Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between

by Myers, Brendan P.

  For his part, a swirl of speculation started streaming through Dan’s mind. He had no idea who these “important people” might be, of course. In fact, he was bewildered and more than a little alarmed that anyone would take an interest in a broken down middle-aged man and his nephew.

  On the other hand, his freedom from incarceration and their entry into Mexico were certainly authorized — if not arranged — by people “very high up” in the American government. He was convinced of that. Still, it bothered him to think that for all this time, he had believed he and Scott were getting by on their own wits, only to now learn there were nameless people looking out for them? That couldn’t be true. They had been through too much for that to be true.

  “In any case,” Torres went on, digging into his sweat dampened breast pocket and withdrawing a small envelope. “I have an invitation here from someone who wishes to meet with you and your nephew. And because it is, I am told, a matter of some urgency, arrangements have already been made to take you there.”

  While handing across the envelope, the cop sent Dan a grim look that made abundantly plain this particular invitation was one it would be rude, if not dangerous, to decline. However, before taking it, Dan was forced to consider whether the . . . arrangements . . . were ones that would allow for his nephew’s travel. As if reading his mind, Torres put him at ease.

  “A car will arrive here tomorrow evening at nine o’clock. If you could arrange that your nephew be here with you? I know he is living now in that other place. Ah, well. They all grow up eventually, no? It is the way of things. All the same, be assured that everything will be taken care of. However . . .”

  Torres paused before saying his next, somewhat regretfully.

  “I am informed that you may wish to pack a small bag, toiletries and such. Perhaps a change of clothing, though that may hardly be necessary.”

  He looked at Dan and seemed to sense his reluctance. They stared at each other longer than necessary. Torres was first to look away.

  “You have been treated well in my country, no?” he asked abruptly.

  Dan kept quiet, though he knew the answer. And given the almost rhetorical nature of the question, he surmised Torres did too.

  Moments later, Torres leaned forward and physically placed the envelope in his hand. Made of high-quality, slightly yellow stationary, in an ornate script Dan saw his own name written on top, his nephew Scott’s below. He was still staring at it as Torres got up from his chair.

  “As always, Mr. Proctor, it has been my pleasure to spend time with you. I am sure you will have an enjoyable trip, and you and I will be sipping lemonade on this porch very soon. Thank you again for your time, and good day.”

  Dan didn’t know how much time elapsed before he tore his eyes from the envelope. When he did, he looked up to see Torres sauntering down the driveway in the opposite direction from whence he came, hiking up his trousers before again taking a moment to stop and take a deep whiff of bougainvillea.

  7

  After Dan finished relating the story, he reached into his pocket and handed Scott the still unopened envelope. He knew the invitation, whatever it might be, was meant primarily for his nephew and not for him. It hadn’t seemed right to open it.

  Reaching out, Scott took the envelope and held it a long second before glancing down at the stylish handwriting. Dan watched him drag the tips of his fingers along the face of it. Upon opening it, he removed a stiff piece of paper from within and ran his fingers over that before finally reading the words.

  When his nephew remained silent, Dan asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Scott scanned the words with his eyes once again before handing the invitation over to his uncle. “Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing at all.”

  Dan looked down and read the invitation.

  Mr. Jose Esquinaldo requests

  the pleasure of your company

  After digesting that, Dan asked, “You ever hear of him?”

  Dugan shook his head. Leaning back in his chair, he brought his hands together and rubbed them as if he felt a sudden chill, then took a minute or more to gaze out the window into the darkness and toward the ocean beyond. As was his custom, Dan just waited him out. Dugan would speak when he was good and ready and not a second before. After a further contemplative few moments, he did.

  “However,” he said, “I do get the strong impression that when Mr. Jose Esquinaldo requests the pleasure of your company . . .” He trailed off and turned to Dan, who smiled and completed his nephew’s sentence.

  “He gets the pleasure of your company.”

