Читать книгу Not Without Cause - Kay David - Страница 10

STANDING IN THE SHADOWS across the street, Meredith stared at the house then closed her eyes for half a second. She could envision Haden inside, tracing the patterns on tiled floors with his toes, trailing his fingers over the polished wood banisters, leaning against the stuccoed wall. Haden was the kind of guy who liked to touch things he was familiar with—it gave him a sense of comfort, she’d decided after watching him one day. He liked to reassure himself that he was where he thought he was and the things around him were his own. He’d touched her that way, too.

She opened her eyes and studied the home a little closer. Built like the others around it, nothing about the building stood out, which was probably one of the reasons it appealed to him. Two stories with a red tiled roof, the place was surrounded by a painted wall that looked to be about ten feet tall. The top of it was decorated with bits of colored broken glass, the jagged edges pointing straight up. Anyone trying to boost themselves over would end up with a bloody gash across the palm.

A black iron gate was set in the stucco and through the bars, she could see a small garden. The front door opened to the patio. There was no garage and reminding her of her own home, all the windows faced the interior courtyard. A dim reflection ricocheted off the glass of the nearest one but there were no lights on inside.

She glanced down the street. Haden could have afforded a better colonia, but he’d obviously chosen this one for a reason. She wondered if his selection had had anything to do with the lack of vehicles parked outside. If your neighbors were too poor to have cars, then you heard one when it came down the street in the middle of the night. Here, in times past, the sound of a car drawing near after dark was one people dreaded. They’d lock their doors and hide, praying no one would knock. In the morning, they’d get up and surreptitiously check their neighbors to see who had been taken away.

Things were supposed to better now, but who could say for sure? Haden would have been cautious regardless.

She edged down the calle toward a patch of darkness that spread all the way across the street, then she crossed, the smell of fried tortillas filling the air, the sound of a distant radio coming with it. She’d planned on walking by and nothing more, but when she was even with the gate, she couldn’t resist. Her hand reached out and touched one of the bars and the whole thing drifted backward without a sound.

She froze.

Haden would have never left the gate open if he’d gone out of town and if he was home, he would have been even more careful about checking it.

She looked over her shoulder in both directions, then glided inside the walled enclosure, her steps muted. No moon lit the sky but there was enough ambient light to make out the bushes and plants in pots around a central fountain. Edging around the perimeter, she headed for a door set between two of the windows.

The taste of fear filled her dry mouth and suddenly she realized her knife was in her hand. She didn’t remember pulling the weapon from her boot but her fingers were wrapped around it so she must have. When she reached the door, she used the tip of the blade to press against the wood and swing it open. The slab of heavy mahogany complied with a soft creak.

She wished it had stayed shut.

The room before her had been destroyed. There were holes in the stucco where things had been thrown and most of the furniture was upside down. A brown couch lay on its side, its ripped cushions scattered from one end of the room to the other. Two small chairs had been pushed over, too, their arms sticking uselessly into the air. The coffee table was the same way, but it only had three legs. One had been broken off with a savagery that made her swallow, a jagged piece of wood sticking out from the frame like a broken bone. The leg that had been ripped off lay near the shattered television set. The tip had been dipped in something brown and sticky. Her eyes backtracked the trail leading up to it. The line was long and ropy. On the wall where it began was a smeared handprint.

She stepped inside the room, avoiding a stain on the tile floor at the threshold to close the door behind her. Standing quietly, she listened to the flies buzz nearby, then she moved down the hallway on her left in a quick but silent stride. Within minutes, she knew the house was empty.

She returned to the den and surveyed the destruction again. Whatever had happened here had happened several days before, but the echoes of violence left behind could still be felt. Suppressing a shudder, Meredith tried to concentrate but it was almost impossible. Death had been here.

The heavy silence was broken with the incongruent sound of a baby crying. Meredith blinked twice, then realized the noise was coming from next door. She glanced at the house in time to see a light come on behind a open window on the second floor. Had they seen anything? Had they heard anything? The outline of a small lamp wavered behind a filmy curtain. It threw enough illumination over the stucco fence that when she turned back to the den, some of the details she’d missed before came into clearer view.

The first thing she noticed was the wall behind the front door. The pale yellow paint was marked with the scuff of a shoe. It looked as if someone had stood there and rested a boot against the stucco. She imagined the scene—the door slowly opening, the person behind makes the first strike, the beating ensues. Who had been waiting? Who had walked inside?

