by Rene Natan
Finding a good partner is an essential ingredient for a good life, Gordon thought. He never doubted he’d have a happy marriage with Marta, and yet, something had gone drastically wrong. One never knows…He wondered whether he and Jocelyn could be a good match.
The light on the upper floor was turned off, and Gordon looked around, trying to assess the damage. The kitchen was a mess, but the family room had been disrupted very little. The felon who had kept his parents at bay had overturned a chair and a planter in his haste to take off. He took the dusting pan and cleared out most of the dirt spread on the carpet. The big cleaning would be done tomorrow.
The sergeant had gone back to London and only one cruiser was stationed outside. Even the TV van that had lingered on the gravel road until a few minutes ago, in spite of the sergeant’s order, had left. It was time to pour a drink and have a seat.
All of a sudden, a soft noise came from the back yard. He extracted his Glock and tiptoed toward the back door. The noise came from the bushes near the house. Gordon opened the door and called out, “Let me see who you are.” He pointed his semiautomatic in the direction of the noise.
“It’s me, Mr. Stevenson. Louis.”
Relief flooded through him. “For heavens’ sake, we’ve been looking for you all night! Why didn’t you come out sooner?”
“I wanted to be sure the TV crew was gone.” He moved close to the house. “I…I…” The boy didn’t move.
“You what?” Stevenson exclaimed as he shoved his gun back in the holster.
“I dirtied myself, Mr. Stevenson. I didn’t want people seeing me like that.”
Thirty
A multi-jurisdictional Task Force, which included members of the London Police Service and the Ontario Provincial Police was in place. Gordon Stevenson was asked to lead. He was pleased, though he realized that it had been the digging into Louis’ situation that had endangered his parents’ and other people’s lives. A steep price to pay when striving for justice.
Louis had recounted what had happened the night of the shooting. One of the goons had told him to get moving and follow him. When Louis hadn’t budged, the man raised his voice and stepped closer. Lambrusco jumped from Louis’ side to attack the man, and the goon’s gun had discharged into the dog’s belly. Lambrusco’s falling body had thrown the man off-balance, giving Louis time to escape from the back door. He’d crossed the cultivated field at racing speed, and when he ran out of breath, he found refuge under a copse of trees. He sat on the ground for some time, wondering whether Camilo’s men would chase him even in the open. The arrival of the police cruisers had somewhat appeased his fear. After a while, he’d approached the farmhouse. Then he’d spotted the TV van, advertising its presence with a big satellite dish on the roof. His pants were soiled, and under no circumstance was he going to make an entrance in that condition.
Louis had been taken to a secure place and, for the time being, was safe. Gordon flipped a pencil between his fingers. All they had was a sketchy description of the man who’d assaulted Louis, the casings of the bullets fired at his parents’ place, and the blood type of the man who’d fired them. Gordon smiled inwardly. Lambrusco had managed to gnaw him before dying. He never thought Lambrusco had it in him to attack people. He was the most placid, gentle dog he’d ever known. But attacking a member of the family was like attacking a member of the pack. The atavistic instinct of the wolves had come alive.
Two days ago, Stevenson thought they were at an important junction of the investigation, but now he felt they were at a standstill. He mentally reviewed the evidence the newly established Task Force had available. Debby White had been detained one more night, and she’d be interrogated again soon. He hoped something useful would come from it. They were fairly certain Rose Miller was the woman who had taken Dolores Cardova to the hospital. They’d interrogate her for sure, but, as things stood now, they probably couldn’t charge her.
All together, they had few and weak pieces of information to work on.
***
Organizing a group of people who hadn’t worked together before wasn’t going to be easy. It would take time to coordinate the Task Force, consisting of six officers, plus Stevenson. Not much to work on, either, just a report on Debby White. Some of the fingerprints found on Gisela Cunnigham’s drawers, cupboards, and medicine cabinet belonged to her, and the woman had served a month in jail for an altercation with a fellow worker just a year ago. Stevenson was anxious to pump White for all she was worth when he remembered he had a meeting scheduled to coordinate the activities of the Task Force.
“Debby White’s lawyer is here,” said a voice behind him. The sergeant had entered the Investigation Response Unit and stood close to Stevenson’s desk. “Go to the meeting. I’ll handle the interrogation. I’ll get all that’s possible and more out of her, I promise.”
Stevenson thanked him and took the file with all the information regarding Louis Saura. After all the introductions and a briefing on the state of the inquiry on Dolores Cardova’s death, he summarized what he believed were their options in terms of immediate action: following Camilo Estorbar’s moves now that they had people available for the job, interview Camilo, interview Rose Miller, the woman Louis had identified as the former brothel’s manager and the person who probably had taken Dolores to the hospital; put the receptionist and the manager of The Tranquility Resort under pressure to get accurate information on the elusive Vicente Perdiz.
The discussion lasted a long time, as the new members needed to know what had been done so far and what had been tried but hadn’t advanced the inquiry.
Stevenson was tired at the end of the day, but recovered quickly when the sergeant approached him with a smile that split his face in two.
