Chapter 19

The second the police cleared the parking lot, Conrad was running to his vehicle, followed by Evie and Simon. “I’ll take the north end of the water park. Pete, you take the south entrance. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot Bull. He’s a head taller than everyone else.” He spoke through their comms. “We gotta get Moto back.”

Schlitterbahn Water Park and Resort on South Padre Island had two sections—the actual outdoor park with rides and arcades, and indoor part that was the resort hotel. The entire park, inside and out, was connected by a man-made river flowing in a huge circle through and between both parts. What the resort called the transportainment system connected all of the attractions and beaches. You could enter the Rio Aventura River from one of several beaches or attractions and then choose your next water adventure from there. With the help of the aquaveyer, you never had to leave your air mattress or inner tube and could float the day away at Schlitterbahn, hitting just about everything at the park. It was one of the most popular places on the island, and packed with families and tourists seeking respite from the hot Texas sun. Cabanas and palapas dotted the park filled with people enjoying their friends, drinking, eating, and frolicking in the cool water. He and Andrea had taken her nieces there. The girls loved it and wanted to stay forever, floating around and around the park. It was the easiest babysitting job Conrad had ever had.

“Bull, location.” Conrad tore out of the parking lot down State Park Road.

“By the castle thing. Lost Moto. He just melted into the crowd. Damn.”

Pete’s voice came over the comm. “Sand Castle Cove.”

“He could be anywhere. This place is a madhouse.” Bull’s comment conveyed his discomfort in large crowds. In one of their quiet conversations, Evie told Conrad about Bull’s early days in Oakland, a city where anyone could slide out of the crowd and slit a throat before you would notice.

“Head to the south entrance. Pete’ll meet you there.” Conrad sounded lost.

Evie, next to him in the front seat, patted Conrad on the shoulder. “I have an idea. If we can’t get Moto, maybe we can get his pal. I have a feeling, a really good feeling, Callista and Wilmer can help.” She spent the next few minutes recounting her friendly drink with Calli and the information she’d gleaned. “I have a sneaking suspicion Wilmer’d give up his brother in a heartbeat if he thought he’d stand a chance of losing his visa. That is, if he knows anything about what his brother is into, which I seriously doubt. He and Callista have a plan for their lives and I don’t think he’d let anything mess it up.” She looked at her boyfriend in the backseat. “Plans give you roots. They’ve enrolled in college classes next semester. Both of them.”

Conrad didn’t miss the jab. Evie must be serious about this boyfriend or she wouldn’t be feeding him things that were important in her life. At Bethesda, she’d talked about someday having a real home, and roots. That was something she’d not had since she stepped out of the Cajun swamp and raised her right hand.

Conrad could see the wheels turning in Simon’s brain. He wondered if they ever stopped. Plans give you roots, huh? So, Callista and Wilmer were more than relationshipees. They had plans.

Simon broke the silence. “If I can get back to Pete’s Internet, I can do some more digging in places where I’ve never been. You know. Maybe I can get the time and date signature off the video you guys got and see what there is to see. From where I won’t actually be, that anyone will see, that is.” Simon was trying hard to talk around the serious hacking he was contemplating.

The comm crackled with laughter stepping on each other’s signals. Evie grinned into the rearview mirror at Simon. “Good idea. Meet you guys back at the warehouse and we’ll regroup.”

Conrad added, “Then I think a visit to Callista and Wilmer’s place will be in order.”

****

“Look dip-wad, they know.” Moto crouched beneath the skirting around the bottom of the giant water slide. Through a crack, he could see the enormous black man searching for him. “They’ve figured it out, I tell ya. Now go to ground and stay put. I’ll snag some wheels and come to you.” Moto ended the call, erased the number, and threw the phone farther under the slide. Some kid will miss his phone later, but too bad for him. Moto was free and he’d make sure he stayed that way. Rubbing his purple, sore jaw, he watched his pursuer move away as he buried the wire he’d been wearing, in the sand at his feet. A little longer and then all he had to do was jack a car, drive to the warehouse and get that dumb-fuck, Dembeck. He ought to just off the stupid shit, but the German was his connection to the money and the contact in Europe that would pay. His life depended on it.

Worse yet, his sister’s life depended on it.

He shuddered.

He knew his life had not been lived by normal standards. He’d done things that would bring a grown man to his knees. And enjoyed it! But it wasn’t his sister’s fault. She was clean. She didn’t approve of his life, or his gang activity. She shouldn’t have to pay for his sins. He didn’t care what other people thought of him. He didn’t care that he had run one of the most notorious gangs in New Orleans. They ran ragged over the police and politicians, taking crime to a new level, and he was the leader, the one with the power. That was until a storm changed his neighborhood…and his life.

