Payoff

by Douglas Corleone

  “Happy?” I said. “Is that why her groom’s father needed to have Olivia stolen from her home in the middle of the night?”

  Zumbado lowered his chin onto his chest and said, “The situation, it was not ideal. But Minister Delgado was given no choice.”

  “No choice?”

  “He is a God-fearing man. As is his son.”

  My fingers instinctively balled into fists. “Well, they’d both better adopt a healthy fear of man, as well,” I said quietly. “Because I am not leaving Venezuela without Olivia Trenton.”

  The cathedral fell silent as the archbishop closed his eyes and held his palms together out in front of him. When he reopened his eyes, he seemed to have regained the courage of his convictions.

  “They had no choice,” he barked at me. “The girl was going to take their child’s life if she remained with her parents in the States. She told Rafael. She’d made an appointment.”

  “He had no right—”

  “He had every right, Fisk. Nay, he had a duty to protect the life of his unborn child.”

  “My God,” Mariana gasped.

  Zumbado’s face tightened. “To what lengths did you go, Simon, to protect your child?” He took a step around the altar and started down the three marble stairs. “Not far enough, apparently.”

  His words went off like a powder keg in my mind. Every last bit of me seemed to tremble. My eyes watered but I held my gaze on him.

  Even as I dipped my hand into the back of my pants.

  Even as I gripped the rubber of the Chief’s Special.

  Even as I pulled the handgun free and leveled it at the archbishop’s head.

  Chapter 65

  “Simon,” Mariana cried, “what are you doing? The archbishop is unarmed.”

  “Sure,” I said softly, motioning with my chin to the confessionals on either side of the cathedral. “But they’re not.”

  Out of one confessional door on either side stepped a Venezuelan soldier armed with an Israeli submachine gun.

  “Please, gentlemen,” the archbishop urged. “Not in the house of God.”

  The two soldiers approached from opposite sides through the pews.

  From behind the altar, two men dressed in formal black suits emerged: Rafael Delgado and his father, Vicente, Venezuela’s Minister of Foreign Affairs.

  “Drop the gun,” Vicente Delgado instructed me. “Or I will order these men to kill both you and the woman where you stand.”

  There weren’t many options. The Minister of Foreign Affairs had to kill us anyway. He couldn’t allow this to come out. He’d manipulated the leader of a murderous Colombian drug cartel by pretending to act on behalf of the Venezuelan president. If Don Óscar didn’t execute Delgado, the Venezuelan president would.

  I eyed each of the soldiers. “These men betrayed your leader,” I told them. “Drop your weapons and your lives will be spared. Keep them raised and you’ll be made to face your president.”

  Vicente shouted something to them in Spanish, but all I could make out were the words “el presidente.”

  Mariana said quietly, “He told them to take us outside and kill us and the president will never hear a word of this.”

  My gun still leveled at the archbishop, I leaned over and whispered in Mariana’s ear. “Tell them the president is already listening. He’s already heard everything.”

  She stared at me.

  “Go on, Mariana. Tell them.”

  When she did, everyone froze where they were.

  “Now,” I said to Mariana, “dip your hand into my front pocket.”

  “Which one?”

  I shrugged. “I kind of like when you try both pockets.”

  She stood in front of me as she had twice before and dug into my pockets, pulling out my phone.

  “Hold the BlackBerry up,” I told her, “so that everyone can see.”

  She did.

  “Mr. President,” I said loudly.

  “Sí, Comrade Fisk.” The president’s booming voice filled the empty cathedral, echoing off the walls like a ricocheting bullet from a .44.

  The favor I’d requested before entering the cathedral had come through. I’d called Edgar on his cell phone and asked him if he was still in the company of Artie Baglin, his friend the director, who’d posted his bail.

  “Put him on,” I’d said.

  “Put him on?” Edgar was understandably confused, but to his credit he didn’t hesitate. “All right, Simon. Hang on.” Then: “Artie, it’s for you.”

