Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

  He raised his knees and wedged them against the instrument panel, then pressed his left forearm against the ceiling. Once he felt as secure as he could hope to, Chapa slowly unbuckled the belt and harness, and instantly rolled to his right side, then his shoulder slammed against the ceiling.

  Chapa grunted as he twisted himself into a kneeling position, and started searching for his phone in the dark cabin. Wading through various pieces of debris, he found it a minute later, tucked into a back corner of the plane, then located the battery pack resting on the underside of a back-row seat.

  Andrews was probably still on the line asking Chapa if he could hear him. Chapa snapped the battery pack back in place and slipped the phone into a front pants pocket.

  The plane jostled slightly as he made his way toward the front and over by the copilot’s chair. On the ceiling that was now beneath the seat, Chapa spotted the silver rectangle that had crashed into his head on impact.

  It was some sort of thin metal case. Chapa picked it up and coaxed the latch open. Inside he found a leather bound flight log. Turning to the last page, Chapa saw the most recent entry was from early that morning, it read: Surveying of land parcels.

  Chapa flipped to the beginning and saw that the log went back more than a year. Checking through a few earlier entries, he found a number of familiar names listed as passengers, and wondered how many private meetings had taken place above the cornfields of Kendall County.

  The smell of gas was getting stronger now. He closed the case, then slipped his hands inside his jacket sleeves, and carefully wiped down every part of the plane he could remember having touched. He wasn’t sure how he would play this yet, but it made sense to leave I wasn’t there as an option. Even though a federal agent knew otherwise.

  Chapa grabbed the flight log and kicked the jammed copilot’s side door open, then rushed out of the plane and onto the soft topsoil. He willed his aching body away from the wreckage. The smell of gas wasn’t as strong now, replaced by the subtle odor of post-harvest rot.

  Looking back, some sixty crooked yards, Chapa saw the damage the plane had done to the cornfield. It looked like a runaway reaper had slashed and rolled its way through. He imagined how this must appear from the air, like a crop circle gone awry.

  Checking his watch, Chapa saw it was just shy of three in the afternoon. He wondered if anyone had witnessed the plane go down. There was nothing but farmland all around him as far as he could see.

  Remembering a road he’d flown over as the plane was going down, Chapa started in that direction, fighting his way through dormant but stubborn cornstalks as his cell phone searched for a signal.

  Chapter 75

  “Damn it, Al, you must get to a hospital.” Andrews was pleading his case for a second time. “You’re probably concussed. You might have a broken rib or two or worse.”

  Chapa had walked in the direction of a tree line, then emerged on the other side of it, before he had a signal, and managed to get a call to go through. Now he was heading for a row of power lines in the distance, the sort that Andrews had warned him about on the way down, the kind that flank a road.

  “Listen, Joe, I’m a little beat up, but I’m okay. What I need now is time. Something is going down, soon. The cops here don’t want to know about it, but a very bad thing is about to happen and I’m worried it may change Oakton forever.”

  “Well, I’ll put a call out to the sheriff in Kendall and have them find that plane.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I know it’s wrong of me to ask you to do this—”

  “Then don’t ask.”

  “I need you to forget the last hour ever happened.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Does anyone else there know?”

  “That’s not the point, Al.”

  “I’m fine, Bendix killed himself, then his plane crashed. I was never here.”

  There was silence on the other end, and Chapa checked to make sure they were still connected.

  “Joe?”

  Silence.

  “C’mon Joe, I hear you breathing.”

  “I can’t do what you’re asking me to do, Al. I just can’t.”

  “Then just give me some time. A few hours. The authorities are bound to find the body and the plane by then anyhow.”

  “You do understand their first conclusion will be that you murdered the guy.”

  “That would have been like committing suicide.”

  “Except I can clear you, Al. But I’ve got to make a phone call in order to do that.”

  “Two hours. If they pick me up now they’ll just throw me in a cell again.”

  “One. And I’m sending an agent your way for protection.”

  “Send them to Erin’s,” Chapa said and gave Andrews her address.

  “Fine, I’ll send someone to Erin’s.”

  “Deal. I do understand that what I’m asking is—Joe? Joe? Are you still there?

  Chapa still had a signal, but the conversation was over.

  Chapter 76

  Fifteen minutes after he’d reached a nondescript country two-lane, Chapa arrived where it intersected with Kingfisher Road, a major thruway that connected three counties. He wondered how long the walk back to Oakton would be from here and decided not to find out.

  Calling Erin for a ride was not an option. The past few days had put a strain on their relationship. Chapa understood that if he told Erin everything now this could turn into an evening of wound salving, which would be nice, but then again it could just as easily prove to be the last straw.

  For the first time since he was a child struggling to learn English, unable to understand why the other kids were laughing every time he spoke, Chapa felt like he’d fallen off the grid. Left on the outside looking in.

  All of the safety devices he’d worked his entire adult life to build—a family, a career, a home—had been gradually stripped away. He felt naked and alone. But there was also something strangely liberating about that feeling.

