Into Thin Air

by Thomas Zigal

  “Don’t leave now,” Kurt said, “it’s just starting to get interesting.”

  Panzeca withdrew a small ivory-stock .32 caliber pistol from the pocket of his sport jacket and raised it at Kurt. “You have made some foolish mistakes, señor,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Kurt said. “You got that right.”

  The colonel stepped toward the bed and peered down at the handcuffed body. “My daughter is a very sick young woman,” he said. He raked the fingers of his left hand gently, lazily, across the girl’s bare back. “She needs professional help.”

  Kurt watched the man stare at the body. “I’m tempted to say it runs in the family,” he said. “But in her case it depends on which family you mean.”

  Panzeca turned and looked at him, the .32 set firmly in his hand. “She had nothing to do with Quiroga,” he said. “She did not go to Star Meadow.”

  Kurt shrugged. He should have known the old man wouldn’t use his daughter. He didn’t want the girl within ten miles of Quiroga.

  “That’s too bad,” Kurt said. “She might’ve learned the truth about herself.”

  Panzeca straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin. “You have no idea how much I adore my daughter,” he said. “My late wife was barren, God rest her soul. For years we tried in vain to have children. The little girl brought so much joy to our lives. I will not let anyone take her from me, señor.”

  “And so you sent Rafael to Quiroga’s room.”

  The colonel made no reply. Behind the heavy lenses his eyes appeared distorted, coldly implacable, larger than life. A few feet away, in the dim-lit bathroom, his stepdaughter was stooped over a marble basin, retching her guts out.

  “And then what, Colonel?” Kurt asked. “You called your friends in Denver—the Feds, who always take good care of their boy when things get hot and heavy. The people who are helping you live a nice private life in a nice cushy resort town, far away from dirty wars and dirty trials and the persistent little worms who just won’t let you live in peace.”

  “This conversation is over, señor,” Panzeca said icily.

  “What did you tell Staggs when you called him?” Kurt rushed on. “That Quiroga had tracked you down? That it was kill or be killed?”

  “My friend,” Panzeca said, “you have dug your own grave.”

  “You served up those Mexicans to the Feds, didn’t you, Colonel? You told Staggs that Quiroga hired them to take you out. It seemed like a good story at the time, just enough to keep the suits off balance. But then you got too ambitious, didn’t you, amigo? You went for it all. You decided to take down the guy who was sticking powder up your stepdaughter’s nose.”

  Panzeca lowered his proud chin for a moment and the gun sagged in his hand. He appeared absorbed in thought. “Ese demonio,” he said distantly. He glanced down at the silt of cocaine on the night table and in a flash of rage swiped at it with his free hand. A white cloud drifted over the dead girl.

  “Where is he?” the colonel asked bitterly.

  “I have no idea,” Kurt said. “He wasn’t here when I came in.”

  “¡Rafael,” he shouted. “¡Ven!”

  The bodyguard left the girl and came into the bedroom. Panzeca gave the man his orders in Spanish.

  “You must go with Rafael,” he said to Kurt.

  Kurt realized that the talking was over. His throat grew tight. Fear made him cold. He knew he might never see his son again.

  “I have a child too,” he said. “A little boy.”

  “I am very sorry,” Panzeca said.

  “Talk to Staggs,” Kurt said. “Use that phone right there and give him a call. Talk to him before this gets out of hand.”

  The colonel nodded to Rafael.

  “Come,” the bodyguard said, wagging the Beretta at Kurt. Probably the same gun that had given him those stitches in his head.

  “Don’t do this, Colonel,” Kurt said, trying to control the panic in his voice. “Talk to Staggs. We can all work something out.”

  Rafael took Kurt’s arm and shoved him toward the door. “Vámonos,” he said. “We go for a little ride.”

  Kurt glanced in the bathroom at the girl leaning over the sink, her heaving now dry, convulsive, painful to hear. “I know you’re doing this for her,” he said. “But sooner or later you’ll have to face something, Colonel. She already knows. Somewhere inside her she’s already figured out who she is,” he said, “and it’s killing her.”

