two daughters — one nineteen years old, the other twenty-one — for the last few months of their year at Stanford University. His heart swelled with pride at the thought of them, at their beauty and potential, at the futures that lay ahead of them. But his gut clenched with worry. They were again far from home, and he could not protect them as he had in the first two decades of their lives.
The bump of a gentle landing interrupted his thoughts. His eyes now focused, he saw the buildings of the Canadian Rockies International Airport flash by in streaks of light. The reverse thrusters roared as the pilots slowed the jet down the runway. They rolled to a stop near the terminal. As the only passenger, Castillo waited for the engines to wind down, and then — a few moments after one of his company pilots cracked open the door — he saw the silhouette of a lone Canadian Border Services agent stride across the tarmac, his black uniform and bulletproof vest making him almost invisible in the darkness. He waited while the officer boarded the aircraft up a short flight of door-mounted stairs. Without a word, he handed the officer his U.S. passport.
Castillo watched the officer open the blue cover, peer at the main page, compare him to the photograph, once, twice, and then flip through other pages, apparently looking to see where in the world he’d travelled. Castillo knew the man was watching his eyes and his body language for signs of nervousness or deceit. He showed him none of that. But he made no effort to hide his impatience.
“Welcome to Cranbrook, British Columbia. Where are you from, Mr. Castillo?”
“Spokane … Washington,” he replied.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
“I’ve come up here to hunt.”
“I see. Who are you hunting with?”
“A local guide-outfitter.”
“What’s the outfitter’s name?”
“Bernie Eastman,” said Castillo, passing over a letter from the outfitter that confirmed he was in Canada for a guided hunt.
“And how long will you be up here?”
“No more than ten days,” said Castillo. “Perhaps less than that.”
“Where are you staying?”
“As far as I know, we’re staying at Eastman’s guide camp in the Purcell Mountains.”
“Are you bringing f
irearms into Canada?”
“Yes, I have a rifle in that case stowed against the wall. It’s not loaded and I have no ammunition with me.”
The officer opened the aluminum case. Castillo watched as he checked and recorded the model and calibre of the weapon in his notebook.
“Do you have anything else to declare? Tobacco? Alcohol? Currency over $10,000?”
“I have nothing else to declare.”
Seemingly satisfied with Castillo’s answers, the agent handed back his passport. “Enjoy your stay … and good luck.”
Castillo stepped down to the tarmac, pausing to take a deep breath of icy Rocky Mountain air. He saw the Steeples Range to the east, its rocky ridgeline silhouetted against a brilliant rising moon.
Following the directions of a bored-looking security guard, Castillo entered the airport’s arrivals area. It was empty. He took his leather bag and rifle case from the pilot and then heard the mechanical doors behind him open with a hiss. Bernie Eastman and Charlie Clark, looking rushed, hurried from the early-spring darkness into the bright space. Clark, with the nervous eyes of a hunted animal, jumped as he rounded the corner, surprised by a full-scale bronze sculpture of a grizzly bear sow and cubs.
“I hope like hell he isn’t here already,” Castillo heard Eastman muttering. “Oh, shit.”
“Gentlemen,” said Castillo, handing the bag and case to Clark, “you are late but finally here. Let’s get moving.”
Eastman led Castillo to his crew cab truck in the snowy parking lot as Clark struggled behind. After watching Clark load his bags into the back, Castillo climbed into the passenger seat. He watched the passing ponderosa pines, rough and rugged, flicker in the headlights as they drove into the St. Mary’s Indian Reserve and crossed the St. Mary River, the truck dancing on the washboarded gravel road.
“Where the hell are we going?” asked Castillo.