She picked her way through the debris to the other side of the room. Along with everything else, there were five cigarette butts scattered in the mess, all of them Payasos, the local Guatemalan brand. Kneeling down she stilled. Haden didn’t smoke. Acting on instinct, she lifted them one by one with the end of her knife and, ripping a page from a nearby book, wrapped the cigarettes up in the paper before dropping the packet into her pocket. She didn’t know what the cigarettes might tell her later, but information was information and years of training wouldn’t let her ignore it.

She studied the bookshelves. They had obviously been bumped during the struggle, books and photos tumbling out of their shelves to the floor beneath. Something silver glinted in the light but before she could tell what it was, the room went dark again. The baby had gone silent, she realized, and the neighbor had doused his lamp.

Stepping closer, she bent down anyway and dug through the debris with the edge of her knife. She had to push aside a heavy candle and then move a travel book on Machu Picchu, but she finally reached the thing that had caught her attention.

It was a picture frame, she realized. And it held a photograph of her.

RETURNING TO THE SAFE HOUSE, Meredith called Cipriano Barrisito immediately. The need to rush was long past—the blood had been shed days ago—but she couldn’t hold back her sense of urgency.

He answered as before, right on the third ring. “Did everything go as you wanted?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “My friend may have a bigger problem than I first thought. I need you to go to his barrio and ask some questions.”

“Dígame.”

She gave him the address of Haden’s neighbor then said, “Send someone over there right now. They have a young child and they probably don’t sleep too soundly. I want to know if they heard any…noise at the house next door.” She took a sip of the drink she’d poured for herself before grabbing the phone. “It would have happened over the last two days, maybe three.”

Barrisito hesitated. “What would this unusual sound have been?”

“Just ask them. When you find out, call me back.”

She was on her second drink when the phone rang, its strident sound making her jerk so hard, a splash of tomato juice and vodka spilled from her glass onto her blouse. The stain reminded her of the ones she’d seen in Haden’s house.

“Night before last, they heard a car on the street behind them,” Barrisito confirmed. “Then men talking loudly.”

“How many?”

“At least two, maybe three. They weren’t sure.”

“Did they recognize anyone?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“A fight, but they ignored it,” he said. “This is Guatemala. You don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. It might get chopped off.”

“How long did it last?”

“Not long.” He paused. “When it was over, they said one man left the house and walked away. They saw no one else after that and they’ve seen no one since.” He spoke quietly. “If your friend was somehow taken to the place my cousin told you about, I would leave this alone.”

“I don’t think that’s him,” she said quietly, the feeling she’d had at Haden’s returning. Death had been in there. She’d felt it. “Rosario said only one gringo was there. I doubt that it’s Haden. It may be Brad Prescott, though.”

“Whoever he is, leave him be. Fidel Menchez controls everything in that part of the country. Everything between Guatemala and Mexico. And he’s not a pleasant man.”

She tried to focus. “Tell me more.”

“There’s nothing more to tell. For a small fee, he will guarantee safe passage for the other men’s couriers who must pass through his area but if you do not pay, you end up in his prison.”

“Is there no way out?”

“I’ve heard of bribes helping, but the price, it is too high for most.”

“How big is this place? Are there that many couriers going back and forth?”

“He has other ‘prisoners’ as well. For his friends—his paying friends—Menchez will help out with someone who needs to be ‘disappeared.’ They go in, they don’t come out.”

“Why not just kill them?”

“Killing would be easier,” Barrisito conceded, “but you have to remember where you are. This is Guatemala. Everything can be used as a bargaining chip. One never knows when a trade can be made. Why waste the bullet?”

Meredith’s mind spun as he talked, her plan coalescing quickly, the seed for it having already been planted the minute the hooker had mentioned her friend’s visit to the prison.

“You’re loca,” he said after Meredith explained what she wanted to do. “These people are not the kind you are accustomed to dealing with. They have no honor. You do not understand.”

“I’ve worked with their ilk before.”

“I do not think so,” he said. “If you had, you would not be around to tell about it.”

“I can handle myself,” she said grimly. “You just hold up your end. That’s all you need to worry about.”

