New Growth (Spook Hills Trilogy Book 2)

by Menard, Jayne

  Steve exchanged a glance with Ivy before saying to Moll, “Terry and I will keep working on the existing information. Tell him to come down here and plan to stay over downstairs. Ivy will fly out with you as soon as you can schedule a flight. She’ll be better at the spiel than I will be. You can present my creds for auditing the results.”

  “Are you willing to fly later today, Ivy?”

  “Running to pack. Brief me on the plane. Ask for upgrades and seats together on United or Alaska so we can discuss our plans on the way down.”

  “Cool. Meeting at nine tomorrow morning. You can buzz back here in the afternoon while I get the bank’s programmers crushing the data extracts. Later.”

  After ending the call with Moll, Steve said, “This is as much fun as FBI work! Even better, no one is shooting at us.” His face lit up with his big grin.

  Ivy smiled and hastened to get her luggage. Steve turned back to his laptop screen. Ever since a shooter had taken them down the previous summer here at Spook Hills, he and Ivy had lived together and were married last December. While not looking forward to sleeping alone that night, assisting Brian and Moll was essential. They supported him when he needed them. When the two men were back from traveling, he would help them set up a better schedule so they stayed at peak performance.

  Even though Steve functioned as a senior executive with responsibility for critical cases at the Bureau, he liked this new team-player role working for Brian and Moll. Technology and data titillated his sometimes over-active brain. Right when the worry about filling the remaining long summer days began to haunt him, bingo-bango-bongo, he received an abundance of challenging work right on his laptop.

  Chapter 4

  Cruze arrived in Zurich, bought a phone card, searched for a payphone in the airport and called Cristo. The call sounded odd, perhaps switched to somewhere else. When he reached Cristo’s voicemail, he hung up without leaving a message. He dialed Eduardo. The same thing happened. Last he tried the emergency service they had established to leave messages for each other if anything went wrong. When he found it empty, fear for his brothers gripped his heart. They always answered their phones. He called Eduardo’s phone again and as before it went to voice mail. He walked away from the phone and ran to the connecting railroad station.

  On the short train ride to Bern, Cruze chose a seat by himself, settling in and gazing out the window as the train pulled away from the station. Too uptight with worry to doze, he leaned his head back against the seat and let his mind drift back to the year when he turned sixteen.

  That had been the summer of 1985. He and Cristo had been dealing drugs in a small way for two years. First Cristo went out with just him having kid-type escapades until Eduardo grew big enough to tag along. While younger by five years, Eduardo soon became the ringleader. With his superior intelligence and imagination, he made up games or things to do, even on stormy afternoons. In the evenings Eduardo stayed glued to the television, absorbed in life through a made-up window.

  The afternoon that he was arrested, Cruze and Cristo had been out peddling drugs to kids in a little side street near a school two neighborhoods away. They walked by a circuitous route towards home, laughing and joking the way they did. Halfway there, Cruze heard a car turn onto the block, and he glanced back over his shoulder. A police black and white cruised to a stop behind them. Two cops jumped out. Instant fear that they would be caught with money and drugs in their pockets made his cojones shrink in his jeans.

  “Run,” Cristo yelled, grabbing his arm.

  With Cristo in the lead, they raced down the block, zigzagged behind some buildings and down an alley they sometimes used. A rusted chain link and wood fence blocked their way. Breathing hard, they slid to a stop just as the cops rounded the turn into the long, narrow alley. Cruze leaned down to make a step with his hands.

  “Go! I’m right behind you,” Cruze said.

  Cristo stepped into his hands as he grabbed the chain link up high. Cruze boosted him up. Once over the top, Cristo found his footholds low on the other side of the fence and reached back over. Cruze grappled with the fence, squirming up towards and reaching for Cristo’s outstretched hand at the top. Right then the cops grabbed him, one on each leg. Cruze let go of Cristo.

  “Get out of here!” Cruze yelled. Cristo slid down out of sight, “Run!”

