by Trevor Eve
They knew they were the wrong men for the job the minute they walked in: the second officer stood with an FX-05 assault rifle blushing, even through his weather-trashed skin, with the absurdity of the overkill.
They were following up on the person who was last seen with Mr Lorken, also the tracking of the paintings that were sent in that person’s name to a warehouse in San José del Cabo.
Lomita Nairn was the name appropriate to both circumstances.
From the warehouse to Casa Lomita and Pedro’s information had then led them to the hospital.
Dr Jose Serrano made his entrance, and in a protective manner toward his patient stood between the two officers and Lomita.
This was not a typical assignment for the Baja State Police, they normally dealt with fugitive criminals who had set themselves up in Baja California with their illegal monies and, after sometimes years of tracking, were then extradited by his team: his team of seven men.
Señor Delgado stood in silence for a time before coming out with the admission that he was indeed the wrong man for the job.
‘Esta es la responsabilidad de la Policía Federal no de mis hombres. Perdón por molestarte.’
He said to Dr Serrano, his native tongue letting him off the formal hook.
Confronted by a frail and dying old lady in a hospital bed, he was uncomfortable. There was a laugh followed by the statement.
‘Es como usar un martillo para quebrar un huevo.’
‘Hammer to crack an egg, I don’t know if you have that saying?’
Señor Delgado dropped in his own translation, effortlessly and not without irony.
It had got a gurgle going in Lomita, just the slightest one.
Señor Delgado was now enjoying his audience; he continued in his humorous vein, saying he would spare her his customary opening line.
‘Now you don’t have the right to remain silent, you only have the right to tell me everything I ask you.’
Señor Delgado loved that one too, he relaxed onto his left leg in an on-the-spot swagger.
Lomita took control of the situation even though she was the weakest person in the room.
‘I am Lomita Tracy Nairn,’
The second confirmation of her name.
‘You might want to take this down. English or Spanish?’
Señor Delgado shrugged at the same time as a nod, not answering but conveying a confidence in either.
The confession came out of her, explaining time, place, exact details, and the only lie was in the way she got home.
‘I shot Ingmar Lorken twice in the chest with my Beretta 70, the gun was in my bag which I pressed to his chest, I have told my housekeeper where to locate it. It is in my Fendi bag, a fake leopard skin print fur bag, and you will see the burn marks from the exiting bullets, shot at point blank range against his chest.’
She repeated herself as if she didn’t want to forget.
‘Two bullets. I left the car and walked home and neither my friend here nor Manita, my housekeeper, knew anything about it. I suggested we drive to my house here in Mexico. Nothing unusual, we do it often. The reason I killed him?’
It seemed both a question and a statement.
She stopped, breath was hard to come by and her eyes closed, she put out her hand to Ever, not wanting to suffer the indignity of death in front of these men, should it come, alone.
‘I killed him because he was threatening to expose my past, and the illegalities of my past regarding—’
Again she stopped, this was a feeling, that Ever was so familiar with as a child, of not being able to access any air, just no breath. She continued.
‘Some valuable pieces of art, obtained unlawfully, that I was in possession of through my late husband. Nobody else had any knowledge of my action. I was alone in my action.’
Again a blackout pause.
‘Completely alone.’
Señor Delgado, who had been ready to leave had now been prompted into action, had started, on her command, to record the statement and at the same time was writing down on an old-fashioned pad. Lomita completed with the finality of—
‘That is my statement.’
Señor Delgado, after several studious minutes, thanked her for her clarity. He would place the case in a more appropriate department, the bag and gun, fingerprinting and a DNA swab would all be requested. He then sincerely apologised for taking up her time, in acknowledgement of her physical condition. He confirmed that a report, not by him, would be sent to the US authorities and then the Mexican courts would be presented with all the information, in Spanish, as was the legal requirement, and the extradition process would commence. The major concern being the death penalty in the state of California, as the Mexican courts were not in agreement with extradition that would lead to execution. Although that was usually only applicable to Mexican nationals, which he assumed she wasn’t.
The last part was spoken with the hope of a question.
Her US citizenship was confirmed.
Señor Delgado stood to attention, lowered his head and turned to the door. Dr Serrano followed him and quietly explained that Lomita would not be leaving this hospital. Señor Delgado returned from the doorway with the concern of putting Lomita’s mind at rest, stating that nothing would be happening in the near future. He left with the words,
‘Siento estar aquí en este momento, Señorita Nairn. Vaya con Dios.’
Señor Delgado had the air of a revolutionary.
He crossed himself as he left the room.
*
‘What a charming man.’
Was Lomita’s response to the event and his departure.
Ever wondered if there was just a hint of sarcasm, a beautifully dignified go fuck yourself, an anarchism that went all the way back to the sixties. Pigs.
It had a nostalgia that Ever was capable of appreciating.
When they were once again on their own, Lomita whispered, more through lack of breath than secrecy,
‘Did I do enough to keep you in the clear?’