  For the briefest moment Kurt thought he saw a shadow pass over the man’s face, an unsettling recognition of the thing he most feared and denied, the nightmare that troubled his sleep. Then just as quickly it was gone. Shoulders back, his stance rigidly erect, the very definition of military grace, Panzeca studied Kurt, another insect he was having removed from the garrison of his new life. With a flick of his hand, an officer’s impatient gesture, he dismissed the entire affair.

  “Take him,” he said.

  Rafael seized Kurt’s arm, thrusting the Beretta against his ribs.

  Chapter twenty

  In the hallway outside Jake’s suite, Rafael tucked his gun hand in the pocket of his blue nylon windbreaker and told Kurt to walk ahead of him.

  “Don’ do nothing stupid,” he ordered.

  Kurt took his time walking toward the stairwell. “Where are we going, Rafael?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Don’ turn around.”

  “You taking me out to the Grottos, like you did the writer? Or is it up the Pass again? Drop a body in one of those ravines, they won’t find it till the next Ice Age.”

  “¡Cállate!” Rafael said, poking the gun barrel in the small of Kurt’s back.

  “What happened to your boys, Rafael? We had such a good time together last night, and then they disappeared on me. I guess they didn’t like the cold. Next time, hire a better class of losers.”

  Rafael nudged him again. “Stop talking and keep moving.”

  “Do your boys know who you work for, carnal? Do they know your boss is the one who dropped a dime on their brothers to the FBI?”

  They reached the stairwell. Rafael gave him a push and Kurt stumbled down a couple of steps. “Shut up or I shoot you right here,” the bodyguard said.

  “I don’t think so,” Kurt said. “I don’t think you want a lot of noise and blood and another dead body lying around the building. Not while your boss is upstairs trying to clean up his stepdaughter and get her out of here.”

  “Don’ be too sure, smart boy.”

  Kurt turned enough to see the man slip a silencer from his baggy jeans.

  “Don’ be too sure I don’ blow your focking head off right here.”

  A hard flat circle of steel touched the base of Kurt’s skull, a cold metallic kiss. The silencer pressed against his head the way it must have pressed against Omar Quiroga’s.

  Rafael leaned close. “Too bad about the woman, eh, hombre?” he whispered in Kurt’s ear. “Too bad the bitch have to jump. Before I do her I wanted to fock her first, like you was going to.”

  Kurt looked through the beveled glass doors. Out on the sidewalk the crowd was cheering the first bicyclers whirring past them in a stream of iridescent colors.

  “She got away from you, didn’t she, asshole?” Kurt said. “You tried to chase her down and she jumped.”

  The silencer pressed harder into his skull. Rafael made an intimate sucking sound through his teeth, his warm rotten breath in Kurt’s ear. “Such a waste for us both, no?” he said.

  The muscles tightened in Kurt’s neck. He wanted to kill this man.

  Rafael pushed him toward the doors. “Now be a good boy and walk nice and slow around the corner,” he said, “or they find your focking body right where you stand.”

  Kurt wove his way slowly through the crowd, hoping someone would recognize him and stop to talk. People stood around drinking beer stuffed into Huggers, their attention focused on the race in the street. A shout went up for a pack of bicyclers locked neck and neck, their bodies arched forwa
rd, legs churning, a whiz of bone and light metal.

  Rafael grabbed Kurt’s arm and steered him toward the alley between the Blake Building and a row of shops. “Here,” he said.

  A bright red Wagoneer was parked in the alley. Kurt stopped, his mind struggling to remember.

  “Move,” Rafael nudged him. “You drive.”

  Kurt had seen the vehicle before. He had nearly forced it into the gorge below Lost Man Campground. This was how the three Mexicans had disappeared into the night.

  “I’m not getting in the car, Rafael,” Kurt said. A steady flow of passersby parted around the two men. “You’ll have to kill me right here.”

  Rafael jerked the Beretta in his windbreaker. “¡Vámonos, pendejo!” he commanded.

  A small girl chasing her sister noticed the shape in the windbreaker and said, “Hey, mister, is that a gun?”

