The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  As the rain began to make its way in dribbles down the tree trunks, Father Soltera realized the rain was colored. Yellow, blue and red hit the ground and mixed to form glowing puddles of green and orange. But he noticed that the rain did not fall straight down like the rain back home, but instead came in at angles and changed direction along the way, sometimes more than once, so that it was a zig-zagging sort of rain, like wet fireflies.

  After a while, as he ran, he looked down and saw shoe tracks staggered in sections of the path that had gone muddy. Feeling this to be proof that he was running in the right direction, he mustered his strength and picked up his pace.

  As he went deeper into the woods, the air became cooler and more still. Sounds carried further, and again, in the distance, up the trees, he could hear branches breaking. He looked up with dread, half expecting demon-possessed monkeys to be swinging from tree to tree. But. Nothing.

  He pushed on. Crossing a shallow creek, he found more shoeprints that wove off to the left and up a steep hill. Seeing that he could get where they led without forcing his old legs to take the hill, he went straight and picked up the trail on the other side, desperation growing in him as his lungs fought to keep pace with his heart.

  There’s was no way, simply no way, that a little girl with all that youthful energy wasn’t going to beat him there, much less one that was supernaturally gifted. The path wound down into a gully with heavy underbrush to the left and thick tree trunks to the right. Vines hung from the trees all around, giving the area a jungle-like feel. In the distance he could hear running water and felt encouraged. He was parched and his fatigue was growing by the second.

  As was his desperation. Resignation clawed at what was most likely his demise. Stuck here forever, tortured by his failure to save Gabriella, a wandering man forever lost.

  And that was when he saw her.

  Tabitha had stopped about fifty feet up ahead and was craning her head slowly, from side to side, up and around. With her back to him he couldn’t see her face, but the image of her there, in her pink sweats and her hair down the back of her white shirt, made her seem almost innocent.

  Until more branches snapped again, up in the canopy—she’d heard whatever it was, too—and he saw the inhumanely rapid way in which she twitched her head . . .

  First to the left . . .

  Then to the right . . .

  Then to the left again . . .

  He froze.

  A feral growl escaped her. The sound grew and grew.

  Fear unfolded within him. But not of what was up in the trees. No. But in the way the little girl before him dropped her head and raise her shoulders.

  And then turned slowly around to face him.

  Hector looked cautiously around. Two guards were with him. A woman with short hair stood outside the door; an Asian man with white hair sat at a nearby desk across the room, cautiously thumbing his way through an issue of Sports Illustrated.

  Upon hearing Detective Parker’s words, that he did indeed believe all the crazy shit Hector was confessing to him, he felt very much like a man on a violently bucking bull. He was sick to his stomach again. Was he really doing this? Was he really talking to a cop? About gang business? Like a rat?

  An overpowering urge to hang up the phone came over him, and he was just about to succumb when the thought of The Gray Man helped him rein in his panic. This was important. Somehow. To stall, he asked a dumb question, “Okay. To be clear. We’re both talking about—”

  “Yes,” Detective Parker replied, sounding as uneasy as Hector. “We are. Though I think we’re both still having a hard time getting our heads around it.”

  “Ya think? No shit, homie.”

  “Yeah. Well. It’s real, okay? I’m dealing with stuff on my end, too.”

  Hector squinted at the wall. “Stuff?”

  “Never mind.”

  “On, no. I don’t think so. No secrets, Holmes. I told you mine, now you tell me yours. That’s gotta be the deal.”

  “I don’t think so,” Detective Parker replied flatly.

  “Then screw it, man. Screw it all.”

  “Hector—”

  “No!” Hector shouted, sitting up in his chair and earning a hard glance from the Asian guard over his magazine. Hector lowered his voice. “You don’t get to just say we’re in something together without saying what that is.”

  A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Hector sighed. “Man. I can wait as long as you need to. I only have, oh, thirty or forty years with nothing better to do.”