Moto still remembered the pictures of his guys, their bloated and mutilated corpses displayed like dolls sitting up against the sea wall. Six of the toughest, most loyal gang brothers had disappeared right after the botched diamond job in New Orleans. Three days later, someone dropped a package off at his sister’s deli. It contained color glossies and the right hand of each of the missing guys. A note wrapped around a burn phone simply read; Atonement. Wait for my call.

That was a little more than a year ago.

However, it was just the beginning of this mess, and now Moto was facing enemies on all sides. For the first time in his life, he was running scared. It didn’t sit well with him and he swallowed the genuine fear for his sister.

Moto grabbed an over-sized Hawaiian shirt from the back of a chair he passed, and a straw hat from a table of drunken Mexicans.

“Oye, asiático—” Moto didn’t hang around to hear the rest. He jammed the hat low over his head and kept walking. Through the throngs toward the parking area where he could get some wheels, he kept track of the big guy ahead of him. It didn’t take long before the fellow hopped into the white Navigator and the SUV sped away. Moto breathed a sigh of relief then wound through the cars, looking.

One beat up old pick-up sat near the exit, its windows rolled down against the heat. Moto reached in and dropped the sun visor. “Of course! I’ll do you a favor and take this heap off your hands. Shouldn’t be driving a piece of shit like this anyway.” A set of keys dropped onto the seat along with a small sandwich bag of pot, with a couple joints ready for a light. “Damn. It must be my day.” Then he reconsidered as he wiped a bloody drip from his nose. Well, maybe not all his day, but this part was looking up. All things considered, he’d been in worse situations before.

Out of the exit and on his way to the old garage, Moto considered his next move. It was getting late. Dembeck better be sober. He needed the man to sell the codes to the German contacts and get his share of the pay, as soon as they got them. He only had five more days to pay the piper, before he would end up in some morbid photo with his right hand missing. Damn! He wished he knew who the piper was. He’d kill him and be free.

A year ago, the diamond heist had seemed so simple. The storm was supposed to cover their handiwork. Who knew the old man would be sitting in his flooded store with a shotgun. When the gang stormed the building, Tyi didn’t have to kill the old fart. Things just went sideways before anyone could stop it. Tyi took a full blast of birdshot to the gut, but got off two shots before he went down. The old man’s head exploded as he went over backward in his wet plastic lawn chair. Stunned, the rest of the No Wah Ching gang stood staring at their dying brother. Moto grabbed a towel from the counter and pressed it to Tyi’s gaping wound, but there was nothing to be done for the nineteen-year-old. He was gone before his blood soaked through the towel. The whole scene dissolved into a grisly mess in a split second. Silverstein Diamond Exchange was supposed to be a slick, easy job under the cover of rain and wind. It turned out to be so much more than diamonds, as well as a death sentence for most of the gang members. Moto didn’t even know how, or why, or who.

Moto’s memories replayed the scene in his mind. Tyi’s sister, Kria, was so angry, she grabbed her brother’s gun and filled the old man Silverstein’s corpse with every last bullet in the magazine, screaming the entire time. Then the gang smashed the glass display cases and took everything in sight. Brodi searched the office and came up with three flats of unset gems, and a wad of cash, but the big haul was the small safe. Two of the bigger guys used a tire iron to pry it off the soaked floorboards of the ancient building. It wasn’t until that night that they saw the contents. They’d just stolen three million dollars in bearer bonds! Back then, he didn’t even know what a bearer bond was.

Then the nightmare started. The loot disappeared from the gang’s hideaway when Moto was ducking the police around New Orleans. Kria’s car was found at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain, her six-month-old still strapped in the baby seat. Kria sat at the wheel, two bullets in her head. Brodi’s mother found her son’s body in the dumpster behind their tenement, but not his head. Moto had only seen pictures of Danny, Crawdad and his brother Minnow. And there were more members missing. Moto feared for his sister and her children, but had stayed away after the gruesome package was delivered. She had nothing to do with her brother’s gang activity, and hadn’t spoken to him in years. He needed to keep it that way.

What connected the diamond heist to Dembeck and GST’s projects was a mystery to Moto, just as the how and why of his gang members’ deaths. But his share of the take was the atonement required. The voice on his burn phone had been crystal clear. As he pulled into the warehouse, he could see Dembeck at the door, ready to slide the huge metal sheet across the opening. He’d never really put any pieces of the puzzle together, because he didn’t have any puzzle pieces to begin with. Somehow, someone knew about these codes, whatever they did, and wanted them. He and Keizer were targeted by some unknown person on the phone with procuring the codes by kidnapping the head honcho’s wife. His atonement would be made with his share of the money Dembeck got for the information.

