John Gilstrap - Damage Control

Father Peron smiled. “Unless you feel that we might make a phone call.”

Jonathan let the comment hang. It was what it was.

Peron said, “And might I presume that if your money could buy silence, that would be okay?”

Jonathan hiked a shoulder and smiled back. “That would be fine with me, yes.”

“You have far more to fear from the people you cannot see than from those you can. Those families out there at the futbol field will do Tristan no harm. Most don’t even have phones. But those businesses you passed down the hill do have phones, and while we peasants pay the drug lords, some of those businessmen are paid by them. It is not safe for you here.”

“Just a meal, then,” Jonathan bargained. “And some supplies. Enough food and water for a few days, and as much gasoline as you can spare.”

Father Peron regarded Jonathan for a long time before he spoke. “I’ll ask the parishioners to feed you and allow you to bathe. Perhaps some fresh clothes as well. You need to change your appearances, yes?”

“All things considered, I don’t think that matters much.”

“Perhaps not for you-I could clothe you in a dress and you would still look like a soldier-but Tristan appears to have no clothes.”

Jonathan decided not to explain about the blood, and to accept the offer. “I insist on paying,” he said.

“As they are part of the church’s charity stores, I will gladly accept.”

“Excellent,” Jonathan said. Then he hesitated.

“There’s more?” Peron asked.

“Well, yes, sir, there is,” Jonathan said. “That Toyota out there belonged to the terrorists who started all this. Assuming, as I believe we both are, that the original attackers are friends, not foes, of the local officials, I’d rather not spend any more time than necessary driving a vehicle that they’ll be looking for.”

Peron gave a patient smile. “That was a lot of words, Mr. Harris. Can you state your desire more simply?”

“Sure,” Jonathan said. “I want to buy your car.”

Father Peron coughed out a laugh. Clearly, it was not what he’d been expecting. “I don’t own a car,” he said. “The diocese owns the car.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“It’s not for sale.”

Jonathan’s eyes flashed. “Let’s be honest with each other, shall we? Everything is for sale. Every one is for sale. The only variable is price. What kind of car, Father?”

“It’s a three-year-old Nissan Pathfinder,” Peron said. “And it’s not for sale.”

“I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars for it,” Jonathan said. “Cash.”

Peron’s jaw dropped.

“But I need gasoline, too,” Jonathan said. “Ten twenty-liter cans. Enough to get me to the American border.”

Peron furrowed his brow as he thought through the opportunity that had just been presented to him. “You understand that the monies you pay go to the parish, yes? Not to me personally.”

“I would never suspect otherwise,” Jonathan said. And since he wasn’t spending his own money, he couldn’t have cared less. “You should think of this as a unique opportunity.”

“Well put,” Peron said. “Ours is an impoverished parish with many charitable needs.”

“Indeed,” Jonathan said. It’s not often that you get to watch the process of rationalization in real time. “So, we have a deal?” He extended his hand.

“The gasoline will cost you another hundred thousand dollars,” Peron said. “Cash.”

At first, Jonathan was stunned. Then he erupted in laughter, throaty and guttural. “Father Peron, I like your style. Go for the gusto, right?” He reemphasized his waiting hand. “Two hundred and twenty five thousand dollars it is.”

Peron started to shake hands, but then the hand paused in midair. “Two hundred,” he corrected.

Jonathan winked. “Hey. I’m a sucker for a charitable cause.”

Jackie filled Abrams in on the details of the cyber attack, pausing every few sentences to let the raucous boor vent his derisive laughter.

When she was done, Abrams said, “Holy hell, Madre. Your shit pile just keeps getting deeper and deeper, doesn’t it?” And then he laughed again. Everything Jackie said was a giant joke to him. “How the hell am I going to keep your ass off the gurney in the lethal injection room if you keep screwing up like this?”

In her mind, she could see his big frame with his gray hair and his bushy mustache. That threatening air about him that permeated everything he did and every word he spoke.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” Abrams pressed. “I told Mr. Hainsley just this afternoon that it was a mistake for you to overreach. It’s not enough for you to be three-million greedy, you needed to be six-million greedy. How many friggin’ pink limousines do you need, anyways?”

Never in her adult life had anyone spoken to her as Abrams did, and never before would she have tolerated it. She’d learned, though, that she needed to endure, because Abrams was her connection to the practicalities that governed the dark side of humanity.

And he wasn’t done. “I hope that sixteen-year-old was hung like a stallion, lady, and sent you to the moon with orgasms. Otherwise, I can’t imagine how all of this was worth it.”

“He was seventeen!” she snapped. “And he said he was eighteen. I am not a pedophile.” And he had indeed been hung like a stallion, and a more tender, sensitive soul never walked the earth. But no one cared about such details.

“Tomato, to mah to,” Abrams said. “It’s still a stinkin’ shit pile.”

“Enough, Mr. Abrams,” she snapped. “Must you take such pleasure in your work?”

“You can’t even call it work if you have fun at it, Madre. But let’s talk about what kind of special shovel we can build to make that pile smaller.”

The scatological metaphors had long ago grown tiresome. “First tell me what you think it all means,” Jackie said.

“I can’t say for sure, but there’s a good chance it means that somebody is putting the right pieces together. That’s bad for you and your board members.”

“It’s bad for you, too, Mr. Abrams.”

“Probably not, actually. You must have figured out by now that my name’s not really Abrams. My client isn’t really Dennis Hainsley, either. They can trace all that to ground, and they got nothing. What are the chances that somebody called the cops on you?”

Jackie switched to her wireless headset and paced her office as she spoke. When she got to the window, she traced the pleats of the Belgian linen drapes with her finger. “I can’t imagine who,” she said. “Outside of a very small group, no one even knows that the children were taken.” A thought flashed through her mind, triggering a gasp. “Oh, my goodness. When the bodies were found, were the families notified?”

“Negative,” Abrams said. “The bodies were found by the right people. Nobody’s gonna know anything about them.”

She stopped pacing. “You’re planning to repatriate the remains, aren’t you?”

“Repatriate!” Abrams laughed. “Who the hell uses words like that? What, you walk around with a friggin’ dictionary? No, we’re not going to repatriate the bodies. We’re not even gonna return them. We’re gonna burn them so no one will ever know they were there.”

“But you can’t,” Jackie declared. “The families!”

“Are you friggin’ kidding me? Now you’re worried about the families? Holy shit, Madre, you really are a piece of work.” Another long laugh.

Jackie Mitchell hated this man. Hated everything he stood for, and hated herself for ever being persuaded to go along. She was tempted to remind him of his promises that no one would be harmed, but she knew that her words would be met with more laughter. She was tired of the laughter. And the thought of those young men and women’s bodies being burned, no doubt without even rudimentary Christian services, made her stomach churn. It just got worse and worse.