  One word followed, and from it anyone could’ve been able to tell that Detective Parker was pissed. “Fine.”

  “And?”

  “You remember my partner?”

  “Yeah. I met him. The Latin Loverboy that came with you that day you visited my shop, right?”

  “Nah. That was Campos. You got his ass shot up, by the way, at The Mayan that night.”

  “Wrong place, wrong time, I guess,” Hector said, falling on the old habit of silly bravado laced with uncaring. But he didn’t mean it and his words made him sicker, so he immediately followed up on his trash talk with a qualifier. “I mean. Ain’t no way I shot him.”

  “No. You were too busy trying to ace your ex and her new boyfriend.”

  Hector caught a string of expletives inside his mouth and swallowed them back down. “Nice,” he finally spat out, with no small measure of contempt.

  Another uncomfortable silence followed. When Detective Parker spoke again, he completely surprised Hector. “Forget it. I didn’t need to go there.”

  “Yeah. And I ain’t hearing no apology either.”

  “Nor will you. Now or ever.”

  Hector chuckled. “Maaan . . .” But in truth, the detective had just earned huge points for not kissing ass. He was right, Hector did what he did. And it was wrong. Period.

  “Anyway. I was talking about my other partner.”

  Hector was confused. Screwing up his face he said, “Your other partner?” Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. “Oh. You mean from the park?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yeah. Evergreen Park. That one.”

  The bull kept bucking and Hector just kept trying to hold on for dear life. “You’re not trying to say—”

  When Detective Parker replied it was like a man just trying to spit it all out at once. “He’s visited me. More than a few times. A lot, actually.”

  The overhead fluorescent light flickered a few times as the detective continued. “So there ya go. We’re Even Steven.”

  Hector was speechless for a few moments, then, looking to the ceiling and shaking his head, he managed a reply. “Man. This is insane. Totally . . . insane. Is this really happening?”

  “Yep.”

  “How?”

  “I wish I knew. But I don’t. It’s . . . uh . . . above my pay grade.”

  “Anyone hears us talking, they gonna think we straight-up crazy. You know that, right?”

  “I know. But who cares. Let’s get to it. Why’d you reach out to me? Your message says something about The Mayan.” He hesitated, before adding, “And . . . Shilo?”

  “Yeah. I just said that for cover. Figured it’d get you to call back. But, really, I called because he told me to—the gray guy, I mean. Told me to use that name. Said you’re going after . . . someone.”

  This time the silence that followed was long and deafening before Detective Parker replied. “You on a visitor’s phone?”

  Hector caught his tone immediately. It was obvious Detective Parker was worried about the call being recorded. Being on a phone at a guard’s desk, the odds were not likely. But, still, he lowered his voice to reply. “No. I’m in one of the guard offices. But, I mean, with what we’ve already discussed? Does it really matter?”

  “Good point. Yes. I’m going on a little trip. Do you know who I’m going to see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what can you tell me about him?”

  “What do you mean?”<
br />
  “Any inside info? Hometown, bases of operation, safe houses, etc.?”

  “Well. He’s from Michocán, but I doubt he’d be there. Operates in and between all the gringo spots down there . . . Tijuana, Ensenada, Mazatlán . . . good business.” Hector looked nervously at the guard, then whispered the rest, “Don’t know of any safe houses, though. Sorry.”

  This information obviously disappointed Detective Parker. “Well. Shit. What do you know, Hector?”

  Hector thought hard. “I’ve only seen him, from a distance, a few times. But each time he was traveling with a group of four bodyguards. I’ve heard that they’re super tight. Anyway, he lets them do the dirty work.”

  “Okay. That’s something.”

  “I also hear he likes to move at night and . . .”

  “All rumors, man. I mean, when it comes to rumors, ya gotta consider the source. It’s mostly all bullshit, Hector. If you don’t have location intel, then I need target intel. His quirks. His tendencies. His habits.”

