Deadly Journey (27 page)

Chapter 45

Unlikely Companion

A runaway train
couldn’t have hit me any harder that the revelation that I was to be charged
with trafficking, together with the murders of Leila and her family. The
horrific vision of Sidekick spraying Leila’s family with his automatic flashed
though my mind, and then a snapshot of me picking up his rifle and stowing it
the pickup under the seat.

‘Do you wish to make a signed statement?’
Otego asked.

‘I – I’m – yes – err, no.
Sorry, I’ll have
to wait to speak to an attorney before I say anything.’

Otego was standing in the room, but I
stared right though him. The room started to spin. My head sagged and I closed
my eyes and covered my face with my hands. At the sound of the door closing, I
opened my eyes, and lifting my head, I looked around the empty room. Any
thoughts that my journey was close to an end deserted me, replaced with the
realization that my journey had just begun.

I felt detached from my body and the
situation. Cut off from the world and all that was familiar, drowning in my own
solitude.

Forensics had always been a blessing
throughout my career. Now the science was acting as a curse to conspire against
me.

I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I
couldn’t help thinking Leila had hung around long enough to see justice done
with the deaths of Squat and Sidekick. Maybe with them out of the way, Leila
was targeting me for turning up on her doorstep and bringing about the demise
of her and her family with my lies. I tried to grasp the vision of Mary and the
kids from the photograph, but it eluded me. Instead, I pictured myself placing
the picture frame in a side pocket of the canvas bag I had left with Leandra
and I sighed.

Leandra was probably long gone, together
with the money and the photo. There was no doubt she would think I had deserted
her, only to find out what happened to me through the newspapers at some time
in the future
–
a faint memory of someone she once
knew. If I could have sent her a telepathic message, I would have. I felt a
need for her to know she was special to me and I would have given anything to
see her impish smile to get me through my current predicament as she had done
so many times.

Tyres screeched outside and I heard vehicle
doors slam. The door to the interview room opened. Two police officers entered
the room, armed to the teeth, wearing SWAT type uniforms and body protection,
including steel helmets. Both of them wore ski masks covering their faces.
Otego followed them into the room and one of the officers signed what I
imagined was a release form, to hand me over to them. I managed to slip the
sandwich into my pocket before they grabbed me under the arms, lifted me to my
feet and then ushered me outside the station.

On either side of the entrance, two more
officers crouched, shouldering their rifles, and surveying the street. A black armoured
truck stood in front of the entrance, not unlike the type used to ship money to
banks. At the front of the vehicle was a black four-by-four SUV. At the rear
were two more, all with dark-tinted windows. It seemed to be over-the-top
security to escort a prisoner, but then this was Mexico, the epicentre of the
drugs war zone. The rear door to the armoured truck opened and my escort
dragged me with my feet trailing and manhandled me inside. Two guards took over
and sat me on a bench, securing my ankle restraint to the floor. The door
closed and I raised my head, to the sight of a toothy grin.

‘Hi, bud. You American?’

‘Yeah.’

Similarly shackled, but wearing blue jeans,
sneakers and a T-shirt, the guy grinned. Maybe in his late twenties, his hair
was long over his ears and looked bleached, with dark roots showing in a centre
parting. His arms were heavily tattooed and I focused on a cannabis plant
sitting on a surfboard, on his bicep.

‘What did they get you for?’ Surfer asked.

‘It’s a mistake. My lawyer will get me
released.’

‘Yeah, right, dude. Everybody says that.
This your first time?’

‘Yes. Look, I don’t want to talk, I have
things on my mind.’

‘Just being friendly.’

He sat with his hands clasped, twiddling
his thumbs. Wherever I looked, I could sense him staring at me. I glanced at
the two guards sitting next to the rear door, hoping for silence.

‘You look familiar,’ Surfer said. ‘You from
California?’

‘No.’

‘Talkative, aren’t ya. It’s a long journey,
best we get acquainted. We may need each other when we get to the prison.’

