In Their Blood: A Novel

by Sharon Potts

  Something moved. A man rose from a stone bench in the center of the columns. A tall man with a silver beard. He was squinting at something and took a step back.

  “Enrique, my amigo,” Bud McNally called out. “I believe you and I have some things to talk about.”

  Chapter 51

  Irv Luria struggled up the dirt path on the east side of St. Mary’s. This was the shortest route up, but also the steepest. He kept losing his footing as his smooth-soled shoes slid on the loose pebbles. Stupid. He hadn’t thought to bring a more sensible pair of shoes. He ignored the sting of cuts on his hands, his bruised knees and elbows, and the constricting pain in his ever-tightening shoes.

  Sawtoothed and prickly plants spurred him on like a whip does a horse. With each slash, he moved a little faster. A little closer.

  A short while ago, he had heard a jet overhead. That was how Irv had always traveled to the Olympus in the past, but this time, he had to arrive undetected. He’d flown to St. Vincent, found a derelict boat at the dock, then paid the captain a small fortune for transportation and a gun— the captain’s own shotgun, a rusty thing that Irv questioned would even work. Now it banged against his back, suspended from a makeshift sling Irv had created from his belt. Every time he fell or slipped, it pounded against him, practically knocking the wind out of him. But on some level, the pain was reassuring, almost comforting. His own cross to bear.

  Heat and dehydration slowed him down. He stopped for a sip of Drambouie from the hip flask he had filled back at St. Vincent. He knew it aggravated his thirst, but it also kept him numb.

  Numb so he wouldn’t have to think about Enrique Castillo. The man who had taken Rachel from him forever.

  Irv was short of breath and sweating like a pig as he neared the summit. The path led over a flat gray rock that lay in the hill like a giant slide. He climbed up a few feet, but lost his footing and found himself rolling back down, the shotgun jabbing him in the ribs like an angry bayonet. His fall was broken by a large bush. A weight lifted from his back. The belt had come loose and the shotgun flew down the side of the mountain, out of Irv’s sight.

  He lay with his face in the dirt, almost lacking the will to get back up. He had gotten to the point that he believed nothing would ever matter to him again. Rachel, his protégée, his Mary, had risen within the firm, succeeding without him. And maybe that’s when he sensed his uselessness. That his protestations about integrity and honor were nothing more than self-aggrandizing ravings. And that’s when he had stopped caring. When he decided that nothing he said or did meant shit to anyone.

  But now he knew that bastard had killed her. Killed her because she was the one with true integrity. Killed his Rachel. Irv tasted the dirt in his mouth and spit it out.

  He eased himself up, brushing off his hands. He had one last chance to do something that mattered. And perhaps then he could leave life the way he’d always imagined. Like a meteor speeding toward the sun.

  He opened the cap on his flask and poured the Drambouie onto the dry dirt. It left a dark stain, like a puddle of muddy piss. Then he threw the flask down the hill. It clanked against the rocks until it came to rest, and everything was silent.

  Chapter 52

  Jeremy watched from behind the thick bushes. He’d dropped his backpack in the undergrowth, taken his gun from the pocket of his cargo pants, and released the safety. Bud was a bit more than twenty feet away, talking to Enrique. A clear shot. Well, maybe for someone with more experience with firearms than Jeremy. His arms were shaking and he lowered the gun.

  Even if he could hit him, was this what he wanted? To kill his parents’ murderer without making him suffer? And what if he was mistaken? What if Bud wasn’t the killer?

  He’d wait. He’d wait until he was sure.

  The wind was blowing from the west, carrying their voices toward him.

  “So what are you planning to do, Enrique? Call the SEC? The police? Tell them you’ve been fronting a major drug route for the past few years?”

  Enrique had his back to Bud and stared off toward the edge of the cliff. The sky had a pinkish cast; the sun had begun to set.

  “I understand you might could run away from everything, Enrique,” Bud was saying, “but have you given any thought to what happens to your son?”

  “My son is none of your damn business.”

