“All I know is that when you left DARC, you made it clear you were never coming back. Nobody had a clue where you were. More than one person thought you were likely dead.”
“That so? Want something to drink?”
“Got any orange juice?”
“In the kitchen. This way.”
Lucia’s kitchen was a mix of old-fashioned and modern. The appliances were new and gleaming. The counter was stacked with neatly labeled spice jars. Part of one wall was taken up with shelves full of dozens of clay cooking pots Tin tiles painted with saints hung everywhere. The room smelled of garlic and bread and freshly cooked tomatoes.
Rock opened a huge double-doored refrigerator. Inside, a pig’s head stared mournfully out. He found a bottle of orange juice and poured two large glasses. He handed Turner a glass and indicated a small wooden table, brightly painted with pictures of dancing animals. “Let’s talk in here. The walls have ears.”
Turner looked perplexed but said nothing. They sat on sisal chairs. Turner swallowed a large gulp of juice. “This is the real thing,” he said appreciatively.
“Yeah, squeezed this morning.”
Turner smiled at the table. “Cute.”
“The kids eat breakfast in here.”
“Your kids?”
“The help’s children. How’d you find me?”
“I bribed a clerk where you have your mail drop. He phoned when you came in and I had you tailed.”
“No you didn’t. A tail’s easy to spot on these rural roads.” Turner shrugged, uninclined to explain further.
“So how did you know I was back?” resumed Rock. “Your watcher at Ciudad Flores?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Art García spotted your boys.”
Turned frowned. “Advantage of local talent is it’s local. Disadvantage is it’s amateur. No, if you were there recently they missed you.”
“How then?”
“Classified.”
Rock rolled his eyes. “Give me a break.”
“I’m serious. It’s need-to-know and you’re not even in the agency anymore.”
“I’m serious too, Turner. If I’ve got a hole in my security set-up, I’ve got a real need-to-know for my own sake.”
Turned drank some juice and eyed him closely. “Are you coming back with me?”
“Possibly.”
“All right. We’ve got a drone keeping an eye on the causeway.”
“Bullshit.”
“Not it’s not. That’s how we tailed you to Parajito.”
“How high?”
“Now that is classified.”
“You’re making this up. A jet and a drone? This isn’t the CIA. Zookeeper doesn’t have that kind of budget.”
“DEA again.”
“Why would DEA do DARC any favors? They’ve got no use for us.”
“All I know is what I hear on the elevator, so to speak. None of it’s official. And you didn’t hear any of it from me.”
“All right.”
“A few months back, we busted a kiddie porn operation. Very sophisticated. Too sophisticated for the cretins that usually run those things. Turned out the Sinoloa cartel was, you know, diversifying. Exploring other income opportunities. Guy running the kiddie show was pretty high up in the Sinoloa organization chart and he was ready to play footsie with us.”
“He was? I’d rather be in an American prison than on the wrong side of the Sinoloas.”
“It was all about macho. A trial would have exposed him, you see. A cold-blooded killer is still a man. Pervert is something else.”
“Was he?”
“The guy loved his work, would have done it for free just to get first look at all the preteens. But as a matter of fact, he didn’t give us anything on the Sinoloas.”
“What then?”
“The Sinoloas own somebody high up in the Zeta cartel who keeps them informed on what the Zetas are up to. We had no use for it of course, so Zookeeper cut a deal with DEA. Well, the intel was premium. DEA scored a major bust. Made the New York Times and Fox News.”
Turner finished his orange juice and set the glass down. “Great OJ. I’m a new man. And now we really need to get going if we’re going to make Washington before the morning jam.”
“You’re worried about DC traffic?” said Rock, perplexed.
“I’m worried about the air traffic. You have no idea how crowded Capitol airspace is these days. Throw some things in your overnight bag and let’s go.”
“I didn’t say I was going. I said ‘possibly.’”
“What will turn ‘maybe’ into ‘absolutely?’”
“There’s a condition.”
“There always is. The blonde by any chance?”
“She’s not a blonde.”
“Well, I saw somebody with long blonde hair get out of the truck with you and go into the house. Admittedly, I only saw her from above but the image was very high resolution.”
“Shit! You do have a drone!”
“Look, I don’t blame you for wanting to take your girlfriend—”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend or not, blonde or brunette, I’m not authorized to take anyone but you.”
“I won’t go without her. Mexico’s not safe for her, not alone. Her ID and passport have been stolen. I was planning to take her to the consulate but this is better.”
“You want me to transport someone without papers across the border? How many laws does that break?”
“How many have you already broken? Did you ask the Mexican Air Force if they mind you flying a drone in their country?”
“I’m talking about American laws. Homeland Security would have a fit if they find out.”
“So don’t tell them. Does this plane come with a DEA pilot?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bet he’s done black missions before. The feds have a landing strip set up just to avoid all that nasty red tape.”
“I know about it. It’s also a hundred and fifty miles from DC.”
“Then we’ll avoid that Capitol traffic jam, won’t we? Turner, she’s just a kid, nineteen or twenty. I’m not leaving her behind.”
“How do you know this stolen passport story is true?”
