by Jon Land
“I want it all,” Wayman said. “From the beginning.”
Drew’s eyes sharpened as he obliged, starting with his grandmother’s funeral and the letter given to him by Kornbloom. From there he went to his meeting with the man he thought was Masterson and the uneasy, or too easy, alliance forged between them. Finally he recounted the happening at Too-Jay’s and its bizarre aftermath, which left him alone and isolated, and, lastly, his link with Mace, which culminated in the events of the previous night.
In the end Wayman looked somewhat confused but interested. Before speaking, he finally accepted the pages held in Drew’s hands and returned to his seat. “So, what you’re telling me is that Mace was originally hired by the people who killed him to kill you.”
“Not exactly. Mace had another name, another identity. He told everyone in the camp he was a mercenary when he was really an assassin. Selinas or something.”
“Selinas?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“Just of him. Selinas isn’t just any assassin. He’s one of the best. Absolute top of the fucking line.”
“He ran into someone better,” Drew said sadly.
“Someone you got away from.”
“I was lucky.”
“Luck’s never enough, not in this business. You said Selinas, or Mace, killed several people for the employers he eventually turned on.”
“I couldn’t make out much of what he was saying by then.” Drew shrugged. “There were a pair of brothers, Riv-something, and a man named—I think it was Landros.”
The Timber Wolf’s eyebrows flickered. “Or Lantos?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Because there used to be a guy named Lantos who was quite an assassin himself. Got a bit old for the trade and moved into more mundane work. How he would be connected to Arthur Trelana and this drug business is beyond me, though.”
“But he is connected. Everything’s connected, including the grandmothers. I’m the one piece whoever is behind it all let slip away and how long that stays the case is probably up to you.”
Drew’s plea seemed to act like a leash on the Timber Wolf, pulling his interest back. His eyes dimmed. The intensity slid from his features, the indifferent chill back.
“You got yourself mixed up with the wrong people, Drew Jordan,” he said finally. “Damn wonder you’re still alive. You came here for my help and now I’m going to give it to you: put yourself in a cab and go to the Miami police. Tell them everything you told me. Take these pages to them.”
Drew felt his whole insides sink. Dry disappointment filled his mouth. His mind wandered strangely back to high school, to the coach’s announcement of the final cut and waiting for his name to be called among the team members. It never was, and now that parched, dull feeling had returned to his mouth, even a swallow denied him.
Wayman stood up impatiently. “Keep running, Drew Jordan, and you’ll only dig yourself a deeper hole. At least now the trail of whatever’s really happening here is still warm. You’ve got a chance of finding the right people to listen, maybe from the police, maybe from somewhere else. Stay on the lam and you’ll just be giving your friend’s killers more time to get you.”
Drew wanted to stop him right there, stop him and say that this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. You’re a hero. You’re supposed to help me. Let’s start all over from the time I hit your buzzer. But he just sat there in silence, gawking lamely ahead.
“You came to me for help,” Wayman continued, starting to walk from the living room up toward the foyer. “I’ve done the best I can. I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Drew said with the heaviness forced back. “I mean, if you’ve really done the best you can, what do you have to be sorry for?”
“For not being what you figured I would be. I’m sorry for not living up to whatever it was your friend Mace told you about me.”
Drew was on his feet now, as much angry as disappointed. “He didn’t tell me everything. He didn’t tell me why you quit.”
Wayman’s features froze. “It doesn’t matter. Why should you care?”
“Because it does matter, that’s all.” His eyes were on the holstered pistol now, not caring about it anymore. “I know about Corsica and the others. You were the best. No one else even came close. Then all of a sudden you just walked away. It doesn’t figure.”
“Drop it, kid. You don’t know as much as you think you do. Maybe I figured I’d done everything I could. Maybe I figured my luck had run out. What’s the difference?” He opened the front door. “This way, Drew Jordan. If it helps any, I really am sorry. You rang the bell expecting to find the Timber Wolf, and all you got was me.”
Drew stepped up from the living room and stopped even with Wayman near the door. “I’ll leave, but I don’t plan on turning myself in and letting them kill me. I’ve got to keep on the move, that’s the way I see it. I’ve got to find out who’s behind this and get them before they get me. I figure I’ve got to do the best I can at making up my own rules because maybe the world you used to thrive in and this one aren’t so different.” And he started through the door.
“Jordan,” the Timber Wolf called after him, a second call lost in midstream when it was obvious that the young man wasn’t going to turn.
Drew walked on through the gate and made sure it latched tight behind him.
He didn’t see the police cars until he was ten yards down West Broadview Drive still fronting Wayman’s property.
They screeched to a halt from all directions, men lunging from them with guns drawn. Drew barely had time to throw his hands in the air before they were on him, shoving him viciously face first into Wayman’s fence so his flesh kissed steel. One of the cops started reading him his rights. Others were talking, muttering, guns still drawn. He paid no attention, grimacing only when they yanked his hands together behind his back to fasten the handcuffs in place.
