Toward the Light

by Bonnar Spring

  “It’s in my purse.” No matter if Richard got the original. Toño had a copy, and she had another hidden in her day planner. She’d prefer Richard not find that copy—it would only ratchet up his anger—but it didn’t matter.

  “Get up. Slowly.” Richard took a few paces back and leveled his gun at her as she rose.

  Luz eased the shoulder strap of her purse over her head, handed it to him. “Center pocket.”

  Richard set the bag on a small table and rummaged through it while splitting his attention between Evan and Luz. He removed the tiny thumb drive and threw a packet of tissues to his bleeding nephew. “All this drama is taking a lot longer than I anticipated. You have to get to work on time, girl. So, same chance to reconsider. I’ll be checking this after I send you on your way. Will you guarantee this is what you took from Bobby’s briefcase? With Evan’s life?”

  “Yes.”

  A long stare, a nod. “Okay, now for the grand finale. You, unfortunately, can’t be set up like Evan. You must ensure Martin and Dominga are together when the bomb goes off, and that Bobby and Cesar have left for the game.”

  Luz gasped. “How do you know about the game?”

  Richard bit the side of his cheek, as though preventing the eruption of another grin. “That’s not important,” he said. “The problem is the timing. So, as we planned, you get to detonate your own little device. I’ve got yours right here.” He lifted a white vest, like a life jacket with slots for destruction instead of flotation. “It goes under your shirt.”

  It was the devil of a choice: Stand up to Richard here. Delay, fight, kick and scream, trying to goad Richard into a big enough mistake that she and Evan—two amateurs whose tolerance for violence was perhaps a three compared to Richard’s perfect ten—could somehow overcome him. Or let Richard wrap around her belly enough explosives to flatten a house and get away where she might be able to wiggle out of the vest and safely detonate it. Then return for Evan.

  It had to be the vest. She turned away from Evan and pulled off her shirt. If Richard noticed her yellowing bruises, he didn’t react.

  “Arms out,” he said and slipped the vest on. Then he pulled out duct tape. When he finished, Richard shot his cuff and squinted at the gold watch on his arm. “You’ve got until three o’clock to blow the place up. If we don’t hear a loud explosion by that time, lover-boy here is going to die in your place—one more death you’d rather not have on your conscience.”

  “I promise I’ll do it,” Luz tried, “but let Evan go. This is between you and me.”

  “Nope, I’m not leaving this to chance. After you do everything you promised, I’ll release Evan. He won’t tell anyone.”

  Richard would never let him go. If Luz—an unknown Guatemalan—was a danger, how much more credible Evan would be. If only she could get Evan far enough away, she’d push her detonator—or threaten to—but to do it now would be mutually assured destruction.

  Once she left Evan’s, though, even if she managed to get free of the vest, Luz didn’t know how to rig the explosion. “I want to say goodbye to Evan,” she said.

  Richard’s head began a sideways swivel.

  “Please, Richard. Please!”

  He paused mid-swivel.

  “I promise you I will detonate the bomb. I will kill Martin and Dominga. I’ll do everything exactly the way I’m supposed to. I promise.”

  Part of Luz believed what she was saying. If that was the only way to save Evan, she’d go through with it. But it wasn’t. Not even close. Once Luz was dead, Evan might as well be, too. She had to make him understand that.

  “Please,” she said again.

  “Okay,” said Richard, with an upward slant to his lips that suggested amused affection, “you have two minutes.” He stood. “Oh,” he added, as if an afterthought. “You can’t have imagined I’d leave you alone. I’ll watch”—he smiled—“from over here.”

  He settled at the kitchen table and set the remote detonator in the center.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “Hurry up,” Richard said. “Two minutes are all you got and time’s a-wasting.”

  Two minutes are all that remain.

  Two hours ago, Evan’s life had begun its slide into this topsy-turvy rabbit hole. That’s when Richard found his half-finished portrait of Luz. “What the hell is this?” he’d shouted. Seeing that image in Richard’s hands—Luz with her I-have-a-secret smile—was Evan’s moment of reckoning.