“What happened to you?” Moto could smell alcohol on the fat man’s breath.

“That bitch’s husband and company, happened to me, you dumb-fuck. Get me some ice and a beer.” Moto needed to think. He’d ratted out Dembeck to his captors and it wouldn’t be long before they went after Wilmer and his little cutie. “Does your brother know anything about this?” Moto held a dirty garage rag filled with ice to his jaw.

“Mein brother?” From the startled look on his face, the question hit Keizer out of the blue.

“Yes, ass-wipe, your beautiful-body brother. The German vunder-machine.” Moto sneered. He’d often been jealous of Wilmer’s success and patronizing way with the ladies. It made his stomach turn.

“No. He knows nothing. I swear I have told him nothing.” Keizer began to wring his hands and pace back and forth. “He would send me back to Germany and then…” Keizer drew a finger across his throat.

“Serve you right.” Moto mumbled. “Sit down. Stop pacing. I can’t think.” He rubbed his head which had begun to throb, and took a long gulp of beer. “Why the hell did you have to shoot the bitch? Huh? Don’t answer that.” Moto was disgusted with Keizer and anything the stupid shit said, at this point, would just make his head hurt worse.

Keizer plunked down in the broken chair and reached for his own beer.

“Not on your life, Dembeck.”

Keizer folded his hands across his obese belly and waited.

The sun was sinking. Golden rays burned through the holes in the metal door, spreading across the greasy cement floor. Moto watched the patterns grow longer as he sat, thinking. Moto didn’t know what to do or say. Soon it would be night and Wilmer would wonder where his brother was. He and that pitiful whore of his had given Keizer the marching orders. Keizer had two weeks to clear out of his brother’s life. It was that little shrew’s fault his brother was kicking him out. Moto had come to hate the popular young trainer. She was too bossy by far and had Wilmer wound around her little finger. No real man should tolerate that.

****

The late afternoon sun made a quilted pattern of bright and dark beneath the little net house Jane had crawled into. As she woke to her situation, she lifted a hand, moving it back and forth watching the patterns form and slide across her skin. As the patterns changed and moved, a foggy memory flashed across her mind. For a split second, she visualized a pattern of lace, similar to the light pattern, on her hand and arm. White lace, dainty, with tiny sparkles, reflecting in candlelight reminded her of—

“Damn! Why can’t I remember!” she cried. But there was no one to hear.

The babbling stream called to her as she licked her cracked lips and tenderly felt her swollen cheek and eyelid. “Can’t imagine how I look.” The comment almost produced a laugh, but the pain in her mid-section eliminated that idea rapidly. “Ow…”

Jane pulled her driftwood close and used it to prop herself up, then crawled to a standing position. Like the last time, it took a certain number of tries, some cursing, and a good deal of pain, but sleep and fresh water had done wonders for her wounds. She stumbled through the hole in the netting to the edge of the stream. The sky was turning orange over the island and the bird noises had increased. All over, sounds of coos, chirps, squawks, and lilting songs celebrated the coming evening. One last chance to speak, eat, find a mate to settle down with for the night. “So, who is there to give me comfort, little kestrel? Where is my mate?”

The big-eyed falcon sat high in a tree above the stream. Its easily identifiable klee-klee-klee marked the evening hunt. “So, you look for food too?” Jane watched the small falcon launch toward the beach. “Good hunting, little one.” Its rufous coloring and black bars shimmered in the evening light as it soared over the stream and dove toward some target near the pool below the falls.

“Watch out! Watch out!” A voice screeched behind her and she almost fell into the stream. “Silly bird. Watch out!” A colorful green, red, and yellow macaw spread its wings and sailed to the top of Jane’s shelter. “Silly bird. Silly bird. Drinks too much.” It waddled back and forth across the limb where someone had attached one side of the netting. “Uh oh. Drunk bird.” The macaw flapped clumsily to the ground and lay on its side in the grass. Within seconds Jane could hear a snoring sound coming from the bird as it watched her.

“Drunk bird?” Jane tried to suppress the giggle that rose inside her. It didn’t work, despite the pain it caused.

“Drunk bird. Drunk bird. Silly bird.” The macaw jumped to its feet, hopped around with each statement, then fell over and began to snore again.

Did this comedic bird belong to the person who built this shelter? Was its owner still around?

