Iced tea was the unanimous choice, and while Arthur and Emilia made small talk, I walked into the kitchen, took out my phone, and sent off a quick text to Marisa. By the time I finished filling the glasses with ice, she had replied, saying she would leave work and “save me” in a few minutes.
I walked back into the living room with the glasses of tea, prepared to offer a mundane comment about the early spring weather we'd been experiencing the last few days, when I saw Emilia more engaged than normal. She seemed entranced by every word that Arthur spoke, most of which focused on the abduction and his adoration for his missing wife Trudy.
They both took the glasses without losing a beat in their conversation.
“I feel guilty, I suppose,” said Arthur, who had virtually no emotional filter at this point. ”I keep asking myself, why? Why us? Out of all the couples strolling around Puerto Vallarta, including many with lots of money, why would they choose a couple who has grown to love the land, the people, the culture? And, most importantly, why did they take Trudy and not me?
“I keep replaying everything in my mind to see if I could have or should have done something differently. It makes no sense.”
Arthur's stare drifted off to the corner of the room. Emilia reached out and touched his knee. He looked up and offered a fleeting smile.
“I'm so sorry you've experienced this horrible episode.” Emilia looked directly into Arthur's eyes. “I can feel your pain and guilt, but please know that you are not at fault. It's sometimes very difficult to explain why humans hurt other humans, other than for their own selfish ways. Please know that I will keep you and Trudy in my prayers.” Emilia then crossed herself.
“You are a kind soul, just like your daughter.”
While Arthur wouldn't know the difference having just met Mama Emilia, it was odd for me to witness her offering such compassion. Marisa had told me numerous times that she could hardly recall feeling love from her mother that was warm, caring, or genuine. Yet, I was observing it before my very eyes to someone she hardly knew.
“Michael, I need to run and ensure that my broker deposits this money into the account number they gave us.” Arthur rose from the couch and twisted his back and face at the same time, obviously weary from the drama.
I placed my hand on his shoulder as we both walked to the door.
“Make sure you call me as soon as you hear back from the kidnappers confirming the deposit and giving you the details on the flight.” I avoided expressing my budding concerns that this felt more like a rescue mission.
Before I could reach for the door, Marisa scrambled in somewhat hurriedly. She glanced at me to see if the mood had gone south since her mother had arrived. It was obvious she too was concerned about Arthur's mental stability.
“Arthur was just leaving,” I said, “but we're doing okay, all things considered.”
“Oh good. Glad Mother was on her best behavior,” Marisa said.
Emilia looked down for a moment.
“I've had wonderful company from your mother,” said Arthur, waving back at Emilia.
Marisa hugged Arthur tightly.
“Take care of yourself,” she said to Arthur, momentarily glancing at me. “I'm sure Michael and you will work through this, and Trudy will be home in no time.”
I walked into the kitchen to get Marisa a tea. She peeked her head around the corner.
“It's Friday, so make sure my drink isn't a virgin,” she said, winking at me.
“So, Mama, for what do we owe this latest unexpected visit?”
“As I told Michael, I'm very sorry for intruding. I thought our last visit was cut short, so I decided to return”.
“Really, Emilia, it's good to have you here,” I said. “And I can tell Arthur appreciated your sentiments. I've been really worried about him.”
“I'm glad to have helped a bit. It's truly tragic what he and his wife have gone through—are still going through,” she said sympathetically.
Given our collective eyewitness accounts of Arthur's condition, I decided now was the best time to pitch my next idea to my supportive wife. I waited for her to take a few sips of her vodka tonic.
“I think we can all see how fragile Arthur is. I'm really concerned about him, mentally, emotionally, and even physically,” I said, setting up my case. “I'm not sure how much more he can take.”
Both ladies nodded their heads in agreement. I went on to explain to Marisa, with Mama Emilia listening in, the latest feedback from the abductors—they want Arthur to personally deliver the second half of the ransom, and then they'll let him bring Trudy back.
“It sounds like good news, finally, but I'm fearful for Arthur going down there by himself, with some pilot he doesn't know,” Marisa said. “Do we need to consider going to the FBI?”
Everything had unfolded so quickly, I hadn't spent much time thinking about the FBI—at least since the initial warning to not bring in law enforcement.
“I don't know, Marisa. If I put myself in Arthur's shoes, and you were the one being held captive in a foreign country, and I'd already spoken with the kidnappers and promised to do as they say...if I then got the FBI involved and somehow the kidnappers learned about this, I'd really be concerned they'd kill you and we'd never see you again.” That silenced the room.
After a few moments, I made my pitch.
“Given the situation, and Arthur's state of mind and weakened physical body, I think I need to go with him down to Mexico, just to ensure everything goes okay and that we actually do bring Trudy home safely.” My jaw clenched, bracing for the response.
Marisa didn't seem to be entirely surprised, yet I could see she had a specific thought she wanted to convey. She set her drink on the coffee table and clasped her hands.
“I know how you feel about Arthur. I just know that I can't lose you, no matter what.” She wiped a tear from her eye before it had smeared any makeup. “I'm just not sure this is the right thing to do.”