“Two guys grabbed her in Tuláz and tied her up, apparently not for themselves. I spoiled the party but when I took her back to the hotel, her stuff was gone.”
“Holy shit. Are you making this up?”
“You can look at her wrists if you want. She still has ligatures.”
“What did the cops say?”
“Didn’t report it. The bad guys were cops.”
“Were?”
“They’re dead.”
“Dead? Wait a minute, there’s a manhunt going on in north central Mexico for—”
“I know.”
Turner looked sick. “God almighty, Rock. I was told you’re trouble. You’ve got to get out of the country.”
“Not without the girl.”
Turner threw up his arms. “Oh hell, compared to transporting an alleged murderer, transporting someone without papers is nothing! Go tell Miss-Not-a-Blonde to pack her stuff and let’s go.”
Half an hour later they were moving through the night in Turner’s SUV. The jet, a sleek metal bird that that seated six, was waiting for them in a small airport that serviced the wealthier tourist trade. Rory was clearly pleased that that she’d be back in the US by morning, only a short hop from her home. Not to Rock’s surprise, she’d flown in private jets before and found nothing special at traveling in one now, though her pesky curiosity was thoroughly aroused.
Rock managed to dodge her questions until they were airborne. “I used to work for a government agency,” he finally said. “The plane’s courtesy of them.”
“Which agency?”
“Small one. You haven’t heard of it.”
“What does it do?”
“This and that, dull stuff.”
“If it�
��s a government plane, why does it say ‘Thornton Industries’ on the side?”
“Does it? I hadn’t noticed.”
“So some dinky agency that nobody’s heard of has sent a plane to Mexico to take you back to Washington DC. Is this why we had to leave Ciudad Flores all of a sudden?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“And you were hiding from them?”
“I told you. I left that line of work behind. I’m not going back to it.”
“Must have been pretty dull all right. So just who is Zookeeper?”
Rock looked at her sharply. “Where’d you pick that up?”
“The two of you were shouting it through the door.”
“It’s just a nickname.”
“Weird nickname.” Rock didn’t respond. She looked at Turner, who was busy with his phone, then back at Rock. “Are you guys spies?”
Rock and Turner burst into laughter. “Thank God, no!” said Turner. “All the Company guys I know are nervous wrecks. CIA has the highest alcoholism rate in the entire government.”
Eventually Rory tired of getting non-answers and curled up to go to sleep. For a while Rock stared out the window at the dark land below, occasionally interrupted by the clustered lights of a town. He’d do Hamilton Oaks the courtesy of hearing whatever crisis had prompted the director to bring him back, then politely but firmly decline. Tomorrow he’d rent a car and drive Rory to Boston since without an ID she couldn’t fly commercial. Once he had her safely home, Turner would fly him back to Mexico. With luck, he’d be at Casa Paradiso in time for supper with Carmen and Lucia and their children. Afterwards he and Tío Luis would play dominoes and he could readjust to the rhythm of life of Parajito, as regular as the surf: no excitement, no surprises, no sudden danger.
Well, there was that little matter of two dead cops, dirty to be sure, but still cops and still dead. Sooner or later, the Federales would find him. Despite Rory’s sincere intention of returning to clear his name and get his bike back, he wasn’t sure he’d see her again, though she might surprise him.
Then again she might not surprise him. After all, she was a rich girl and the wary cynic in him had no faith in rich girls. The kid, ever the optimist, thought she’d come back to see the real Mexico.
KID: She’ll come back. You’ll see. And when she does, we’ll show her the real Mexico. You know, Uxmal for the pyramids, then Copper Canyon, and then to Merida to the big cathedral of San Ilde—”
OLD MAN: Kid, save your dreams for dreams that might come true.
KID: No, she’ll be back. I know it!
OLD MAN: Once she’s back in Boston, all this is just a bad dream. And we’re nothing but a good story, something to liven up a date.
KID: You know what you are? Nothing but a bitter old cynic.
OLD MAN: I’m a cynic but I’m not bitter. Never give your heart away and you never get it broke.
But whether she came back or not, they’d never be a couple. Nothing in common and her family would never approve. Couldn’t blame them. He was no parent’s idea of a nice boy and even if he was, who would want their daughter marrying a cop? Not that he was a cop anymore, but still…
So what was he? Some guy who did freelance private security? Now there was a job description that would reassure any mother. No, they’d never be a couple but he’d love to spend a couple of weeks showing her Mexico, not exactly the real Mexico since that would include a hefty helping of people living in desperate poverty and other things. He’d let her see the Mexico not on the guidebooks: colorful, raw, full of life. How had she put it? Here things are just plain more. Sadder, happier, uglier, sweeter.
And nights he’d show her something else. And she could show him her lovely, unclad body. He’d never seen her naked. The thought roused his cock like a sleeping dog sniffing something tasty. She was fast asleep in the seat next to him: eyes shut, breasts rising and falling with her breath, strawberry hair tumbled everywhere. The urge to reach out and stroke her locks was irresistible.