She knew macaws could live for decades, but someone had to have taught this bird to speak! “Hello! Anyone there?” She turned and hollered in several directions. “Hello? Help!”

The macaw struggled awkwardly to its feet and waddled toward her. “All gone. All gone. No more rum. Silly bird.”

“Okay silly bird, where is your owner? Who taught you to talk?” Jane eased herself to the soft grass that grew next to the stream. She soaked her sleeve in the cold water and pressed it to her swollen face. “I could use some rum right now.”

The bird repeated, “All gone. All gone. No more rum. Silly bird.”

“You might be silly, but at least you’re someone to talk to. Now I’m not all alone.” Jane soaked her sleeve again and applied it to her forehead. It came away rusty and red. “Ouch.”

The bird waddled closer. “Silly bird. Got rum? No more rum.” It looked sideways at Jane with one eye. Then flapped away in a hurry. Jane looked around for whatever could have startled the bird.

There was nothing.

She spent the next few minutes washing her many wounds in the clear water and soaking her sore foot. Out of pure boredom, she counted the bruises and scrapes. “Seventeen bruises and five open wounds. Perfect…” She lay back on the green carpet and watched the sky darken.

Her stomach growled.

The sole of her foot throbbed.

Her head hurt, but not as much as when she’d first arrived on the island. A thought popped into her brain; headache is one of the first signs of dehydration. Drink more water. You can live without food for a while, but not without water.

The macaw flew to a tree above where she lay. “Back so soon, silly bird?”

It held something white in its beak. As the bird released the object, it floated through the bushes to land on the surface of the stream. Jane leveraged herself up in time to snag the thing from the flowing water.

“You’re kidding!” It was a label from a bottle. “Tortuga Citrus,” The next word was so faded she couldn’t read it, but the last word was perfectly clear, “Rum!”

The macaw floated down to sit just beyond her reach, staring intently at her.

“Where did you get this?”

“Silly bird. All gone. Got rum? Silly bird.”

Jane couldn’t tell if the bird was laughing at her, or trying to tell her something. “Okay, Silly Bird, that will be your name, from now on. Silly Bird, where did you get this?” She held up the label and pointed to it. “Show me.”

The macaw cocked its head, as if trying to understand the human’s question.

“Silly Bird, Rum all gone? Where’s the rum?” Jane studied Silly Bird carefully.

“Where’s the rum? Where’s the rum? Dead bird. Give me my rum.”

Despite her wounds and bruises, Jane laughed out loud. It felt good and something she hadn’t done in a while.

Silly Bird ruffled its feathers and waddled toward what looked to be an old path. At least there was an impression in the grass and an opening in the dense foliage. Silly Bird paused and looked back at her as if to say, “Well, come on.”

“Coming. Just wait for me. I don’t have wings.”

Silly Bird squawked and waddled off into the bushes.

Jane worked her way to her feet and shuffled off down the path after the bird. “Wait!”

Following the rough path and Silly Bird’s squawks, Jane did her best to follow the bird and keep up. Every once in a while, Silly Bird would pause and look back at her. “I’m coming. Slowly but surely.” Jane reassured the bird as she hobbled along.

After what seemed like hours, Silly Bird let out a screech and took flight. “No! Don’t leave me! Silly Bird, come back.” Jane watched the colorful macaw fly off and disappear. Right into the hill ahead. “No…” She leaned heavily on her driftwood crutch. Tears filled her eyes. It was getting dark and she had used up most of her strength following that stupid bird, just to be abandoned at the last…

Silly Bird screeched angrily and reappeared a few yards ahead. Then disappeared into the hill again.

Where in the heck was the bird going?

Then it hit her. A cave! Silly Bird was flying into a cave!

“Hello? Anyone there?” She shuffled faster as Silly Bird flew in and out of the hill, screeching louder and louder.

Jane was standing in the opening before she saw it. Long vines hung from the top of the cave almost obliterating any view of the entrance. Where the vines touched the ground, other vegetation had grown up making a virtual living wall. Silly Bird entered and exited through a well-used hole at the top, about five feet above Jane. Agitated and impatient, the bird flew at the growth, pecking and tearing with its strong beak.

“Well, this must be it, then.” She grabbed a handful of flowery curtain and pulled. Silly Bird flew about her head adding its beak to the job. Soon there was a spot in the vegetation where she could struggle through.

The sun was sitting low on the horizon, but the cave was a few feet above the jungle floor, the rays illuminating the interior with warm soft light patterns.

“Holy God in Heaven!” Jane surveyed Silly Bird’s cave in the dimming light.

