Death Benefits (30 page)

“Let's kill this cunt,” Tezca growled, “and get out of here. We're running out of time.”

Rafe stepped closer, until we were just an arm's length apart. He had the gun in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

I stared into his eyes—terrified but determined not to show it.

“You lost,” I said, trying to sound confident.

He looked puzzled as he started to raise his gun. Tezca released his hold on me and stepped to the side.

“Lost?” he repeated, holding the gun at waist level.

The sirens seemed to be getting louder, but they were still so far away.

“Come on, man,” Tezca said. “Let's go.”

“No, Rachel,” Rafe said to me. “I won.”

He started to raise the gun and in one fluid motion shifted toward Tezca and shot him squarely in the chest. The roar of the gunpowder was deafening.

Tezca staggered backward, weaving toward the left, splashing through the narrow river in the middle of the tunnel, blood bubbling out of his chest, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. Rafe followed, the gun in one hand and the flashlight in the other. He shot him in the chest again as Tezca stumbled back against the wall. Tezca slid slowly down into a sitting position, leaving a black smear of blood along the wall. Rafe stood over him, gun ready, flashlight trained on his victim. Tezca tilted his head up with a look of total bafflement. Spotlighted in the beam of the flashlight, a rivulet of blood trickled down into his beard from the corner of his open mouth. He frowned, and then his head dropped onto his chest. I watched in horror as the body listed slowly, slowly to the right, and then tipped over, the head thonking against the cement.

My ears were ringing from the gun shots. Stunned, I turned to Rafe.

He lowered the gun and turned to pick up the canvas sack. Turning back, he stared at me for a moment. “Go help your friend,” he said.

He turned away and started to run, the gun in one hand and the tape-wrapped canvas sack in the other. Far off in the distance, you could just detect the light at the end of the tunnel. The tunnel curved slightly to the right up ahead. I watched until he disappeared, and then I turned.

“Benny!” I shouted as I ran into the darkness.

Epilogue

The preliminary injunction hearing was supposed to last through the following week, but it ended suddenly on Thursday afternoon when, during a short recess between witnesses, the other side doubled their settlement offer and my client said yes. We signed the settlement papers and the stipulation of dismissal the following day, which meant I could enjoy the weekend.

And a glorious weekend it promised to be. Although it was early October, the sky was blue, the temperature was seventy-three, and the water was calm as Benny and I walked across Loyola Park toward the lake. Ozzie had already reached the sandy beach and had turned to wait for us, his tail wagging exuberantly.

“Did you bring his Frisbee?” Benny asked as we approached the beach.

“Of course,” I said as I reached into the beach bag and pulled out the red Frisbee.

Ozzie started barking as soon as he saw it. I handed the Frisbee to Benny, who sailed it over the water. Ozzie leaped joyfully into the lake and started paddling after the Frisbee. Benny jogged across the sand toward the water line.

The mailman had arrived as we were leaving for the beach, and I had stuffed the mail into my beach bag. I could read my mail while Benny and Ozzie played Frisbee. Walking halfway down the pier, I picked a nice spot, kicked off my shoes, and sat down with my legs dangling over the side. Watching Benny run along the beach, I was pleased to see that his limp was completely gone. If he could run on it, his ankle must have completely healed. I leaned back and closed my eyes. The sun felt good on my face.

Benny's healed ankle brought back memories of the strange and violent resolution of my Stoddard Anderson investigation. Fortunately, Benny hadn't been hit by the bullet Rafe fired at him. But he had badly sprained his ankle when he slipped trying to dodge the bullet. Adding the proverbial insult to injury, he had hobbled over to one of the arched passageways and had just scrambled into it when Rafe shot Tezca. The sounds of the gun shot reverberating down the tunnel so startled Benny that he fell off the passageway into the river of raw sewage—head first.

Salazar escaped in a new Lear jet registered in Tezca's name. By the time Customs got to the airport, Salazar was thirty minutes from Mexican air space. Although the Mexican government was able to scramble two jet fighters in pursuit, Salazar shook them somewhere over the Yucatán and disappeared.

Under court orders, the FBI seized records from Salazar's office and safety deposit box and subpoenaed several individuals from the inner circle of Tezca's religious organization. Rafe Salazar was revealed as the power behind the throne, handling many of the legal and financial affairs of Tezca's operations, including the secret bank accounts in the Cayman Islands and the Netherlands Antilles. Indeed, Rafe had been a signator on each of those accounts. Based on what the FBI and the State Department were able to learn, most of the money in those accounts had been removed within days of Salazar's disappearance over the Yucatán.

Ironically, Rafe Salazar had in fact represented the Mexican National Museum of Anthropology, although they had obviously had no idea that he was representing Tezca as well. Even more surprising, he had in fact communicated to them Benny's request that they pay me $250,000—a fact I learned when Dottie Anderson and I flew to Mexico for the ceremonial placement of Montezuma's Executor on display at the museum. It was a beautiful ceremony. The Executor looks magnificent in the elevated display case, which is bathed in spotlights. Although
Life
ran a stunning color photograph of the Executor last month, my favorite shot remains the Polaroid I keep in the top drawer of my desk. Bernie DeWitt snapped it moments after Ferd Fingersh found the Executor. In the picture, Ferd is standing in the middle of the sewage tunnel, not too far from the archway where I had carefully dropped the Executor into the sewage river before walking out to my final rendezvous with Remy Panzer. Ferd is wearing hip waders, and the sewage is up to his knees. He is holding the Executor in both hands and has a triumphant grin on his face.