  Bud held up his hands. “Of course. Of course. But he’s your business. Do you really want him to go through life the son of a felon? His father a disgrace to his family and the community?”

  “Why are you here, Bud? What do you want from me?”

  “I have a solution.”

  “The last time you had a solution, I ended up turning my father’s company into an opium den.”

  “This may suit your purposes somewhat better.” Bud reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers with a blue cover.

  “These papers transfer your interest in Castillo Enterprises to your wife.”

  “You believe I’d give Liliam anything?”

  “You can wash your hands of the whole dirty business.”

  “I already have.”

  “How? Come on, Enrique? By hiding out here? Why do you even care about this place? Because Rachel once came here with you? Did she go and promise to marry you? I remember that was the talk around the office.”

  “Shut up. Shut the hell up.”

  Jeremy tried to quiet his breathing.

  “The only reason you went along with the drug scheme was because you hoped to make enough money to rebuild your Olympus,” Bud said. “For Rachel. Everything you did was always about Rachel, wasn’t it? Your grand house on Lotus Island, your impressive office building, and maybe one day, the Olympus.”

  Enrique stepped toward Bud, his fist raised. Bud didn’t move. “She would have been disappointed coming here,” Bud said. “Seeing what you had done.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Enrique said.

  “I know that. And the police do, too.”

  Enrique stiffened. “They know who did?”

  Jeremy’s heart was racing. Where was Bud going with this?

  A ray of sun reflected off Bud’s short silver-blond hair. There was a film of perspiration on his forehead. “It appears that Rachel’s former mentor turned murderer.”

  “What are you saying? That Irv killed her? Impossible.”

  “I was shocked when the detectives came to me, trying to understand his motive. They asked if it was true that Rachel wanted him fired because he’d become a drunk.”

  “He would never have killed her.”

  Bud wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You never know about people, do you? Irv hasn’t been himself these last few years. Once his protégée deserted him, all he had left was the firm. Then she wanted to take that from him too.” Bud shook his head. “Irv was a desperate man. You never can tell what a desperate man’s going to do.”

  Was this possible? Could Irv have murdered his mother?

  Jeremy’s head spun. What was going on here?

  Enrique was speaking so softly Jeremy couldn’t make out his words.

  “That’s right,” Bud said. “He killed her. Irv murdered Rachel. And now he’s safe at PCM. He knows I would never ask him to resign, not with what he knows about our little enterprise here.

  “Sign the papers, Enrique. Sign the papers so you can be free to do whatever you have to do. Sign them for your son, for Carlos. For the Castillo name.” Bud held out the papers and a pen. “For Rachel.”

  “No,” a voice shouted. Irv Luria emerged through the dense foliage. He was panting as sweat ran down his red cheeks. His shirt was soaked through and his black shoes were covered with dirt. Had he climbed up the side of the island as Jeremy had? “Don’t sign anything,” he was shouting. “This evil dies with you.”

  Enrique pulled the papers out of Bud’s hand and rested them against the stone bench. He signed them with such force the pen could have torn through the paper.

  Enrique and Irv
stared at each other like a couple of enraged bulls, their eyeballs bulging.

  Bud picked up the signed papers and took a step back.

  Suddenly, everything made sense. A trick by the chess master.

  Bud had manipulated Enrique and Irv into believing the other was the murderer.

  The two men charged each other, deadweight pressing against deadweight. Enrique was taller, but Irv stout and powerful. For an instant they seemed frozen in their crazed tug-of-war.

  Jeremy pushed through the bushes.

  “Over here, Jeremy,” Bud called.

  Jeremy clasped the gun in both hands and aimed, but nothing was holding still. It was as though someone was fast-forwarding a movie clip. Bud darted from column to column, swift as a fox. Enrique and Irv, crushing each other in a bear hug, lurched in front of Jeremy, blocking his shot.

  “Murderer,” Enrique shouted.

  “Murderer,” Irv shouted back.

  “Stop,” Jeremy screamed. “You’re making a mistake.

