Paul Levine: Illegal

"You mean it?"

"I thought of it when I was getting the shit kicked out of me. Or maybe when I was unconscious. I don't know exactly. But I've got a plan."

The boy's eyes glistened with hope.

Sharon cocked her head, her skeptical look.

"Trust me, Sharon," Payne said. "Marisol's here. Somewhere close. But she's in trouble."

"Atticus, you sound like one of those palm readers. What's going on?"

"I need to get out of here. There's something I gotta do."

"You've got a concussion. You're on painkillers. The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation."

"I don't want to be observed." Payne glanced toward the window. A pink glow of sunset. The last he remembered, it was breakfast time, and he was getting his ass whomped. As soon as the room stopped spinning, he intended to get out of bed.

"Sharon, I need you to take care of Tino tonight."

"What do you think you're going to do?"

"Gonna need your gun, too."

"Not unless you pry it from my cold, dead, out-of-ajob fingers."

"Listen to me for a second. Rutledge offered me two hundred grand to go away."

"A bribe?" Her accusing look, little vertical lines creasing the middle of her forehead. "Are you sure?"

"I didn't get it in writing, but yeah, I'm sure." He swung both legs out of the bed.

"Dammit, Jimmy!" Sharon blocked him from standing.

"What's your plan, Himmy?" Tino's face taking on the character of a man. Worry weighing on him, the mortgage of adulthood.

"Rutledge didn't offer me money for the hell of it. He knows where your mother is."

"How do we make him tell us?"

"We can't, kiddo. But I can get him to lead me to her."

"?Como?"

"Rutledge is the king of the county. His whole adult life, he's been in control of everything around him. I can knock him off balance. Make him lose that cowboy calm of his."

"What are you talking about?" Sharon asked.

"I'm gonna hit him right in his weak spot."

"Which is what?" she demanded.

"His pride. His sense of tradition passed down from grandfather to father to son."

"That's pretty damn vague, Atticus."

"You ever know a man who loves some old trees so much he thinks of them as his children?"

"No."

"I do," Jimmy said, getting to his feet. "And I know how to hurt him in a way nobody ever has."

Fifteen minutes, Marisol thought, neatly folding the white damask tablecloth, squaring the corners.

In fifteen minutes, she would be gone.

She placed the tablecloth in the top drawer of the mahogany sideboard. She had already cleared the dirty dishes and silverware from the dining room. Tonight's guests-all male, all older than forty-had not lingered over their meals. They had headed for the parlor to choose their companions and soon were hidden away in upstairs rooms.

Marisol checked the antique grandfather's clock that ticked loudly in the corner. Nearly midnight. A brass plate affixed to the clock read:

Hot Springs Gentleman's Club. Established 1899.

The Vietnamese guard sat at the bar in the library, just down the corridor. Every twenty minutes, he would pass the dining room on the way to the parlor. Then he would circle back to the kitchen and return to the bar, where he sipped an endless supply of club soda. Every third trip, he stopped in the rest room at the end of the corridor. Like the grandfather's clock, very dependable.

The next time he stopped to relieve himself, Marisol would walk into the kitchen-but not too fast-and retrieve the key from its place in the pantry. She would unlock the door to the cellar, head down the wooden staircase, and with a mallet she had found on top of a wine cask, break the old padlock on the tunnel door. For a weapon, she had the pruning shears.

If all went well, she would not be missed until morning. With luck, she could flag down a trucker on a late-night run. If not, she would walk. She was strong. She could cover twenty miles a day. She would pick fruits and vegetables from the fields. She would travel at night, using the stars for guidance, heading due south. Toward Mexico. Toward her son, she hoped and prayed.

Again, she looked at the ticking clock. The guard's bathroom break was ten minutes away.

Marisol was wearing the required maid's outfit, a ridiculously short black satin dress with velvet choker, white apron, lace fishnet stockings, and garter. The black stiletto heels that completed the look of a lascivious lavandera would not do for her escape or cross-country walk. She had hidden a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers in the cellar.

Now, standing on tiptoes, she returned a soup tureen to the top shelf of the sideboard. She looked toward the ceiling and let herself smile ruefully at the frescoes of a blue sky and white clouds. It was the only sky she was permitted to see without the supervision of the guard.

Her work finished in the dining room, she moved briskly down the corridor, a lighted path of Tiffany lamps and polished hardwood. Passing the library, she glimpsed the guard on one of the bar stools. Once in the parlor, she emptied ashtrays and brushed cigar residue from the red velvet upholstery of the overstuffed chairs.

The room had stained-glass windows, but unlike a church, these were illustrated with naked nymphs and frolicking satyrs. A huge fireplace rose at one end of the room, the hearth as tall as a man.

When the ashtrays were clean and the upholstery brushed, Marisol returned to the kitchen. To her relief, her timing was perfect. Just as she reentered the corridor, the guard disappeared into the rest room.

Two minutes later, Marisol padded quietly down the staircase to the cellar. She carried a flashlight she'd found in a utility closet, leaving the cellar lights off, fearing they could be seen beneath the pantry door.

She had taken off the stiletto heels but hadn't yet put on her change of clothing. Now she grabbed the wooden mallet. She would have preferred a steel hammer but recognized the wood as iron bark. Marisol had been swinging hammers and sawing wood since she was five years old, her father teaching her to hit hard and true. The mallet could do the job.

She placed the flashlight on a shelf, aiming the beam at the padlock on the metal, slatted door. Her first swing caught the curved shackle just where it entered the body of the lock. So did the second and the third. The shackle was thin and graceful, as was the antique lock itself, which seemed to have been designed by an artist, rather than an engineer. Another swing, and the lock clattered against the iron door frame, but did not break.

Another blow, and this time, a tiny pin flew out the side of the lock. Excelente. Just a tap now, and the lock should break apart.

What's that noise?

Did the stairs just creak?

She froze.

The lights were still out. No one would come down those steps without turning on the lights, would they?

She clicked off the flashlight and blinked against the darkness.

Another sound. Maybe just the groan of the caissons that supported the ground floor. Or was it the squeak of leather boots on wooden stairs? Or nothing at all.

She remained motionless.

There it was again. Louder this time. Was someone coming closer?

She forced herself to remain calm, listened with all her concentration, tried to see into the darkness. Heard her own breathing, as hot and fast as a cornered animal. She waited another thirty seconds. Then thirty seconds more. Nothing.

She swung the mallet again. The lock banged against the door frame, and the latch sprang from its slot.

Marisol pulled the lock free and yanked at the door. Stuck. She grabbed one of the vertical bars and put her weight into it. A squeal of rusty metal, and the door opened a few inches. Just as she pushed her shoulder against the frame, a strong hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her sideways.