‘How do you work that out?’

He shrugged. ‘Not too many of us from the
US at the facility. Most of the inmates section off into gangs and they’re left
to run the day-to-day shit. The warders just guard the perimeter and leave the
prisoners to the blocks. I’m telling you, man, it’s not safe to hang around on
your own.’

‘So you’ve been there before?’

‘Yeah, man, but last time my lawyer sprung
me. This time they caught me at the border with my truck loaded to the hilt
with green turf. Best weed I’ve had in years.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re gonna
need to buy some clothes when you get there, or you’re gonna stand out. You got
money?’

‘No.’

I looked at my white overall and bare feet.

Annoyingly, Surfer wouldn’t let go. ‘I’ve
got seventy-five dollars. I can lend you some, but I want double back.’ A smirk
crawled onto his face. ‘You could always sell your ass if it came down to that.
Your choice.’

‘I’ll think about it for now.’

‘What, selling your ass?’

He let out a roar of laughter. The
conversation was only making matters worse.

‘Listen, I need to sleep. We can talk when
we get there.’

‘Whatever, dude.’

Feigning sleep, I dipped my head and closed
my eyes.

‘Got it,’ Surfer said. ‘You’ve been caught
skinny-dipping. That’s why you’ve got no clothes. Well, well, a damned bare-assed
runner, that’s it. Come on, own up to the crime.’

‘You’re not funny,’ I said, not lifting my
head.

‘If it’s not that, then they must have
taken your clothes for forensics. Shit, did you rape somebody?’

Surfer’s voice acted like an annoying housefly,
buzzing around inside my head.

‘No I haven’t, now shut the fuck up.’

‘Boohoo, scary. I’m pissing in my pants.
Wait
–
that clinches it then, you whacked somebody.
You’re a freaking murderer. It looks like I’m gonna need your protection rather
than you needing mine. Is that what you’ve done, killed somebody?’

I lifted my eyes and glared at him.

‘Just saying, dude. No worries.’

Not answering him at last bought his
silence, and closing my eyes, I dropped my chin to my chest.

The vehicle
lurched to a stop, throwing me sideways and I opened my eyes.

‘We’re here,’ Surfer said. ‘Stay close when
we get into the yard after processing.’

The vehicle rumbled forward and stopped
again.

‘You sure do talk in your sleep. Who’s this
Leandra, your wife?’

I ignored him, hoping we weren’t going to
finish up in the same cell. The truck door opened. One of the guards released
the floor shackle and helped me out of the vehicle. Surfer followed me out of
the truck humming “Yankee Doodle” until the dig of a rifle butt silenced him. A
prison escort approached and they signed for our custody.

The prison guards waved us forward and we
shuffled toward a steel door at an office block. Looking over my shoulder, I
noted that we had entered through a solid-steel door and then wire-mesh gates,
leaving a no-man’s land of around thirty feet around the perimeter and a
further hundred yards of open space leading to the accommodation blocks. With
an outer brick wall and a wire fence thirty feet high and topped with razor
wire, it looked secure enough. Add to that, armed guards on towers, spaced out
every hundred yards, and I doubted anyone would risk escaping.

We entered reception and a guard signalled
us to sit on a bench facing a counter.

My palm itched like hell and I picked at
the dead skin around the edges of the old wound. It had almost healed, leaving
a red patch with new skin over the blister area. Where the tracker key had cut
into the flesh, all that remained was a small scar.

‘Don’t do that, it’ll make it worse,’ Surfer
said. ‘Listen, when we get to our cells, stay there. Don’t go wandering alone
in the yard.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re going to need to know the
rules if you want to survive. Do you speak Spanish?’

‘Yeah, a little.’

‘A word of advice, learn it a lot. Only use
English if you’re in a group of Americans, or they’ll think you’re conspiring
against them.’

‘Who are “them”?’

‘The two main gangs are the Cobras and the
Perez crew, but there are others. The MS-13 gang acts as the arbitrators when
there’s a dispute. I’ll point out their tattoos so you know which is which.’

