He had to consider that he'd made a huge mistake by trusting the Mexican. It was very possible that he had been tricked, that he had been sitting next to the shooter all along.
Slowly, Jordan let go of the Remington, propped it against the door, and eased the .38 into his grip. His mind ran back through the series of events that led them to where they were now. Could José be the shooter? Yes, he thought—as his mind clicked through the shooting at the pond, the house fire, finding Louella dead in her chair. Did José have access to his bullets? That was where he had to stop thinking and consider he was overreacting. But he was still uncertain of the man who was sitting next to him.
The expression on José's face did not change. His gaze was fixed on the semi like a hunting dog on a bird, his leathery brown skin tight—the hardness of years spent in the sun and fields etched in every wrinkle. His eyes were hard to read in the darkness of the cab.
Ed pushed open the door of the red Kenworth tractor, and in a flash Dylan climbed out the driver's door. The little boy's blonde hair glowed in the bright headlights like the sun on a summer day. He looked OK, no blood, no apparent injuries. Jordan breathed a sigh of relief.
Before he could say anything to José, Jordan saw Ed wave his hand. And then saw that there was a gun in his hand. Ed slid out of the cab, pulled Dylan to him, and put a 9mm to the boy's head. Blood covered Ed's right shoulder. The shot at the SunRipe plant had missed Dylan and hit Ed.
Jordan looked over to José, to the Glock in his hand. There was no time to mistrust the Mexican. He decided José had had plenty of time, plenty of opportunities to kill him before now. It was a risk—trusting his gut, but it was one he felt he had no choice but to make.
He took a deep breath, opened his door, and pointed the .38 through the open window, using the door as a shield. José did the same.
Ed headed for the house but stopped halfway between it and the semi, leaving himself fully exposed. Jordan hesitated, fearful that the shot would hurt Dylan.
The rain had ceased and the air had cooled. Sweat dripped off Jordan's forehead.
“Let him go, Ed.” The voice came out of the darkness. A tall looming figure stepped out of the front door of the house.
Jordan almost dropped his gun when he realized it was Big Joe.
“The boy doesn't have anything to do with this.” Big Joe walked into the cone of light from José's headlights. He was pointing a gun at Ed.
“Fuck you!” Ed shouted as he pulled Dylan closer, jammed the barrel of the gun, a Glock, harder against the boy's head.
Tears streamed down Dylan's face.
Jordan could hear the little boy whimpering.
“You're not going to get away, Ed,” Jordan yelled. “Give it up!”
Ed pressed his finger tighter on the trigger. His eyes were wild, darting between Jordan and Big Joe.
Jordan pulled the .38 out of the window and slowly made his way up the drive, the gun leveled at Ed's head. José fell in behind him.
Sirens resounded in the distance, drawing closer. Ed backed up slowly against the Kenworth's giant front tire.
“I should have never trusted you in the first place,” Big Joe said, taking a slow step toward Ed. “You fucked everything up once, and now you're doing it again.”
“I thought he was dead!” Ed yelled. Pain twisted on his face as blood ran down his arm.
“I didn't tell you to kill him,” Big Joe said, coming to a stop ten feet from Ed. “Let the boy go.”
Ed shook his head no.
Big Joe reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out the St. Christopher's medal. He held it up in the air. The gold glinted in the light. Fear danced in Ed's eyes. “He's not dead, is he?”
“No.” It was a whisper. Dylan struggled, but Ed gripped him harder.
The sight of the medal stopped Jordan in his tracks.
“How'd you get this, Ed?” Big Joe demanded.
The sirens grew closer and Jordan heard José come to a stop just behind him.
“It's over, Ed. Let Dylan go,” Jordan said.
“I'm not going down on my own for all of this.”
“Where's he at?” Big Joe screamed. “Where's Tito Cordova?”
Ed cocked his head to the trailer. “In there. I didn't know it was him until he recognized me. Fucker tried to kill me on the way back from a pickup in Texas. I should have just killed him then, but I knew about the bones at the pond. I figured if Holister thought they belonged to him, then I'd have some time.”