  His admission Sunday night that he no longer wanted any part of Richard’s intelligence work had been satisfying, but his relief at coming clean about his involvement with Luz was profound. He was a guilty man dying to confess; words tumbled out.

  Although Richard listened without interruption, Evan knew his uncle well enough to know he was pissed as Evan explained how he persuaded Luz to model, how one thing led to another, how he learned about her illness, about the bomb. Careful—Evan had been so careful—not to blame Luz. He took full responsibility.

  When he finished explaining, Richard, tight-lipped, had told Evan to forget about the market, that he was going out instead. Evan assumed Richard was going to meet Luz at the market in his place to confront her about their affair.

  He’d called Luz the second Richard left. No answer, so Evan couldn’t warn her about a potential Richard ambush. On the other hand, that meant she’d already left for the market. Evan assumed Richard would stick to guilt-tripping, coaxing and cajoling her into performing her role as directed. But even if his anger got the better of him, Luz would be safe from coercion in a public place.

  When Richard returned an hour later, however, he was sweating and swearing. With a sweeping backhand, he toppled the table with the vase by the door, knocking over stacks of paintings. He muttered something about Luz arriving soon.

  Although at odds with Richard’s obvious rage, for a brief moment, Evan allowed himself to believe his uncle meant Luz was coming so they could talk things over.

  Then Richard reached into his briefcase, took out his gun, and trained it on Evan.

  That gun now pointed at Luz, who walked unsteadily across the room to him. She knelt at his side. Her hands were icicles gripping his thigh; Luz sneaked a quick look toward the table where Richard sat watching them, then dug her fingers into Evan’s leg and shook it. “After I leave, keep Richard here if possible.” Luz spoke so quietly Evan could scarcely hear her. “So I can find you later.”

  “You can’t—” It came out as a ragged squawk.

  “Shhh!” Luz squeezed his hand. “Shhh, we’ll talk about everything later.”

  Her eyes had the unfocused stare that occasionally came over her, as though she was peering into the dim past. Or fifteen minutes into an uncertain future. Like a long camera shot panning across a crowded room to a narrow focus, Luz finally homed in on him. “Later,” she repeated, while attempting an encouraging smile, but Richard’s violence had shredded their masks of social convention. Her fear glittered like Fourth of July fireworks.

  “There might be an explosion,” Luz was saying. “Don’t—don’t assume anything. I’m going to get out of this thing and bring help. You understand, don’t you? I’ve got to make it look realistic.”

  But Luz’s vest tied in back. Richard had yanked the straps tight around her and knotted each one securely. Then he used half a roll of duct tape—around and around her body, concealing the labyrinthine coil of wires that connected the sticks of explosive to the detonator.

  How could she get free from that?

  “Evan. Focus.” Luz tapped his leg. “We never talked about wiring. How do I set this up to detonate from a distance?”

  He’d bragged, oversimplified. He wasn’t sure he could explain so Luz would not make a fatal mistake. “You’ve got to be careful removing the vest,” Evan began.

  “I know that.” Luz wiggled her fingers and tapped his leg again. “The remote part. Hurry.”

  His brain blanked with the pressure of getting it right. The weight of seconds piled up
like snowdrifts in a blizzard. Evan began to speak quickly. “The important thing is to avoid any stress on the wires, and for God’s sake don’t cut into one. There’ll be some “give” to make sure the connections don’t get strained and part prematurely, but you’ll need help—”

  “Evan!”

  “One more thing.” Couldn’t she see everything else depended on her first getting free without blowing herself to bits? “The box where the switch is? Don’t open it until the area is clear. You might trip a tilt switch, a hidden wire that will interrupt the current. To rewire, you’ll need …” While Evan broke down the process, his hands, hidden from Richard’s view, mimed the actions she’d make. Luz’s mouth worked, forming the shapes of his words, memorizing.

  “Time’s up.” Richard pushed his chair away from the table and stood.

  Evan swallowed. No more words came out.

  Luz’s head bobbed, imploring him to finish.

  “So after you anchor the vest and run the extra line—”

  Richard’s shadow fell on them. “Say goodbye.” He took Luz’s hand from Evan’s leg.