‘No need, I already know. Is there anything
specific to watch out for?’

‘Yeah, the ones who pump iron may look
menacing, but they’re so pumped up, they’d have trouble unzipping themselves to
take a piss, never mind throwing a punch. Mind you, if they do connect a punch,
it’ll send you into another dimension. The ones you really have to watch for
are usually the skinny runts. Always watch your back for the hit and run.’

‘What’s that?’

‘They stab you in the back with a homemade
shank. If they just want to mark you, they’ll fashion a slasher out of a
toothbrush and a razor blade. Another thing, don’t look anyone in the eye. Try
a keep a general look out and watch for anybody converging on you from different
directions if there’s a crowd. If you get in a fight, or see anything, don’t
tell the guards anything. The only thing these guys hate more than a snitch are
paedophiles and child murderers. Any of those suckers and it’s as good as a
death sentence for them.’

I was beginning to think my time as a
kidnap victim had been easier than what might lie ahead. The thought that the
inmates might find out I was suspected of murdering Leila’s children and a DEA
agent had me in a shiver.

‘What do you have to do to get locked up in
solitary?’

‘Usually, you need to get into a fight.
Trouble is, only one of them gets to solitary
–
which
by the way is a hellhole and a living death. The other ends up a corpse for the
buzzards to pick over.’

Chapter 46

Dead Man’s Clothes

When Surfer told
me we had to strip for a shower after processing, I wasn’t expecting a hot
shower and room service. Then again, turning my back on the power hose as the
spray bit my skin, I wasn’t expecting a guard to spray me with a cold blast of
high-pressure water either. The guard finished and threw me a towel.

‘Bend over,’ the guard said in Spanish as
he donned a latex glove.

The indignity of his probing finger looking
for contraband made me feel less than human, especially with Surfer looking on
with an ear-to-ear grin.

Looking down, my skin was nothing but red
blotches. Judging by my flamed cheeks, I guessed that my face matched the rest
of my body. Numb from the experience, I noticed Surfer talking to the guard.

He turned to me. ‘What’s your shoe size?’
he asked.

‘Size ten.’

The guard cast his eye over me. Surfer
reached into his pocket and handed the guard a bill.

‘That’s your clothes taken care of. It’ll
be cheaper buying them through the guard. They cost me five dollars, so you’ll
only owe me ten dollars.’

I raised an eyebrow and gave him a look. I
couldn’t recall giving the go-ahead. But then, I did need clothing.

‘Will they be prison issue?’

‘Sort of.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, they’re sort of what ex-prisoners
don’t need anymore.’

I felt like a new kid at school, being
shown the ropes by a mature student. Grateful as I was, I had to remind myself
that he was a trafficker. The guard returned carrying jeans, a T-shirt, boxers,
socks and a pair of shoes. He set them down on the bench. The jeans fit my
waist, but they were a little short and in need of a wash. One of the shoes had
a hole in the sole and I thought it was less of a bargain than I first
imagined. My eyes opened wide when I held up the T-shirt. There was a dark
stain around the chest area and a rip in the material.

‘Shit, what’s this?’

‘Oh, yeah, I forgot to say. They empty the
stuff from the stiffs’ cells and store it here. This guy must have still been
wearing it when he died.’

I rolled my eyes at the thought I’d be
wearing a dead man’s clothes. Not only that, but the guy must have been
stabbed. I already felt like a dead man walking. Wearing the T-shirt I figured
I’d be tempting fate.

‘Ask him if he has a different one.’

Surfer conversed with the guard, turned to
me, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Listen, don’t worry about, it’ll add to your
street cred. You can buy another one later from one of the inmates.’

I threw the T-shirt down on the bench. ‘No
thanks. I’ll wait to buy one in the yard.’

Surfer showed me his palms, raised in the
air, and said, ‘Your call, man.’

