Plunge

by Mark Rogers

“You got a fresh clip in your gun?”

  Sally nodded.

  I checked my Glock. Three rounds left.

  I pointed toward the stairway. “I think we got all of them. But I don’t know for sure.”

  Sally shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “We got what we came for,” I said. “Now let’s run.”

  Coming down the stairs I thought to cover Dylan’s eyes. He didn’t need to see the carnage we’d wrought fighting our way to the roof — especially the dead woman. As we reached the stairs, I put my hand on my son’s shoulder, ready to shield his vision, and then stopped myself.

  Let Dylan see what his parents were capable of when it came to life and death. Let him know his Mom and Dad could go the full distance when he was in danger.

  I saw him glance into the various floors. I think he caught a glimpse of Tago and the others but I couldn’t be sure. The worst was when we had to step over the dead woman’s body where it lay on the landing, shiny blood coating the concrete. I was glad she was facedown.

  Sally said, “Don’t look.”

  “Her, too?” said Dylan.

  I said, “Don’t step in the blood.”

  Dylan and I had to push the Corolla out of the damp earth, with Sally behind the wheel.

  Once we’d rolled to the road, I gestured to Sally, “I’m driving.”

  She didn’t give me an argument and got into the backseat and put her arm around our son.

  My fingers were clumsy with adrenalin turning the key in the ignition. “We’ll keep our guns until I’m sure we’re not being followed.”

  “Drive,” said Sally. “Get us out of here.”

  Hours later, I felt cracked, on the drive back, looking out the window and seeing it — the black umbrella in the tree. It made me think of other things. My son swimming with the rays. My ex-wife’s white fingernails. The circular burn mark on my bicep. What we’ve been through, do you try to forget it? Or do you try to remember everything in such detail that there are no dark corners left to haunt you?

  Chapter 19

  It was full night by the time we got the rental returned and hailed a cab to the airport. Part of me said, “Ditch the rental. Fuck it.” But my bank balance was underwater. Plus, my job at the magazine — if I decided to keep it — would be at risk if I blew off the rental. Best to leave no loose ends behind. As far as I knew, all the bad actors had been shuffled offstage. When the bodies were discovered we’d be long gone. The only people who could make trouble for us would be Graciela and the bartender who sold us the guns. Somehow, I didn’t see either one of them talking.

  I guess I owed Francisco an apology. I looked over at my son, sitting between me and Sally. Apologising to Francisco was going to be easy.

  When we pulled up at departures, all three of us started shaking as we got out of the taxi. We bolted through the airport for the American Airlines ticket counter. Under the bright lights of the terminal, we looked crazed and grubby. The compress on Dylan’s ear had soaked through and a trickle of dried blood trailed down his neck into his shirt.

  I handed the clerk my credit card and all three of our passports. Renaldo had left Dylan’s passport in his pocket, probably so the body could be readily identified and the scandal could rocket into overdrive.

  “When’s the next plane out of here?” I tried not to look guilty of having murdered five men that day.

  The clerk looked amused at my question. “Where?”

  “Anywhere in the states.”

  The clerk looked at a monitor in front of him. “We have a flight to Chicago leaving in thirty minutes but it’s too late to check luggage.”

  “Not a problem.”

  We made it to the gate as they were about to close the flight.

  I yelled out, “Wait!”

  The gate attendant turned to give us a smile, which vanished as soon as she saw the state we were in — desperate, dirty, exhausted.

  I handed over the boarding passes and all three of trudged along the jet bridge to board the plane.

  We settled in side by side. It seemed only seconds later we were taxiing down the runway.

  Sally gripped the armrest, knuckles white.

  Dylan reached out and covered her hand. “Don’t worry, Mom. It’ll be all right.”

  I watched my son stare out the window as the plane lifted into the air.

  I glanced over at Sally. “You took your pills.”

  Sally gave me a stiff nod.

  Dylan turned away from the window. “What pills?”

  Sally tried to smile but it came out crooked. “Nothing, baby.”

  A flight attendant was making her way down the aisle toward us. I said to Sally, “I could use an Ambien but I’ll settle for a gin and tonic.”

  Two drinks later and instead of feeling relaxed, I was feeling tense in the cramped seat. The plane wasn’t even half full.

  I peered down the aisle and said to Sally, “The seat in the exit row is empty.”

  Sally frowned. “The exit?”

  “More legroom.”

  I got up and moved several rows to take the seat in the exit row. I looked back and saw Dylan watching me.

  A few minutes later I heard Dylan ask his Mom, “Do you want your pillow?”

  “No,” said Sally. “I can’t sleep.”

  I watched Dylan carry all three pillows and one of the blankets down the aisle, to an empty row of seats. As young as he was, Dylan was an old hand at travel. He flipped up the armrests between the seats so he could lie in comfort.

  When I glanced over, I could see Sally leaning back in her seat, her eyes wide open in a thousand-yard stare.

  There we sat, separated from each other. Each in our own world as the plane flew through the night. It shouldn’t be like this. Instead, we should be one of those family units they were always talking about. With all we’d gone through, we should be holding onto each other. I should be giving Sally a tender smile, telling my son how brave he’d been.

  In my mind I stood up.

  In my mind.

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  Author Biography

  Mark Rogers is a novelist and freelance journalist living in Mexico. His work has appeared in The New York Times, the Village Voice, and other publications. Rogers’ award-winning travel journalism for USA Today and other media outlets has brought him to 56 countries. His crime novel Koreatown Blues was published by Brash Books; his novels Red Thread, Night Within Night, Sky Dog, and Plunge are available from Endeavour Media in the UK.