  “A gentle tug, no more,” whispered Evan.

  Richard steered Luz to the door. “Three o’clock,” he repeated. “Evan and I will be waiting.”

  He nudged her across the threshold, the door closed quietly behind her, and Luz was on the street again as church bells chimed the half-hour. Twelve thirty.

  Luz trudged through the shady streets of Evan’s neighborhood, her extra five pounds of bulk disguised with an oversized windbreaker. The military man who’d taught her bomb-making stressed that C4 was remarkably stable. You could drop it from a third-floor window onto the street, run it over with a bus—nothing. In the abstract, sure, but with it embracing her like a lover, Luz measured every step as though it were her last.

  As she’d told Evan, Luz had to make the blast realistic, and that meant only one destination was possible. A shiver traveled from head to toe. No time for a bus today. When Luz reached the broad avenue leading downtown, she hailed a cab. The cabbie didn’t give her a second look, only a curious glance when she told him where to take her. He merely said, “Have to go by way of Arroyo Seco. There’s streets blocked off for the football match this afternoon.”

  The game. Cesar, at least, would be out of the house. That surely was for the best, less chance of him getting involved and possibly getting hurt.

  “What time does the game start?” she asked.

  “Supposed to be one thirty. Just took a fare there, though. Long lines of people looping around the barricades, waiting to get through security. Probably closer to two.”

  Luz sat carefully on the sprung vinyl seat and watched the Virgin Mary on the dash bobble as the driver snaked through back roads toward the Benavides’ house. She’d get to work on time, but since Dominga called for Luz at her convenience, Luz had to invent a reason to get in to see them immediately.

  The guard at the gatehouse didn’t notice anything wrong either. Luz stuck her ID into the reader, and he waved her in. So many times during the first weeks of her employment, she had fantasized about this moment. Wired and ready to sacrifice her life. All the planning done and goodbyes said. Not like today when her brain was ticking overtime to adapt to the changes.

  The office area downstairs was hushed. Luz didn’t see a soul as she padded down the hall. She rapped twice and stuck her head into de la Vega’s office. “Has Cesar left for the football match yet?” she asked.

  The old man did a double-take of surprise at her abrupt entry. “No, the helicopter is refueling.”

  “Whew—I was afraid I’d be too late. La Señora asked me to read early this afternoon, so I’d be there to wave goodbye to him,” said Luz, lying blithely. “Can you arrange for me to scoot up to the roof?”

  As though it was a done deal.

  But the old man bit his lower lip and drummed his pen on the immaculate stack of folders on his desk instead of replying. If de la Vega balked, merely getting in was going to get messy. To begin by making a hostage of Raul de la Vega—so protective of Martin and Dominga—would complicate an already fraught situation.

  His phone rang, a jangling sound that made Luz jump. “De la Vega,” he barked into the receiver. “What? Just a minute.”

  He covered the receiver with one hand and, waving Luz away with his other, said, “Okay, go on now. I’ll get Joaquín to meet you at security on the third floor.”

  She fled.

  Joaquín met her at the bulletproof door. Bulletproof but not Luz-proof. She clutched the front of her windbreaker, nodded to Joaquín, and she was in.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Cesar, flushed and smiling, dashed from one side of the balcony to the other as he followed the descent of a big red and silver helicopter. When he spotted Luz, however, he ran over. Luz crouched, knees protecting the lumpy circle around her chest, and Cesar hugged her.

  “Luz! Luz! Papá’s taking me to the Lions game. In the helicopter. Isn’t that awesome? And he said he’d let me—”

  The roar of the rotors drowned him out, and turbulence blew dust every which way. Luz’s jacket billowed and flapped, exposing the duct tape around her waist, just as Bobby emerged from his father’s study. He looked her over, frown-lines etching gullies in his forehead. Luz hurriedly smoothed her jacket. Bobby altered his trajectory, walked toward her. All at once, like an awkward dancer, there seemed to be no natural place to rest her hands.

