32

“Get your clothes,” Malvasio said, “whatever else you have. It’s moving day.”

Strock glanced up from the table where he sat in morning diagonals of shadow and light, a dripping hunk of pan dulce suspended over his coffee. “Moving where?”

“Time to get you into place.”

Strock smiled, set the pastry down, and licked his fingers. “And I was just getting into the swing of things here.”

From the tone of the quip, Malvasio wondered what had developed between the Candyman and Clara the past few nights. It wasn’t sexual, that seemed obvious—and odd, given Strock’s appetite on that end—but there was something. “Vacation’s over. Sorry.”

Strock mugged a pout then got up, grabbed his cane, and thumped toward the hallway back to his room. As Malvasio went to the stove to pour himself coffee, Clara passed behind him with the baby, hurrying outside. She did everything in her power to avoid eye contact, and he was struck again by the sense that something was going on between her and Strock. Then it dawned on him—it wasn’t about Strock at all. It was the girl.

Malvasio knew Clara’s story: a war orphan from San Francisco Gotera, brought to the judge’s plantation at ten with a noxious dose of clap—bad enough to make her sterile—sent to the nuns in Santiago de María, kept at the orphanage till she was fifteen, then farmed out as a servienta and ultimately enlisted into the operation. She’d been kept in the dark about its uglier aspects but she wasn’t stupid. Children are commodities, they change hands. She knew that better than anyone. But she’d given the little girl a name—Constancia—and it tumbled from her lips nonstop as she carried the little one everywhere, doting on her, singing to her. Now, though, with Strock leaving, Clara’s little game of house was ending. Malvasio guessed she knew that. He had to come up with something to tell her.

He’d yet to think through the how or when of the baby’s return to her real mother. Maybe once Jude’s hydrologist was out of the picture. Maybe never. So what was the harm in standing pat just a little longer?

He went outside and crouched before Clara who sat in a sandy patch of palm shade, bouncing the infant gently in her lap. The brine from the ocean, ripe with heat, thickened the air, the surf a rumbling hush beyond the high wall. Malvasio smiled, tugged on one of the little girl’s heels, then told Clara he had nowhere to send them just yet and needed her to stay here, with Constancia, until something developed. She and the baby would be all alone. Would she mind that?

Clara looked puzzled, unsure she’d understood. Then she shook her head—no, she wouldn’t mind. The tiniest of smiles appeared, as though she’d gotten away with something.

They reached San Bartolo Oriente just before noon, turning onto an overgrown dirt road near the edge of town and following it through shabby woods to a deserted construction yard. As they pulled up, Sleeper’s pal Chucho jumped from the shade of a ragged-barked amate tree to undo the padlock, pull back the wire gate, and let them in. He looked ill, with rheumy, bloodshot eyes and a fidgety case of the sniffles—all of which earned him a mad dog stare from Strock.

The yard was half an acre in size, with windblown trash stuck to the fence around the perimeter. Any usable vehicles, tools, or lumber had long ago been carted off by thieves. All that remained were drifting piles of sand and gravel, a Dynapac roller with a burnt-up engine, and the rusted carcass of a dump truck stripped of its motor, tires, and seats.

At one end of the yard stood a high wood-frame garage, built to hold four trucks. On top of the garage, the old owners had erected a set of offices from two-by-four framing and plywood sheets, and on top of that two rooms sat by themselves, sharing a common wall and roofed with tar paper. Sleeper, wearing a bandana but no shirt, called down from one of the topmost rooms.

“Got you fixed, Duende. Hustle on up, check it out.”

Wood-plank stairs led from the garage to the first floor of offices, the cedar rotting away in places. Malvasio could see from the look on Strock’s face that the arrangement brought back infuriating memories. Strock didn’t say anything, though, and Malvasio took that as a good sign.

From atop the garage, a wood ladder led the rest of the way. Malvasio steadied it as Strock struggled up. Chucho scrambled up after, taking Strock’s bag. Malvasio brought up the rear, carrying the rifle and cane.

The two rooms were small, connected by an open doorway. The windows, if there’d ever been any, had been stripped away with the doors, and that helped with the heat. Later in the afternoon the shade from the amate and a pair of even taller ceiba trees would help cool things down some more. The plywood walls bore water stains and a taint of mildew soured the air.

Sleeper had cut away a jagged hole in the outer wall, just this side of which lay a thin mattress. Must’ve been a clown act getting that thing up the ladder, Malvasio thought, especially with Mr. Jittery Sniffles involved. Candles and matches lay atop a makeshift table made from an upturned crate. A bucket sat in the corner of the other room—the toilet.

“Welcome to your sniper hide,” Malvasio said.

Strock looked bereft. “Bit of a switch from where I’ve been.”

“You’ll only be up here through Wednesday. Friday at the latest. Good news is, there are things going on that may render this whole exercise pointless. If that’s the case, we’ll bag up quietly and go our merry way. But if that falls through, I want to be ready.”

