When Darkness Falls (7 page)

F alcon was on the run. Or, perhaps, “in flight” was a better way to put it.

One foot in front of the other. That was his mantra. Had to keep moving. The night air was cold, but he didn’t feel it. In fact, he was sweating heavily beneath his layers of clothing. He was wearing everything he owned-two T-shirts, a sweatshirt, a windbreaker, and his winter coat. The layers did more than fight the cold. He was a veritable walking suitcase, packed up and moving on to a more hospitable corner of the uncivilized world. He knew he would never see his car again. Going back to the river was not an option. Standing still was a luxury that he could ill afford. He had to keep moving farther and farther away, until his legs gave out and he could travel no more. What was that saying-just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you? Maybe it was time to leave Miami. Maybe even the country. But how?

The money. His Bahamian safe deposit box held more than enough to take him anywhere he wanted to go. True, he had vowed never to touch it. Many times over the past several months, he had even tried to give it to the rightful owner. The fact that Swyteck had been able to withdraw ten thousand dollars for his bail, however, told Falcon that his offer had been rejected and that the money was still sitting there. Unless Swyteck stole it. He wouldn’t do that, would he? Ha! Who could resist that temptation? There was absolutely no risk of ever being caught.

Where’s my money, Swyteck?

What money?

The cash in the safe deposit box.

There was no cash in that box.

I had two hundred grand in there!

Yeah, right. Tell it to the police, pal.

“Damn you, Swyteck! You stole my money!”

Falcon was cutting through a parking lot behind an all-night restaurant, and he noticed a woman headed toward her car. The expression on her face told him that his little tirade directed toward his lawyer had indeed been audible. The woman quickly found her keys-probably some pepper spray, too-and jumped inside her car.

Gotta get off the streets, he told himself. Go someplace they can’t find me.

The alley led him behind another restaurant, past a noisy tavern. The Dumpster looked like a good place to relieve his bulging bladder, but someone had beat him to it minutes earlier.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, stepping out of it.

He continued down the dark alley, though he was suddenly thinking about her again. He didn’t dare say her name, not even to himself. Even with all his extra clothing, he felt naked without his necklace of metal beads. He was without any protection whatever. Part of him realized that he didn’t need it; she was gone. The other part-the loudest part, the part that was speaking to him now-told him that she would never leave, that he could never have enough protection.

The alley grew darker with each additional step. On either side were the unadorned backs of buildings-a bar, a drugstore, a Laundromat. A half-block ahead, the lights from Eighth Street were a glowing dot in the darkness, like an oncoming locomotive. The walls were cinder blocks painted beige and white. Every door and window was covered with black security bars. If he narrowed his eyes, Falcon could almost see one set of hands after another gripping those iron bars, hands without faces-nameless faces that were linked inextricably to the secret prison cells of his past. Those were memories that he battled every day. But with the barred doors and windows all around him, his mind carried him back to a place where demons roamed, a time so long ago. A quarter-century was an eternity; a quarter-century was yesterday. It all depended on how closely he was being followed by the Mother of the Disappeared.

“PRISONER NUMBER THREE-ZERO-NINE,” the guard said in Spanish.

The prisoners did not move. There were nearly seventy-five of them, men and women, crowded into a room that could have comfortably accommodated no more than two dozen. Whether asleep or awake, most of them sat on the floor with their heads down and their knees drawn in toward their chests. Others lay on one side, curled into a fetal ball, trying to deal with various pains that made it impossible to rise even to a seated position. Many were from the nearby university-students, teachers, or staff in their twenties or thirties. The oldest was a union leader in his sixties. The most recognizable was a journalist from a major newspaper. A few were teenagers who had gone missing from local high schools. Some had been imprisoned for months; others, just days. None had bathed since their detention began. No prison garb was issued. They wore whatever they’d happened to have been wearing when they were plucked from their home or place of work and hauled off to prison. For many, a short-sleeve shirt or cotton blouse was not nearly warm enough for an unheated cell. The inmates were not told the exact location of the prison. They had no visitation rights; no phone calls or correspondence with loved ones; no television, radio, or contact of any kind with the outside world. They ate stale bread or a disgusting gruel that smelled like rotten cabbage. Some days, they ate nothing at all. Complaints, however, were never uttered. No talking of any kind was allowed-not to guards, not to other prisoners, not to oneself, not to anyone, ever. Violators were punished severely.

“Prisoner number three-zero-nine,” the guard repeated, his voice taking on an edge. He was a bulky man, broad-shouldered but bulging around the middle, like a heavyweight boxer who had gone soft. The thick, black hair on the back of his neck and forearms had earned him the nickname El Oso-the bear. It was not a term of endearment. Nicknames among the guards were a necessity. No one went by his real name.

A middle-aged man rose slowly and started toward the door. He took short, reluctant steps, walking on the balls of his feet, as if unable to place any weight on his arches or heels. He stopped at the bars, never looking the guard in the eye. “She is not feeling well,” he said softly.