She tried to laugh at the back of her throat but the viscosity of the phlegm prevented it, producing a gag. Ever prayed she wasn’t going to throw up. He would have behaved appallingly in that circumstance.
A nurse came in, understandably flustered. Manita followed and Ever took it upon himself to ask her to call Guillermo. The nurse gave Lomita three cups containing her pills and she requested they be left on her bedside table. They were never going to see the back of her throat. She had already unplugged the IV medications that were pumping into her system; when the nurse reconnected them, she did the same thing.
She was dying.
Ever talked to the oblivious nurse in a confused panic, explaining the requirement for her to spend her last nights here in the hospital and for her burial, or cremation, as was in her will, to happen on Mexican soil. He was talking to the nurse, the wrong person; as he did so he realised she didn’t understand but more depressingly was not interested.
That was Guillermo’s job. To organise the cremation. Lomita did not want her body taken back to the United States. That was Guillermo’s job: he would call Guillermo.
Then all was quiet, the night turned down the light and people after the panic seemed to fade away. Except for the Policía Federal guard who had turned up and stood outside the door. Yes, she was of course going to make a run for it.
He imagined Señor Delgado, on the end of a cigarillo, now passing the paperwork over to a more appropriate police department to start the process of getting a terminally ill seventy-six-year-old back to the United States to stand trial, and stripping someone of their skin for putting him in this position in the first place.
*
It seemed as though they would be left in peace.
But more medication was brought in and handed to Lomita who left it on her bedside table. It would take a while, extradition. Death, probably not so long.
Lomita’s breathing was effortful and minimal, he lay holding her hand, the
hypoxia had caused a reddening, the oxygen being deprived of its flow through the blood. Dry was her hand but still he felt the slightest of grip and he put all his being into his grip, with a gentleness; sensing and waiting for any change. The breathing became more audible, the effort was increasing in relation to the amount of air that was inhaled.
He moved onto his left elbow, still holding her hand, so that he could look at her face; she registered his move and he could see the effort around her eyes being made to open them, the muscles working with determination and the blue did appear, the smile came, she absorbed him with her eyes, sucking him into her soul.
‘I love you Ever forever.’
‘And I love you forever.’
He moved closer, his lips lay upon hers and they kissed with only the slightest movement in his mouth, her mouth registering a stillness apart from a minute smile, a corner to corner movement.
Her eyes closed, the smile stayed, the breathing was gone.
The last exhalation of the breath that passed around the body of Lomita was gifted back to the world.
*
Lomita had died.
*
Ever put his head next to hers and cried the silent cry that was for him alone. All alone now. There was no one to hear. He stayed with her until the dawn shone a perspective into his life, he used a cramped hand to reach for the button and called the nurse to explain the eventuality had happened.
There was nothing more.
*
Guillermo Gonzales was now her representative on earth.
And he had supported under oath her confession and put forward the request for the cremation to be performed here in Mexico. She was dead after all, but the concern from Guillermo was the possible requirement for her body to be returned to the United States. He had no real foundation for this but put it forward, Lomita’s request being to remain in Mexico, they should take the matter into their own hands and do it fast. Did extradition pertain to the dead where a will was involved?
Lomita had to be cremated within forty-eight hours under Mexican law; Ever was in no state to be able to deal with anything; Manita had come in and prayed on her knees next to Lomita; in anticipation of the inevitable she had arrived with clothes to prepare Lomita for the coffin.
Manita insisted she take the responsibility for the preparation alone.
Guillermo Gonzales addressed Ever, now in his normal deeper voice.
‘I have contacted the US Consular Agency in San José. I know the man there, we have a history, and I have the death certificate from the hospital. I have made copies and will send them to the relevant authorities of course. So Señor Ever—’
There was a pause, it had emotional content; he was preparing to advise about the cremation.
‘La Paz is the nearest crematorium. About two hundred kilometres. You need a permit to transport a—’
He paused again, before the word.
‘Corpse more than one hundred kilometres. But that is just – I don’t know – I am sorry.’
He searched for a handkerchief. He didn’t have one. Ever was transfixed and unintentionally unhelpful.
‘I would ignore the ruling, anyway, and let’s hope the crematorium will accommodate you. You know with money.’
He made the same gesture as Manita, of rubbing forefinger and thumb together, and again Ever felt his father wanted a roll-up.
Guillermo Gonzales turned on his heel with his head down, having thought about a handshake but something in him just couldn’t do it. Ever stared at the back of the departing rumpled suit.
*
Ever looked down at the death certificate: Lomita’s death was timed at 4.05am.
Ever had informed them of this fact. They had argued that it should be the time of medical confirmation. Ever, releasing his pain, screamed and screamed in anger until they acquiesced.
It was his own personal witching hour. 4.05am.
The digital image in red, by the bed, remained in clear imprint in his head.
*
Manita had decided to use the Pucci wrap for the occasion, birds and flowers – life.