  Chapter Two

  1

  Buffeted by updrafts, the helicopter seemed to struggle to rise above the inky blackness of the mountains. Strapped into his seat, Dan closed his eyes and swallowed hard and made an effort to calm his queasy stomach. Only his third helicopter ride, he had been an involuntary passenger on the first two, so this one didn’t bring back any fond memories.

  After counting to ten and taking a few deep breaths, he felt somewhat better and opened his eyes, only to glance across the cabin to see his nephew trying to stifle his smirk at his pronounced discomfort. Dan sent a snarl his way seconds before there came another rollercoaster drop and then the helicopter jetted upward where it seemed to find less turbulent air. Moments later, the chopper banked left and night turned to day as the sparkling lights of the vast metropolis that was Mexico City lay below them. It had been about a ninety minute journey.

  As planned, Dugan arrived at Dan’s house at eight-thirty that night, accompanied by what Dan had come to think of as his nephew’s bodyguard, a hard looking, rough hewn giant of a man named Pruitt. In maybe his late thirties, though the years had taken their toll, Pruitt was apparently another lost sheep whom Dugan had picked up along the way.

  Upon his arrival, Scott told him Pruitt would be staying at Dan’s house while the two were away, and got no argument from Dan. If Dugan trusted him, then Dan trusted him, and with Ana alone except for Margarite and Carlos in the guest apartment at the rear of the house, it was one less thing for him to worry about.

  As the police chief promised, a car pulled up outside the villa just before nine o’clock. After Dugan shared a few final words with Pruitt, who listened silently and nodded, Dan and he exited the house and saw a limousine idling at the curb. The black-suited driver had the trunk and rear door open and waiting. After stowing their bags and climbing inside, they drove about fifteen minutes to the outskirts of town, where a black helicopter sat in an open field. The limo driver opened their door while another man retrieved their bags from the trunk and carried them to the chopper. The driver politely saluted the two before closing the door and getting back into the car.

  Dan and Scott crossed the field toward the helicopter, where a man waited at the open cabin door. Nodding at their approach, he gestured them up the steps and followed them in, helping strap both of them in tightly and outfitting each with headsets before heading to the cockpit and buckling himself in. Seconds later, the machine hitched and sputtered and the engines roared to life. With a stomach curdling lurch, they were off.

  Once in the air, Dugan and his uncle resisted the urge to speak, both suspicious that others might be listening in. However, as they swooped lower toward the northeastern part of the city, and Dan felt the helicopter begin its descent, he shouted across at his nephew: “You okay?” Dugan nodded in reply.

  Outside the windows, Dan watched the helicopter continue its downward motion, approaching what looked to be a black void in the otherwise garishly lit city. As they moved lower, he saw there were indeed buildings in the void, long and low slung structures that could only be barracks. With a prick of anxiety, he realized it was a military installation.

  Moments later, at the north end of the base, he saw a well marked circular area with blinking lights. The aircraft slowed, then pitched to the left and hovered a moment. Dan felt a lurch as the helicopter plunged a bit, closing his eyes and before long feeling a soft
thud as the helicopter made its landing. Within moments, the cabin door opened and two uniformed soldiers were there to lower the stairs.

  Dan sent an inquiring glance Dugan’s way. His nephew cocked his head and shrugged in response, then pulled off his headset and commenced unbuckling. Dan did the same, and the two stepped out of their seats and walked to the door of the aircraft.

  To the left and right of the stairs, the two soldiers stood at attention. Once outside, they saw waiting just across the helipad was what appeared to be their ride, a long black limousine with colorful flags on either side of the hood. Yet another black clad chauffeur stood beside the open rear door. Behind and in front of the automobile were two large military vehicles of the troop transport variety. The two paused a moment to take in the unusual scene before making their first tentative steps toward the car.

  Above the roar of the still twirling rotor, Dan shouted, “Looks like we got ourselves an escort. We must be very important people.”

  Dugan raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Look at us,” he said.

  Dan smiled at the wisecrack and gestured his nephew into the car. After he followed, the door slammed shut and the chauffeur walked around front. Seconds later, the parade got underway.