The guard grabbed him by the hair, jerked him forward, and slammed his head against the bars. “Are you prisoner three-oh-nine?”

The man grimaced. A rivulet of fresh blood trickled down his forehead. “No.”

“Did anyone give you permission to speak?”

“No.”

“Then sit down!” El Oso said as he shoved him to the floor. His angry gaze swept the cell, then settled on a woman huddled in the corner. “Three-zero-nine. Here. Now!”

No one moved. Then, just as El Oso was on the verge of another outburst, the woman stirred. The cell had no lighting on the inside, only the fluorescent fixture on the guard’s side of the bars. Even in the dim glow, he could see the outline of her body. She came toward him, submissive, obedient. His eyes narrowed, and an evil smile creased his lips.

“Three-zero-nine?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

El Oso could barely contain his excitement. He didn’t normally get the pretty faces. It made him hard just to think about it.

He’d done plenty of women before, but never one who was pregnant.

“Bienvenidos, chica. Bienvenidos a la Cacha -la casa de la bruja.”

Welcome, young woman. Welcome to La Cacha -the witch’s house.

“HEY, CAT-FOOD MONSTER. Move it.”

Falcon turned to see a busboy standing in the open doorway to the back of a restaurant. His stinging glare stirred Falcon from his memories, but he was still not completely focused. He was barely aware of the fact that he had urinated all over his own left foot.

“I said beat it!” the busboy shouted as he hurled an onion at him.

It hit Falcon in the chest and fell to the ground. Falcon picked it up, inspected it. It was rotten on one side, but he took a bite out of the good side, signaled a silent thank-you to the busboy, and shoved the rest of it in his pocket. He didn’t bother zipping up his pants before continuing down the alley. He counted off twenty steps, then turned to see if he was still being watched. The busboy was gone.

Falcon caught sight of the old metal fire escape. It was black and rusty, and the base of the retractable staircase was fastened to the wall with a heavy metal bracket. The wall was made of cinder blocks. Falcon counted off the blocks until he found the third one from the bottom, and the tenth from the corner. He leaned closer and shoved it to test his recollection. The block moved. He shimmied the loose block from the wall and dropped it to the pavement. The two oval-shaped openings inside the block were stuffed with plastic bags. Falcon removed the bags, opened them, and smiled. It was all there-the money he had put away for a rainy day.

And he had the distinct feeling that the clouds were about to burst.

He stuffed the cash into his pockets and started making plans. New clothes, a hot shower, and maybe even some hair dye were in order. A pistol or two with plenty of ammo wouldn’t hurt, either. You could get just about any firepower you needed on the streets of Miami, and no one knew them better than Falcon.

Then, it would be time to deal with Jack Swyteck.

That thief.

J ack and Theo caught a Miami Heat game downtown at the American Airlines Arena, the Triple A, as it was known. If ever a corporate sponsorship had gone sour, the Triple A was it. Imagine an airline spending millions of dollars to attach its name to a state-of-the-art, bay-front basketball arena, only to have everyone in town give the credit to a motor club.

“Feel like getting something to eat?” asked Theo.

Jack kept walking through the Purple Zone of the crowded garage, trying to remember where he’d parked his car. “You had three hot dogs, fries, nachos, a pretzel, and the better half of an ice cream bar from the kid sitting next to you. How can you be hungry?”

Theo shrugged. “That was an hour ago.”

They found his car in the Orange Zone, and as a compromise, hit a fast-food drive-thru on the way back to Jack’s house. After much pestering, Jack had finally agreed to meet Katrina’s “hot” girlfriend on South Beach. Jack was still wearing his courtroom attire, so a quick stop for a change of clothes was essential. The ride to Key Biscayne took only twenty minutes, though it seemed much longer. Jack lost the coin toss for control over his satellite radio. Theo stuck him with a station for which he had absolutely no use, the unending string of rhyming expletives punctuated by the sound of Theo smacking on a candy bar for dessert.

“We need to talk about your fat intake,” said Jack.

“It’s a diet chocolate bar.”

“Says who?”

“Says so right here on the label. Forty-five percent less fat.”

“Less fat than what? A humpback whale?”

Jack was suddenly praying for car trouble-anything seemed better than a night of Theo and his girlfriend simulating sex on the dance floor while Jack and the mystery woman shouted themselves hoarse just trying to make small talk over the music. Jack wasn’t much of a clubber, and he hated setups, especially the late-night variety. Midnight, however, was the South Beach equivalent of happy hour on the mainland.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Theo as they pulled into Jack’s driveway.

Jack shifted into PARK and killed the engine. “Think about what?”

“Bailing on me.”

Jack shot him an incredulous look. The guy was a mind-reader. “Don’t worry. I’m going. And I’m sure I’ll thank you. Someday. In your dreams.”