  These thoughts were moving through Chapa’s aching head as he reached into his wallet, pulled out a gray paint chip, and punched up Ladrón’s number.

  “Who’s calling me?”

  “This is Alex Chapa, we met yesterday at the—”

  “Yeah, yeah man, I know you.”

  There was an edge in Ladrón’s voice, which led Chapa to assume he had a couple of his guys with him.

  “What’s up, A.C.?”

  “I need a ride. And I need you to come alone.”

  “What? Pick you up at your house to go run some errands?”

  “Not exactly. Are you alone?”

  “No.”

  “Can you change that?”

  Ladrón did not respond, but Chapa heard the sound of a thin door squealing open, then shutting in the background.

  “I’m good now. What’s up?”

  Chapa explained that he needed to be picked up, no questions asked. Told Ladrón he was out in the middle of nowhere, gave him directions.

  “I know that area real well. Used to be a place out there that we called The Pit. It was just a clearing in some woods, but a bunch of us smoked a whole lotta weed there, back in the day.”

  He told Chapa he could be there in twenty-five minutes, and that he’d be driving a burgundy Chrysler LeBaron.

  “Now, I do this for you, Alex Chapa, and you’ll do something for me.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “No, you gotta be sure. I’m serious about this shit. Man to man. You down?”

  Chapa shook his head as he processed the idea of entering into an oath of honor with a career criminal.

  “Yes, we have a deal, as long as it’s not illegal.”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I get the feeling your side of it might be a bit more dubious,” Ladrón said in a way that drew attention to the word dubious, as though he knew that using it might buy him some lit cred.

  “Then I’ll see you in half an ho
ur,” Chapa said, ducking behind a large oak as a car appeared in the distance.

  “Less.”

  Chapter 77

  Ladrón wasn’t kidding. Twenty minutes after their call ended, Chapa saw Ladrón’s car, heard it a moment later. He stepped out from his hiding place, a small but dense grove of oak trees, then crossed a four-foot ditch and climbed up onto the gravel shoulder.

  The Chrysler came to a hard stop right next to where Chapa was standing, and idled loud enough to be mistaken for a large piece of farm equipment. No doubt a familiar sound in these parts, though the thumping hip hop music that was punching its way out from inside was another matter.

  Chapa opened the heavy car door and climbed inside.

  “You got here in a hurry,” he said, settling into his half of the wide seat.

  Ladrón turned down the volume. He’d cleaned up some since leaving prison, though his look was still all street.

  “Hey man, it’s what we do. You look kinda fucked up, though, bro.”

  “I feel kinda fucked up.”

  Chapa rested the silver box on his lap. He thought about buckling his seat belt, but that part of his torso still ached, so he decided to take a pass.

  “What’s that thing?” Ladrón asked, pointing to the box.

  Chapa just stared back at him, did not answer.

  “Oh hell, yeah, that’s right, no questions. My bad.”

  He noticed how Ladrón checked his rearview every few seconds, almost out of habit, or maybe a survival instinct born of experience.

  “It didn’t take you long to ask for a favor,” Ladrón said as Chapa shifted, struggling to get comfortable on the vinyl seat.

  The car was old but immaculate. Not a single fast food wrapper or cigarette butt on the floor or a speck of dust on the dash. Chapa had never owned a car that looked this clean.

  “I have this bad habit of getting into shit.”

  Ladrón nodded like he knew.

  “Seems to me that a man who doesn’t get into shit isn’t really much of a man. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  Chapa knew. He gave Ladrón directions to where he’d left his car, the hangar belonging to the late Dr. Bendix.

  “If that’s the only trouble you got, that you’re here and your ride is somewhere else, then you got no troubles at all.”

  Chapa smiled. He wished that was all.

  “How’s the love life of a big time reporter?”

  “I have no idea, ask a big time reporter.”

  Ladrón laughed. “You’re all right, A.C. But really, you got a lady? You’re divorced, right?”

  “I told you that back in the cell.”

  “That’s right,” Ladrón said and smiled, which made him look young.

  “And yeah, I’ve got a lady.”

  “Troubles?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Um hmm, troubles. She a keeper or just another slice of foolish time?”

  “A slice of what?”

  “Foolish time. It’s like time expired. Like it was there, but then it got used up, wasted, never to return.” Ladrón turned and looked at Chapa for emphasis. “Foolish time.”

  “She’s not foolish time, not even close. She’s a keeper.”

  “Then don’t let her go, bro. Or it’s gonna hurt something fierce. Losing the good ones always does. I know.” Ladrón pounded a fist against his chest a couple times.

  Chapa was starting to believe what Ladrón had told him about the origin of his nickname. But he had a lot of other things on his mind. The state of his relationship with Erin was eating away at him. But that was tomorrow’s problem.

  “So what do you want from me in return for this?”

  “Just like that, bro? No chitchat? No thank you, Ladrón, you saved my ass from the children of the corn, Ladrón.”