  As he fought for his freedom, Cruze heard Cristo hit the ground and then his rapid footfalls as he ran away. The cops pried Cruze’s hands from the fence, pulling him roughly to the ground. Suddenly he was in a nightmare, roughly handcuffed and marched out of the alley. He still struggled to get free. He was shoved into a police car and taken to the police station where he was grilled for hours about who his partner was. No matter how bad it became, he would never squeal on Cristo.

  His parents arrived, their faces hurt, angry and anxious. Without the money for a decent attorney, he was assigned a public defender by the Court. Following weeks in a jail cell, he pled guilty after learning the prosecution had testimony and a positive identification of him by face from the kid who bought the drugs. Since Cristo had stood guard at the end of the street, standing with his back to them, the kid never got a good look at him. Cristo was brought in for questioning but admitted nothing.

  The weeks passed while Cruze stayed in jail until his trial, alone, scared and wary. Cruze found he was shaking when he heard his sentence. As a minor with no prior record, the judge gave him a year in juvenile detention. He remembered his parents crying as the court security officers led him away.

  Within three days of starting his time in what they called juvie, a gang of thugs about his age cornered him and beat him up. They hit and kicked him, avoiding his face and going for the muscular areas. After getting him on his knees, they yanked his head back by his hair, slapped him a few times and made dire threats of sodomy and slow torture if he did not give each of them oral sex. He hurt too much not to give in to their demands. Afterward he crawled to the bathroom, retching over and over and refusing to look at himself in the mirror. He laid that night in his narrow cot of a bed afraid to sleep for fear of waking up to another attack.

  By agreeing to become the gang leader’s bitch, he escaped further beatings. He had expected that kids would be under constant surveillance and therefore protected. This detention center he got stuck in was run-down and compartmentalized, having been converted from an old hospital. The longer term boys knew which guards were inattentive and where the blind spots were in their dormitory. They went after every new kid who came in.

  After that ordeal, Cruze exercised as much as he could to better defend himself from assaults by other bullies and any new gangs that formed. He hated himself for what he had to do to survive, but he refused to risk dying in that misery of a place.

  That summer was the worst in his life both inside of juvie and from the news that kept pouring in from his family. Cristo wrote to him, but his parents were the only ones who visited. They wanted to shelter Cristo and Eduardo. Cristo’s letters were his lifeline. Some of the letters were so poignant that he memorized their contents thoroughly. Even today he could remember them word for word.

  In August of 1985, Cristo had written:

  “Cruze, life is weird here without you, but I have already told you that. Today Annetta moved in. She’s in Eduardo’s room. Eduardo is sleeping in your bed. Not sure why she is here. No one is talking. Something bad happened at her house. Papá had a big argument with Uncle Rodrigo tonight. He threatened to call the police if Uncle R. came over again.

  “Lots of hush-hush talk between Mama and Annetta. Annetta stayed in Eduardo’s room for three days. When she came out, she was her usual flippant self. She was different too. More grown-up. Something changed her. She won’t say what. You know Annetta, always acts like some mystery is going on.

  “I’m still confined to my room. I have to come right home from school. It is driving me crazy. Sometimes I still slip out at night for a couple of hours just to get some freedom. Why the hell
did you have to get yourself caught by those cops?”

  Cruze missed his family, especially his twin. He wished he could at least see Cristo. He even begged his parents, but they were firm. They seemed afraid he would corrupt his brothers. Cristo had been by his side every day for their entire lives. Part of him was missing without Cristo there. Cruze contained his frustrations, wanting to impress the prison staff. He would do anything for an early release from juvie. He had to focus on it only being for one year. While it would be one very long year, at least at the end he would be free.

  Three weeks later, another letter arrived from Cristo with more shocking news. Usually he wrote twice a week, but this time he had skipped a week.

