Okay, Squires thought to himself, Mexico it is.
Goddamn, that felt good! He’d finally made a decision. It put a little smile on his face until Tula handed him his cell phone as if the thing was broken, telling him, “I can’t hear what my aunt Isabel is saying anymore. She was right in the middle of telling me something important when we got cut off.”
“I told you, we don’t have good reception out here,” Squires replied.
“But I wanted to hear what she was telling me!”
As the man slipped the phone into his pocket, he paid attention because the girl sounded so serious, which is why he asked her, “What’d she say that’s got you so riled up?”
Tula replied, “My aunt said an important woman called her tonight. A woman who works for the government helping immigrants. She was very worried because she said the police are looking for you and me.”
Squires felt his heart begin to pound. “Your aunt said that?” he asked.
“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. The woman said they’ve been talking about us on the radio and television all night. Some kind of special alert for children. It has a color in the name.”
Squires whispered, “Shit! An AMBER Alert.”
Reacting to the expression on the man’s face, Tula added quickly, “Yes-but it’s okay, don’t worry! The first thing my aunt will do is call the woman and tell her that you are my friend. She’s probably talking to the woman right now. Telling her that I’m very safe and happy. My aunt promised.”
Squires said, “Jesus Christ, an AMBER Alert. What next?” but was listening, wanting to hear better news.
Tula told him, “Then my aunt will call the church and speak with the priest-she knows him very well because she picked tomatoes in Immokalee for a season. His name is Father Jimenez, and she will ask him to telephone the police tonight and tell them the same thing.”
“Talk slower,” Squires said. “Tell the cops what?”
“That I’m with you because I want to be with you. So no one will be worried. My aunt was so relieved to hear my voice, she was crying. But she promised me, so I know she will do it.”
Tula held up the paper she was carrying. “In the morning, I will call the woman myself. I have her number here, too.”
Squires took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before he said, “Maybe you should call the immigration woman now. I can back up. Usually, reception doesn’t go to hell until I get to the gate.”
But then he realized that turning around, driving toward Immokalee, might be a mistake. The woman from state immigration would want to know Tula’s exact location. That would bring the cops, asking questions.
The girl made up his mind, saying, “The police will believe Father Jimenez. A priest? Of course they will believe him. Plus, I told Father Jimenez that you are a wonderful man. He wanted to meet you, but I told him you are shy about coming into churches.”
Squires liked it when Tula said that. He began to relax a little and feel at ease as the girl added, “Do you now believe that the Maiden is watching over us? When you do God’s work, good things happen to you!”
By then, they were at the gate to the hunting camp.
Squires began to suspect trouble when he realized there was a light on inside his RV, the vehicle sitting up on blocks in the darkness. He and Tula had just gotten out of the truck, which was when the big man placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder, stopping her.
“Hold it, sis,” he said as he stared at the light. He knew he’d switched off the generator before leaving just in case he and the girl didn’t return. Plus, he would’ve heard the little Honda engine running if it was on.
That meant that someone inside had a flashlight. Or had lit a candle, or an oil lamp maybe. But where was the person’s truck?
Squire’s head pivoted from the mountain of cypress trees to the west, then to the east, where there were shadowed pine flats and a distant halo glow that was Lauderdale.
There had to be a vehicle somewhere. No one in their right mind would hike cross-country through the Everglades, not this late. Not half an hour before midnight… unless… unless they had parked their vehicle behind the RV. Which was possible. But how could they have gotten through the gate? The gate had been locked when he and Tula had arrived just as he’d left it.
Thinking that gave Squires a prickly feeling along his spine. Frankie had the only other key.
Squires reached out, patted Tula’s arm and whispered, “Hang on for a second, sis. Something ain’t right about this.”
He took a few slow steps toward the trailer, favoring his right leg, but then stopped abruptly when he saw what might have been a person moving in the shadows behind the trailer.
Squires couldn’t be sure. He had left the truck running, lights on, so he could see to unlock the door to the generator shed. He didn’t have a flashlight, so all he saw was a blur of movement like someone ducking for cover.