“Mission accomplished,” the sergeant said. “Our Debby White has spilled all that she knew including the name of her accomplice. I issued an order for his arrest. The inquest on Gisela Cunnigham’s death is on the fast track.”
“Anything that can link Gisela’s case with Dolores Cardova’s death?”
“Unfortunately not. Debby White was first in contact with Gisela the night of that famous blizzard. She saw her picking up the package, and after the interview at the police headquarters she took a gamble and blackmailed Gisela. She had no knowledge or any connection with The Tranquility Resort.”
Thirty-one
Camilo had blown his top when he heard his men had failed to carry out the task as instructed. All they had to do was to grab the boy, drive a few miles away from any safe refuge, and waste him. Instead, they’d managed to leave evidence of their presence and their weapons—and Louis was still alive and kicking. He’d have fired them, but he was short of manpower these days. Vicente was taking more time than usual at Falcon Lake. For some reason, things weren’t moving as expeditiously as in the past. He’d suffered one setback after another. He wondered if he was losing the knack for the business.
Well, don’t lose heart, Camilo told himself. Keep going. After all, you’re still making good money. Maybe it was time to go after Rose Miller. She hadn’t answered his calls, but he knew where to find her. She was fond of the entertainment at the Western Fair, liked the show, and loved gambling on the horse races.
He should dress properly, however. The events at the Fair were among the few the city of London offered its well-to-do-citizens. He chose his musky green suit, a canary shirt, and an orange tie speckled with blue dots. He congratulated himself for his elegance as he looked in the full-sized mirror of his bedroom.
An hour later, he arrived at his destination. The huge parking lot was filling quickly. He entered the modern construction, where concrete or brick walls alternated with glass sidings. He passed through the revolving door of the main entrance and took the stairs to the Carousel Room at the Top of the Fair. Spotting an attendant, he gave him a ten and said, “I’m looking for a tall woman with red hair. She’s probably in the restaurant.”
The man looked at him with disdain. “I don’t do
this sort of thing, sir.”
Surprised, Camilo said, “Give me back the ten, then.”
“What ten?” The attendant signaled for a security guard.
Camilo looked from one man to the other and grumbled, “Never mind.” Can’t trust anybody nowadays, he thought, and proceeded to the three-level restaurant. He descended a few steps and looked around. A huge glass wall provided a view of the entire racetrack. There was no action at the moment, and Camilo took in the environment. Sure enough, Rose had just arrived and was taking a place at one of the tables. Camilo sneaked into the seat in front of her. Rose had her back to him as she took off her green leather jacket.
As soon as Rose sat, Camilo said, “You look terrible. Retirement doesn’t agree with you.” It took a minute for Rose to recover from the surprise. She shrugged and looked at the sheet with the information on the races. “Have you seen much TV lately?” Rose didn’t react. “There was an interesting report on a young girl taken to the UH hospital some time ago. They asked the public if they could come up with the name of the girl or of the woman who pushed the wheelchair in.” This time Rose raised her eyes from the sheet and looked at Camilo. “I knew I’d get your attention,” he said, and laughed.
The first race started, and the restaurant filled with voices encouraging the patrons’ favorites.
Rose raised her voice to carry above the surrounding clamor. “How do they know about it?”
“Procedure, my dear. There’s a camera at the emergency entrance of the hospital. They recorded you as you grabbed a wheelchair and again when you pushed Dolores in.” He laughed again. “You’re on TV. You’re a celebrity.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Modern technology. They may replay that piece one of these evenings. Watch it.” He took a business card out of his breast pocket. “I can offer you a secure place to hide. I moved my business to a safe location.” He tossed the card on top of the racing sheet. “It’ll cost you a pretty penny, though. You’d have to supervise the girls for half the money I paid you before. Consider it a tax on stupidity.” He rose and slipped out of his seat as smoothly as he’d slipped in.
Thirty-two
The Falcon International Reservoir, commonly called Falcon Lake, was known for its beauty and leisurely activities, even if recent robberies, apparently carried out by authentic pirates, had decreased the number of tourists interested in fishing the lake’s rich waters. The reservoir, which partially defined the natural border between the States and Mexico, was also an ideal place for smuggling—goods or people.
Seated in his shabby vehicle a few feet from shore, Alvaro Luzardo, aka Vicente Perdiz, waited for the conventional signal—two short-range fireworks coming from across the Mexican border. After half an hour, the sky was punctuated by little luminous dots. Soon after, the sound of a small engine resounded close by. Vicente exited the old ambulance he used as a means of transportation and descended toward the shoreline, carrying the bag that would pay for the human merchandise. Helped by two men, three girls jumped out of the boat, giggling softly. Vicente turned on his flashlight and quickly inspected the girls’ faces and bodies. They were very young, and beautiful, Vicente noted with sadness. Thin like willows, with scarves covering their hair, they looked like sisters. It was dangerous to use any sort of light so close to the water, but he couldn’t resist looking at them, in case one of the girls was his missing sister. The transaction took place smoothly with the exchange of only a few words and a lot of money. Vicente led the girls to his vehicle, helped them inside, and gave them each a bag with food and water. He began driving toward Laredo.
