Altercation (6 page)

J
aci found Amanda and Ricky downstairs on the sofa, watching an unfamiliar sitcom. The glare from the orange sunset outside reflected off the plasma screen. A knot formed in her stomach and she twisted her fingers, studying Ricky’s profile in the dim light. He didn’t look angry. The actress on the television said something and Ricky laughed. He glanced her way.

She ducked her head, a bit embarrassed to be caught staring. “Amanda. Agent Banks said to come upstairs. It’s almost your turn.”

Amanda stood, pulling her arms up above her head in a stretch. “Agent Banks?”

“Yep.”

Amanda dropped her arms and crossed the room. Warily, Jaci sank onto the couch, sitting on the edge of the cushion, back straight. She kept her hands wrapped around one knee, careful not to touch Ricky, even on accident. “How’d it go with the shrink?”

He picked up the remote control and changed the channel. “She can’t help me. She just wants to talk.”

“Where’s Sara?”

“Don’t know.”

Jaci stood up. “I’m going to run.”

“Is that how you deal with things?”

She turned and found him studying her. “I—I just feel like running.”

“You could stay.”

She paused. “You’re not angry at me?”

Ricky frowned at her. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“For telling Agent Banks what happened.”

Something flashed in his eyes for a moment. “He shouldn’t have asked you. I wanted to tell him.”

“You’re right,” Jaci said, sitting down again. “I wasn’t even there. I should have let you explain it.”

“Forget it.” Ricky turned the TV off. “Hey Jaci, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. If it’s okay.”

Jaci leaned her head forward and peered at him. “Okay . . .”

“Why didn’t you tell us about Callie?”

That wasn’t the question she had been expecting. She squeezed the upholstery beneath her fingers. “I couldn’t bear thinking about her.”

“Who was she?”

“Callie was my best friend,” Jaci said. “It was her birthday party.” Callie’s face flashed before her eyes, the sky-blue eyes behind wire frames.

“What happened to her?”

“She was shot.” Jaci hugged herself, wishing that he would touch her, try to comfort her in some way. But Ricky didn’t move from his side of the couch.

“And you saw it?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t take the guilt anymore. “It was my fault.”

“What?”

Jaci met his eyes. “I promised Callie I would try to escape with her. We figured if we both tried, they wouldn’t have time to take us both out. When the kidnappers stopped the van, she said it was time. But I lost my nerve.” She swallowed hard. “She counted on me and I didn’t go.”

Sara’s voice came from the bedroom doorway behind them. “You can’t blame yourself, Jaci.”

Jaci glanced over the couch. “Oh, Sara.”

“Yeah what she said, Jace.” Ricky leaned forward, pressing his hands on his knees. “He might have shot you both. And then Sara and Amanda. She shouldn’t have run.”

“Shouldn’t have run?” Jaci exclaimed. “So we were just supposed to accept being kidnapped? We had to try!”

“And Callie knew that.” Sara came around to Jaci. “She took the risk.”

Jaci put her head in her hands. “She shouldn’t have died!”

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. Amanda appeared briefly on the bottom step, and then disappeared into their bedroom. The door slammed shut.

Jaci met Sara’s eyes, her own concerns momentarily pushed aside. She stood up and together they went to the bedroom.

“Amanda?” Jaci called, unlocking the door.

Amanda bent over the sinks, splashing water on her splotchy face. “Counselor Florence wants to see you,” she said without lifting her head from the sink.

“See who?” Sara asked.

“You.” Amanda turned and stumbled to her bed. “I don’t feel well.” She lay down and put the pillow over her head.

Amanda had not once, during the entire kidnapping and escape, broken down and cried. Not even when Callie was shot. Jaci moved to the bed and sat down on the edge. “Amanda? We’re here. We know what you’re going through.”

Someone knocked on the door. Sara opened it, and Neal poked his head in. “Sara? Counselor Florence wants to see you.”

Sara looked at Jaci and Amanda and folded her arms across her chest. “Not today. Don’t feel like it.”

B
efore we get to the hands-on training,” Agent Magrew said, looking around at the teens in the dojo, “I want to talk about avoiding bad situations. Think about your kidnapping. If you could do it over again, what would you do different?”

Counselor Florence hadn’t made Sara go in for an interview yesterday, nor had she made an appearance today. But Jaci thought she might prefer meeting with the counselor over thinking about Agent Magrew’s question. It troubled her. It gave her permission to browse through her “what if” options.

“I wouldn’t have gone to the door,” Amanda said.

Jaci leaned forward to see her better. That was the closest Amanda had come to admitting a fault in their kidnapping. It occurred to Jaci then that maybe she felt a lot of guilt. Maybe Amanda’s ambivalence was her mask.

Magrew nodded. “Stay away from the trouble. Anything else?”