Anyway, if you're ever in Mexico, you should definitely go see it. And when you do, be sure to read the bronze plaque on the display case. At the unveiling ceremony, the plaque stated that “The People of Mexico gratefully acknowledge the gift of Dorothy Anderson of St. Louis, Missouri.” But Dottie insisted that they change it, and they did. The plaque now gratefully acknowledges “the gift of Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard Anderson of St. Louis, Missouri”—an acknowledgment that enabled Abbott & Windsor's public relations firm to place an extremely favorable and mostly fabricated story about the late Stoddard Anderson in the
St. Louis Business Review
and the
National Lawyer
.

After the ceremony and the cocktail reception, the head of the museum's
asuntos juridicos
(legal affairs department) handed me an envelope containing a check made out to me for $250,000. I promptly signed it over to Dottie, which started an argument between us that we eventually settled on the airplane flight back with Dottie's forcing me to agree to take half of it. After all, Dottie kept telling me, you earned it
and
you convinced that insurance company to pay me all that money.

(By the time I finally met with the insurance adjuster, I had, in addition to the statement from Albert Weidemeir, signed witness statements from Sal Donalli, and Nancy Winslow, and Dr. Bernstein regarding Anderson's mental and physical condition at the time of his suicide. The insurance company agreed to pay the full amount of the life insurance portion of the policy—$750,000—and we agreed to settle the accidental death benefits portion for $450,000 plus a $200,000 donation to an AIDS foundation. The donation was Dottie's idea. All told, Dottie received $1.2 million in insurance payments.)

I sat up and shaded my eyes in time to see the red Frisbee land in the water about fifty feet from the shore. There were a half dozen kids hanging around Benny and watching Ozzie paddle out to fetch the Frisbee. No one was watching me.

I reached into my beach bag and pulled out the thick envelope with the Nicaraguan postmark. It had arrived in the morning mail. The moment I saw it, I had known who it was from. I didn't tell Benny. I just casually stuffed it into my beach bag along with the rest of the mail.

As I held it now, I could see my hand shaking. The pain and the betrayal had overwhelmed me during the days after the tunnel. I had forced myself to exorcise him from my memories. He had ceased to exist in my mind. Until that morning's mail. With a mixture of excitement and dread, I tore open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter and an airplane ticket. I unfolded the letter on my lap:

Dear Rachel:

I was flying over Texas when I finally opened the canvas bag. You can imagine my reaction when I discovered that I had risked my life and forever banished myself from my country in order to smuggle out a flashlight filled with a chisel in concrete. But time heals all wounds and, I suppose, wounds all heels. You were a formidable adversary, Rachel, and you won.

Four days ago I viewed El Verdugo in its new home. It is magnificent—even more so than I had imagined. Although you may find this difficult to believe, I have come to understand that El Verdugo is where it belongs.

I hope your friend did not suffer serious injury. I aimed wide, trying only to scare him. He showed great courage.

Why am I telling you this? I can't hope to receive your absolution. Perhaps I can receive your understanding. When Arthur Nevins and I formulated our plan, we were partners and there was no Rachel Gold. You changed everything, including me.

We never had our celebration, Rachel. Should you ever want to, just send a message with the date to the post office box at the bottom of this letter. I'll bring the champagne. As I told you, the black sand beaches are marvelous and the sunsets are spectacular. I promise separate cabanas and no strings attached.

Rafe

The roundtrip airplane ticket was to a city on the coast of Africa.

As I reread the letter for the third time, Ozzie came padding down the pier to where I sat and shook himself off all over me. I quickly stuffed the letter and airplane ticket into the envelope and back into my beach bag as Benny approached.

“C'mon, Rachel. Read your mail later. Ozzie and I are starving. Let's go put on the feedbag.”

“Okay,” I said, standing up and hoisting the strap of the beach bag over my shoulder. I gave him a brave smile. “So tell me about this hot date last night,” I said as we stepped off the pier onto the sand.

“A big letdown.”

“Oh?” I said, only half listening.

“You ever met some guy who just—pow! you go nuts for him, it doesn't matter how crazy it might seem, you just know he's for you? But then you spend some time with him, and you realize that what seemed so awesome wasn't really, Rachel?”

I had stopped by a trash can. Reaching into my beach bag, I removed the thick envelope and stared at it.

“What's up?” he asked.

I tore the envelope in half and jammed it into the trash can.

“What was that?” Benny asked. “One of those goddamn solicitations?”

“Sort of,” I said as I turned toward him, reluctantly raising my eyes.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“What's wrong, Rachel? You're—your eyes are—”

“Hold me, Benny.”

“There, it's going to be okay. Ssh.”

I squeezed my eyes shut as I burrowed against him.

“It's okay, Rachel.” He gently patted my back. “Everything's going to be okay. Hey, guess what's playing up at Northwestern tonight? One of our favorite movies. We can have dinner at Dave's Italian Kitchen and then head on over to see it. Wanna guess? I'll give you a hint.” He cleared his throat. “We came down the Yulanga River.”

I smiled against his shoulder. God bless him.

“Well?”

I sniffed and lifted my head. “That's impossible,” I said with a German accent.

Benny tenderly wiped a tear from my cheek. “Nevahtheless,” he said.

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