Jordan glanced over at José. The Mexican was already backing away toward the rear of the trailer. He could see strobes flashing down the road. The sky was lit up like a Fourth of July finale.
“Time for what?” Big Joe asked.
“To get the load I'm hauling out of town. To leave . . . period. Fucking Ginny told Holister I took Tito. She thought she could get rid of me, but I had it all worked out. Kill Holister and that would be that—a big enough distraction to cover me, and it'd get me off the hook for taking Tito,” Ed said, nodding at Jordan.
“So you sent the letter to Holister?” Big Joe asked, gripping his gun tighter.
“I had Ginny do it. Once I had Tito locked up, once I had that goddamn St. Christopher's medal so I could bait Holister with it, I knew I was home free. I knew how much he wanted to find out what happened when the kid first disappeared. But I didn't count on Ginny fucking Jordan. I didn't think she'd go that far. When Jordan showed up at the pond, it changed everything.”
“How'd you get the bullets?” Jordan demanded, inching closer, trying to figure out how to shoot Ed without hurting Dylan. He had no idea what Big Joe's plans were. But as long as Ed was talking, he wasn't going to worry about his father. Big Joe seemed as interested in getting the truth out of Ed as he was.
“I made her call you. She took them.”
“Why?” Jordan said. He had a clear shot at Ed's head—but it was risky, still.
“I told you—she told Holister. I had no choice. Paybacks are hell, man. I knew I was going to have to get rid of Tito again. No big fucking deal there, except he was carrying drugs for Mexicans, so I had to be a little careful with him until the delivery was made. But if I set you up for Holister's murder, I'd kill two birds with one fucking stone. I'd be rid of you and Holister. I didn't tell her to fuck you. . . . Once that happened I was out of my head, man. I didn't give a rat's ass about the deal. . . . It's personal between me and you. Always has been. If Ginny wouldn't have done what I wanted her to—then I showed her what would happen, what I'm showing you now.” He slid the barrel of the Glock from the side of Dylan's head and pointed it under the little boy's chin. “My finger's on the trigger pretty hard motherfucker. You can shoot me—but you'll kill him, too. I'll take him down in the fall.” Ed's face was pale. Blood dripped from his fingers to the ground.
Keep him talking, Jordan said to himself. Keep him talking until Hogue shows up. He glanced over at Big Joe. His father was trembling—his eyes were red with anger. Anger and something else he had never seen in his father's eyes before. Fear.
Big Joe remained standing in the same spot—the gun still aimed at Ed.
“But you didn't know about the file Holister kept on Tito Cordova, did you?”
“Once Ginny told me about it, after I shot Holister, I knew I had to get rid of it.” Ed cast his eyes toward the back of the trailer. José had opened the door and was climbing inside. “I always wanted to kill Mrs. Canberry anyway. I've hated that bitch since second grade. She treated me and my brothers and sisters like we was dirt.”
“Where's Ginny?” Jordan yelled.
“Inside,” Big Joe said. “She's fine. He told her to wait here so they could get away. He kept Dylan with him for insurance. I found her after you left the hospital—I figured Ed was involved in this once I broke up the fight between you two. But I knew he was involved for sure when Spider gave me the medal. I should have let you shoot him then and there. But it's not your place to take care of my mistakes. N
ot anymore.”
Flashes of blue and red light covered the ground, reflecting off the side of the white trailer. The sirens whooped and hollered and several vehicles ground to a halt.
Ed looked to the road, to the back of the trailer.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jordan saw two men emerge around the side of the trailer, saw Ed Kirsch take the Glock from under Dylan's chin, and heard the echo of a gunshot.
Ed Kirsch's head snapped back and slammed against the tire. Blood erupted just under his right eye, raining down on Dylan. The little boy screamed and jumped forward as Ed slowly crumpled to the ground. The Glock fell to the ground with a soft thud.
Jordan refocused his vision on Big Joe. A thin wisp of smoke wafted upward from the barrel of the .38 his father was holding. The gun was Holister's—he hadn't paid any attention to it until that very moment, until he could see it clearly in the spotlights and strobes from the parade of police cruisers that had circled the Cordova house.