I quickly scooted over to the couch, and sat next to her, placing my hand gently over hers and looking into her eyes.
“Listen, it's pretty apparent these assholes only want money. But Arthur is a mess...understandably so. I don't know if he could make a rational decision at this point. I'll be there to just make sure it all goes smoothly.”
“But you don't know anything about these kidnappers. Who knows what they'll do?”
“I'm no superhero, that's for sure. But I have a good head on my shoulders. We know they want the money and we want Trudy. Arthur needs me. I can't turn a blind eye now.”
Marisa let out a resolved breath.
“I know what kind of person you are and how much your close friends mean to you,” Marisa said. “You will go to Mexico to help your friend, our friend, Arthur. But promise me, you must promise me that you will do everything in your power ... I don't know, just be safe.”
I held up my hand like I was taking the oath. “I promise.”
We hugged and then kissed gently, while mostly ignoring Mama Emilia, who was watching intently but not saying a word.
“After everything we've been through. You are my world. I love you with all of my heart.” Marisa wiped yet another stray tear.
“You know how much that means to me.” I clutched Marisa's head against my chest. “I love you too, baby.”
I could see out of the corner of my eye Mama Emilia using a tissue to dot her eyes.
We sat back and started to converse with Mama Emilia on lighter topics. But my mind slowly drifted back to Arthur's earlier comments and our new plan. Why wouldn't they just get all of the ransom money wired to their account? And what's their motivation for luring Arthur down there?
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Thank you for your generosity and your company for this sometimes lonely old lady,” Mama Emilia quipped as she walked toward her guest room. She paused, took a few steps back and, somewhat awkwardly, put her arm around her daughter's shoulder. Marisa reciprocated.
“I hope yo
u sleep well, Mama,” Marisa said softly.
Emilia sat in the small blue chair next to the bed. Her mind was still swirling with the images of Arthur's grief, as well as envisioning what Trudy might be enduring. The more she was exposed to Arthur's tribulations, the more she felt a sense of culpability, since she truly believed the root of this abduction somehow, some way was connected to the drug smuggling industry, in which she actively participates. She shook her head both in disgust and remorse...for the terror and grief inflicted by certain people from her home country as well as her association to the seamy drug world. She never allowed herself to feel remorse or a sense of responsibility toward the after effects of the drug trade, yet for a moment now, she thought about all the dreams she'd fashioned from the deluge of money flowing in. It was all dirty money.
Pushing that thought aside, the woman who hoped to be a grandmother some day in the near future focused instead on what she believed was a suicide mission to try to bring back Trudy. She didn't know a thing about the actual kidnappers, but she knew their type—ruthless, conniving, and inhumane. She truly liked Michael and believed her daughter had married a man who was worthy of her special qualities, as much as any mother would dream. She wrestled with what, if anything, she should do. If she took action, she might have to tell her daughter some or all of her sordid tale. It also might jeopardize her relationship with her business associates And, of course, there was the money. Her lifeblood to a better life, not just for her, but hopefully, some day for Marisa and her family. Yes, it was dirty money. Does that really make it any less spendable? Does it really matter?
Emilia knew she was an expert on how to separate truth from reality, starting with her husband's exploits many years ago. As a virtual card-carrying member of the drug trafficking industry, she'd learned to ignore the consequences of her actions, the lives it would ruin, the people who would become addicted, the families it would tear apart, the bloody trail of death.
This stream of thoughts initiated tears in her now, although she couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why. It was all such a twisted hairball. She had ignored so much, but she couldn't discount the fact that her daughter's husband was likely walking into a death trap.
She thought momentarily about who from her present life, or past life, could be of assistance. She centered on one name. She reached for her cell phone, scrolled through her numerous contacts, and spotted the one number she hoped was still active. She took a deep breath to give her conscience one more opportunity to filter out the emotional connection to her family. Nothing happened, and she hit enter on her phone.
“This is Francisco. Can I help you?” said the affable man.
“Hola, Francisco. This is Emilia, Edgar's wife. It's been a long time.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Shit,” grunted Zachary in disdain. He shifted positions for the umpteenth time. He couldn't find that one spot that would allow him to settle down and feel comfortable. His physical ailments were palpable—separated shoulder, cracked knee cap, cuts and bruises up and down both legs and on his chest, and a resonating headache. His mental anguish was slightly less obvious. After spending a night at the hospital, he felt shackled to his bed and the family sofa in the main living area, almost forcing him to recall the night of the crash.
It was Saturday night. He couldn't recall the last time he'd stayed home on a Saturday night, a party night for anyone over the age of ten and under the age of ninety. Maybe if Christmas was on the sixth night of the week. Maybe.
“Sweetie, are you able to eat any of your chicken rice soup?” his mother, Penelope, asked as she practically skipped into the living room. She was coddling him like he was six years old. Zachary chose not to answer. He stared blankly at the eighty-inch flat-screen, oblivious to what was actually on the TV. It was only motion and noise, a hopeful respite from his tortuous thoughts.
His mother walked around and sat next to him, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “So what are you watching?” she asked.
No answer.
“Do you want me to get out some cards, and we can play a game?”
She wasn't there.