  The helicopter settled on a concrete pad about fifty feet away. The sound of the engine died, and in the sudden silence, Luz and Bobby stared at one another over Cesar’s head. Lines of stress tugged at the corners of his eyes. Broken veins disfigured his aquiline nose. She’d only seen Bobby once since he attacked her—when he came to Cesar’s room and she fled, too distraught to remove the original pilfered thumb drive. Luz pressed her palm to her chest where he’d punched her. The bruise still ached, but she was healing.

  “Señorita,” he said, clicking his heels in a parody of courtliness, “to what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

  Not exposure; just Bobby being an asshole. Tempted to tell the truth, an ephemeral fantasy that nonetheless curled the corners of her mouth and crinkled her eyes, she said only, “Saying goodbye to Cesar before the big game.”

  Cesar pulled Luz toward the helicopter, and Bobby was out of sight. Out of her thoughts. She clutched Cesar’s warm hand. If only last night had really been goodbye. He’d be leaving for the game, and I’d be leaving town. Instead, Cesar was leaving behind a walking bomb. What would he find on his return? The boy shook off her hand and ran toward the helicopter.

  The sleek silver chopper had a wraparound windscreen of smoked glass. A uniformed man jumped down onto the helipad. Bobby herded Cesar into one of the dark leather seats in back. He slid in next to the pilot, who revved the engine. The rotors kicked up bits of gravel and blew around loose leaves from the roof-garden. Luz protected her eyes with one hand and waved slowly back at Cesar’s animated goodbyes. He was gone. Safe.

  Martin retreated to his study as soon as the helicopter had gained twenty feet or so, and Luz was reluctant to call him back with the guards around. The copter turned northward and grew small. Joaquín wheeled Dominga toward her usual spot under the pergola. The remaining guards shuffled off to their stations downstairs. Luz tagged along with Dominga, her mind working furiously.

  After Joaquín settled her, Dominga dismissed him.

  Luz picked up the book she’d been reading. “Since I’m here, perhaps you’d like me to read for a while.” Joaquín stepped into the elevator. The doors glided shut.

  They were alone. Now.

  Luz stepped in front of the old woman, opened her windbreaker, and pulled up her shirt.

  The sound deep in Dominga’s throat was halfway between a sob and a howl. “What do you want?” she whispered.

  “Get your husband out here.” Luz removed the roll of duct tape from her pocket.

  “You can’t make m
e.”

  Luz pushed Dominga against the back of her chair. She took a sharp pull at the tape and began wrapping it around the woman’s torso.

  “You’re right,” Luz said. “In a sense, I can’t make you do anything.”

  Dominga visibly deflated at Luz’s matter-of-fact agreement.

  “I won’t argue,” Luz said. “But if you call him, there’s a way out of this. If you don’t, we’ll all die.”

  “A way out?” Dominga’s fingers twined and untwined about one another. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I don’t want to die any more than you do, but first I need to speak to Martin.”

  “To Señor Benavides.”

  “To the man who’s been betrayed by those closest to him,” Luz fired back.

  “I still won’t do it.”

  She didn’t have time to argue with this silly old woman. “Have it your own way.” She ripped off a rectangle of duct tape and, while the woman jerked back and forth, covered Dominga’s mouth. Luz picked up the walkie-talkie. Keying it as she’d seen Dominga do, she said, “I need help out here.”

  Martin replied immediately. “Who’s this? What’s going on?”

  “It’s the nanny. Luz. Your wife is feeling faint. She asked me to call for you.”

  “I’ll be right there.” The connection closed. Luz kicked the leg of Dominga’s chair around so she faced away from the door.

  “I’m coming, mi amor.” Martin ran out of his study and hurried toward them. To Luz, he added, “Lean her head down. It will—”

  He stopped. He registered the silver tape circling the back of the chair, the bucking form of his wife. His eyes came to rest on Luz.

  She unsnapped the windbreaker again.

  Martin drew himself up tall and straight. “So, it is time for me to pay.” He sat heavily in the chair next to Dominga, pale, with sweat beading his forehead. He nodded twice. “I have wondered when you were coming.”

  “My real name is Maria Luz Concepcion. Emilio Concepcion was my father.”

  “Emilio,” whispered Martin. “Emilio.” A sound full of despair.