She took a bath and went to bed but the sun came up a few hours later and found her still awake, thoughts of Haden plaguing her. In her heart, she knew he was dead and the heaviness that weighed her down was both shocking and unexpected. She analyzed her reaction further, her emotions rising to the surface. The idea of Haden being gone left her completely adrift, but at the same time, she felt a twisted relief over the fact that she hadn’t been the one to cause the situation. She shook her head in total confusion. What the hell was wrong with her?

Through the chaos one thought registered. If Haden and Prescott had been working together, then maybe Brad Prescott might know what had really happened at Haden’s home. She coudn’t leave without knowing the truth.

Turning her mind away from her thoughts, Meredith got out of bed and made some notes about what Barrisito’s hooker had told her. When a glance at her watch told her the market had opened, she made a quick trip to one of the boutiques and then stopped at a postal service. After filling out all the forms and sealing up the cigarette butts she’d retrieved from Haden’s house, she printed the address on the front of the lab she used in D.C. The butts might reveal nothing, but the chance they might reveal something was too great to ignore.

After returning to the house, she packed the clothing she’d bought into a small bag she found inside one of the closets, leaving the rest of her personal items in place. If things went the way she planned, she would be back during the early hours of Saturday morning and on a plane to Houston the following afternoon.

The clock chimed noon when she locked the house and left. The tote on one shoulder, her purse on the other, she walked briskly down the narrow street going the opposite direction she had the night before. In a matter of minutes she was on a busy commercial street. She crossed it twice, then finally decided on a particular cab. As they headed for Zona 8, the passing buildings turned bleaker and the streets narrower. The driver pulled up to the bus station and Meredith paid him, climbing out with one eye on her surroundings. The sun had come out and it was steamy, the smell of dust and smoke heavy all around. There was always something burning in Guatemala City. She entered the bus station and the haze actually seemed stronger inside.

Five hours later she got off the bus in Huehuetenango.

She went into the nearest bathroom and took off the jeans and T-shirt she’d traveled in, replacing them with the short skirt and tight halter she’d bought earlier that morning. Lining her eyes with a dark pencil, she added another layer of mascara, then pulled her hair to one side with a wide rubber band. She took her shoes from the bag last of all. They were custom-made heels; the sole was as thin as a wafer and so was the blade it concealed. She checked the edge and handle carefully and then slipped the weapon back into its hidden compartment.

Judging from the looks she got when she came out, her transformation was a good one. She hoped the guards at the prison would think so, too, but her thoughts were interrupted as a man approached her.

He appeared familiar, then she remembered that Barrisito had told her he was sending his brother to meet her. The dark eyes that met hers were a mirror image of the man who’d warned her against coming.

His gaze went over her body then came back to her face. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

He was as outspoken as his brother. “I can take care of myself,” she said. “You just get me in.”

He led her to his vehicle in silence, their conversation over. A few minutes later he pulled up in front of a small run-down hotel. A fountain bubbled quietly in the courtyard beside the street and the walls were covered with a thick green vine but nothing could hide the air of seedy despair that hung over it. A group of women were huddled next to a waiting van and they looked up as Barrisito’s brother pulled his SUV up to the curb.

“That’s them,” he said.

Meredith ran her eyes over the scantily clad women. She would have known who they were without his input.

“I’ll call you as soon as I can.” She turned back to the man beside her. “Don’t be late. Will this be the vehicle?”

“No, this is my car. I’ll have another one for you.”

“Make sure it’s gassed up. I don’t want to have to stop between here and Guatemala City. Do you know where to leave it?”

“Sí, entiendo.” His voice was sullen. He didn’t like taking orders from a woman. “It will be there and the tank will be full. But you will not be needing it, I tell you the truth.”

She paused, her hand on the latch. “And why is that?”

“You won’t be coming back,” he said smugly. “Menchez’s men are no fools. They will know you are not who you say you are.”

Leaning toward him, she held his gaze in the rearview mirror. “There’s only one way they would know that and that’s if you tell them. Should that happen, I’ll return to make sure you don’t do it again.” She waited for her words to soak in. “Do you understand me?”

“I understand.”

She didn’t smile. “Bueno. I wouldn’t want to have to give your brother bad news when I return to the city.”

“I would not want that, either.”

“Then keep your mouth shut,” she said, her voice hard. “And have my car waiting.”

THE WOMEN DIDN’T greet Meredith. They were experienced enough, if not old enough, to know it was best to ignore her. She represented the unknown and therefore, the dangerous. Still, she found herself wondering which one of them had told Barrisito’s hooker about the gringo she’d seen. It wouldn’t have hurt to have a friend in the group, but Meredith knew even better than they did that strangers were to be avoided.