  “Cruze, please don’t hate me. I messed up. Really messed up. You know I’m supposed to walk Eduardo home from school every day like we used to together? Last Wednesday I had to meet a couple of kids to sell them some blow. It’s only a few blocks Eduardo had to walk, but some scumbags grabbed him. He was missing for four days.

  “The police got a tip-off that Eduardo was in a house over in Opa Locka. Oh Jesus, he was almost dead. Beaten up, bones broken, starved and locked in a closet. No one has said, but I think they buggered him too. He’s still in the hospital, bruised and broken. The police said the guys who grabbed him were likely street pushers high on their own stuff.

  “He’s only eleven, for chrissakes. Our Eduardo. I’m not sure he will ever again be the kid we knew, and it is all my fault. Why didn’t the kid run for home?

  I feel like shit. Wish I had you here.”

  Cristo poured his anguish into every sentence. Cruze sat in his cell knowing too well what Eduardo experienced. The poor kid was so young for chrissakes. We all sheltered and spoiled him. He had been innocent. And now this.

  Cruze lowered his head. In juvie, Cruze learned to cry only on the inside. The horror and heartfelt sadness for his little brother channeled itself into rage. The next time the teenage bully wanted oral sex, it all boiled up. Cruze lashed out by beating the teen almost senseless.

  Cruze remembered being confined to a cell then moved out of the dormitory, put in a more secure area and given a bored sort of counseling. Although more isolated, life became better. The word got out. No one messed with him after that, but the incident meant he had no hope of an early release from juvie.

  A few weeks later, Cristo wrote a short letter.

  “We are a gloomy lot again. Annetta left last Friday. No one will say where she went. She took off in the night without saying goodbye. She called the next night to tell Mama that she was safe. Don’t know where she went.

  “I miss her. She has always been a part of our lives. Now she is god knows where.

  “Shit Cruze. I lost you. I let Eduardo get all fucked up. Now Annetta has scarpered. You are lucky to be away from it all. This is the worst time of my life.”

  Cruze felt for his twin. Cristo had expected life to favor him and had acted with the cocky assurance of a youth unspoiled by any ugly events. For the first time in his life, he was facing real tragedy, and Cruze knew Cristo was not prepared to handle it well. All attention at home would be focused on Eduardo. Cristo would be expected to always be at home when not in school.

  The last bit of bad news arrived a week later.

  “Uncle Rodrigo got snuffed out in a drive-by shooting. The pompous prick will swagger around no more. Remember those rumors we heard about his ring of pushers? My guess is a deal went sour, and he got killed. No way did all his dough come from those dry cleaners he ran.

  Remember those two times we saw him with those hookers getting some extra on the side? Wouldn’t have minded some of that myself.”

  Cruze was surprised but not sad. Inclined to be dominant and bumptious, few would miss his uncle.

  Now looking back on it, he could see that even from Cristo’s letters that summer, his twin’s reactions and mood were all about Cristo and how life had changed for him. Cristo displayed little real sympathy for Annetta, for Eduardo or for him where he sat incarcerated in juvie. Cruze loved Cristo but now with the distance of time, he could better see his shortcomings as a boy and as a man.

  The train pulled into Bern bringing Cruze out of his memories. He found he was sweating from thinking about his time in juvie and all the tragedies that struck his family that summer. Cruze shoved his past away, grabbed his duffle bag and walked off the train. He looked up hotels on his cell phone, picked one, made the booking and headed over to it.

  Once in his room, Cruze checked his email. Finding nothing from his brothers, he ordered from room service and sat down at the desk to examine the FBI website for any stories about his brothers.

  His search hit on the Fuentes bust the previous November, with several news clips about the dramatic action. The FBI had confiscated money and gold in excess of $75 million dollars and undisclosed amounts in an extensive network of financial accounts. He scanned the first article until he found what he feared.

  Cruze clutched his chest as he crumpled face down on his laptop, after reading about a SWAT team killing Cristo and Eduardo. The FBI got them at their home near Madrid, New Mexico on Thanksgiving Eve. Cruze propped his head up on his hands to focus on the words. His mouth went dry as he suppressed a scream of anguish. The commentary noted the third Fuentes brother, himself, had been killed in a raid on a repackaging plant in Mexico City.