And inside the house the Timber Wolf turned away from the window in disgust.
What could I have done? he asked himself, squeezing the pair of bloodied pages Drew had neglected to retrieve from him. What could I have done?
Part Four:
Narco-Trafficanté
Chapter 14
THE INTERROGATION ROOM was not dark and cramped as Drew had expected, but spacious and frighteningly stark, overly bright with too many fluorescent bulbs.
Lieutenant Wexler pulled a chair out from under the single table, swung it around, and straddled it with his arms folded over the back.
“Let’s go over this from the beginning.”
“Why don’t you just listen to the tapes your buddies made?”
“I’d rather start fresh. Something might jar your memory. Can I get you a Coke or something?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. You change your mind, you let me know.” Wexler was probably a decade Drew’s senior. His face was taut and serious, hardly compassionate. “Let’s start with Arthur Trelana. A respected businessman, frequent giver to charities, sponsor of several southern Florida youth programs, and—”
“—an all-around nice guy. Gee whiz, being a major drug trafficker just worked wonders for him.”
“How did you learn he was a drug trafficker?”
“You mean you didn’t know? Sorry to enlighten you… .” And then, “From the letter.”
“The one from your grandmother?”
“I thought it was from my grandmother.”
“Right. The letter was a plant to make sure you would call a DEA agent who turned out to be dead for two days so he would help you kill Arthur Trelana.”
“You did listen to the tapes. I’m impressed.”
“So, with the help of this fake DEA agent, you went to Too-Jay’s and proceeded to murder Arthur Trelana.”
“No!” Drew broke in, his frustration peaking. “No! No! No! I didn’t kill Trelana. The man I told the others about did.”
“Yes. That’s the one you admit to killing.”
“Because I did
n’t have a choice.”
“Then why have we positively identified the gun you ditched as the weapon that killed Trelana?”
“Talk to the people who were in there. They saw what happened. They had to.”
“We have. All those who remember anything insist you killed everyone, including that innocent bystander who tried to intervene.”
“Innocent bystander?” Drew shook his head in mock disbelief. “That fucker tried to kill me after he killed the others, damnit! I should have let him. Then at least you’d be out there looking for the real killer. Or am I giving you too much credit?”
“That doesn’t explain the positive make we got on your gun.”
“I only fired two goddamn—” Drew cut himself off. “They set that up, too.”
“Who did?”
“The people behind all this.”
“Of course. The mysterious force you keep alluding to.” Wexler paused. “Now let’s talk about Selinas.”
“Mace,” Drew corrected. “I never knew him as Selinas.”
“Because as Selinas he was supposed to kill you, but as Mace he agreed to help you stay alive. Have I got that straight?”
“Close. Only you’re missing the point. There’s more going on here. If you’d open your eyes you’d see that. As Selinas, Mace killed other people connected with this. I already gave you their names. Check them out. There’s a pattern present. Everything’s connected and it starts with the grandmothers.”
Wexler softened his features. “Look, Drew, somebody wants you nailed with this awfully bad. They called us and the newspeople and fed your name. You’re alone, but you don’t have to be. Tell us who else you were working with. Who set you up? Talk to us and we’ll protect you.”
“Even if I had anything more to tell you, it wouldn’t help, not with what you’re up against.”
Wexler sat back down and straddled the chair once more. “Let’s take it from the beginning again.”
“I think I’ll take that Coke now… .”
The footsteps woke Drew up the next morning. He had no idea what time it was and realized he was ravenously hungry, having not eaten since the hotdogs nearly twenty-four hours before. Then again, even if those footsteps did mean breakfast was being served, Drew would have to think twice before eating it in view of Mace’s warning, which was still firm in his mind.
The problem turned out to be academic since it was an empty-handed guard who conferred with the one who had been posted outside his cell all night. It was that man who unlocked Drew’s cell and swung the door open.
“Come with me,” said the policeman who had just arrived.
“We eating out?”
“Just come along.”
Drew had no idea what to expect as he followed the man through the bowels of Miami police headquarters toward the main levels. In his mind he could almost see the Timber Wolf waiting for him upstairs with a plan to find who was behind everything that had happened, having changed his mind and ready to plunge back into the world he had abandoned.
Upstairs he saw no one he recognized. They gave him back his watch and money and told him he was being released. Drew gazed at the clerks in shock as he signed a series of vouchers. A pair of policemen escorted him to the building lobby where a huge man in a light suit was waiting for him. Drew looked at the man, then at the officers poised at either elbow.
“So, this is how it ends,” Drew said to no one in particular.
“Thank you,” the big man said and the guards took their leave. “There’s a car waiting for us outside,” he told Drew.
“I don’t suppose I have a choice of going for a ride or not, do I?”
The big man shook his head.
“Fine. I’m too tired to make any trouble for you and I’m too damn sick of running.”
“Let’s go,” said the big man and he led Drew out into the sun toward a waiting limousine.
“At least I get to go in style,” Drew muttered, searching himself for a smile.