  As soon as the echo of the president’s voice faded, I said into the BlackBerry’s speaker, “Do you have any orders for your men, Mr. President?”

  “Sí, comrade.”

  The president then launched into a loud and protracted diatribe, during which both soldiers lowered their submachine guns then raised them again in the direction of Vicente and Rafael Delgado.

  Mariana said into my ear, “The president ordered the Minister and his son to be arrest—”

  Before she finished her sentence, Vicente and Rafael Delgado each produced a handgun and fired rounds into the soldiers’ bodies, cutting them down.

  Mariana let out a scream as the archbishop dropped to his knees, covering his head with his arms.

  I turned to fire the nine-millimeter, but I was too late.

  Both Vicente and Rafael had fled behind the marble wall and into the rectory.

  “Stay here,” I told Mariana.

  Then I gave chase.

  Chapter 66

  The moment I ran out the back door of the cathedral, I took on fire. I dodged behind a Dumpster and hit the blacktop in a roll.

  I stayed down. From beneath the Dumpster I had a clear view of the lot, including a tall statue of the Virgin Mary, which Vicente Delgado was using as cover. His son Rafael was nowhere in sight.

  Rafael, I thought.

  E-A-R-F-A-L-1

  Clever girl. She’d used her crush but jumbled the letters.

  The sound of heavy boots on gravel caught my attention. Vicente Delgado had taken off in a dash across the lot.

  He was a diversion, I knew. He was buying his kid time to run. But it was the kid I needed. The kid was the only person I was sure could lead me to Olivia.

  I aimed the nine-millimeter at Delgado’s legs and fired. His legs were tripped up in a spray of bullets and blood and he hit the ground hard, his gun thrown several yards in front of him and well out of reach.

  I got to my feet and ran toward the back of the lot, where I tucked my gun and hopped an eight-foot fence. Landed on a main street, re-straining my ankle.

  I hobbled into the middle of the closed road, turning, peering into the hundreds of faces, visages painted like skulls, like devils, like horrible clowns, masked men and women everywhere I looked. Anxiety washed over me as I got caught up in the human tide, being pushed and shoved farther away from the cathedral.

  I was vulnerable. At any moment I knew I could be shanked by a knife.

  If I pulled the gun now, it would cause a stampede in which dozens of men, women, and children could be trampled to death.

  I’d lost him.

  Where are you, you son of a bitch?

  A float with a giant Elvis Presley head was moving slowly toward my position, “Don’t Be Cruel” booming from its enormous speakers.

  If I could hop on the float, I’d gain the high ground; I could see farther, possibly spot the kid amongst the crowds.

  But I no longer looked much like a soldier. My shirt was out, my beret gone. My face had swollen so badly, it must have looked like a Halloween mask.

  Well, maybe I’d blend in after all.

  A dozen Elvis Presley impersonators swiveled their hips and gyrated as the float went past. It seemed possible for me to grab one, borrow the wig and sunglasses.…

  “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.”

  One of the Elvises on the rear of the float, I noticed, was barely moving. He wore the wig and sunglasses but instead of the white BeDazzled cost
ume, he was dressed in all black. A white shirt peeked out of his jacket.

  “Don’t be cruel…”

  I gripped the edge of the float and pulled myself up.

  As I hobbled toward the rear of the float, an Elvis jumped in front of me. Blocked my path, threatening me with his guitar.

  “… to a heart that’s true.”

  I shoved him aside, hard, and he took a header off the float and onto the pavement.

  That was when my Elvis spotted me.

  “I don’t want no other love.”

  As he reached into his jacket to pull out his weapon, I broke into a painful sprint and drove my shoulder into his sternum before he could fire.

  “Baby, it’s just you…”

  The momentum took our bodies off the rear of the float, and we too landed hard on the blacktop.

  “… I’m thinking of.”