Squires was thinking about hurrying back to the truck and opening the hidden compartment to get his revolver and night vision binoculars. That’s when Tula whispered, “There’s someone here. I smell cigarette smoke. And perfume, too.”
Squires thought, Shit. It’s Frankie.
Yes, it was. The large woman appeared, standing in the RV’s doorway, shining a flashlight in his eyes, then focused the beam on Tula. Squires was shielding his eyes when he heard Frankie say, “Well, well, look at what we have here. Harris, you dumb pile of shit, I don’t know what to do first-have some fun with the pretty little wettail you brought me or call the cops and hope there’s a reward for turning in a kidnapper.”
The woman was very drunk and probably stoned. Squires could tell by the way she slurred her words. Frankie had to grab the railing as she started down the steps, adding, “Either way, I want the goddamn money you stole from me. Sixty thousand dollars in cash, you son of a bitch. You really thought I’d let you get away with it?”
For a woman, Frankie had the lowest voice Squires had ever heard. It was from using too much primobolan and shooting testosterone, which the woman lied about, too. But there was no disguising what steroids had done to her voice-and the female parts of her body, too.
Squires waved and called, “Hey, sugar babe, I was hoping you’d be here!” like he was glad to see the woman, but then he nudged Tula toward the truck, leaning to whisper, “Get in and lock the doors. Don’t come out ’til I tell you.”
Tula yanked her arm away, though, being stubborn, and said, “I’m not leaving you! You’re afraid of her, I can tell. I’m staying with you.”
Frankie, on the grass now, wearing tight jeans, her breasts ballooning out of a tank top, was close enough to hear the girl, because she laughed, saying, “Now, isn’t that sweet! You found yourself a loyal little chula. A cute young one, too. Harris, know what that tells me? It tells me you haven’t screwed her yet. Even if she’s a virgin, she wouldn’t still be hanging with you. She’d be ready for someone bigger and better by now.”
In a chiding voice, Frankie spoke to Tula, saying, “I’ll bet you’re still pure as the snow, aren’t you, nina? Then this goddamn piece of white trash comes along and kidnaps you. But you don’t have to be afraid of him now. Come here to Frankie”-the woman was patting her thigh as if calling a dog-“I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
Squires felt Tula move close to him, throwing an arm around his bad leg for protection.
He wasn’t afraid of Frankie-he’d never admitted it to himself, anyway-Tula was wrong about that. But the woman did make him nervous, particularly when she was as drunk as she was now.
Nervous, yes, that’s the way Squires felt, but he could also feel a testosterone heat moving to his ears.
“You shut your mouth about this girl,” Squires said to Frankie in a warning tone as he stepped in front of Tula. “She’s not used to your garbage talk. And stop your damn swearing in front of her. This little girl’s religious.”
Frankie laughed, “Priceless,” as Squires continued, “
You go on back inside the trailer. If you want to talk to me, I’ll get the generator going and we’ll talk. But you leave this girl alone.”
Squires was lying about the generator. The moment Frankie closed the trailer door, he’d load Tula into the truck and they’d get the hell out of there.
Go where, though? Frankie knew what she was talking about when she’d mentioned kidnapping. Even if the priest told the cops that everything was okay, a call from Frankie might put them back on the alert. The woman would drop the dime on him the moment he left, Squires was sure of it.
Or would she?
Mismatched details were going through Squires’s mind as he tried to view the situation clearly. Maybe Frankie didn’t have so much leverage over him after all, he decided. Once he was in jail, how could the woman force him to give back the money he’d taken? She’d have to admit to the feds that they’d piled up a ton of cash selling steroids. They hadn’t paid a dime in taxes, either.
No, Frankie couldn’t risk that.
The woman was drunk. She was a vicious twat, but she was smart. She’d realize that getting the sixty grand was the most important thing, once he reminded her. It caused Squires to wonder if maybe he should offer the woman some kind of deal… which is when he heard an engine start in the distance.