It was about the time the limousine reached a small, isolated airfield somewhere north of Miami that Drew realized with considerable relief that they weren’t going to kill him. A single Learjet sat warming its engines and the limo came right up to it. The big man led Drew up the five steps leading to the cabin. The driver stayed behind and drove the car off as the Lear’s engines prepped for takeoff.
“You plan on telling me where we’re headed?” Drew asked the big man. “No, I don’t suppose you do… .”
“The Islas del Rosario off the coast of Colombia,” the big man said suddenly. “There’s someone who wants to see you.”
The flight was longer than Drew had expected, his own confusion and anxiety lengthening it. The big man refused to answer any more of his questions and for Drew the mystery of what was happening to him was agonizing. Someone had rescued him, saved his life. But who? And why?
The answers lay in Colombia.
They landed in Cartagena where another stretch limousine was waiting for them on the tarmac. Again the big man guided him inside, his vigil constant. Drew knew the man hadn’t slept during the flight, had barely closed his eyes. The limousine brought them to a dock where a cabin cruiser was waiting. Once more the big man ushered him aboard.
Drew was vaguely familiar with the Islas del Rosario, was aware that they composed a small chain of lavish islands two hours by boat from Cartagena. He tried to relax, but the hot sun bore into him and he found himself feeling weak and dizzy. After half an hour he went below to the cabin, accompanied by his huge escort, and drank ice water until his stomach ached. Then he returned to the deck and collapsed in a chair set in the shade.
The Islas del Rosario came into view an hour later. They were strikingly beautiful, lush green oases in the midst of a piercing blue sea. The water rolled upon the narrow beaches, seeming to fondle the sand. As the cabin cruiser drew nearer, Drew made out the large villas and smaller summer homes constructed on the larger members of the island chain. A few even boasted condominium complexes to rival the best that Miami and Palm Beach had to offer. Strange, he thought, how so many Colombians had made their way to America while numerous Americans had purchased property here.
Drew didn’t need to be told that they were nearing their destination. The presence of two armed patrol launches suddenly before them revealed that much, followed by the sight of a series of huge white parapets, something like guard towers, rising out of the center of the next island. Whoever had sprung him from jail was certainly well protected.
Four men, all dressed in khaki and all armed, were waiting on the dock when the cabin cruiser pulled in. The deckhands joked with them in Spanish and together they tied the boat down. Drew was led off by his giant escort to a waiting jeep. The man’s sole human move during the entire trip had been to strip off his suit jacket when they were about halfway to the islands.
This particular island was small and the massive villa Drew had caught glimpses of from the sea composed most of it. The ride by jeep was understandably short through the abundant flora, always with the sound of the sea not far away. The greenery cleared five minutes into the drive, allowing Drew to see one of the largest homes he had ever laid eyes on, something to rival the Post estate in Palm Beach. The enormous villa was three stories high and stretched into the forest for as far as Drew could see. A huge, cream-colored wall, the same shade as the villa itself, surrounded the entire complex. Two more guards swung open the main gate to allow the jeep to pass through.
Drew caught sight of three majestic marble pillars adorning the villa’s front. The structure, he surmised, was fashioned after the gothic homes of Spanish royalty from centuries before. The windows were wide and long. The villa’s exterior had an unfinished, stucco quality about it, adding to the rustic flavor.
There was yet another trio of guards waiting to greet the jeep when it pulled up before the massive entrance doors. Drew’s escort climbed out and conferred briefly with one of them.
“This way,” he instruct
ed and led his charge down a flagstone walk that seemed to encircle the entire front. They passed through another guarded gate and headed toward a huge swimming pool enclosed by cabanas and small palm trees.
As they got closer, Drew could see a number of canopied tables placed around the pool. They were spaced well apart, some larger than others. Three figures sat at one, the middle figure with his back toward him.
The escort bid Drew to stop some fifteen yards from the table. The two men sitting on either side of the third said something to him and the man in the middle started to rise. He turned slowly and Drew figured at first that the sun was playing tricks on him and then he was certain that he had gone totally mad.
Because the man staring him in the face was no stranger at all.
It was Arthur Trelana.
Chapter 15
“I SAW YOU DIE,” drew muttered, the lameness of the statement never really occurring to him.
Trelana stepped forward, the breeze toying with his thick, silvery hair. He spoke with only the barest traces of a Spanish accent. “And then, from what I understand, you were given the blame for my apparent murder. My death was an illusion I created just as my being responsible for your grandmother’s death was an illusion fostered by those behind your rather desperate predicament.”
“Then who was it I saw—”
Trelana came closer, flanked by his guards, and interrupted. “The man in Too-Jay’s was my double, a regrettable but necessary sacrifice to be explained in time. Come, let’s sit in the shade.” Only then did Drew realize how much he was sweating. Trelana let him catch up and they started walking, the bodyguards looming near. “I’ll call you Drew if you don’t mind,” the drug lord continued. “I have children older than you, so I’m sure you’ll understand. First, let me apologize for bringing you here in the manner I did. It was necessary, I assure you.”