  2

  Dan and Dugan had spent time in Mexico City on their vagabond meander south, assuming it would be an easy place to lose themselves. They checked into a third-rate hotel on the fringe of the city, where despite his objections, Dugan insisted Dan enjoy his visit and made himself scarce. Dan had no idea where Dugan slept during the day, but he unfailingly touched base with him after sunset, looking healthy and well fed, so he was obviously taking care of himself. In the meantime, Dan played tourist, marveling at the limitless expanse of the city, wandering the tourist districts and city parks, and drinking himself sloppy at the Hotel Prado while staring mesmerized at a wall size mural painted by Diego Rivera. Their otherwise uneventful stay ended abruptly when Dugan got spooked by something he was unwilling to share, and Dan and he fled the city in the dead of the night.

  As their limousine pulled out of the military installation and drove into the city proper, having no inkling of their ultimate destination, Dan kept his eye out for landmarks. The first mystery solved was the name of the place they had landed. Street signs pointing toward it were labeled, “Campo Militar no. 1.” Next, they veered onto a tree-lined thoroughfare called Avenue del Conscripto. Before long, they were driving down Paseo de la Reforma, a wide promenade that knifed its way through the heart of the city. They went past French-influenced houses and bold monuments to Mexican history before taking a left into a lushly gardened enclave of winding boulevards, panoramic vistas, and gated mansions. After what seemed about half a mile, just past a walled estate whose iron gates were open, the military vehicle in front flashed its brake lights and pulled to the side of the road. The limousine turned right and drove through the gates. The second troop transport followed them in.

  The stone driveway was lined with well polished luxury vehicles of expensive makes: Mercedes and Ferraris and BMWs. Red vested valets pranced about here and there juggling them. Farther along was a row of limousines similar to the one Dugan and Dan were in, in that they also had diplomatic flags hanging from either side of their hoods.

  Beyond those vehicles, the well lighted grounds and shrubbery of the estate appeared to be meticulously well kept. Looming at the end of the drive was a brilliantly lit four-level mansion that appeared more California Mission style than French influenced, with a white quarry stone facade and a ceramic tiled roof. Long balconies trimmed with ornamental railing protruded from the second and third floors. An octagonal stained glass window illuminated one of the rooms on the right.

  After pulling around the circular drive, they came to a stop at the foot of stone stairs that led onto an arcaded porch, upon which stony-faced men in dark suits with earpieces and suspicious bulges milled about. At the same moment the chauffeur exited the vehicle to come around back, a man came out the arched front doorway of the house dressed in black tie and tails. When the rear door opened and Dan and Dugan got out, they found the man there waiting.

  “Mr. Proctor, I presume?” he asked Dan, who nodded. The man then turned to Scott. “And you are Mr. Dugan, I take it?” After Dugan nodded, the man clapped his hands together. “Mr. Esquinaldo has asked me to inform you he is delighted you could come. He apologizes he could not be here in person to greet you. Please, come this way.”

  He began briskly leading Dan and Dugan off to the right, guiding them alongside the house down a walkway of Talavera tile. As they walked, across his shoulder he said, “I apologize for taking you around the back way, but as you can see, there’s a party going on.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Dan inquired. Even from this side of the house they could hear loud chatter and boisterous laughter and the clinking of glasses coming from inside.

  “The Chilean ambassador’s wife,” he answered. “It is her birthday.”

  They stopped about midway along, at a short porch with a set of double doors leading in. Once inside, they were in a room adjacent to the busy kitchen, currently filled with white aproned cooks sweating over stoves, and bustling waiters moving with a purpose. Their escort conducted Dan and Dugan through the kitchen chaos, then out a door in the rear and down a red carpeted hallway. Stopping about two thirds of the way along, he opened a door to the right and led Dan and Dugan into a modest anteroom, through a second door, and into a plushly appointed office.

  On the wall opposite, above a pair of matched leather couches, arched windows offered a breathtaking view of the grounds and the city beyond. Between the two couches was a set of French doors that opened onto a patio. To their left was a round conference table with stuffed chairs surrounding it. On the right was a large and neatly kept mahogany desk with a matching credenza adorned with various tchotchkes and knickknacks.