The accommodation for the night was in a private house whose owner, Pedro, observed absolute silence in exchange for a couple hundred dollars. Vicente gave the girls new clothing for the following day and sent them to bed. Their sleeping quarters opened only to the room he was going to use as a bedroom. Vicente ate a snack, drank a carton of milk, and went to sleep. Tomorrow, he’d start the long journey that would take the three girls to a place of degradation and slavery.
***
The following morning, Vicente woke up to the smell of fried beans. The house was providing breakfast, and so he rose, showered and got dressed. He went to the girls’ room, in semidarkness because of the lack of windows, and shouted in Spanish, “Up, up, breakfast is ready!” They were still asleep, two of the girls lying in the larger bed embracing each other. They didn’t budge, so he repeated the order, louder this time. Finally, they got up, and Vicente pointed toward the end of the house. “Shower and get dressed.” Obediently, one girl followed the other toward the corridor off Vicente’s bedroom.
Vicente helped himself from what was on the table: tortillas, eggs, refried beans, and tomato-chili. He finished eating and poured himself a large cup of hot coffee. The girls, dressed in the jeans and colorful tops he’d given them the previous night, made their appearance. Vicente’s heart skipped a beat, and then another. One of the girls was blond, her hair framing a perfectly oval face; two green eyes looked at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Ohmygod, he thought. She’s Helenita, Charles MacMillan’s daughter! I’ve found her!
Without betraying his surprise, he asked the girls to spell out their names. One was Helenita. Vicente exchanged a few words with the house’s owner and went to his vehicle. He placed a call to Charles MacMillan, got his voicemail, and left a brief message requesting a call back. He added it was urgent.
His plan was to drive non-stop up to the outskirts of Little Rock, where another safe house waited. But long before he reached the destination, the girls spotted a sign advertising a McDonald’s. They got excited and asked to stop there. Vicente ignored them, but when the sign appeared again, a few miles ahead, they started chanting the name of the fast-food chain over and over. Then one hollered, “Stop, stop!”
“It’s dangerous,” he said. “You don’t speak English.”
“I speak,” said Helenita. “I know hamburger and French fries.”
It was the first time Vicente was driving a group of young girls across the States. Maybe he could risk taking them to a public place for a bite to eat. He slowed down and said, in Spanish, “If I take you with me, you promise you don’t say a word of Spanish and call me uncle Al?”
“Sì, Sì!” they answered in unison.
Vicente exited Interstate 30 and parked at the far end of the lot. The girls were out in a jiffy, and two of them took his hand, one on each side. As they entered, they clung to him, visibly scared. They pointed at what they wanted to eat and moved quietly to a table. Vicente ordered the food and joined them soon after.
Vicente gobbled a chicken sandwich, opened his cell, and texted a message to Charles MacMillan: “Found the merchandise. Be at the agreed-upon spot the day after tomorrow at 9:00 p.m. with fifty grand.”
He watched the girls tackle their order of French fries with voracity, ketchup smudges on their faces. They were women in bloom; the transition from childhood to adulthood just concluded. Who in the world would like to destroy their joyful youth? For the first time, Vicente felt anguish. Until today he’d played the role of the Adjuster. He was a broker, a middleman of some sort. He’d looked the part, tried to fit the role because it was in this capacity he hoped to find his missing sister. But this operation had taken him to the core of child abduction. Before he was an accomplice to criminal activities, now he was a pure and simple criminal. Was he justified in the pursuit of finding and saving his sister? Except for Helenita, who hopefully would be taken into her father’s custody, the other two would be delivered to Camilo Estorbar, who would sell their fragile bodies and corrupt their souls.
“Uncle Al?” Vicente’s mind was called to reality. “Uncle Al?” the girls repeated.
“Yes?”
“All done,” Helenita spelled out, pride painted in her face.
Vicente smiled. “Then it’s time to go and do a bit more driving.” He rose, piled up the trays, and took them to the garbage bin.
&nbs
p; When they arrived at the safe house, the girls went to sleep right away. Vicente opened his cell and found a message from MacMillan. “I can’t come up with the fifty in such a short time.” Vicente went back to his shabby-looking vehicle and called MacMillan. He didn’t wait for the man to say hello. “This is The Adjuster. I’m due to cross the lake and be in Bayfield the day after tomorrow at 9:00 p.m. You can have your daughter at that time. If you aren’t there with the money, I’ll deliver all the girls, including Helenita, to Camilo Estorbar.”
“Have a heart. I can’t come up with fifty so quickly. Can’t you stall the operation?”
“What you call the operation is a dangerous undertaking. It requires clockwork, or we get caught.”
“I don’t have the fifty. Besides, how can I be sure she is my daughter?”
“It’s a chance you have to take. You said there would be one girl in a million with blond hair and green eyes in Mexico.”
There was silence on the other side, so Vicente said, “You always claimed that you were ready to pay up to a hundred grand for her, on the spot. What happened?”