by Philip Cox
‘I knew we should have used the Red Line,’ Kiera said, sitting up in her seat so she could see any cause for the delay. There was a row of red tail and brake lights right up to the intersection with Hollywood Boulevard, and the traffic there seemed to be at a standstill.
‘It’s gridlock everywhere,’ she wailed. ‘Jay, you need to do something.’
‘Do what?’ he asked. Do what exactly?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, settling back down in her seat. She rested her elbow on the door and her head in her hand.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Jay muttered, looking around at the traffic. Then he noticed something. He indicated left and turned into the oncoming traffic.
Kiera sat bolt upright in her seat. ‘What the fuck are you…’
‘Just relax. Trust me.’
Some of the traffic coming down Vine Street blew their horns, but Jay was eventually able to get to a ninety degree angle and make it across the two opposite lanes. Gripping onto her seat handle, Kiera could see he was headed for an alleyway alongside the Stars on Vine restaurant.
‘Where does this lead us?’ she asked.
‘No idea,’ said Jay as he drove along the darkened alleyway. ‘But I’m guessing it’ll take us away from this traffic. We’re running parallel with Hollywood Boulevard now.’
Jay switched to high beams as the alleyway got darker. Rather than leading directly to the next cross street as he had hoped, the alley turned right at a ninety degree angle.
‘I don’t like this, Jay,’ said Kiera. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Relax; it has to come out somewhere. And we’re going in the right direction.’
‘Right direction for where?’
‘For Highland Avenue. It’s over in that direction.’
Jay continued slowly along the alley. Over the tops of the buildings he could see the glow from the streetlamps on Hollywood Boulevard and could make out the sound of traffic and horns.
The alley led them to a small open space. About fifty feet square, it seemed to be a small parking lot belonging to some of the buildings surrounding them. One car was parked up against a wall. Two dumpsters were alongside another wall.
‘Great,’ said Kiera. ‘A dead end.’
‘Shit,’ muttered Jay. ‘I’m going to have to turn round.’
‘There’s no way we’re going to make it now,’ said Kiera, sitting back and folding her arms in protest.
Jay ignored her and turned the car as far as he could to the left, engaged reverse, and fed the steering wheel the other way. He reversed twenty feet or so into a recessed area between two buildings. Just as he did so, the rear of the car bumped up and down, causing Jay and Kiera to bounce in their seats.
‘Jesus, what was that?’ Kiera called out.
‘Probably some garbage,’ Jay said. ‘There are dumpsters everywhere.’
He put the Chevy into Drive and moved forward slowly. The bump again.
‘Jay, you need to check what it was,’ said Kiera nervously.
Jay put on the brake and released his seat belt. ‘What are you expecting: a body?’ he snapped as he got out of the car.
Kiera sat back in her seat and began playing with her phone. She sat up with a start when she heard Jay crying out.
‘Oh my God, Oh, Jesus. Oh Jesus.’
Kiera released her own belt and got out. Jay was standing at the back of the car, holding his head in his hands, wailing and looking down at the ground. She looked down too and put her hand to her mouth when she saw what Jay was looking at.
Lying partly underneath the Chevy, naked except for a torn pair of black briefs, and dark tread marks on the skin where the tyres had run over it, was a man’s body.
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DON’T GO OUT IN THE DARK
A WET AUTUMN NIGHT
Newspaper reporter Jack Richardson lends his coat and car to a friend
AN ACCIDENT
Within thirty minutes, Jack’s car lies in flames
The crash seems suspicious, and Jack wonders if it was an accident, or murder.
But if it was murder,
Who was the intended victim?
Here’s a sneak preview:
Chapter 1
THE EARLY MORNING drizzle had now given way to hazy sunshine as the aircraft made its approach. Visibility was excellent, and the pilots had to contend with only a slight south westerly breeze. The tyres made contact with the tarmac at just after ten in the morning, some twenty-five minutes behind schedule. Once on the ground, the twin Pratt & Whitney JT8D turbofan engines roared one more time as reverse thrust was applied.