“Run away,” Jaci said. She knew she would gather her three friends and run as far from the mall as possible.

“Excellent. Flee. Any more?”

Jaci thought about that night, explored alternate scenarios. She shook her head.

“Good,” Magrew said. “You get the idea, then. Run away. Don’t try to fix it. Now, let’s say that you still get into trouble. If you don’t fight, you will be a victim. It’s not even a question. So, I’m going to show you some moves.” Magrew’s eyes wandered over the girls and boys. “Amanda, can I use you as a volunteer?”

“Sure.”

Amanda stepped forward. Magrew encircled her wrist with her hand. “Break out of my grip.”

Amanda yanked her hand back, but Magrew held tight. “I’m not sure how,” Amanda said.

“The weakest part of the hand is the thumb. If you look where my hand is, you’ll see my thumb is under your wrist. So pull down. Break that hold. Try it now.”

Amanda did as instructed, pulling her hand toward her knee. Magrew’s hold broke. “Excellent. Let’s break into pairs and try it.”

Jaci turned to Sara. “Can you do this, Sara?”

Sara’s eyes blazed. “Of course I can.”

They went through the exercise a few more times. Jaci was glad to learn it, but she wondered what good it was. If they had known these moves the night they were kidnapped, would things have been different? Jaci doubted it. And would it make a difference in the future? She hoped she would never have to find out.

“The next one I’m going to show you requires caution on your parts because it can be deadly. Let’s say someone gets you in a headlock. Amanda, throw your arm around my neck from behind me and hold on tight.” Magrew had to squat a little bit for Amanda to reach. “This hold is dangerous for the victim. If Amanda were a serious perpetrator, she would squeeze my throat so tightly that it would cut off my blood and air supply. I’d have about three seconds before passing out. But you can get out of this.”

Magrew reached behind her head and grabbed a handful of Amanda’s thick red hair. “You grab the back of the head with one hand. With the other, grab the face.” She put her hand over Amanda’s nose and mouth. “Use your grip to pull the head around your body and throw your opponent on the ground. If your attacker has his right arm around you, you grab the hair with your right hand.” She demonstrated in slow motion. “This move is not a joke. The goal is to kill your attacker, or at the very least, debilitate him by breaking his neck.” She lowered Amanda onto the ground. “Use caution with each other.”

Jaci watched the move with growing anxiety. Three seconds? In that brief moment of time and panic, how was she supposed to remember what to do? What if she grabbed the hair with the wrong hand?

“Let’s try this,” Sara said, moving in front of Jaci.

Jaci took a deep breath and shook off her thoughts. “Don’t hurt me, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” Agent Magrew said, walking around the room. “Good job, Jaci. You and Sara did that well.”

Jaci redid her ponytail. “But how are we supposed to remember all this? Especially in a tense situation?”

“We’ll practice every day that you’re here,” Magrew said. “You must make the moves instinctual. You won’t get a second chance.”

“It’s great in theory,” Amanda said as the three girls walked back to their room after the lesson. “But what good are those moves going to be against a gun?”

“Or a man with no hair?” Sara added.

Jaci kept quiet. She hoped she never got the opportunity to try it, but if she did, she relished the idea of breaking a few necks. The thought spread guilt through her stomach like an oil spill, and she thrust it aside.

C
arl waited on the doorstep of the Rivera’s two-story redbrick house, hoping Marcela Rivera would answer quickly. The orange jeep in the driveway indicated that her son was home, but he didn’t know if that meant Mrs. Rivera was there.

Carl had a search warrant and could enter the home anytime he wanted, but so far the Rivera’s had been more than willing to let him in. He wanted to keep it that way.

He glanced around the landscaped yard. The house sat about fifty yards back from the street, a long gravel drive leading out to the road. He guessed another two or three acres surrounded it in the back. He wondered how they were getting by financially. He made a mental note to ask Mrs. Rivera. He couldn’t really donate money, of course, but maybe he could point her toward government agencies that could help.

The front door opened, revealing Seth, the oldest child. “Hey, Detective.” The nineteen-year-old boy pushed open the screen door and put a pumpkin on the porch. “Come on in.”

Carl glanced at the pumpkin. “Is that your offering to the Halloween ghost?”

Seth smirked. “Yeah. Not much.”

Carl eyed the young man, feeling sorry for him. He was an athlete, like Jaci. Wiry muscles filled out the tight Rugby shirt. He must’ve just gotten out of the shower, judging from his wet, curly black hair.

Seth lifted his eyes, his gaze hardening. “You coming in?”

“Yes.” Carl grabbed the screen door and walked in after him. “Thanks.”

“Make yourself at home,” Seth said, already disappearing into the kitchen. “You know where the office is, and the bedroom. Mom’ll be home soon.”