“You'll always be my little boy.” She took the fleece blanket and carefully covered his toes. “I'm sure you'll start feeling more normal once you heal a bit and you can start hanging around your friends again, maybe early this next week.”
“You'll be interested to know that I spoke to Thomas' mother again about an hour ago, and they're more hopeful that he'll eventually be able to walk again. So, that's good news.” Her eyes turned downward.
Zachary dug his fingers into the couch, under the blanket. His insides felt like a volcano, one that had been dormant for years. But his mother's voice, and what she represented in his life, was forcing it to churn. He was on the verge of a colossal eruption.
He wasn't sure if he should tell his mother to go to hell and leave him alone, or if he should yell at the top of his lungs, asking why she and his father hadn't punished him for what they knew had happened. Instead, they helped plant the seeds for excuses.
Acting more like an attorney than a concerned parent, Zachary's father had arrived at the hospital before the police had a chance to speak with him, providing ample time for the twisted truth to be created from vapor. Zachary and Thomas had been lost and found themselves on an unsavory street. When they stopped to ask for directions, a hooded vagrant, whom they couldn't describe, pulled a gun on them. Zachary tried to drive away; gun shots went off, blowing out the windshield of his Escalade, causing him to accidentally run over the man and crash into the pole.
With his father nodding encouragement behind the officer's shoulder, Zachary had recited the fairy tale to near perfection.
Zachary grew more irritated, gripping the couch with as much strength as he could muster in his good arm. He thought about his father's long-term goal of Zachary being elected a US senator. What a pathetic joke. It had haunted him his entire life, hung over his head like a noose ready to drop around his neck. Finally, when his father had the ultimate hammer to step up and drive home the most difficult of life's lessons, he failed his son.
Zachary recalled a recent history class—one of the few he stayed awake in—where his teacher discussed Ted Kennedy and the Chappaquiddick scandal. He was a rising political figure from a prominent family, where the patriarch relentlessly drove his sons to achieve more, a higher political influence. Ted had been the chosen one.
Zachary Taylor knew he was supposed to be the chosen one.
Zachary quickly thought about the ramifications of their ill-fated trip. He recalled the initial gun blast, the dog chomping into his friend, and then the sight of the man who brought back such horrific memories. His mind nearly drifted off into a catatonic state. He blinked once and relived the frightening last few seconds. He exhaled. Thankfully, Thomas didn't die from his injuries.
Penelope kissed her youngest son on the forehead and walked away, no doubt still denying what her son had done and whom he had become. The moody teenager could feel his throat constrict, and he had to force out a breath. He gripped the remote control so hard he could hear the plastic edges snapping. He flung it against the brick fireplace, shattering fragments across the room.
Seeking refuge from his mounting fury, Zachary grabbed the cane resting on the arm of the sofa and limped up the stairs to his expansive bedroom, nearly the size of a suite. He locked his door, opened his desk drawer, and pulled out a baggie. He grabbed his lighter and slid the window upward. He gingerly sat down on the window sill and lit up a joint. Staring into the darkness across the Taylor estate, he could feel the weed take the edge off. He recalled when he was younger that a similar joint would have knocked him on his ass. No such luck tonight.
He was forced to continue living this shameful life. His parents wouldn't stop it, and he didn't have the balls to face it. He had yet to hit rock bottom.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Where the hell did I put it?” I asked no one other than myself
, momentarily glancing downward.
I'd caught myself driving down a busy street, left hand on the steering wheel and my right hand searching for my cell phone, which had fallen between the crevice of the front passenger's seat and the console. Almost unnoticeably, my second hand joined the blind search as I used my knees to steer—a skill I'd acquired many moons ago when I had a driving paper route. Usually, I stayed on the paved road, at least when another car was driving by.
“Ah shit!” I glimpsed back at the road to see that I'd veered into oncoming traffic. My heart skipped at least a couple beats, but I quickly corrected my path. At the next stoplight, I found the gadget and safely stored it in my bag.
I let out a tired breath and rubbed my head, feeling a bit of perspiration from the early morning stress inducer...after a late night of intense discussion.
Arthur had called me just before midnight. He spoke for five minutes straight without a single pause. After splashing some water on my face, I asked him a series of questions to get the full story. His broker had advised him not to deposit the full half million into the offshore account, saying federal authorities would red flag those types of transactions. Depositing smaller increments would avoid unwanted legal eyes, but would result in failing to complete the full transaction by the forty-eight-hour deadline given by Trudy's kidnappers. Arthur was beside himself with indecision. I threw on some clothes and met Arthur at his office. Chinese food boxes were scattered on his desk, filling the room with a ripe fragrance of Mongolian beef and vegetable eggrolls. After much debate, we called the kidnappers. The familiar accented voice came alive, and we explained our dilemma. He didn't ask any questions, only dead air for what must have been a full minute. Finally, he spoke: “We will be checking the deposits each day. We will be in touch soon.”
On the way back home, I weighed the outcome of what should have felt like a mini-victory. These kidnappers' inexperience was obvious on so many levels. Yet, I still couldn't connect the dots on why they'd want Arthur to personally deliver the last half of the ransom money. I hit the bed and fell asleep before I could grab the covers.
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 32