He eases the Monte Carlo over to the curb, shuts off the engine, and flips on the overhead light. Thumbs through the pages of his pocket notebook to confirm the address before switching the light back off and rolling down the driver’s window so he can read the number on the house directly to his left, 1735. Then checks the addresses on the other side of the street until he finds the one he’s looking for.
Like many of the homes on South Tenth Street, 1724 is an older, somewhat dilapidated two-story with green shingle siding and a single dormer window crowning a steeply pitched roof. A towering sycamore dominates the front yard while a row of trimmed boxwood guards the screened-in porch where a middle-aged woman, presumably Faye’s mother, rocks back and forth on a porch swing.
Now that he’s made it to Terre Haute, now that his target is literally a stone’s throw away, his mind drifts back to Valladolid where, a month ago, he received the initial phone call from one of Mestival’s subordinates. That handler—Chance didn’t recognize his voice—had given him the address of a cantina in Merida. When you get there, he instructed, tell the bartender your name and he’ll take care of the rest. Pack for a month of travel, possibly two.
Got it.
Someone will contact you in a few days. Meanwhile, lay low. Eat in the cantina. Drink in the cantina. Sleep there. Comprende?
Comprende.
Bored out of his mind, Chance stayed in his uninviting little room above the cantina for the next three days, reading week-old editions of the USA Today purchased at a nearby mercado. Perched on a threadbare chair next to an open window looking down on a quiet residential street, he scanned stories about the NBA playoffs—the Lakers, led by Magic Johnson, were on a roll—or methodically filled in the daily crossword. Then on the fourth day he answered a knock on the door. Yanking on his boots, he followed the bartender down the dark stairway.
Standing next to one of the rickety tables scattered haphazardly around the room, a middle-aged man wearing horn-rimmed glasses gestured for Chance to sit down. He didn’t introduce himself or shake hands, and when Chance offered to buy him a cerveza, he refused.
Fine. Have it your way. Chance swung around in his chair to face the bar. Amigo! Una cerveza por favor.
After the bartender left the bottle of beer on the table, Señor (not knowing the man’s name, Chance would simply call him Señor) leaned forward and spoke in a gravelly voice. His teeth were crooked and his nose, Chance noted, had been broken at least once.
We contacted you because things are, how you say? Unsettled?
Chance nodded, unsurprised. There was always some kind of intrigue. A double cross. A femme fatale. Rumors of betrayal followed, invariably, by rumors of revenge.
Pablo’s puta, Señor hissed, has disappeared.
Stunned, Chance picked up his bottle then immediately set it back down. He had expected the usual, a stranger’s name and the address of his home in Guadalajara. Or the home of his mistress. After he completed the surveillance, developed the photos at the lab in Valladolid, and delivered his report, the blackmail, or in some cases the hit, would be assigned to someone else. It was clean work, sharp and decisive. No guns, no blades, no blood on his hands.
Disappeared?
Escaped.
Good God, Chance thought, how in the world did she do that?
Mr. Mestival, Señor continued, would like to set up a meeting, a one on one. He has a little proposition to make.
Where?
Isla Mujeres.
He had been there once. A white, charmless, boxy safe house with a view across the channel to Cancun.
So when does Mr. Mestival want to meet?
Señor was watching him carefully. Like most of Mestival’s thugs, he didn’t hide his disdain for gringos. But Chance would not show fear. Even though his nerves were rattled by the news about Angelina, he would not show fear. If they sensed even a trace of weakness, they would eat you alive.
We’ll let you know.
Chance nodded; at this stage in the proceedings aggression would be unwise.
Fine. So how long will I be staying here? In Merida?
Señor stood up to leave.
We’ll let you know.
When?
For the first time Señor smiled, pleased to ignore the question, to turn on his heel and walk out of the cantina, to show the gringo, in this macho world where a single gesture, misinterpreted, might erupt into sudden violence, his silent contempt.