Carl had already searched both places. Did he really think he would discover something else? He decided to go back to the office. He didn’t like the idea of being in the bedroom without Mrs. Rivera home.

The office was downstairs, next to the game room. He expected César, the younger brother, to be playing video games, when he remembered that the boy must still be in school. It wasn’t even two o’clock yet.

He opened the office door, surveying the room. Everything had been inspected. The computer had been torn apart. Whatever Rivera had done, he hadn’t used his home computer for it. The closet door hung open, all the filing cabinets confiscated. Carl had already poured over the letters, calendars, and faxes.

He went back into the closet and stared at the empty shelves. He sat down and ran his hands over the carpet.

If he hadn’t been sitting, he wouldn’t have seen it. Taped to the underside of the shelf, at eye-level in front of him, was an envelope.

Excitement stirred in Carl’s chest. He pushed onto his haunches and carefully pulled the envelope down. It wasn’t sealed. Opening it, Carl pulled out photographs. His heart hammered and his breathing quickened. Who were these people? Most were men, some women. Snapshots of them getting out of cars, drinking coffee. Multiple shots of the same people, all in foreign countries.

There had to be thirty pictures here.

Carl jumped to his feet. This was something.

Upstairs he heard the clang of bells as the front door closed. The murmur of voices drifted down to him. He took the steps two at a time, racing back for the kitchen.

Mrs. Rivera met him in the living room. “Oh. I was going downstairs to greet you.”

“I found something.” He was a little out of breath, and eager to get out. “Thank you. I’ll be by later.” He had a lot to get done and little time. Tomorrow he flew to Ohio.

“Wait!” She held out several pieces of paper that had been folded into thirds. “I have this for you.”

Carl took the papers. “What is it?”

“A detailed list of the calls made from Gregorio’s phone last month.” She dipped her head, not meeting his eyes. “I requested it from the phone company. It came yesterday. I can do so for any month you want.”

“Please do so for the past year.” He whirled away, ecstatic. “I’ll be in touch!”

“Do you have a match on any of the pictures?” Carl spoke in the general direction of his office phone while he finished filing the pictures he had found in the Riveras’ house.

“We’re still searching the Interpol database for most of them.” The male voice came back over the speaker in Carl’s office. “But we did find one so far.”

“Yes?” Carl froze, one hand fingering the paperwork on his desk. “Who?”

“The red-headed woman with the big sunglasses. Coming out of the coffee shop. Remember?”

Carl yanked the file back open, pulling out all the pictures he had scanned over to the FBI. He found the woman, exiting what looked like a European café. “Yes. Who is she?”

“Her name was Brigitta Mescaros. A Hungarian heiress, apparently living in Belgium.”

Carl’s mind got stuck on one word. He picked up a pen, scribbling lines on a ripped envelope. “Was?”

“Was,” the voice confirmed. “Brigitta died eight months ago.”

“Where?” Carl wrote down the month. February. “In Belgium?”

“No. Her body was found in Guadalajara on February seventeenth. Interviews with surviving relatives said that she had gone for a vacation.”

“Who was with her?”

“Nobody, apparently. She traveled alone.”

A rich woman takes a vacation to Guadalajara . . . alone? “How did she die? Swimming accident?”

The voice paused on the other end. “No. She was murdered. Machine gun fire.”

Something tickled Carl’s mind and he spun around, spreading the papers from Rivera’s file all over his desk. The dates. Where were the dates?

He found them. Catching his breath, he studied the hand-written dates that he had found inside the medicine cabinet. “I’ve got something here.”

“Oh?” The agent’s voice rose in pitch. “What?”

Carl stared at the photograph in front of him. “The first line from the paper I found at Rivera’s workplace.
February 17. The Hand and Cisnero. Guadalajara, Mexico. Orange and Purple.”

The agent gave a low whistle. “What does that mean to you?”

“I’m pretty sure that Purple is Rivera. What it means is that Rivera was in Guadalajara, Mexico, on the same day this woman died. And he had a photograph of her in his office.”

“You think he killed her?”

Carl wasn’t sure how to answer that. He had not expected Rivera to be a murderer. A cheater, a liar, a scumbag, yes. But a killer? “Did anyone else die?”

“I’ll check with the Mexican government.”

“Do you know who Cisnero is?”

“No. But I bet Interpol does.”

“Please send me all the information you find on Cisnero. Also, will you fax over the file for Mescaros?”

“Of course. And if you put anything together, let us know.”

“Yep.” Carl turned the phone off, his mind whirling. Mescaros was dead. He wondered how she fit into this. Did Rivera meet up with The Hand and Cisnero and go on a blood hunt? Was it her bad fortune to be in Guadalajara at the time? Or perhaps they had planned to meet her.

He thumbed through the other photographs, the faces blurring before him. Were all of these people dead? Did Rivera take them out?

Who was this man?