  ”Enrique swung his fist into Irv’s face. It sounded like the popping of a champagne cork. Irv covered his nose, falling back a couple of steps. Jeremy tried to get in the middle, trying to stop them before they killed each other.

  The sky had darkened and was smudged with orange. Bud’s voice came from somewhere behind him. “What are you going to do, Jeremy? Check the king or lose both your bishops?”

  Irv shoved Jeremy aside. “Get the fuck out of here.” He flung Enrique against a column. Enrique tumbled to the ground. Then he was up, diving for Irv’s legs, pulling him down. Punching his face while Irv writhed on the ground, his dusty black shoes flailing helplessly in the air.

  Jeremy tried to pull Enrique off Irv, but Enrique flipped Jeremy over his shoulder, knocking the breath out of him. The gun went flying.

  Irv was back up, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. He shoved Enrique. Enrique shoved him back. They were getting closer to the edge. They were going to kill each other. Jeremy rushed between them.

  “Nice move, Jeremy,” Bud called out. “I’ll give Robbie your regards.”

  Enrique’s blow fell on Jeremy’s cheek.

  “Stop,” Jeremy shouted. They were at the edge. “Stop. He’s lying.”

  Irv shoved Jeremy with such force that he slid a few feet, hitting his head on the stone bench. Blood ran into his eye. Jeremy got back up, stumbling as he went.

  Enrique and Irv were locked in each other’s arms near the edge of the mountain. The sun slipped below the horizon, turning the water and sky into spitting flames. The last rays of reddish light fell across their faces. The anger was gone. Only wretchedness remained. And then, as though on cue, the two men, still clutching each other, took several running steps toward the setting sun and dove off the side of the cliff.

  Jeremy rushed to the edge. All he could see were the spreading shadows from the last few glints of daylight. And then he heard an airplane’s engines. He looked up in time to see a Lear jet lift off from St. Mary’s island.

  Chapter 53

  The plane floated away, a white bird swallowed by the darkness. It took a second for its significance to register on Jeremy. And when it did, he waved his arms wildly, blinded by blood. “Noooo,” he shouted. “Noooo.”

  But it was for nothing. Bud was gone.

  Jeremy staggered away from the edge of the mountain. He hadn’t even been able to stop them. Two men who had fought to the death believing the other had murdered Rachel Stroeb. Two men who no longer had anything to live for. Would their bodies ever be found? Had they smashed against the rocks, torn to pieces for seagulls to eat? Or had their suicide dive taken them beyond, into the crystal clear Caribbean waters?

  Two more deaths. That brought the tally to five: his parents, Marina, Irv, and Enrique.

  He picked up his father’s gun. The gun he was supposed to use to protect his family. He slipped it into his pants pocket. Against the stillness of the night, he heard a whining sound. He listened closer. It was coming from the airstrip. The other plane. Enrique’s plane.

  Jeremy’s breath caught in his chest; he still had a chance. Jeremy sprinted, going faster than he’d ever run the 100-yard dash. The engine sound grew louder. There was a flash of white in the distance. Jeremy raced in front of the plane, waving. Could the pilot see him? There was still a faint light in the western sky.

  “Stop,” he shouted, though he knew he couldn’t be heard. The pilot signaled to get out of the way. The plane moved forward, turning onto the airstrip.

  “Wait,” Jeremy screamed. He reached into his shirt pocket and waved a handful of bills.

  The plane stopped. Jeremy rushed around to the side and got in.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked the pilot.

  Jeremy thought quickly. “One of the auditors.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  Jeremy knew he looked like a wild man, his head and tee shirt dripping with blood. “I got lost. I fell. McNally probably left to get help.”

  The pilot wasn’t buying it, but he seemed to be assessing the value of the bills in Jeremy’s hand. “Sit down,” the pilot said, relieving Jeremy of his money. He reached into a compartment and handed Jeremy a towel. “And try not to bleed everywhere.”

  Jeremy clasped his seatbelt and pressed the towel against his forehead. They were ten, fifteen minutes behind Bud. Maybe they’d catch up to him at the executive airport. But if not, he needed to figure out where Bud was going next.