A second later, a truck loaded with men came fishtailing out from behind the trailer, the truck’s lights blinding him and the girl. In the same instant, a Mexican voice from behind Squires said, “Hey there, jelly boy! You stand real still or I’ll blow your damn head off.
Squires turned.
Christ! There was Laziro Victorino, grinning at him with his gold teeth. And pointing a shotgun at him-a Browning Maxus 12-gauge that Squires had kept locked in the trailer gun closet.
Victorino and Frankie together?
It took Squires a slow, stunned moment to realize what had happened. Yeah… it had to be. Frankie and the gangbanger had teamed up. That was the only explanation. Frankie had somehow hooked up with the V-man, probably today at Red Citrus. After the woman had discovered the money missing, she would have been in the perfect mood to seduce someone like Victorino, a guy who could help her get what she wanted.
Even so, this surprised Squires, because Frankie was the most racist person he’d ever met. But here it was, staring him right in the face. And the two of them had been at it for a while, sharing some fun together, judging from the confidential looks Victorino and Frankie were now exchanging. Both of them drunk and probably cocaine crazy.
Squires had seen the woman like this many times. And the V-man was no different, he guessed-probably worse. Drunk as they were, neither one of them gave a damn about what they did or the consequences. They wanted the cash. But the V-man probably wanted Tula more or he wouldn’t have wasted his time-a girl Tula’s age was worth a lot more than sixty thousand to a business shark like him.
And they would kill him, Squires realized. They had to. Use the shotgun, but, more likely, Victorino’s box cutter. He’d do it slowly to impress Frankie, a woman probably twisted enough to video the whole thing.
That made Squires feel sort of queasy. Then he felt worse when he realized that, no, Victorino and his gangbangers would be the ones to video his murder. Get it all on their iPhones and add another snuff film to their collection.
This was all shocking information for Squires to process. He didn’t expect loyalty from Frankie, but he didn’t expect her to help a Mexican dude murder him, either. He and the redhead had spent more than four years together, most of it either screwing or screaming at each other, but they’d had some good times, too. Could Frankie let go of all that so fast?
Squires got his answer when Frankie called to Victorino, “Don’t shoot him now, dumbass! Get them in the cookshack, I’ve got the camera all set. Hurry up, it’s almost midnight!”
Cameras in the steroid shack-this was another surprise to Squires. Why not the trailer, where they had already built a porno set complete with lights and a computer?
The V-man was wagging an index finger at Tula as he pointed the shotgun at Squires, saying something in Spanish to the girl-probably ordering her into the steroid shack-before telling Frankie, “What’s the rush, now? Bring some duct tape. I’ll hold the gun on your boyfriend while you tape him.”
The woman replied, “The greaser genius giving orders again,” sounding sloppy drunk now. But still sober enough to remember that Victorino enjoyed killing women, because she added, “Duct tape. Check. I’d love to tape that worthless piece of shit.”
Squires watched the redhead walk toward the RV but then stop near the steps, where she reached down into a box. When he heard Tula scream, “Don’t you touch that!” he remembered the fledgling bird the girl had saved. Could the thing still be alive?
Yes, it was. The egret was squawking and flapping its bare wings as Frankie held the bird up in the light. The woman was grinning as she said to Victorino, “Do you Mexicans like to eat squab? I think we’ve got a bottle of champagne around her someplace.” Before the man could reply, though, the woman said, “Ouch! The little bastard just bit me!” and hurled
the bird hard against the aluminum siding of the RV.
Tula gave a little shriek and swung her head away, but Victorino thought it was pretty funny, the hard-assed redhead getting bit by a bird.
Staring at Squires, the V-man grinned as he said to Frankie, “See? We’re having ourselves some fun now. What’s the hurry? Come back with the duct tape, then we gonna have more fun making movies. Hell, this dumbass probably has the money on him, maybe stashed somewhere inside his truck. It won’t be hard to find.”
As Tula sobbed, Squires was thinking, The hell it won’t.