  Heads turned. Rafael swiveled in a half circle, surprised by the attention, and tried to conceal the .22 deeper in his pocket. Kurt lunged for his wrist and a muffled shot blew a hole through the windbreaker, splattering concrete. Bystanders screamed and dropped to the sidewalk. Rafael swung his elbow into Kurt’s jaw, a teeth-grinding blow, but Kurt grabbed some blue nylon and dragged the man down. He had a lock on a shoulder, a leg, he wasn’t sure. He waited for a bullet through his lung but suddenly realized that the gun was on the ground a few yards away. People were shouting, running in every direction, but no one had picked up the gun. Rafael slipped from his hold and crawled toward the weapon on his hands and knees. Another second and he would have it.

  Kurt knew he couldn’t get to him in time. He lumbered to his feet and ran, leaping over a picnic cooler as a bullet ripped through the Styrofoam, spewing ice and water. Suddenly he found himself in the street, speeding bicyclers bearing down on him. He froze, trapped in the rush of wind, a hundred wheels zinging by at forty-five miles per hour. He heard another muffled shot and looked back to see Rafael standing at the curb, the pistol raised.

  He aimed at Kurt and fired again and a racer went down, the bike crashing away underneath him, spinning off into the crowd. Brakes squealed, riders swerved, skidding, piling into one another, a loud collision of metal. Loose spokes pinwheeled toward Kurt, missing him by inches. Bodies were all over the street.

  He stumbled to the far sidewalk and turned to see Rafael dodging through the wreckage, forearming an Asian racer to the ground. The bodyguard kicked a twisted bike out of his way and stopped to squeeze off a shot that went wide and shattered the plate-glass window of a pharmacy.

  Kurt ran to the doorway of the pool hall and rumbled down the stairs into the smoky club. All motion slowed suddenly into a soft hazy swim of faces, brown-skinned men relaxing around the tables, drinking from long-neck bottles, considering their next play. He was outside of himself now, hearing someone with his voice scream for help, seeing the faces turn leisurely, a long ash dangling from a cigarette.

  “Thurman!” his voice stretched out the name.

  Thurman Fisher was leaning back against the bar, watching a baseball game on the TV, immutable in his routines, a laconic uncle listening with one ear to a couple of wisecracking regulars. The three men shifted their eyes slowly, torpidly, to see who was making all the noise.

  “Thurman!” Kurt shouted again, running toward him. “Where’s your gun?”

  There was one final moment when everything became as slow and unfocused as a nightmare. Thurman pushed away from the bar, stood up straight, squinted in confusion, his mouth opening. He didn’t understand what was happening until Rafael reached the bottom of the stairs and silencer bullets spat across the bar, popping the glass mirror, splitting open stately liquor bottles arranged in a row.

  In full stride Kurt flopped belly first onto the smooth bartop, rolled, and landed on the damp floor near the far end. Thurman was crouched down several yards away, panting, his chin wedged into his chest. Broken glass covered his hair and shoulders. He groped about without his bifocals, found the .38 in an old cigar box, and slid it along the tile floor in Kurt’s direction.

  Lying on his elbows, Kurt peered around the brass foot rail and saw Rafael throw down the Beretta and pull out the Luger he’d taken from him at Jake’s place. He fired two loud rounds into the walnut siding of the bar, splintering wood just above Kurt’s head. Kurt ducked back, reached around the corner with his left hand, and blindly pulled off three shots, demolishing a fake Tiffany lamp hanging above a pool table. He waited, anticipating return fire, then gazed out through the thick smoke. Rafael had disappeared.

  Kurt scurried in a crouch to the closest pool table. A shot rang out, hit the chrome strip, ricocheted off. The next bullet struck solid wood. Where was that asshole? All Kurt could see were the terrified faces of young Mexicans huddling under every table. But no Rafael.

  Squatting low, the .38 against his cheek, Kurt scrambled to the far end of the table and counted four pool shooters down on their knees beside another table, staying clear of fire, cue sticks clutched in their hands. One of them was staring back, his dark eyes frightened, questioning. Kurt motioned for him to keep down. Don’t do anything stupid, Angel, he thought, giving him a nod of recognition. Don’t do anything to get us all killed.

  He heard boot soles scratching from one position to another, a squabble in Spanish, someone cursing. He worried about these kids hiding under the tables. Whose side were they on? Goddammit, Thurman, he thought, get somebody on the phone.