  Chapa was starting to like this guy. He was troubled, but in a very real and honest way.

  “Thank you, Ladrón.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Now, what do you want from me?”

  Ladrón hesitated, and his expression changed. He didn’t look young anymore.

  “It’s my kid, you know, my son. They have these career days at his school where dads show up and talk about what they do.”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t go, man, you know. But I want to.”

  “I can understand.” Chapa didn’t understand, had zero idea where this was heading.

  “Right. So what I need you to do is to go, you know, as yourself.”

  “I’m good at that.”

  “Right. And explain how you know me, being a reporter and what not, and that I’ve been a high-level source on shit. Right?”

  “You’re a source?”

  “Yes, my work is of a sensitive nature and shit, so you’re there to speak for me.”

  Chapa had imagined being asked to do any manner of things, from turning his back on a troubling story to providing some sort of information. But this?

  “You want me to lie?”

  “I want you to help me give my son a chance. That’s not a lot to ask, Alex. It really isn’t.”

  No, it wasn’t.

  “It’s not that big of a favor, either,” Ladrón added.

  It wasn’t. A coach Chapa had looked up to back in high school had once told him that it’s wrong to kick a man who has fallen on his sword. It was a piece of advice that Chapa had found useful through the years.

  “I’ll figure out how to do that, Ladrón.”

  Ladrón smiled broadly and slapped the wheel as though Chapa has just given him his one moment of true joy for the month. There was nothing wrong with that. The guy was okay.

  As they drove toward the hangar, Ladrón told Chapa all about his various theories of life and the things that mattered most. Some of it made sense, the rest was mildly amusing, bizarre, or both. But Chapa’s mind was on another track.

  “If I needed to hide something from a thief, say in my home or office, and I didn’t have a safe, where would the best place be?” Chapa asked as Ladrón pulled up to his car.

  “Why are you asking me?” He responded with a half grin.

  “Maybe because you get around, you know people.”

  “And people talk.”

  “That’s right, they do.”

  “Except for friends like you and me, who talk to each other about shit, but that’s where it stays.”

  “Exactly, that’s where it stays.”

  Chapa wondered whether Ladrón realized he was about to actually become a source.

  “It depends on the size. If it’s a big thing, that’s tough to hide. But if it’s something small, then you want to slip it in with stuff that you have a lot of, so that it just blends in.”

  “Sounds obvious enough.”

  “Right, but it can’t be in with anything valuable that someone would steal, because that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.”

  Chapa was trying to remember what he’d seen among the remains of Jim Chakowski’s house. If he could only get inside and look around.

  “Here’s the thing, A.C., if you want to understand a person you gotta look at their stuff, where they keep it, and what they have in a special place, or the things they take good care of and treat like valuables. That will tell you a hell of a lot more about them than any journal or diary. I remember one time—”

  Chapa let out a heavy sigh as he pressed the base of his palms against his forehead.

  “Goddamn it. It’s not a zip code or a password,” Chapa said under his breath.

  Chapter 78

  Chapa didn’t see Chakowski’s office the same way as before. The cramped, shady space was not quite familiar to him, but more revealing now.

  The office was so quiet, so still, locked in that moment when Jim Chakowski left for the last time. Like the place was waiting for him to return.

  But Chapa understood Jim Chakowski a little better now. He felt something of a kinship with his fallen colleague.

  Besides his brother
, Jim had no family or much of a life outside of the paper. Maybe that had been a decision he’d made at some point. But more likely it was the product of many other decisions. Those would have included chasing leads into compromising and dangerous situations. It meant occasionally having to put an arm around the irredeemable and not worrying that some of their tainted DNA might rub off on you. All because something useful might come of it.

  Chapa understood now that Jim Chakowski had done his best to pantomime a normal life. Going through those motions that he’d read about, or doing many of the things others do, and faking the rest.

  Ultimately, it had been Chakowski’s need to know that got him killed. When he was a child, Chapa’s mother had often told him that information was the most important commodity in the world. What she’d failed to mention was that it’s also one of its most dangerous.

  Chapa stuck his head out and took a look down the hall, confirmed Macklin’s office was dark, then closed the door. Pushing Chakowski’s chair aside, he began sifting through the LP collection, searching each spine for record album number ND93106.

  He quickly figured out that the letters were not random, they were initials, and that narrowed things down in a hurry. Chakowski owned four Neil Diamond albums, all were from the late 60s and early 70s. Serial number 93106 belonged to one titled Stones.

  As he pulled it off the shelf, Chapa wondered why this LP had been singled out from the three or four hundred in Chakowski’s collection. A personal favorite? The artist was pictured on the cover sitting on a bench, barefoot. Then Chapa flipped the record over, and began to understand why Chakowski had chosen this one.

  Instead of being flat, the back cover had a flap at the top, and a tie clasp with a string attached. It looked a little like one of those large interoffice envelopes that can be tied closed.

  Chapa had never seen an album cover like this before. Clever, he thought. He unwound the string, pulled the flap back, and found more than the record.