Rick Mofina - In Desperation

“All right, here it is. Jack, do you have anything to do with this kidnapping?”

“Me?” Gannon struggled to keep his voice low.

“Even after the fact? Like maybe your sister and her boyfriend got caught up in a bad drug deal or debt, and they asked you to help them before it went wrong with the kidnapping? We need to know.”

“What is this? Are you serious?”

A moment passed.

“Mel, didn’t you hear what I was telling you? The cartel behind Tilly’s kidnapping hired a P.I. firm to get info on Cora in order to pressure Lyle.”

Another moment passed.

“What’s going on, Melody?”

“FBI agents from the New York Division just left our office. They grilled people here individually, Jack-me, George Wilson, Al Delaney, Carter O’Neill, Beland, the people who handle your copy.”

“On what?”

“Your character, your habits. They wanted to know if we thought you could be involved. They’re likely going to talk to the staff at your old paper, the Buffalo Sentinel, too.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Jack, tell me the truth. Are you involved?”

“You really have to ask? You of all people know what I’ve been through to get here. Now you think it’s possible that I’ve got the inclination, time and stupidity to be a drug dealer?”

“But your sister…”

“My sister and I have been estranged for over twenty years. I was twelve when I last saw her, Mel. Twelve. She’s a stranger. I am getting to know her and getting used to the fact I have a niece. Hell, a few days ago I believed I had no living relatives. Under the circumstances, this is a bit of a challenge.”

“I understand that, but I need your answer, Jack.”

“Is someone there with you? Are you recording this for the FBI? Well, my answer is no, goddamn it! No, I am not involved. Christ, you’re the one who assigned me to Juarez. Then, out of the freaking blue, my long-lost sister, who apparently had been watching my bylines over these years, calls me for help. I told you all of this.”

A long silence passed before Lyon exhaled slowly.

“I believe you. But listen, if this ever comes back on you, it comes back on the WPA. And the damage to you and to this organization would be monumental.”

“This is not about me or the WPA, Mel. It’s about a kidnapped child and we’re wasting time.”

“Agreed. Let’s go over the status of things again.”

Lyon updated him on how the WPA was continually filing everything it could on the case from its bureaus in Phoenix, California, Texas, Washington, D.C., and Mexico. Gannon went back to telling her about his tip on how the cartel had hired a private detective agency to locate Cora’s home and that he was working to determine the location of a contact number he’d obtained.

Gannon carefully withheld any mention of his own suspicions about Cora or the allegations Peck and Lomax had made about Donnie Cargo and her troubled past. First, he had to keep pushing Cora for answers.

That was his next step.

After he finished his call he went to Cora’s bedroom. A paramedic had just left it, closing the door softly behind him.

“I need to talk to her,” Gannon said.

“Give it time. The sedative is still working on her. She needs to rest.”

Frustrated, Gannon returned to working on his laptop, feeling the eyes of the investigators on him. He didn’t care. He needed to check with Adell and Luna.

You do your job, I’ll do mine.

Cora was in her bed, floating on a cloud of sedation.

Everything was going away. Everything was going to be all right. Her breathing was calm. She saw her ceiling in the soft light through her eyelids, big black wings scraping her face. She was imagining… her phone ringing…is it ringing now…no, it is not ringing…oh yes it is…no…please…Tilly’s calling… Tilly’s safe… No…Tilly, accusing her… It’s because of you, Mommy…your fault…because of what you did…pictures…memories are swirling…with distortions…ears are pounding…in the rain…it’s karma…going to get you…raining in San Francisco… Donnie and Vic…oh shit…what are you doing…there’s a man with a gun over there… Donnie, what is it?… Vic says hold this…what…please, no…it’s so heavy…Cora…stop the car, Donnie…stop the car…what just happened…running in the rain…crying in the rain…on her knees…in the rain…stop the rain…her heart is bursting…her pulse is racing…she wants to scream…needs to scream…oh God…what…happened…the hard rain…blood…so much blood…oh God…oh Jesus…her hands…blood all over her hands…what did you do…it won’t go away…it’ll never go away…

Ciudad Juarez, Mexico / El Paso, Texas

Arturo Castillo positioned the last document in the high-speed scanner.

Across the newsroom, Isabel Luna worked at her keyboard while talking on the phone to an important source.

After their clandestine meeting with Rosalina in the market, Castillo and Luna had rushed back to El Heraldo’s offices.

Now Luna, her handset wedged between her left ear and shoulder as she typed, was stressing the urgency of her information to the only Mexican cop she trusted: her stepbrother, First Sergeant Esteban Cruz.

“I’m sending it now.” Luna signaled Arturo that she’d received his last scan. “Nine attachments, including his photo. I’m certain it’s him. Stay on the line.”

In the time it took for the attachments to transmit, Isabel explained how her source had obtained the documents before Cruz cut her off.

“Got them,” he said.

Luna and Cruz went through each one together. Isabel blinked at the photograph. He was so young, a face to fit any one of the young men she saw in Juarez every day, yet in her heart she knew him.

“It’s him,” she said.

“Are you certain, Isabel?”

“Yes. Based on what I see and based on what I know, this is him. Look at him, posing as a student. He’s killed nearly two hundred people. Think of all the suffering, Esteban. Look at the notes. It’s the sicario, The Tarantula.”

“This photo for the counterfeit passport is the first we’ve ever seen of him. This could be a big break.”

“My source says he crossed into El Paso-” she glanced at the time “-less than two hours ago, maybe. They’d have a record. He could be on his way to the next killing in the U.S. We have to find him.”

“I’ll take care of this.”

“Keep me informed, Esteban.”

At his desk, Cruz cupped his hands over his face, peering over his fingertips at the revelation on his computer monitor.

A thousand thoughts streaked through his mind, but with a Herculean effort he deflected the most painful ones to concentrate on his job.

He’d led the investigation into the murders of the two American ex-cops in the desert, Salazar and Johnson. Judging from Isabel’s source’s documents and based on what Cruz knew from the murders, he agreed.

This was The Tarantula.

And if Salazar and Johnson were tied to the Phoenix kidnapping, as investigators in the U.S. and Mexico believed, then this could mean the cartel has dispatched their sicario to finish things there.

To kill the girl.

Or Lyle Galviera.

Or both.

Either way, Cruz had to act fast. How should he put this break into play? I could take care of it myself. Cross over on police business and find him. I have friends in the U.S. who could help quickly with all I would need. I could resolve it the narco way. No, stop thinking like that. You’re taking things personally and that can be dangerous.

Besides, he was obligated to share the intel with the FBI agents working with his team on the murders. He would do that through proper channels, even though it entailed FBI bureaucracy.