The passenger in seat 17A looked out of his window, watching the grass at the side of the runway slow down, and the airport buildings come into view. He took a deep breath, a sign of relief that the one hour flight from Maracaibo was over. Dr Gabriel Montilla was an experienced air traveller, especially on these short haul flights, but was always relieved when his aircraft landed.
The Aserca Airlines DC 9-30 came to a halt around a hundred yards from the terminal building, the sound of the engines died down, and most of the passengers began to stand up and reach for the overhead lockers.
Dr Montilla was an exception. He knew from his experience in flying into Simón Bolívar International Airport that they would have to wait a while before the ground crew brought the steps, and he would rather wait in his seat than stand in a crowded aisle. As he sat waiting, he looked up at the standing passengers. Flight 754 was an early morning commuter flight and so the majority of his fellow passengers were, like him, making the flight on business. At the front of the line were two well built middle aged men wearing floral shirts. One had long, black, greasy hair; the other was totally bald and wore a grey handle-bar moustache. Behind them was a white haired man in a dark suit carrying a briefcase; the next passenger was almost a reverse image: same height, but with dark hair, and wearing a cream linen suit. Standing behind him was a younger man, around thirty. He wore a light beige suit over a white shirt, which had the top two buttons open, revealing a tanned, smooth chest. His dark hair was cropped short, and his chin was covered with several days’ stubble. He carried a black and silver attaché case. A woman in her forties, Montilla guessed, was next: she was wearing a black blouse, and matching trousers. She was clearly hot, as she kept brushing damp hair from her forehead and over her ears.
The final two passengers in line were different: a couple, early twenties, both wearing tee-shirts, the man’s white, the girl’s pink, and beige shorts. Both were carrying large backpacks. As a member of the cabin crew set about opening the aircraft doors, the girl backpacker, who was by now standing by row 17, swung round. Her backpack hit Dr Montilla as he started to get up.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she blustered, pulling the backpack away from Montilla. She spoke in Spanish, but with an accent: Portuguese, he guessed. Maybe they were travellers up from Brazil.
‘That’s quite all right,’ Montilla replied, smiling at the embarrassed girl. By now the stairs had been put into place, and the passengers were beginning to disembark. The two backpackers moved on, and Montilla was ready to exit. He paused to allow a woman with a small child to go before him then nodded to thank another businessman who had stopped in the aisle to let him out.
Dr Montilla paused to thank the cabin crew member, a tall, flaxen haired man with a heavy tan, who was standing by the door, then made his way down the steps. The DC9-30 is essentially a commuter aircraft, only five seats across, twenty rows, and its fuselage is nearer to the ground than on larger craft. Hence, the steps are little more than an ornate stepladder. Montilla stepped down onto the tarmac, put on his sunglasses, then walked, attaché case in one hand, overnight bag in the other, to the terminal building.
Although Simón Bolívar is an international airport, this was an internal flight, and therefore no customs and immigration formalities, and Montilla and t
he other passengers were able to head straight for the domestic terminal. As he stepped into the air-conditioned glass and steel building, he glanced over his shoulder to see a larger aircraft - a 737, he thought - moving from the international terminal to the main runway. It was an American Airlines aircraft, probably setting off to Miami: a journey Dr Montilla had made several times.
Montilla joined the escalator leading up to the arrivals hall. At the top of the escalator, he had to make a quick side step to avoid being hit by the same backpack as before then walked briskly past two machine-gun armed police officers, through a set of glass doors into the land-side hall.
There was a small group of people gathered by the barrier awaiting passengers: one man was dressed in a chauffer’s uniform and peaked cap holding up a crumpled piece of card with Gomez scribbled in black felt pen. Montilla cleared his throat as he walked past: maybe he should have arranged to be driven into the city that way.