Resist it, Jones. Just wait. Turner said he’d get them a first-class hotel. Tonight they’d be alone with all the time in the world. His cock stirred again. Don’t think about tonight. Think about… getting hung with a murder rap. How could he avoid that? He’d hate to have to leave the country. Parajito and life at Case Paradiso was a balm. His paranoia had subsided to the point that he almost felt like a normal person. That is until that… incident in the desert had sent him back on red alert.
Well, he knew some law enforcement guys down here. He could talk to them. They might be helpful. Except he already knew what they’d tell him. Get the girl to come back and testify. It all came back to Rory. He had to stop thinking about her. His cock stirred and he pulled out his phone to play Angry Birds.
At some point he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew was Turner’s voice. “Landing in ten minutes. Wake your girlfriend.”
“I told you. She’d not my girlfriend.”
“Have it your way but if I were you, I’d take every opportunity to change that status.”
“What happens after we touch down?”
“A car’s waiting to take us to DC. We’ll drop her off at the hotel—“
“Which one?”
“The Carlton. You’ll like it. Very nice. Nicer than you or I could afford on our own.”
“And there will be someone waiting for her?”
“Yeah, a DARC trainee who owes me a favor.”
“I don’t want her guarded by some trainee.”
“He’s new to DARC, not to law enforcement. Twelve years a cop, five of them a detective in Chicago. She’ll be more than safe. Tell me, Rock, do you really think the long claws of Mexican white slavers can reach her here?”
“What do you expect from someone everyone says is paranoid? Humor me. I’m walking her in and not leaving until we find your guy.”
“All right. Once that’s done, the car will take us to the Zoo. I’m walking you in and not leaving until you go through the director’s door. After that, I’m out of your hair and you’re out of mine. I’ll miss you, sweetheart. Finding you has been my life the last three weeks. I’ll especially miss those phone calls from the deputy director reminding me Zookeeper expects results.”
“Sorry to be a headache.”
“I think you’re one of those people that’s always a headache to someone. It just happens that it’s usually to the bad guys.”
Dawn was breaking as they landed at an airfield in Virginia that served only government planes, mostly for law enforcement and intelligence agencies. It wasn’t exactly clandestine but its existence wasn’t advertised. Rock noticed security was as tight as any military base. Turner had to show his ID and some papers to several guards. Rock and Rory got eyeballed but whatever was on Turner’s documents, no one asked for ID. Good thing, thought Rock.
A driver and unmarked car were waiting for them and two hours later they were inside the Washington beltway. Turner made a call a few minutes before they reached the Carlton and when they pulled into the hotel’s entrance, a burly man with Irish features was standing next to the doorman. His name was Sullivan. Turner introduced him to Rock and Rory and everyone shook hands. Rock was mollified, seeing a type he knew well: son of a cop, maybe even grandson of a cop. Rory would be fine.
He smiled and told her to not to wait on him for breakfast. He’d be gone at least a couple of hours. She gave him a dry smile. “You’d tell me where you’re going but then you’d have to kill me, right?”
He made himself smile back. “Somebody’s going to offer me a job. I’m going to decline it. End of story.”
“You know, if you worked in Washington, we could see each other every weekend.”
Rock started to laugh politely. Then he saw her face. She wasn’t joking. He didn’t know what to say and finally mumbled, “You’d like that?”
“I’d love it!” she exclaimed and embraced him tightly. Turner and Sullivan stood a discreet distance away and both turned t
heir attention to the sidewalk. Rock finally broke the embrace and was about to say goodbye when she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, and not a “hurry back” kiss but a “take me now” one. The others strolled several steps further off and gazed at the traffic.
It was several more minutes before Rock was back in the car with Turner, who handed him a Kleenex. “You’ve got lipstick on your face.”
Rock took it and dabbed. “Thanks.”
“By the way, have you told her she’s not your girlfriend?”
By the time they left the Carlton, traffic was thick and they crawled through Washington. Turner had the driver pull into a MacDonald’s drive-through for coffee and breakfast. Rock bit into his Egg McMuffin and thought wistfully of Lucia’s bean and chorizo tacos.
The car took them through downtown DC, past the tall spire of the Washington Monument, then on to one of the town’s older suburbs, where traffic was less crowded. They drove into a business district that had fallen out of fashion, mostly now the home of second-tier lobbying and law firms. It was in no way seedy but to those in the know, not an impressive address.
The driver pulled in front of a five story brownstone that had seen better days and they got out. There was no indication the structure was anything but another office building.
“Zoo looks about the same,” said Rock.
“They redid the lobby,” Turner told him. “Story is that Zookeeper’s wife came to visit and told him it was so shabby she was embarrassed to be seen in it.”
They emptied their pockets and went through a metal detector. The lobby was newly painted and blandly institutional: potted plants and framed watercolor landscapes. A young woman in a crisp suit sat at an information desk flanked by two uniformed guards. On the wall behind the desk were fixed large metal letters that said:
Welcome to D.A.R.C.A.A.L.C.
Department for Assessment and Reduction
of Criminal Activity in Alternate Lifestyle Communities
Below that, smaller letters said:
Our Mission:
To Serve and Protect Those Practicing
Their Constitutional Right to the Pursuit
of Happiness in Any Legal Form of Expression
DARK BLISS (Dangerous Games,) Page 10