They went inside the house. Jack took a quick shower and put on a change of clothes-black, of course. Theo ordered a movie and a middleweight boxing match on pay-per-view, then nearly blew a gasket as he tried in vain to figure out the picture-in-picture function on Jack’s TV set. By eleven-thirty, they were out the door and ready to go.

“So what’s her friend’s name?” said Jack as he locked up.

“Sabrina.”

Jack halted. “We’re going out with Sabrina and Katrina?”

“Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“It sounds ridiculous.”

“Okay, her name’s not Sabrina.”

“Good.” Jack started toward the car again. “Then what is it?”

“Is a name really that important?”

“I have to call her something.”

“All right. Her name is Cindy.”

Jack hated to trash the past, but his response was almost a reflex. “You’re fixing me up with a woman who has the same name as my ex-wife?”

“To be honest, they share more than just a name.”

“Don’t tell me they look alike, too.”

Theo paused, then said, “Even more than that.”

“Act alike?”

A big, exaggerated shrug rolled through Theo’s entire body, as if to say “Sorry, dude.”

“Theo, why in the hell would you-”

Theo lost it. “Gotcha,” he said, snorting.

Jack could breathe again. “Not funny.”

“No. But it do put things in perspective, don’t it, bro’?”

Jack glared over the car roof, then opened the door and got behind the wheel. Theo was still chuckling as he slid into the passenger seat. Jack turned the key in the ignition and said, “So does this mean Katrina’s friend is really named Sa-” He stopped cold.

“Don’t move,” came the voice from behind the headrest. “You neither, black boy.”

Jack felt a ring of cold metal pressing behind his left ear. Theo did a quick check over his shoulder.

“Eyes front, hands on the dashboard. Or this lawyer’s brains are all over the windshield.”

Jack summoned a calm voice and said, “Do as he says, Theo.”

Reluctantly, Theo obliged, his gaze locking onto the glove box. Jack stole a quick glance in the rearview mirror. There was barely enough external light shining through the tinted windows for Jack to make out the gun and the hand that was holding it. The backseat and gunman, however, were in total darkness. Jack and Theo had been too caught up in the joke about his date to notice that the dome light hadn’t blinked on when the car door opened. The dashboard lights were off, too, leaving it too dark to have noticed anyone hiding on the floor. He must have tinkered with the settings.

“Everybody just take it nice and easy.”

Jack recognized the voice. “Falcon, you don’t want to be doing this.”

“Shut up!”

The engine continued to idle. For what seemed like an eternity, it was the only sound in the vehicle. Finally, Theo said, “Ironic, ain’t it?”

“Quiet!” said Falcon.

Theo didn’t have to explain. Jack knew exactly what his friend was thinking. The way this was going down, it was very much like Theo’s very first car ride with Katrina.

Falcon said, “Now, nice and slow motion like. Put the car in gear.”

“This is not smart at all,” said Jack. “The cops are looking for you.”

“No, not for me. For a homeless guy, the old me.”

“I’m sure you clean up nice. But they’re all over town. They’ll find you.”

“Those idiots don’t have a clue. All they care about is guarding the mayor’s daughter. I could have walked over here naked, saved the cab fare.”

Jack debated whether to say more, or at least how to say it. “Did you kill that woman?”

Falcon didn’t answer.

“Who was she, Falcon?”

“Nobody. All of them were nobody.”

“All of who?”

He groaned, as if Jack were grabbing his various strands of thought and tying them into painful, knotted memories. “Stop asking so many questions, damn it.”

“Listen to me. It doesn’t matter what you did. I’m your lawyer. I can help you, but not if you add kidnapping and carjacking to your troubles.”

“Shut up and drive.”

“Just put the gun down.”

He shoved the weapon even harder against Jack’s skull. “No more talking!”

“All right,” said Jack. “Where are we going?”

The question hung in the darkness. With the utmost discretion, Jack caught a glimpse of Falcon’s face in the rearview mirror. His lips were moving, but the words wouldn’t come. Or was he talking things over with himself?

Falcon said, “You and your buddy are going to show me where you put all my money.”

“What money?”

“Don’t pull that shit on me again, Swyteck. The money in the safe deposit box!”

“All I took was ten thousand dollars to post your bail. Not a penny more.”

“You took all of it, I know you did!”

“Dude, we didn’t take your money,” said Theo.

“You gotta have it! The bank’s crawling with cops, I know it is. They’re just waiting for me to come get my money, see? If it’s there, I can’t possibly get at it. So you better have it. You just fucking better have it!”

Jack felt the gun shaking, as if Falcon were fighting the urge to pull the trigger. Whether the money was actually missing or not was irrelevant. In Falcon’s paranoid mind, it was gone, and Jack had taken it. Charged, tried, convicted. Any further denial would only have unleashed the execution. “All right,” said Jack. “I’ll take you to it.”