The driver herded them into the van, passing out dirty black scarves as they climbed inside. Meredith watched as one by one, the women wrapped the rags around their eyes. She followed suit but when she saw the driver wasn’t going to check she left hers loose enough to see through. The woman beside her did the same. They exchanged a quick look before the woman turned away, Meredith’s impression of her forming quickly out of necessity. Bored and already jaded, she was probably in her thirties but she could just as easily have been nineteen or fifty, her dark, long hair and slanted eyes giving away little more than her Indian heritage.

The van took the main road out of town, then went north about three miles, the pavement giving way to a dirt-rutted road. Meredith noted the intersection then turned her eyes to the foliage outside the window. The farther they went, the thicker it became, the branches of the rubber trees leaning over and scraping the windows as if to ask for sanctuary from the endless jungle. The driver slowed after five long minutes then turned left sharply. The van ground to a halt shortly after that, the brakes’ squeaky protest announcing their arrival.

The women pulled off their masks and their purses came out, the smell of cheap perfume filling the air as they sprayed their necks and reapplied their lipstick. When the van’s door opened, they passed through it in a cloud of cloying sweetness and Max Factor.

Ten yards from the bus, a single guard stood beside a rusting metal fence while another one sat behind a rickety desk. The women presented their purses to one and their bodies to the other, each searched with a thoroughness that would have done the airport screeners back in the U.S.A. proud. Meredith’s turn came up quickly.

The man’s hands were rough and impersonal as he patted down her sides and hips then felt under her breasts. His breath was a mixture of stale beer and strong garlic. She let him do his job, then she stepped back and sucked in a lung full of air. He threw a comment over her shoulder to the man at the desk. His words were in Mam, a local dialect but the meaning was clear; she’d passed. She stared straight ahead like the novice she was supposed to be, moving only after he jerked his head for her to go on, switching to Spanish. “Pase adelante.”

She stepped inside the prison and surveyed the grounds.

The description she’d gotten from the hooker had been accurate, she saw with relief. A fenced-in area opened out before her, the lot roughly forty-by-forty with a packed dirt floor and abandoned guard towers at either end. To her right was a cracked sidewalk lit by a row of bare lightbulbs hanging overhead. A half-dozen concrete benches were nearby, two broken-down picnic tables beside them. On the opposite side of the sidewalk was a small, open-air cinder-block building with peeling paint and four doors made of hanging fabric. An ancient fan sat on the crosspiece above each scrap of material, their blades rattling softly. This was where the women saw their clients.

She looked past the immediate area to the prison beyond. Behind another fence was a larger building that obviously contained the celdas and a second open area that looked like a soccer field. Men were filing into it slowly. The only guards she saw were the two behind her, but she assumed there were others nearby. There were no offices or administrative structures, in fact, there was nothing around that looked official in any way. Barrisito’s explanation had been right on target.

When the visitors were all inside, the gate squeaked open at the other end of the compound and the prisoners spilled out into the courtyard. The women pushed forward and Meredith allowed them to carry her the same direction. The two groups met in the center of the dust-filled yard and chaos took over.

The prison population was made up mainly of locals and they were uniformly short—a taller individual, blond or otherwise, would stand out. Meredith’s eyes scanned the crowd but she didn’t have to look long. In the center of the group, a man wearing a white rag wrapped around his head caught her attention, one part of the puzzle falling into place. He wasn’t an Arab but his makeshift ghutra had earned him the nickname. Her eyes dropped to his face and she sucked in a breath of horror.

The man was a mess. Covered in bruises and cuts, his skin was puffy and stretched, one eye so swollen it was completely closed, the other one a narrow slit. He hadn’t been trying for a political statement with the dirty white towel—he’d simply wrapped himself up in an effort to hold the pieces together. Her eyes skipped over the details because she didn’t want to look any closer, but a long ragged gash down one cheek stood out and she couldn’t ignore it; the open wound was hot and ugly. She winced at the thought of the pain he must feel, sympathy passing through her.

There was no resemblance between the man before her and the photo of Brad Prescott. Then again, she thought with pity, this poor bastard’s own mother wouldn’t have known who he was.

Meredith took a deep breath and pushed her way toward him.