Ever could not watch, nor was he invited, she took her to the bathroom to prepare her, the hypoxia had made the skin too delicate to bathe, but she was going to wash her hair to make her look like she knew she would want to look on her final entrance towards her exit.
A gurney was bought in and a nurse aided in the body transfer from bed to bathroom. Lomita had not worn the official hospital gown, in a bleached-out green, but her own nightdress in the palest of pinks and the softest of cottons.
Of course.
Ever intended to wait outside for the arrival of the coffin. He went back into the room. He wanted to return the gesture, to go in and help with the washing of her hair, physically recalling the sensation of her washing his hair. He went back into the room and heard the running water inside the bathroom, he stepped to the closed door, he couldn’t do it and knew anyway he would not be welcome.
Then Ever heard a hair dryer. He left and walked outside.
The cremation would be private and have its own practicality.
There was no celebration in this death.
Two black-suited men arrived, from the funeral parlour, the coffin was not to be brought into the hospital but Lomita was be taken out on a gurney to be put into the coffin outside.
Ever directed the men and they returned pushing a covered-up body on a gurney to the waiting black hearse, then opened the massive black block to the rear of the other car, it was of course the Suburban. The first observation Ever had made about it was exactly that, that it looked like a big black hearse: now it was truly that. They removed the coffin from their vehicle. The wood was plain and unfinished, nothing grand; this is what you burn in Mexico.
Ever stood looking at Manita as the body was transferred from gurney to coffin, which was then lifted into its final position in the trunk of the Suburban.
‘I will drive Señor Ever.’
Ever nodded in response and climbed into the black mass.
The cremation was to be at 5.00pm. That gave them four hours to do the two-and-a-half-hour journey. Cross over to Todos Santos and take Highway 19 into La Paz. Kate would help them find the crematorium.
Ever, at the start of the journey, couldn’t remember why they had hurried the process, he couldn’t take in the events, he had forgotten the details of the why and the when in a brain blank. He forced himself to go through everything; the shock had removed him from the present.
On his own he would have been frozen. Then it started to piece together: the possible police intervention, the length of journey and extradition.
I am getting there, he consoled himself, I am catching up.
Manita pulled over and turned off the engine, just before the pay booths on the toll road.
‘We have no priest.’
She just stopped, had seemed to give up. Ever was the first to turn his head and Manita’s head mirrored his movement.
‘We can do it, can’t we?’
She said.
‘We can do it ourselves. I will call the local priest, Francisco Modalo, we can do it on the beach.’
Ever took not a second to disagree, but wondered what law they would be breaking.
Slight in the light of murder one.
Lomita would be able to stay with them, be with them, be close, till the very very end.
Manita didn’t hesitate, started up and U-turned round across four lanes and headed back to the East Cape. Before turning into Casa Lomita she went to visit Jeff Murphy, the man who had rescued Lomita after her accident. She explained their idea, to make a funeral pyre. 8.00pm that night was the set time. They pulled into the second courtyard in the house, the three of them rested in the car, two of them to reflect on their decision.
Ever couldn’t deal with the coffin and went down in the late afternoon sun to the beach; the fire would not burn the bones through, he thought, not in a bonfire, not if it only turns a pota
to black. Ever could see his burnt black lump of potato: there would be a skull and the bones, even if the fire burnt for days.
A burial at sea.
Rocks in the coffin and a burial at sea. He ran back to the house, avoiding the rusty wreck, and two-stepped the stairs. Manita understood immediately and left with one word – ‘Jeff.’
Ever returned to the beach, searching for rocks to pile up on the edge of the hard sand. He found two rocks and sat down on the sand.
What had he made Lomita do?
He turned to the west, hearing an outboard engine, and witnessed the arrival of Pedro with a boat. A GMC pickup truck driven by a shock of blond hair came along the hard sand carrying rocks and fishing nets and chains, and piles of wood, underneath which Ever could see the pale wood of the coffin. Jeff had needed no persuasion, the inadequacy of a fire had hit him too. A large tarpaulin would go around the body with chains to secure, then the rocks were to go inside the net with more chains wrapped around to make sure the body stayed down. It was then placed inside the coffin.
The body would be released from the coffin when out at sea.
Cumbersome and heavy but Jeff, an experienced fisherman in the East Cape winter, in construction in the Alaskan summer, was convinced it would work and secure Lomita Nairn to the depths of the ocean.
‘Hey buddy. Take it easy.’
Seeing Ever’s disturbance at the plan.
Strong handshake. No sentiment. All function.
‘I’ll do the tarp, you build the fire. It’ll work. Trust me. Trust me.’
It was Jeff’s mantra. He produced a bottle of port, offered it to Ever, who declined.
‘Keeps me warm.’
He said, putting the neck to his lips.
Odd, thought Ever, in this climate.
‘Trust me, trust me.’
Was chanted in Ever’s direction intermittently to ease any doubts.
Jeff was the man to have on the front line. I’ve got your back would mean a lot. Ever turned away as the tarpaulin was being wrapped and the chains were secured around the body.