Situated near the coastal city of Maiquetía, the airport was named after Simón Bolívar, the South American military and political leader who died in 1830. There are also airports of the same name in Columbia and Equador, but this one is some thirteen miles from downtown Caracas, Venezuela.
As was his custom whenever he visited Caracas, Montilla had pre-booked his taxi into the city. A row of yellow taxis waited outside the arrivals hall: Montilla checked the licence plates, and found the one waiting for him. He climbed in, introduced himself, and the cab pulled away into the traffic.
The cab turned onto Avenida La Armada then a couple of hundred yards later took the ramp leading to the autopista for Caracas. A couple of miles later they passed through a set of toll booths, then, in quick succession, two tunnels. The tunnels were called Boquerón I and Boquerón II: Montilla looked up at the entrance to the first tunnel and saw the name ornately carved into the stone above the road.
One more tunnel – this one was called La Planicie – and the road descended into downtown Caracas. The cab turned into Avenida Puente Hierro, where the traffic came to an abrupt halt. Ahead, Montilla could hear the sound of car horns. He moved over to the nearside, wound down the window, and leaned out. There was a large truck two vehicles ahead: this obstructed his view, but he could still hear horns, then a siren.
‘Always bad. This road is always bad,’ muttered the driver.
Montilla grunted, resisting the temptation to ask why the driver came that way then.
Traffic began to move shortly, but slowly. When they had moved about two hundred yards, Montilla could see the reason for the delay. A small white and green van was stopped on the offside lane, its hazard lights flashing. An ambulance was parked in front of the van. As Montilla’s taxi slowly edged past, he could see the crumpled remains of a bicycle underneath the front of the van. The ambulance doors were open, and a paramedic was standing in the doorway, his back to Montilla. Montilla wondered if he should get out and offer assistance, but he had urgent business himself, and in any case, the paramedics would know their job.
Once past the scene of the accident, they were able to speed up slightly. Two more turns, and they were on Avenida Este 3.
‘It’s just here,’ Montilla called out as they approached a large building, set back slightly from the street. The cab pulled up.
The pre-arranged fare was 300 bolívares fuertes: this equated to just under US$50: many transactions were carried out in US dollars as some traders preferred this: cab drivers in particular. Montilla handed the driver three $20 bills, and waved away any change.
Montilla’s destination was an imposing, yellow Spanish Colonial style building. A neat, well-manicured lawn lay between the house and the street. A pathway wound its way across the lawn from the street to the door. All along the front of the house was a colourful bougainvillea bush. Montilla took the pathway to the dark stained oak door; pushed the door open, and went in. On the front wall next to the door was a highly-polished metal sign reading Clínica Central.
A tiny, white haired woman in a nursing uniform sat at a desk in the clinic lobby: she stood as Montilla entered. ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ she greeted him quietly. He mumbled the same to her, and walked up the marble staircase which led from the lobby.
The first floor resembled a small hospital. At the top of the stairs there was another desk: again, the nurse at the desk stood and greeted the doctor. Montilla turned right and walked along a corridor either side of which were glass-walled rooms, each with one bed and an array of medical apparatus. A figure dressed in a white lab coat came out of one of the rooms and greeted Montilla.
‘Gabriel; good to see you. They said you were coming today.’
Shaking hands, Montilla replied, ‘Good to see you too, Luis. I would have been here earlier, only the plane was late.’
Dr Luis Ramirez asked, ‘How was the flight, by the way?’
‘It was fine,’ Montilla answered, as the two men continued down the corridor to an office.
‘Coffee?’ Ramirez asked as they stepped into the office.
‘Please.’ Montilla stood his overnight bag down on the floor and the attaché case on Ramirez’s desk. He clicked the two locks on the case and opened it. As Ramirez passed him a paper cup of coffee, he took from his case two sheets of paper.
‘Things are going well, before you ask,’ said Ramirez, perching himself on the desk. He twisted round and pressed a couple of keys on the keyboard resting on his desk. ‘Look at this.’