Taking that as a cue, Strock flipped down the bipod legs on the AR-15 and lifted its scope caps front and back, then eased down into a prone position on the mattress, sighting the weapon through the hole in the wall. Malvasio knelt behind him, peering down the line of the rifle barrel beyond the feathery green crest of several mariscargo trees. A couple hundred yards away lay the wall surrounding Villas de Miramonte, and beyond that the cul-de-sac down which the hydrologist’s woman lived. It was that sight line, from here to Consuela’s door, that had crystallized the plan in Malvasio’s mind. No need to rent a room across from the man’s hotel, be seen, leave a paper trail. Sooner or later he’d come by to visit his lady friend. With patience, it would all fall together.

“I’ll go down tomorrow,” he told Strock, “point out the target house. Nobody’s around this weekend. Meanwhile, make yourself as comfortable as you can. I’ll send Sleeper or Chucho back with some water and food, soap and towels. They’ll check in every morning and night.”

“I’m gonna want a bag of kitty litter,” Strock said.

Malvasio took a second to process that. “Do I need to hear this?”

Strock slapped his left elbow with his right hand. “Prop it under my arm, brace my shot.”

Malvasio checked to make sure Sleeper caught that. The kid looked like he was ready to bust. “Duende, that other thing you had me working on. I got news.”

Malvasio assumed he meant Truco Valdez. “Tell me at the bottom.” He added a head nod to suggest he and his buddy start down now. “I’ll be right there.”

Strock waited till Sleeper and Chucho were on the ground, then said, “Where’d you find the two grease spots?”

“Around. More just like them everywhere you look.”

“The tall one, guy who speaks English?”

“Sleeper.”

“Looks like the Crocodile Man, all those tats. But he’s normal compared to this sidekick.”

“Chucho.”

“Kid acts like he eats Sterno.”

“Lot of crank and chemicals down here. He’s not always that bad.”

“Keep him away from me. Can you do that?”

Now he’s dictating, Malvasio thought. “Sure. I’ll try. Him and Sleeper are like Cisco and Pancho lately, but I’ll try.”

“I don’t mean to second-guess your judgment. I’m just saying, given the way things might have to go down—”

“No problem. Consider it done. You’ll only have to deal with Sleeper.”

Strock nodded absently, then yawned. “Appreciate it.”

“Just so you know—you’ll be seeing more of him than me the next few days.”

“Oh, this just gets better.”

“I’ll try to stop by at least once a day, but I’ve got a lot on my plate. So Sleeper’s gonna be your main source of face time. He can get pretty buzzed himself and he’s chatty when he is. Just so you know.”

Strock turned back to his weapon, closed one eye, and sighted through the scope again. “Let’s hope that’s the worst of my problems.”

When he reached the ground, Malvasio gestured for Sleeper to join him by the van. He counted out money for groceries. “Buy the stuff we talked about, plus the kitty litter if you can find it. And water, make sure he’s got plenty. It’s gonna get hot up there.” He handed the cash over. “Another thing—let’s think about keeping your pal away from my pal the next few days.”

Sleeper counted the bills, then stuffed them in his pocket. “What’s his hang-up?”

“It’s a cultural thing. You said you had something to tell me?”

“Yeah. Me and Chucho, we went to one of those meetings, La Tregua? On the button, man, like you said, bunch of putas chavos just want their tats removed.”

“Fascinating. But Truco.”

“He’s around.”

Malvasio waited. In the background, Chucho squatted in the shade, gripping his head. “That’s it—he’s around?”

“What do you want? I press too hard, I get made, then what?”

“You’re going back.”

“Tonight, yeah—What’s with you, man? Lighten the fuck up.”

“Tonight, what?”

“Me and Chucho, we got a bead on a guy who’s in touch. Think so. We’ll chat him up, tail him if we have to. By tomorrow—day after, tops—I’ll have your guy.”

“There,” Malvasio said, grateful the prediction he’d given Hector wouldn’t need revision. “Better.” He opened the van door and climbed behind the wheel.

Sleeper stepped away into the sun, glancing up at the sniper hide. “That’s an evil piece your buddy’s got. Chucho and me gonna get the same?”

“That what you want?” Malvasio already had identical weapons put aside, minus silencers and scopes. Part of the plan. “Let me see what I can work out.”

Sleeper liked that. “Qué chivo.” Awesome.

“Put your shirt on.”

Sleeper, clowning, mimicked boo-hoo. “Poor Duende. So much on his mind.” He undid the knot in his sleeves. “Give us a lift to town?”

“No. I just thought of something I forgot to tell my guy. I need to go back up.”

“We can wait.”

“It’s gonna be a while.”

Malvasio waited for Sleeper and Chucho to sulk away, then retrieved from the back of the van a cell phone with an earpiece and a box of sabot rounds.

The cell phone was so he could communicate with Strock during the shooting if it came to that. He’d try to limit use before then so no one could trap the signal.

The sabot rounds were boattail bullets sheathed in a thin plastic shell that split and fell away after firing. The barrel’s striations wouldn’t appear on the round itself, just the plastic, which normally landed no more than ten yards away from the shooter’s position, easy to pick up afterward. If Strock hit anyone, there’d be no way to trace the bullet to his weapon—or, given ballistics down here, no way to prove for sure it hadn’t come from someone else’s.

Like Sleeper’s. Or Chucho’s.

And so it goes, he thought, drawing no pleasure from how well things were falling into place. In fact, the more the plan crystallized, the more his mind turned ashen. He couldn’t shake a forbidding sense of waste. God help me, he thought. Help me and Phil and Ray’s unlucky kid.