  Hector shifted in his seat and rubbed his free hand back and forth over his head. “Hey. I’m trying, man.” Then, it hit him. His habits! Of course. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Well. Maybe it’s just a coincidence but . . . I was just talking to a guy today who is def in the know. But, I mean, he just told me a story.”

  “About?”

  Hector told Detective Parker the same story that Curtis had told him, down to the last detail about how he beat the girl and what led up to it, not sure why but feeling that it was pertinent information. When he was done, Detective Parker was quiet yet again.

  “You still there?” Hector asked.

  “Yeah. Just thinking. That it?”

  “That’s all I got for now. But if you end up facing off with him . . .”

  “Yeah. I’ll know what’s coming. Good. Okay. If you think of anything else, call the station and leave me another message,” Detective Parker said. Then, oddly, he asked something Hector never expected. “How you holding up?”

  Hector was so stunned he could barely reply. “What?”

  Detective Parker repeated the question. “How you holding up?”

  Hector looked around, feeling almost as detached from reality in discussing his feelings with a damned cop than he did speaking to The Smiling Midget. “Uh. Okay.” He looked to the ground. “I guess.”

  “Well. I gotta go . . . but hang in there.”

  As Hector suspected, the detective’s caring was fake. “Yeah, yeah. Whatevs.”

  “No. I mean it, Hector. If that gray guy is visiting you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You must be doing something right. Don’t stop.”

  Nodding to no one, Hector cleared his throat. “S’cool.”

  “And one last thing, Hector?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said your story, that maybe it was just a coincidence?”

  “Yeah?”

  “My partner is sitting right here with me. He wants me to tell you that there’s no such thing.”

  The line clicked off as Detective Parker hung up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Parker awoke midway through the flight to Cabo with a dull headache. He’d managed a sort of twilight sleep after forcing his entire conversation with Hector Villarosa to the back of his mind, but it hadn’t been easy. Like it or not, there was a connection now between him and a murderous felon and at first it was hard to stomach.

  Until he realized that in some circles he’d be viewed as a murderer, too. Though he could argue the rules of war for much of his body count, there was still that day recently when he’d come very close to killing Tic Toc, the Korean gangster who’d fled him and Campos early on in their investigation. And some of Güero’s thugs had been body bagged at Parker’s apartment complex after he’d rescued Trudy.

  Self-defense. Those were self-defense kills and you know it. They have nothing in common with what Hector did at The Mayan.

  And it was true. But truth be told, Parker was scared now. Napoleon was one thing, but the reappearance of The Gray Man was quite another. He represented a bigger sort of truth. One that had eyes less likely to parse sins so easily. Killing was killing, and that truth up there, in the stars? It knew what few others did; it knew what Parker had done to that sniper-kid he’d hunted down across the Afghan desert. That was most definitely a murder.

  Which means you and Hector aren’t all that different after all, doesn’t it?

  “Shit,” he whispered under his breath, causing the passenger next to him, who had her face in her Kindle, to glance at him. He motioned for the stewardess. When she came over, he fought off the urge to ask for a beer and instead asked her for a cup of coffee and any snack they had.

  He had the window seat, so as she walked away, he pulled open the shade—annoying Ms. Kindle Reader even more—and looked out over the clouds below. It was bright and sunny but none of it was enough to erase the story that Hector had told him of what Güero had done to that girl at that party. There was a . . . viciousness to it that was a bit too much. Perhaps it was that he’d done it to her in public, no doubt multiplying her horror since no one tried to stop him, which Parker found detestable.

  And then, there was the disturbing way in which Güero had turned all his rings in to his palms. That was a perp move right there. The move of a man who didn’t want to risk leaving signature marks from his rings in the flesh of his victim that could later be used as forensic evidence against him.