Montilla felt into his jacket pocket and took out a pair of glasses. He sat down and joined Ramirez in staring at the computer screen.
‘The improvement first started there,’ Ramirez pointed at a line of data on the screen. ‘And has gradually increased.’
‘Day to day?’ asked Montilla
Ramirez made a wavering gesture with one hand. ‘More like week on week.’
Montilla nodded. ‘Still encouraging, though. What about the others?’
‘Not so much. He was the first, so the others are going to be so far behind.’
Montilla nodded again. He sat back in his chair and rested his hands on his knees. ‘Let’s go see him then.’
‘Fine,’ said Ramirez, standing up. ‘He should be awake.’
Both men stepped out of the office and walked into the first room on the left. A man lay in a bed with a nurse sitting on a chair next to him. She immediately stood as the two men walked in; Ramirez gestured for her to sit back down.
‘This is Señor Medina,’ said Ramirez, by way of introduction.
‘Good morning, Señor,’ said Montilla. ‘How are you feeling today?’
The man, white hair, in his sixties, replied cheerfully, ‘Much better, thank you, Doctor. Will I be able to go home soon?’
Ramirez laughed. ‘You keep asking that every day, Señor. Don’t you like it here?’
‘I do,’ chuckled Medina, ‘but the food here isn’t as good as my wife’s.’
Smiling, Montilla picked up the clipboard attached to the foot of the metal bed frame. He studied the data. Nodding to Ramirez, he put the board back then turned to Medina. ‘Things are going very well, Señor. I’m not sure yet when you’ll be ready to go home, but I don’t expect it to be very long.’
Medina sat up, smiling and nodding. He turned to the nurse, who smiled back.
‘Keep up the good work,’ said Ramirez, as he followed Montilla out. The two men returned to the office.
Montilla turned to face Ramirez, taking off his glasses and putting them back into his pocket. ‘This is excellent, Luis. Excellent.’
‘Early days, yet, Gabriel. Don’t forget: he is the only one so far.’
Montilla waved his hand, as if to dismiss Ramirez’s concerns. ‘I know, I know, but…. Let’s say, so far so good.’
‘Do you propose to continue the treatment in the same way?’
‘I think so. For now anyway.’
Ramirez paused. ‘And the confidentiality? Still the same?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Montilla sat down and looked up at
his colleague. He folded his arms and replied, ‘Apart from those of us involved here, nobody must know. Nobody.’
Chapter 2
DR MONTILLA INCLINED his head over to his colleague’s computer screen. ‘Show me the data for the others,’ he said.
‘Surely,’ said Ramirez and typed some keys. Montilla put on his glasses again and stared at the screen.
‘As you can see,’ Ramirez said, pointing at the information on the screen, ‘there has been a little progress, but not as much as with Señor Medina.’
Montilla cleared his throat loudly.
‘But,’ Ramirez continued, ‘their condition at this stage of treatment is the same as that of Señor Medina.’
Montilla nodded. ‘So, we can extrapolate that their outcomes will be the same. Mm?’
Ramirez shrugged. ‘In theory, yes. But as you say, Gabriel, these are very early days.’
‘But nevertheless encouraging?’
‘Very much so, yes.’
‘Good, good,’ muttered Montilla, as much to himself as to his colleague.
‘How are things going at the farm?’ Ramirez asked.
Montilla took off his glasses and sat back, arms folded. ‘Very well. I’ve just come from there, in fact.’
‘We must be nearing the end of the season.’
‘We are, but this year weather conditions were very favourable, and so output exceeded our expectations.’
‘Really? I wasn’t aware of that.’
‘Not by a huge amount, I grant you, Luis, but nevertheless….’ He paused. ‘I am very encouraged.’
Ramirez asked, ‘And I am assuming that the people working there have no idea of the connection they have with us?’
‘Absolutely. Secrecy is essential at this time. Both at the farm and here. What we are doing, Luis, has monumental ramifications for the future. It has been costly, yes, and risky; but the potential for us all is immense.’