  Cruze moaned as he read a second story, not wanting to believe his brothers were dead. No one should have known about the house in Madrid. Nevertheless someone had found their real names and traced them to New Mexico. A knock came at the door and like an automaton, Cruze took the tray of food, although he lost his appetite. He put it down on a small table and moved to the window, staring at the lights of the city. The death of his twin and best friend, Cristo, left him alone for the first time in his life. The news piece said Cristo had died of multiple gun wounds, after having shot Eduardo to death. If Cristo pumped bullets into Eduardo, he had committed an act of mercy. Once cornered, Cristo would have recognized Eduardo would never survive capture and incarceration, not with his fragile mind.

  For the next hour Cruze read several articles and searched for more. Discovering no mention of the identification of the agents who made the arrests, he did find one reference about consultants to the FBI, an arrest team and a SWAT team. They had thrown a full force against his brothers, gunning them down like rabid dogs.

  Cruze sat hunched over the desk with his head in his hands. He needed to find out more from someone he trusted. If his brothers were dead, he must get in touch with his cousin, Julio, who traded information for high stakes rewards and who had been close to them growing up. Since only Cristo and Eduardo knew how to get hold of him, Julio could not have alerted him about their deaths. The FBI attack must have blindsided them. Reluctant to give up their empire, Cristo and Eduardo were now dead. If they had only escaped from their drug trafficking world when he did, they might still be alive.

  Even as the thought of never seeing his brothers again sank in, he speculated about whether Eduardo and Cristo might have staged their demises. Could they now be living incognito or sailing the Caribbean flaunting new identifications and with the bulk of their money stashed away? Their style was to make their deaths so convincing they even deceived him. Was it possible he would one day receive a call or an email to bring them back together again? If they were alive, why had he not heard from them?

  And yet knowing how much value they placed on their accumulated wealth, would they have abandoned their vault full of cash and gold bars? A few million perhaps, but the $75 million referenced in the news was a huge amount to leave behind unless the FBI busting in hastened their exit. He clung to the hope they still lived and one day they would communicate with him.

  He left his hotel room to take a long walk to plan how to discover the real fates of his brothers. If they had been killed, he would have to find out if their corpses had been cremated or buried. If they had not been cremated, DNA testing could be perfo
rmed, comparing the genes of the men murdered by the FBI to each other and to his own genes. He weighed various options, but this stood out as his best.

  Cruze once read about five stages of grieving, and he remembered denial as first. In hoping his brothers plotted an elaborate hoax of their killings, was he in denial? He walked for two hours, going over what he just learned. No one had trailed him to his little house in Spain, believing him killed in the staged death they did in Mexico. He should be safe for some time yet. If he possessed Cristo’s streak of vengefulness, he would search for clues, find out the identity of the agents assigned to the case and chase them down, seeking revenge.

  Cruze was well aware that he lacked the boldness to be a leader or a lone vigilante. He was a follower – the sidekick to Cristo. If his twin happened to be the sole survivor, he would hastily organize a revenge hunt for the agents who had murdered his brothers.

  Cristo! A sob escaped him. More than his twin, Cristo made up a significant part of his world. He sat down on a bench by a bus stop, breathing deeply to bring his emotions back under control. He still had a little hope. Now was not the time to break down.

  If anyone came to arrest him, Cruze would not go willingly. He preferred death even if he had to shoot himself. After his horrible year in a juvie facility, he did not intend to spend the rest of his life in prison. Death was a better choice.

  Stopping to watch the twenty-six jets of the fountains in Der Bundesplatz, a major square in Bern, Cruze took out his cell to arrange to meet Julio in Miami and to get a plane reservation. He had to understand what happened to his brothers and if any reason existed to still hope they were alive.

  Chapter 5