For years Chance had heard the rumors. Everyone, he supposed, who worked in any capacity for Pablo Mestival—even contractors, independents like himself—had heard the rumors. How after a whirlwind courtship and a year of romantic bliss, something had gone wrong. So wrong that Mestival, in his rage, had chosen not to kill Angelina but to hold her captive. Sometimes the rumors described the drug kingpin catching her in the arms of one of his bodyguards, who was never seen or heard from again. At other times the narrative grew more complex, detailing Angelina’s gradual disillusionment with the lover she had not realized, in the throes of her initial obsession, was nothing more than a brutal warlord zealously protecting his kingdom from anyone who might do it harm. At the peak of her disillusionment, it was said, Angelina had lashed out at him, claiming that he was not a real man and that she had been faking her passion all along. In silence, Mestival had seethed, his already unsteady psyche twisted into a knot of rage.
His plan was to exact revenge by making an underground tape that would show Angelina, a woman he once claimed to love, being sexually debased by a group of strangers. But when the film was released on the black market he discovered that dabbling in pornography, at least this kind of pornography, was more lucrative than he had imagined. So he decided to produce not just a single tape but a series of them. Prurient viewers—apparently there were legions—were willing to pay a pretty penny for a copy of this type of black-market movie, not so much for the sex, he was told, as for the unwillingness of the woman at the center of all that attention to perform. The more she struggled, the higher the price tag Mestival could demand.
Chance had listened to the rumors with an air of Shaolin detachment. Because none of this would have happened, he reasoned, if Angelina had not rejected him, if she had let him protect her. With his reputation in the surveillance industry firmly established, money would not have been an issue, and they could have lived anywhere they chose. If she wanted to stay in Mexico they could have stayed in Mexico. If she wanted to return to the States they could have returned to the States. Lived in a houseboat on Lake Shasta or a rustic cabin in the mountains of east Tennessee. As long as she was by his side, he would have been willing to go anywhere. But it was too late for that now. Somehow, Angelina had escaped. And in response, Pablo Mestival had a little proposition he would like to make.
He doesn’t like the setup. Parking on the street in the dark was standard procedure but tomorrow, in the morning light, the Monte Carlo would be too conspicuous, too visible to prying eyes. And in a neighborhood like this there were always prying eyes. A busy thoroughfare with a blur of traffic whizzing by wouldn’t pose a problem. But tracking the movements of a target from a parked car in a quiet neighborhood was a risky affair.
He twists the key in the ignition and putters down Tenth Street at a snail’s pace. And then he sees it, a vacant lot overgrown with weeds directly across the street from Faye’s house.
At the end of the block he hooks a left on Hulman then another at the mouth of the alley between Ninth and Tenth. Switching off his headlights, he inches down the bumpy pavement, yanking the steering wheel several times to avoid the deepest potholes, until he arrives at the back of the vacant lot where he stops, shuts off the engine, and climbs out of the car.
It’s perfect, a riot of knee-high weeds, a scattering of dandelions, humps of rock and dirt and rubbish. Twin rows of unruly laurel hedges at least eight feet high flank either side of the property, and next to the alley, next to an incinerator for burning trash, someone has abandoned two rusty cars, leaving just enough room between them to squeeze in a third.
Satisfied, he drives back to the Drury Inn. In the shower, he lifts his face to the needles of warm spray and lets his mind leap forward. According to the file, Angelina’s father should be a non-factor. An agent for State Farm, he likely spent his weekdays at the office while Faye, still recovering from the trauma of Mexico, no doubt stayed home. Which left only the mother, the wild card. Soaping his chest and arms, he reminds himself not to fret. One way or another it will all work out, because it always does. In the safe house on Isla Mujeres, Pablo Mestival’s casual reference to Faye Lindstrom’s “elimination” had triggered a wave of self-doubt and nausea. But he’s over that now. The assignment is distasteful, even repugnant, but the gods are watching over him, and he’s determined not to fail.