Jordan ran to Dylan and scooped him up.
“Drop the gun, Big Joe!” Hogue's voice boomed over a bullhorn. The road was lined with county cruisers, Johnny Ray's cruiser, a white INS van, and a couple of black sedans that Jordan figured belonged to the DEA.
Big Joe looked into the light, ignored the command, and walked over to José and Tito Cordova. He extended his hand, the St. Christopher's medal securely in his grasp, to Tito. “Here,” he said. “I think this belongs to you.”
CHAPTER 32
August 23, 2004, 1:13 A.M.
Jordan watched as Johnny Ray led Big Joe to the back of a cruiser. He had barely been able to catch his breath before the whole area was swarmed by county deputies, state police, and DEA and INS agents. Once Big Joe was in custody, the rhythm of the investigation began in earnest. Yellow tape surrounded the Cordova house, the semi, and José's truck. There was nothing he could do but stand inside the perimeter and wait for Sheriff Hogue.
Ginny sat inside an ambulance as Sam Peterson treated Dylan for some minor cuts caused by breaking glass. The little boy wouldn't have any scars. At least on the outside. Jordan watched Dylan being tended to with a great sense of relief.
Ginny was unharmed, but in a very distressed state. Her clothes hung limply on her body, and she looked like she hadn't slept for days. They hadn't had a chance to talk, only exchange glances, smiles only the two of them could see.
Jordan feared her recovery from this incident, from her life with Ed, was going to take more than time to heal. From what he knew and what he saw, a trip to drug rehab would be in order. He could barely begin to think of the future, but there was no question that he would help her and Dylan through the tough times. If that was what she truly wanted.
The fact she'd gone to Holister and told him about Ed convinced Jordan that she really wanted out of the marriage, that she had really done something to change things. But Ed had her trapped, had used Dylan and drugs to control her. No wonder she was afraid.
Stacks and stacks of ketchup cases sat on the ground next to the trailer. A small compartment in the back of the trailer had housed at least five hundred pounds of meth.
Ed's body had not been moved. A police photographer was taking pictures, while more deputies stood around and watched.
Finally, Sheriff Hogue made his way to Jordan.
Hogue extended his hand to Jordan. “Good work, McManus. This one almost got away from us.”
Jordan shook the sheriff's hand and then withdrew it. “What's the status on my brother?”
“Looks like he's going to be all right. He's going to be treated and released. I thought he was involved in this mess. But I guess he's not.”
“No,” Jordan said. “Not this.”
“You know why I thought that, don't you?”
“I've got a good idea.”
“You need to have a talk with him about the way he lives his life.”
Jordan stared at Hogue and ignored the suggestion. “I guess one of the things I'm still curious about is the house fire. Any word on that?”
He wondered about the pig, too. But it didn't matter. It made sense that Ed shot it, and left the message—just like he'd sent the letter.
Hogue shook his head yes. “Ginny just cleared it up. Ed got to the hospital just as you were leaving. He had just enough time to set the fire, and get there. It's a twenty-minute drive, so it fits. The arson guys found some materials he left behind, so now that I have a good idea it was him, we'll see if we can link some prints back to him. He sure went to a lot of trouble to get even with you.”
“Looks that way.”
“You going to be up to talking with us? Or do you want to wait until the morning?”
“I'd just as soon get it over with.”
“All right. We can do that.” Hogue shifted his weight. Red and blue flashers swept across his face as a look of contrition entered his eyes. “I guess I owe you an apology.”
Jordan looked away, stared past the sheriff as the coroner wheeled a gurney toward Ed's body. He wanted to ask Hogue if he wanted a little ketchup to sprinkle on the crow he just ate, but he restrained himself.
“I'll return your gun to you first thing in the morning,” Hogue said.
“That's a start.”
“Just doing my job, McManus. Look at it from where I was standing. You would have done the same thing.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I understand. It doesn't make it any easier to take, though.”