  Which meant two chilling things: one, he’d probably done it many times before, and two, by fear alone he had amazing control over that crowd. Men like Güero always had some sort of sick charisma, some grip over their subjects. There were so many similarities—ruthless, sociopathic, violent, murderous—between Güero and many of the terrorist leaders that Parker had dealt with that it was spooky. It was as if the war had followed him home in the form of a sick doppelganger who Parker was meant to run into on the streets of East LA sooner or later. Run into and . . . end.

  Run into and kill.

  No! That’s not an option. You promised.

  He smiled weakly, he’d made a pinky-promise, and what was it Trudy said about them again? That they were “legally binding”? Yeah. That was it.

  Except, he was no longer a man of the law, was he?

  He suddenly wanted that beer now even more.

  He sure could use Napoleon’s company, but he’d disappeared again right after the end of Parker’s call with Hector.

  When the stewardess returned, she had his coffee and a bag of salted peanuts. He frowned. But it was better than nothing. He spent the rest of the flight looking out the window, sipping his coffee and wondering what Melon would look like now. It had been a few years. Had he stayed in shape or gained weight? Would he be up to the task ahead, or hell, even be down with doing it at all?

  An hour and a half later, once his flight touched down and he debarked the plane, Parker had his answers. He was halfway down the arrival tunnel when he saw him. Wearing a dark blue t-shirt and tan khaki shorts with flip flops, Melon was still a short, stout and a compact collection of muscles. His eyes were narrow and dark, but his biggest feature was a massive grin, which was always trending towards mischievous. “My man, Park!” he said with a deep chuckle. “Adonis has arrived.”

  Parker cursed at him and before they shook hands and gave each other a quick hug. “Damn. You haven’t changed a bit. You look the same.”

  Melon shrugged. “You were expecting . . .what, exactly?”

  “I thought you’d be a fatass by now.”

  “And I thought the same for you. But you know how it is . . .”

  And Melon let it hang there as Parker nodded. Neither one of them needed to say it. They just knew. Most people worked out to get fit. But a man who went to war and came back in one piece usually worked out for one main reason: to make himself tired enough to get some sleep.

  They left the Cabo International Airpor
t and made their way towards a winter-green jeep with a tan canvas top. A collection of stickers from various fishing villages, ports and charter vessels covered the back window. “Damn,” Parker said, “I had no idea you were such a fishing junkie. I mean, I don’t recall you talking about it much in country.”

  Melon grabbed Parker’s bag and tossed it in back, then motioned for him to hop in as he did the same. “Yeah. I wasn’t until I moved here. I was gonna open a bar, maybe, or a jet ski shop.”

  “That part I remember. And?”

  “One day I decided just to try it. Tuna fishing, I mean. I’d heard so many times that they’re a fish that puts up more of a fight than any other in the sea, even marlin, so I gave it a go. Invested in a local captain and his charter boat.”

  “Ya got hooked—pardon the pun.”

  “You could say that,” Melon replied as they pulled out to the main highway. Parker noticed the signs said they were driving towards downtown Cabo. Melon added, “I mean. The fishing is killer. But . . . I also kinda had a moment, I guess.”

  Parker raised his eyebrows. “A moment?”

  “Yeah. Dude. It was crazy. But one day I was out at sea. We were, like, twenty-five miles offshore, fishing a huge patty of kelp. I’d had a beer and was feeling chill when it hit me.”

  “What?”

  They hit a pot hole and bounced around for a bit.

  “It was a perfect day and the sun was up full, clear and bright. That same sun that used to beat us down so mercilessly over there, ya know . . .”

  Parker nodded and swallowed away the lump in his throat. Big sun. Massive desert. Small lives.

  “And . . . dude! I was totally at peace, man. Out there, on that water, the boat rocking back and forth, the chain from the anchor sliding through the guide rail. I had my pole. I had a beer. Life was good, ya know? And I loved that feeling so I go out as much as I can now.”

  “You found your safe place,” Parker said, remembering the urgings of his therapist for Parker to do the same. To find a spot in the world where his past couldn’t find him, and visit it as often as he could, until the past no longer bothered to visit.