Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

He handed her a sleeping pill, a Tuinol.

“I don’t need that.”

“No, take it. You need sleep.”

He stood there while she took it, and she did sleep hard and woke up in the morning a little groggy and with cottonmouth. She thought that she was on the beach somewhere south of Ensenada until the sun came up on the wrong side of the world and she worked out that she was on the inland side. When daylight came she recognized the distinctive, bright green water of the Sea of Cortez.

From the bedroom window she could make out a larger house just up the hill, and see that the entire area looked like a moonscape of red stone. A little while later, a young woman walked down from the larger house with a tray of breakfast-coffee, grapefruit and some warm flour tortillas.

And a spoon, Nora noticed.

No knife, no fork.

A glass of water with another Tuinol.

She resisted taking it until her nerves got the better of her, then she swallowed it and it did make her feel better. She napped the rest of the morning and woke up only when the same girl brought her a tray of lunch-freshly grilled yellowtail tuna, steamed vegetables, more tortillas.

More Tuinol.

They woke her out of a deep sleep in the middle of the night and started asking her questions. Her interrogator, a small man with an accent that wasn’t quite Mexican, was gentle, polite and persistent What happened the night of the arms arrest?

Where did you go? Who did you see? Who did you talk to?

Your shopping trips to San Diego-what did you do? What did you buy? Who did you see?

Arthur Keller, do you know him? Does that name mean anything to you?

Were you ever arrested for prostitution? Drug charges? Income-tax evasion?

She asked her own questions in response What are you talking about?

Why are you asking me this stuff?

Who are you, anyway?

Where is Adan?

Does he know you’re bothering me?

Can I go back to sleep now?

They let her go back to sleep, woke her fifteen minutes later and told her it was the next night. She knew better, barely, but pretended to believe them as the interrogator asked her the same set of questions, over and over again until she got indignant and said I want to go back to sleep.

I want to see Adan, and I want another Tuinol.

You can have one in a little while, the interrogator told her. He switched tactics.

Tell me about the day of the arms bust, please. Take me through it minute by minute. You got in the car and…

And, and, and…

She climbed back on the bed, put her head under the pillow and told him to shut up and go away, she’s tired. He offered her another pill and she took it.

They let her sleep for twenty-four hours and then started again.

Questions, questions, questions.

Tell me about this, tell me about that.

Art Keller, Shag Wallace, Art Keller.

Tell me about shooting the Chinese man. What did you do? How did it feel? Where did you grab the gun? By the barrel? The handle?

Talk to me about Keller. How long have you known him? Did he approach you or did you approach him?

She answered, What are you talking about?

Because she knew if she gave him an answer she was going to mess up. In the fog of barbiturates, fatigue, fear, confusion, disorientation. She understood what they were doing, there was just nothing she could do to stop it.

He never touched her, never threatened her.

And that gave her hope because she knew it meant that they weren’t sure it was her. If they were sure, they would torture her for the information, or just kill her. The “soft” interrogation meant that they had their doubts, and it meant something else That Adan was still on her side. They’re not hurting me, she thought, because they still have Adan to worry about. So she held out. Gave evasive, confused answers, outright denials, indignant counter-assaults.

But she’s wearing down.

It’s getting to her.

Breakfast didn’t come one morning-she asked for it and the girl looked confused and said that she’d just served it. But she hadn’t. I know that-or do I? Nora wondered. And then there were two lunches, back to back, and then more sleep and then another Tuinol.

Now she wanders around outside the cottage. The doors aren’t locked and nobody stops her. The compound is flanked by the sea on one side and endless desert on the other three. If she tried to walk out she would die of thirst or exposure.

She walks down to the ocean and goes in up to her ankles.

The water is warm and feels nice.

The sun sets behind her back.

Adan watches her from his bedroom window in the house up the hill.

He is a prisoner in the room, guarded by a rotation of sicarios whose loyalty is to Raul. They take turns outside the door, round the clock, and Adan figures there must be at least twenty of them on the grounds.

He stands and watches her wade into the water. She wears an off-white sundress and a floppy white hat to keep the sun off her skin. Her hair hangs loose on her bare shoulders.

Was it you? he wonders.

Did you betray me?

No, he decides, I can’t let myself believe that.

Raul sure believes it, even though days of interrogation have failed to prove it. It’s a soft interrogation, his brother has assured him. She hasn’t been touched, never mind hurt.

She’d better not be, Adan has told him. One bruise, one scar, one scream of pain and I will find a way to have you killed, brother or no brother.

And if she’s the soplon? Raul asked.

Then, Adan thinks as he watches her sit down at the edge of the water, that is different.

That is a different thing altogether.

He and Raul have come to an understanding: If Nora is not the traitor, then Raul will step back down and Adan will resume his position as patron. That’s the understanding, Adan thinks, but experience tells him that no one who has assumed power ever gives it back again.

Not willingly, anyway.

Not easily.

And maybe that would be for the good, he thinks. Let Raul have the pasador, cash out, take Nora and go somewhere for a quiet life. She’s always wanted to live in Paris. Why not?

And the other half of the equation? If it turns out that Nora betrayed them, for whatever reason, then Raul’s little coup becomes permanent and Nora…

He doesn’t want to think about it.

The example of Pilar Talavera is vivid in his mind.

If it comes to that I’ll do it myself, he thinks. It’s funny how you can still love someone who betrayed you. I’ll walk her down to the ocean, let her watch the last rays of the sun fade on the water.

It will be quick and painless.

Then, if it weren’t for Gloria, I’d put the pistol in my own mouth.

Children bind us to this life, don’t they?

Especially this child, so fragile and needy.

And she must be worrying herself to death, Adan thinks. The news from Tijuana has surely hit the San Diego papers, and even though Lucia will try to shield her from it, Gloria will worry until she hears from me.

He takes another long look at Nora, then walks away from the window and bangs on the door.

The guard opens it.

“Get me a cell phone,” Adan orders.

“Raul said-”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Raul said, pendejo,” Adan snaps. “I am still the patron, and if I tell you to get me something, then you go get it.”

He gets the phone.

“Boss?”

“Yeah?”

“Heartbeat.”

Shag hands Art the headset patched into the tap on Lucia Barrera’s phone. He hears Lucia’s voice Adan?

How’s Gloria?

She’s worried.

Let me speak to her.

Where are you?

Can I speak with her?

A long pause. Then Gloria’s voice.

Papa?

How are you, baby?