  Hunkered down like this, his bunged-up ski knees hurt like hell and his calves began to cramp. He shuffled a few steps to relieve the pain and, pistol raised, peeked around the table’s edge.

  He almost missed the first quick move, the way Rafael reached around the corner of a pool table and grabbed Angel by the back of the hair and pulled the boy against him as a shield. All Kurt would remember later was Angel’s scream, the cue snapping in half, two wild bullets coring into the table near his own face. He rolled onto his belly, stretched his arms, and steadied the .38 for a clean shot. But the gunman held the struggling boy in front of him, a muscular arm locked around his throat, and squeezed off another round that lodged in the wall.

  “¡Pinche cabrón!” Angel gasped, fighting for breath, his hands searching the floor for the broken cue. He found a long piece and jerked it over his shoulder, grazing Rafael’s head. Enough to distract the man, loosen his grip.

  “Roll, Angel!” Kurt yelled.

  Angel was free, crawling for cover. Rafael whirled on his knees and aimed the Luger at Kurt, but Kurt shot him three times in the chest.

  After it was over, Kurt stood up slowly, set the .38 on the green cushion next to a cluster of striped balls, and exhaled the longest breath of his life. He walked over and looked down at Rafael. Blood splotched his windbreaker, pooled around his still body. This was the man who had put a cap in the back of Omar Quiroga’s head and four stitches in Kurt’s, who had muscled his little son around in a sleepy dark world the boy would never forget. This was the man who had chased a rare and wonderful woman to her death.

  “Take a good look at this son of a bitch,” Kurt said to Angel.

  The young man had risen to his feet and was staring at the blood. Sweat poured down his face.

  “I want all of you to take a look at this man,” Kurt spoke loudly to the others who were crawling out from under the tables, moving cautiously toward the dead body. Eighteen, twenty years old, the hardworking elder sons who had come north to make some decent money and take it back to their families living like dogs in dirt shacks.

  “This man was a liar. He was not your hermano,” Kurt said. “Because of him, Angel, your brother died in that house in Emma.”

  Angel looked at him, his eyes filled with fear and caution.

  “This man got your friends killed,” Kurt said, staring hard into the faces of the young men gathering around. “You tell those other guys, the ones who tried to kill me last night, that they made a bad mistake. I don’t want to see them in this town again. You tell them to go
back home. Because if I ever catch them, they’re going to jail.”

  The lean faces studied him, their eyes dropping to regard the man lying facedown in his own blood. They were still in shock, awed by the violence, frightened and exhilarated. Kurt knew they were good boys with the courage to cross rivers in the dead of night just to wash coffee cups for minimum wage. He knew most of these boys had never committed a sin worth confessing to a priest.

  He bent down and started to pick up the Luger that had fallen from Rafael’s hand, then decided he should leave it for Ryan’s men. He could hear a siren in the distance.

  At the bar Thurman Fisher set out four shot glasses and filled them with Tennessee bourbon. Behind him only one jagged shard still clung to a corner of the mirror’s frame; a stream of expensive liqueurs trickled from the shelf. Ashen, disheveled, the two stool patrons dusted off their clothes and reached with shaking hands for the Jack Daniel’s.

  “Do me a favor, Kurt,” Thurman said, squinting through cracked bifocals. “Next time somebody’s chasing your ass, please run into a freaking T-shirt shop.”

  He swallowed a shot and slid the last glass toward Kurt.

  “Don’t let those boys touch anything till the city cops get here,” Kurt said, tossing back the drink. “That Luger belonged to my father, Thurman. I don’t want anybody walking off with it.”

  He made his way up the stairs and into the sunlight. The street was swarming with responsible citizens giving comfort and medical assistance to the fallen racers. Tourists milled about in the wreckage, pale and disbelieving. Several bicyclers and a handful of volunteer firemen were trying to clear the street, disentangling bikes, leading the walking wounded over to rest in lawn chairs. An ambulance rolled slowly, insistently, through the stunned crowd, the driver blowing his horn at people in his way.

  When Kurt reached the sidewalk, a woman wearing a halter top pointed at him and said, “That’s him! That’s the man!” She was scooting ice into the gutter with the side of her bare foot. “Somebody get his name!”