  The paneled walls were festooned with photographs of the political meet and greet variety, all featuring a green eyed man with a luxuriant head of salt and pepper hair and a medium-length, though well-trimmed beard. Most were of him shaking hands with stone-faced military leaders bearing fruit salad on their chests, or smiling politicians wearing sashes. At a glance, Dan recognized only one of the figures, a photo in which the gray bearded man smiled as he shook hands with Henry Kissinger.

  “Please, gentlemen, I invite you to have a seat. Once again, I apologize for my rushed manner, but as you can imagine, there is much to do. I assure you that Mr. Esquinaldo will be with you presently.”

  With that, the man offered a short bow and turned around, going back out the door they had all come in and closing it behind him.

  Alone now, Dugan and Dan sent questioning stares toward each other before Dan shrugged and shook his head while heading for a seat on the couch. Before taking one of his own, Dugan wandered the room, studying some of the pictures, reaching out to run his fingers along the frames of a seemingly random few. Stopping at the desk, he opened up a glass topped box with a rosewood finish and instantly, the rich smell of Spanish cedar and the earthy aroma of fine tobacco began wafting through the room. Closing it, he next picked up a yellow gold pen from a desk set and held it a moment, closing his eyes a few beats before opening them again and putting it back.

  Apparently satisfied with whatever he was looking for, he headed toward the couch to join Dan. He was just about to take his seat when the door opened and the gray bearded, silver haired man in the pictures entered the room. Dressed in a white dinner jacket paired with a black bow tie and matching tuxedo pants, he appeared in person every bit the commanding presence he was in the photographs. Almost unconsciously, Dan stood up.

  After sending probing gazes toward each of them, the man smiled. Nodding to them both, he said, “Mr. Proctor, Mr. Dugan, so good of you to come. I humbly apologize for not being there to greet you in person.”

  Dan noted straightaway the man spoke oddly accented English, with hints of a lilting longtime spoken Span
ish along with something more guttural that might be European. When Dan started walking over to shake his hand, the man raised his palms in warning.

  “I apologize too for my petty phobias,” he said, with a mix of self-deprecating humor and embarrassment. Dan noticed then the man was wearing white gloves. “However, I must confess, I am something of a germophobe. It goes back a very long way, I assure you. Please, both of you, take a seat. The man you are here to see will be with you shortly.”

  “You mean, we’re not here to see you?” asked Dan.

  “No, not me, I’m afraid. I am only the, how do you say, the middleman. Alas, all my attempts to drag him away from the young lady he was charming proved futile. However, I suspect he will be here momentarily. In fact–”

  Just then a man burst through the outer door and strutted his way in. More than six feet, blond, somewhere mid-thirties, he was broad shouldered and good looking, with an aquiline face and angular features and a tanned complexion, dressed in a wide lapelled white suit with a burgundy, open-necked shirt. His electric blue eyes were wide and red-rimmed as if fueled by something narcotic.

  “Hey, dudes,” he said breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late to the party. You know how these things go. Anyway, how we all doing today?”

  3

  Although Dugan was prepared for it, indeed had assumed it was on the short list of logical outcomes to this bizarre evening, he still had to stop himself from flinching, and forcibly prevent his fangs from springing spontaneously from his mouth. For he recognized that the blond man who had just entered the room was one of the men who had stalked him years ago. It was the man who had smiled cruelly down at his prostrate and wheezing uncle on the balcony of Maria’s Restaurant in a remote corner of the Arizona desert.

  That same evening, Dugan had sworn vengeance on him, and on someone else who was there that night, a man named John Arthur, who ran the pseudo-government agency tasked with hunting down his kind. Dugan had since taken an imperfect measure of vengeance upon Arthur, kidnapping his son and holding him hostage for the safe return of his uncle. And though as promised, Dugan returned the boy unharmed, he took some small comfort in knowing that at least for a few hours, John Arthur had to put his trust in one whom he had been sworn to kill.