  His gun was kicked across the street by a passerby, so he grabbed for mine. I gripped his left wrist and twisted it till he screamed and dropped the gun.

  Another passerby kicked my gun forward. I turned my head and watched helplessly as it vanished under the Elvis float, relieving me of my one advantage.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid,” I said through sore teeth.

  With all his strength, he threw me off him and we both rose to our feet. He led with a left, which I blocked, then threw a right-handed uppercut, which I ducked. By doing so, he’d opened his body up, and I immediately cashed in, lunging forward and throwing three powerful hooks into the right side of his ribs. I followed through by delivering the edge of my right hand vertically across his neck.

  He stumbled backwards, doubled over from the shots to his ribs. I took several steps forward to finish him.

  As I did, Rafael quickly came up with a knife.

  When he attacked, I stepped into his body, blocking the strike with my forearms. I grasped his wrist and twisted his thumb away from his body.

  I took him to the ground with an armbar, then held him down with a forearm to his throat.

  “I … can’t … breathe,” he muttered.

  The knife dropped from his hand and clattered onto the street.

  A wide circle had formed around us.

  Pushing through the circle were several soldiers dressed in red, carrying automatic weapons.

  The soldiers shouted at us in Spanish, but I couldn’t understand a word of what was being said.

  “Where’s the girl?” I growled into Rafael’s face.

  “Gone,” he rasped.

  I applied more pressure to his windpipe.

  “Where is she?” I spat.

  His lips turned up in a demented smile. “All … I want … is my … child.”

  I stared into his eyes, which were beginning to bulge.

  Meanwhile, the soldiers were moving in closer. I was running out of time.

  “Then … her heathen parents … can have … her back,” he gasped.

  I froze.

  So there was a ransom all along, I realized. Only it was never money. He didn’t love the girl. He only wanted the organism growing inside her.

  The music suddenly stopped.

  A voice boomed from the crowd.

  Soldiers stepped aside, and a large man dressed in red stepped inside the circle and cast a gargantuan shadow over the ground on which we lay.

  “El presidente,” Rafael cried. “¡Socorro, por favor!”

  I watched the large man’s shadow as he drew a sizable right hand from behind his back and produced what looked like a handgun.

  From the other side of the circle, I heard Mariana’s voice crying out.

  I looked up and saw her running toward us.

  I looked down at the kid again as he struggled for breath. His face was blue and turning bluer.

  “Last chance,” I said. “Where’s the girl?”

  The president barked something in Spanish. I heard my name spoken.

  I looked up at Mariana for the translation.

  “The president told the kid to tell you now, where is the girl.”

  I heard the cock of the president’s weapon.

  Mariana gasped.

  I stole one last glance up at her.

  “The president says to the kid, ‘Tell him now, Rafael, or else I will shoot you in the head and pass your flesh around the shantytowns during supper.”

  Chapter 67

  Twenty-four hours later, a private jet carrying only two passengers—Olivia Trenton and yours truly—touched down at Van Nuys Airport in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles.

  There were no throngs of reporters there to capture the scene, as all access to the airport had been blocked off by the LAPD. When we stepped off the plane, there were only four individuals there to meet us: an FBI psychologist; Edgar’s criminal defense lawyer; Emma Trenton; and her driver, Nicholas.

  As soon as Olivia appeared at the top of the stairs of the plane, Emma ran toward her.

  Olivia squeezed my hand, then hurried down the steps to meet her mother. From the last step, she leapt into her mother’s arms.

  A light drizzle began to fall, like tears onto the tarmac.

  When I reached bottom, I shook hands first with the psychologist, who introduced herself as Dr. Stefanie Kurnz, then with Edgar’s attorney, Seymour Lepavsky.

  Nicholas approached and, after apologizing for disliking me, thanked me for bringing Olivia home.

  “Oh, Simon,” Emma said when she saw me. “Your face.”

  I forced a painful grin. “I’ve been getting that a lot lately.”