He’d built the hidden compartment himself, using a cutting torch and the help of a magic mechanic friend of his. Frankie didn’t know about the compartment, because while she sometimes drove his Ford Roush, she never messed with his hunting truck.
More pressing on Squires’s mind was the fact that Victorino and Frankie had planned this out together. Cameras and duct tape? Those were the principal props in the few snuff films that Squires had seen. They were sickening things to watch, although he’d never admitted that to Frankie, who always had a glassy, heated look on her face by the time one of those videos ended.
Thinking about it caused Squires’s heart to pound, a slow fury building in him. Victorino would use that shitty hardware-store knife on him. He felt certain of it. And then he and Frankie would have more fun together by raping the girl, probably filming that, too.
Then an even worse scenario flashed into Squires’s mind: They would video what they did to Tula first, just to piss him off. Make him watch the whole sick business before they got around to killing him.
Again the question came into Squires’s mind: Why the cookshack, a room that was all chemicals and propane tanks but no bed?
A moment later, Victorino’s gangbanger buddies were jumping out of the truck-a Dodge Ram-as it skidded to a stop, running toward Squires and Tula. The V-man took a few quick steps, his eyes still fixed on Squires, and scooped the girl up in his left arm.
Tula screamed for help, yelling, “He has me, make him let me go!”
Squires took a step but then stopped, frozen by the gun and what was happening.
Now the girl was hollering to her invisible friend, “Jehanne! I need your help, Jehanne!” as she slapped at Victorino with her hands. Then the skinny girl shot a heartbreaking look into Squires’s eyes, pleading, “Don’t let him hurt me. All I want is my mother!”
Without even thinking about it, Squires began limping toward the V-man. Slow at first, then faster, taking long strides despite his bad hamstring.
Squires knew that the shotgun was loaded with bird shot, which was what he and his buddies used to hunt dove and quail. Little tiny pellets half the size of match heads. Hell, he’d been hit by more than a few of those pellets when he and his drunken buddies shot at birds in a cross fire. They didn’t hurt much, and it took almost
a direct hit to break the skin.
Not that it mattered, because inside Squires’s brain something had snapped. He felt an invincible cerebral combustion surging through him. It caused the steroid oils, and the D-bombs he’d swallowed, to engorge his monster face with blood.
Laziro Victorino screamed a warning as Squires moved toward him, dragging his right leg with every step. The gangbanger screamed again as he hurled the girl to the ground, pointed the shotgun and this time pulled the trigger.
Squires jolted, grunting at the stinging impact. But that didn’t matter, either. The giant stumbled, regained his balance and kept coming.
Arms outstretched, Harris Squires was hell-bent on getting his fingers around the V-man’s neck because now the little saint was calling for his help again, screaming, “Please, please, Harris! Don’t let these men take me away from you!”
THIRTEEN
The reason I turned east, toward what turned out to be Harris Squires’s hunting camp, was because after touring Immokalee, seeing a helicopter and a half dozen cops parked outside a church, I decided that my detective friend might be wrong when he told me that Squires and Tula had left Immokalee and were now on their way back to Red Citrus trailer park.
It was 11:20 p.m. when Leroy Melinski called my cell to give me what he believed was the good news. I had cruised Immokalee’s slow streets and then headed out of town, occasionally glancing at the satellite aerial that showed Squires’s four hundred acres of what was probably saw grass and cypress trees.
“The girl wasn’t kidnapped,” the detective explained when I answered. “She told a bunch of people-including a priest and one of her aunts-that Squires volunteered to drive her around and help her find her mother. So there you have it, Doc. Turns out your kidnapper is just being a Good Samaritan.”
The reception on my phone was fuzzy, so I said, “You’ve got to be kidding. Say that again.”
Melinski told me, “Harris Squires and the girl stopped at some church, a pretty big one, so there’s confirmation on all this. A couple hundred people listened to her give a speech or a sermon, whatever you call it. Squires got out of his truck to listen, but he didn’t come inside.”
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