“Well, I think you did a good job here. I got no problem with recommending you to the Town Board to take over Holister's job. Lord knows I don't want to deal with that fuck-up Johnny Ray Johnson any more than I have to.”
“It's a little early for me to think about that. I've got some things to sort out first.”
“You're not going to quit the department, are you?”
“I don't know. I'm not sure I was meant to be a cop. I've broken some serious vows in the last couple of days, turned my head on more things than I should have. Maybe if I wouldn't have, none of this would be happening.”
“The drugs would still be here, McManus,” Hogue said. “Trust me on that. This haul is just a pebble in the ocean. We still don't know who Ed's contact in Chicago was—or where this crap came from. We got a good idea. But there's not much the DEA can do across the border in Mexico.
“This is a war. Meth is my biggest concern, and I'm going to need every good man I can find to help with the fight. So I'm asking you man to man, cop to cop, not to let our misunderstanding get in the way of the job you do.”
“I'll think about it.”
The coroner and a deputy loaded Ed's body onto the gurney. Jordan's mind flashed back to the pond, to Charlie and Sam loading Holister's limp body onto a similar gurney. It seemed like another lifetime—so much had happened since then that he'd barely considered what lay ahead for him in the not-so-distant future. Holister's funeral. Rebuilding the house. Making sure Spider was all right—and not on the hook legally for anything he did when he was sixteen. Then there was Big Joe. Sitting in the back of the cruiser in handcuffs.
“If you're worried about Big Joe, I think he'll walk on self-defense,” Hogue said, almost as if he could read Jordan's mind.
Jordan frowned. “You might change your mind once we have our talk. He was behind Tito Cordova's abduction. I don't know all of the details. Ed Kirsch took Tito from his house, beat him, and left him for dead at the pond. José Rivero found Tito and took him to Mexico to an orphanage so he would be safe for a little while. That changed when Esperanza committed suicide—José left him there. Tito eventually ran away from the orphanage, and José lost track of him. Tito obviously recognized Ed on this drug run, and Ed tried to use the past to get Holister off his trail. Ginny told her dad about the abduction, and probably the drugs too, but I don't know that for sure.”
“You mean to tell me Tito Cordova is still alive? What does Buddy Mozel know about all of this?” The sheriff stared at Jordan, waiting for more information.
> “Yes, he is . . .”
“Son of a bitch.”
“. . . And I can't speak for Buddy Mozel.”
“So, Big Joe was behind all of this after all?”
“He started it, I guess,” Jordan said.
“And finished it.”
“Yeah, well a lot of people got hurt along the way just because he wasn't honest, because he didn't want anyone to know he'd had a relationship with Esperanza Cordova and fathered a child while he was still married to my mother. I'm not sure finishing it accounts for much.”
“He's going to be in some trouble then—if he doesn't clam up about the abduction. Might be a little hard to pin that on him after so long. Especially with Ed Kirsch out of the picture.”
“You really need to talk to José Rivero and Tito Cordova,” Jordan said as he scanned the crime scene. They were not by the trailer, or on the stoop in front of the house among the group of deputies standing there. He turned around and scanned the road, looked along the line of police cars, and saw nothing.
“José Rivero and Tito Cordova are here?” Hogue asked.
“They were,” Jordan said as a slight smile came over his face.
José and Tito were nowhere to be seen. It was as if they had vanished—like bronze-skinned ghosts at the first sign of frost . . .
August 27, 2004, 11:15 A.M., Patzcuaro, Mexico
Tito stood at the gates of El Refugio and watched a group of children playing. Their laughter reached up into the pure blue sky as they ran in circles around the ceiba tree. He laughed as a tall priest came outside the old building and yelled at the children to stop before someone got hurt.
The mountains that surrounded Patzcuaro stood tall, looking down on the white buildings with red roofs. Birds sang. The smell of tamales filled the air.
He took a deep breath of fresh air and walked toward the priest. “Padre,” he yelled.
The priest looked up and stared at Tito, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“I hope you can help me,” Tito said in Spanish.
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