  The plane headed west, following the setting sun. The shades of crimson would have been spectacular under different circumstances, but now Jeremy felt as though they were flying directly into the mouth of hell.

  It had all been a game to Bud. Setting up Enrique and Irv to battle each other to the death. A brilliant game. Now neither was alive to accuse Bud of any wrongdoing. Soon Bud would arrange that no one would be left alive to connect him to the drug trade and the murders. Then why hadn’t Bud tried to kill Jeremy?

  And then he remembered Bud’s words. “I’ll give Robbie your regards.”

  “Shit,” Jeremy said.

  The pilot glanced over at him.

  “I need to make a call.”

  “This isn’t your private fucking limo.”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  The pilot studied the sky in front of him.

  Jeremy reached into his pocket and pulled out two more hundreds. It was all he had except for a twenty in his wallet.

  “One call,” the pilot said, grabbing the money. “Thirty seconds. Give me the number.”

  Jeremy recited Judy Lieber’s number from memory.

  The pilot spoke into the phone, his voice so garbled, Jeremy wondered if the person at the other end could understand him. He handed the phone to Jeremy.

  “This is Judy Lieber.”

  “It’s Jeremy. I—”

  “Sorry I’m not available,” her voice mail continued. “Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  “It’s Jeremy Stroeb. Robbie Ivy’s in danger. You need to get some protection to her house. Bud McNally will be there in about three hours. He, well, I think you know his plans.”

  “Time’s up,” the pilot said, reaching for the phone.

  Jeremy held onto it. “Could I make just one more call?”

  “Fuck you,” the pilot said.

  They landed at Opa Locka airport at 9:18 p.m., Miami time. There were several Lear jets parked, any one of which could have been the one Bud had taken, but there was no sign of him.

  The customs agent did a perfunctory check of Jeremy’s passport, but he studied the wound on Jeremy’s head and the blood on his shirt for a minute or so before finally letting him through. Jeremy jogged out to the street and climbed into a waiting taxi. Luckily, the agent hadn’t searched him and found the gun.

  He gave the driver Robbie’s address, then reached into his pocket for his cell phone. It wasn’t there. Shit. He’d left it in his backpack, which was lying in some bushes at th
e summit of St. Mary’s.

  Jeremy leaned back against the cracked faux leather seat. There was nothing more he could do. Hopefully, Lieber had gotten his message and had arranged a stakeout at Robbie’s house. The cab was filled with stale cigarette smoke, which each of Jeremy’s long, slow breaths brought deep into his lungs. His head was throbbing, and he couldn’t see very well. His eyelid had swollen up. It was a lot like the bruise on Robbie’s head. He thought about later tonight, after Bud had been caught. Would he and Robbie laugh about their matching badges of honor? Would they take a hot bath together to soothe their aching muscles?

  He’d been so curt with her this morning. So obsessed with rushing off to avenge his parents’ murders that he hadn’t told her how much she meant to him. Would he ever get the chance again?

  The taxi pulled into her Coconut Grove neighborhood, navigating cautiously through the dark, dead-end streets. “Just let me out here,” Jeremy said a block away. He handed the driver the twenty and took off down the street, slowing his pace a few houses from Robbie’s. What if Lieber had a stakeout in progress and he came barging in? But what if she didn’t? Maybe she’d never gotten his message.

  He knocked on Robbie’s front door, uncertain whether he was doing the right thing. His hand was on the gun in his pocket.

  No answer.

  Damn. He knocked again.

  Through the door, he heard a tapping sound— crutches against tiles.

  “Who’s there?” Robbie called out.

  “Robbie, it’s me. Jeremy.” She was all right. She was safe.

  Robbie opened the door, throwing her arms around him. She balanced on her good leg as her crutches clattered against the floor.

  “Jeremy. Oh Jeremy.”

  He didn’t want to let go.

  Her bangs were over her eye, hiding the bruise on her forehead.