  Emma wrapped her arms around me and thanked me as though I’d just saved the world. I knew how she felt, of course. As far as her world was concerned, I had.

  * * *

  An hour later, Emma and I were alone again, this time in the dining room of her estate, where we’d sat together not long ago. Olivia was upstairs in her room with Dr. Kurnz, while Lepavsky smoked a cigarette out on the back porch. A steaming cup of espresso rested in front of me.

  Emma’s green eyes were rimmed with red, her voice still hoarse. “I don’t know what to say, Simon.”

  “You said everything you needed to say back on the tarmac, Emma.”

  “The FBI, they never would have found her. Am I right?”

  I shrugged. “We’ll never know. It all depends on how hard they would’ve looked. Children don’t vanish into thin air. Every one that’s missing is somewhere.”

  Including my daughter, Hailey.

  Dead, I was sure. But somewhere. Somewhere there were answers to the questions I’d been asking for eleven years. Somewhere there was an explanation, and just now, I felt as compelled as ever to find it.

  And with the Trentons’ check, I could take as much time as I needed and focus only on the eleven-year-old case of the missing six-year-old girl. I’d find whoever was responsible, and I would make him answer for what he’d done.

  To me.

  To Hailey.

  To Tasha.

  To my entire family.

  To my entire world.

  Emma stared into the distance, watching leaves swirl outside the window. “It all seems like a nightmare now, Simon. Like it never really happened.”

  “That’s the thing about nightmares,” I said. “More often than not, they end.”

  She looked at me but said nothing; there was nothing to say.

  “So this boy, Rafael—” She shuddered. “—he spent one night with my daughter in Grand Cayman. One night and she fell in love. When she got home, they kept in touch on the Internet—that’s why she never left her room.” She frowned. “That and because she was pregnant, which explains the nausea and the cravings and the weight gain, and why she stopped taking her antidepressants.”

  I said nothing.

  “She told him she was pregnant. But she didn’t know what she wanted to do yet.” Emma’s voice cracked. “She was too afraid to come to me or her father. She told only Rafael and her friend Alysia, no one else. Alysia told her to have
the procedure, that she was too young for a baby, that if she kept it, she’d be ruining her life. Rafael insisted that she have the baby. He told her he’d marry her and they would live together in Caracas with his parents. Happily ever after.”

  “Then she finally decided,” I said softly.

  “And she told him.” Emma held her head in her hands. “She should have waited until after she’d had the procedure done. Instead she told him that her friend had made the appointment.”

  “In her defense, she couldn’t possibly have anticipated any of this.”

  “No,” Emma said. “I just don’t understand. I mean, what made that boy think he had the right…?”

  Neither of us said a word. We both knew the answer to that question. It was the same answer we were given when doctors were murdered in cold blood, when clinics were blown into rubble.

  “And the archbishop,” she said, “how could he justify—?”

  “We don’t know that Cardinal Zumbado was complicit in the actual kidnapping,” I reminded her. “From the confession the boy gave, Zumbado was merely an accessory after the fact.”

  “He helped hide my daughter,” she said, staring down at her hands. “And Rafael’s father … How could he—?”

  “When something’s drummed into your head from a very early age…,” I said. “And if you’re truly convinced the ends justify the means…”

  “Vicente Delgado genuinely believed he was on the side of right,” she said, her throat closing up on her. “To him, he was doing what we were doing. Trying to save a life.”

  Emma wiped some tears away and then held the back of her hand to her forehead as though checking herself for fever. “He was brainwashed,” she said. “Both of them, he and his son. Brainwashed, indoctrinated … Whatever we decide to call it.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “To be honest, Simon, I don’t know what I would have told Olivia to do had she come to me.”

  I thought on it. “Sure you do, Emma. You would’ve done the same thing I would’ve done if it were my daughter, Hailey.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at me.

  “You would have told her it was her decision,” I said, “and you would have given her whatever guidance she needed. You would have supported whatever choice she made.”