The macaw flew right to its perch with an echoing screech. On a shelf made of weathered old planking sat three bottles of Tortuga Citrus Honey Rum! One was missing a label.

“Silly Bird, I should rename you Smart Bird.”

Silly Bird pecked at the nearest bottle. “Silly Bird. Give me my rum. Drunk bird. Drunk bird. Ha ha ha haha.” The macaw looked directly at Jane, then right at the rusty pan sitting on the shelf next to the bottles.

“Well that’s clear enough. And you deserve a reward.” Jane carefully took one bottle down and studied the seal. With nothing to remove the wax and cork, how would she get it open without breaking the bottle?

Silly Bird set to squawking with such a racket, Jane shouted at the bird. “Quiet. Let me think.”

Silly Bird flapped across the cave and returned, an ancient knife, rusted and black, clutched in its claw. The bird dropped it in the pan and landed back on its perch in style. The handle was made from wrapped cloth and leather straps. Whoever had lived in this cave must have had plenty of time on his hands. The blade had obviously been fashioned from a metal hinge of some kind, and crudely sharpened.

“Next time I need something, I’ll just ask you.” She worked the top from the rum bottle with the dull blade and poured a little rum into the bird’s pan.

Silly Bird let out a half human, half avian whoop, and set to licking the rum as fast as it could.

“You’re an alcoholic! Shame on you, Silly Bird.”

The bird ignored her and stuck to guzzling its rum. How long had it been since Silly Bird had a drink? Jane shook her head. What a crazy thing to worry about. Once an alchy, always an alchy, so said her—who?

Another memory flashed behind her eyes; a rather portly man slept in a broken chair, beer bottles scattered around the floor. One bottle leaned precariously in his hand as he snored loudly. Then it was gone.

Just like Silly Bird’s rum. The pan was dry.

Who was that man she glimpsed? He looked harmless. And drunk. A father? A brother? Jane’s memory ran just ahead of her cognition. At least he didn’t look dangerous or carried a big bad gun like the other man whose image she’d remembered, for an instant.

Her Swiss cheese memory was frustrating, but so was the growling of her stomach. With the last few rays of light, she surveyed the cave. Silly Bird had settled on its perch, and now sat with its eyes closed. Drunk already?

Apparently.

The bird’s side of the cave held a couple shelves, on one of which sat the three rum bottles. The other was stacked with moldy and rusting pots. An old ceramic coffee pot lay on its side against the rock wall. Some of the blue coating could be seen through the gray-green mold.

On the other side, an old steamer trunk sat, belted closed. The leather belts had long since deteriorated or been nibbled away, and two of the wooden slats had worked loose. Jane judiciously opened the lid. Inside, an old Kelly Girl tin sat atop several oil-skin wrapped packages. One package near the corner with the loose boards was home to a young family of mice. The female mouse burrowed beneath the chewed nest, fluffing bits and pieces over her litter, in a vain attempt to protect her brood.

“It’s okay, Mama Mouse. I won’t hurt your babies.” Jane removed the can. Inside was a flint and striker as well as a handful of steel wool. “Now we’re getting somewhere!” Warmth was number four on the survival list that kept popping up in Jane’s head. Water, food, shelter, and warmth. Warmth wasn’t a big issue in the tropics, until the sun went down and the moist air turned cool and insidious. However, warmth meant fire. Fire meant light, and light was important to a lone survivor to keep animals away, and signal for help.

The cave ended in a fall of rocks and dirt closing off any further exploration for the night. The sun was almost down, and the cave was becoming darker by the minute. She rustled through the unoccupied end of the trunk and was surprised to find an old wool blanket at the bottom. Folded and wrapped in oilcloth, it was in remarkable condition, considering how long it must have been there. Carefully removing the blanket, she took the tin, knife, one of the better pans and one of the rum bottles, tied them up in the blanket and began her way back to the net shelter. It was twilight and slow going, but soon she heard the stream and recognized the tree where she’d first met Silly Bird. “Home, sweet home, Jane.”

Exhausted by her short trek, she drank deeply of the sweet, fresh water in the stream. Shaking any dust or vermin from the blanket, she spread it out on the bedframe in her shelter and eased herself down. It was getting easier to move, but her ribcage still burned intensely with any exertion. She let her mind drift and soon her eyelids were too heavy to hold open. She sank into sleep. Her last thought brought a smile to her face; I hope Silly Bird doesn’t wake up with a hangover.

Somewhere, off in the distance of her mind, she heard the soft words of the angels, “Sleep. Sweet dreams.”