Walking along the corridor to the yard
without leg restraints and cuffs offered little relief. My chest tightened as
we approached a barred gate. As anxious as I was at what might lay ahead on the
other side of the gate, I couldn’t get my mind off how things had gone so
wrong. If only I’d left Sidekick’s rifle where it lay, my explanation for my
clothes and fingerprints at Leila’s would at least seem credible testimony from
a law enforcement officer. Especially when I was known to the FBI as a kidnap
victim. The ballistics evidence was going to be a tough one to crack without a
witness. In Otego’s mind, I was guilty. Kidnapped or not, innocent victims were
dead. He had a need to pin the slaughter on someone
–
and
that person was me. My thoughts flipped from one notion to the other until my
mind scrambled.

At the sound of the guard’s key scraping in
the lock at the gate, we were brought to a halt. Room eighty-two, they had told
us at reception. I had expected them to escort us to the cell. Instead, the
gate opened and Surfer walked forward into the yard alone. My legs were like
tree trunks, firmly rooted. I didn’t want to move, but a push from one of the
guards sent me on my way.

‘Head up and walk tall, eyes forward,’ said
Surfer.

The gate clanked as it closed behind me.
His instructions were lost on me as I glanced around the yard. All eyes looked
in our direction and activity stopped, leaving silence. Enclosed by two-storey
accommodation blocks, inmates leaned against the top-floor rails, peering down
toward me. In the blink of an eye, everyone around the facility carried on with
their activities. The decibels cranked up as the prisoners resuming talking.

‘Come on, man. Don’t dawdle.’

Walking behind Surfer over to the stairway,
the hairs on my neck stiffened and I wished for eyes in the back of my head. A
group of four men stood at the stairway, blocking the entrance. They weren’t
looking our way, just talking casually. One of the gang stood sideways and I
could see a clenched fist tattooed on his arm, the sign of the Perez cartel.
All four of them had black and white checked bandanas hanging from their hip
pockets, confirming they were all from the same crew. I now knew where the idea
for the colours came from, having experienced Perez’s love of chess.

I glanced around and picked out more of
Perez’s pawns, spaced out in the yard. Only these pawns were not acting
casually, but edging toward us and occasionally looking our way. I veered to
walk along the wall. If this was going to be a confrontation, at least the
brickwork would save my back. My heartbeat quickened. The words of Stony Face
that he would tell the other guards I had killed Perez ran through my mind. If
they’d received word I was instrumental in his death, I really was a dead man
walking.

One of the men at the stairway turned to
face Surfer and blocked his path. I stopped and leaned with my back to the wall
in a loose passive stance. My temples throbbed and the back of my throat felt
as though it had been left to dry out in the dessert. Maybe my senses
heightened, or it was the smell of fear, but the stench of a
testosterone-filled yard, full of sweaty bodies, hit my nose.

‘Out of the way, Ricardo,’ Surfer said. He
stepped to his left and then to his right, with Ricardo copying his moves like
a reflection in a mirror.

My brain must have split what was happening
into its two hemispheres as I listened intently to translate what they said,
while keeping an eye on the yard.

‘You owe us money, wild eyes. You left without
settling your debt.’

‘Hey, it’s not my fault they freed me so
quickly.’

The guy held out his hand. ‘Money.’

‘I’ll pay you later, Rico. I don’t have any
money. Out of the way.’

Surfer put his hand on the guy’s shoulder.
I glanced across at the top-floor tier as rapid movement caught my attention.
Six Caucasians were rushing around the gantry and I imagined they were the
American crew.

Rico pumped his chest out to Surfer. ‘Take
your girly hand off me, gringo. That’s no way to respect a real man.’

I didn’t rate Surfer’s odds very high, but
this wasn’t my fight. Half-expecting Surfer to back off and wait for the
cavalry, Surfer sunk his fist into the guy’s gut and head-butted him. The guy
dropped to his knees and a sneaker connecting with his jaw sent him crashing to
the ground. Hoping for a circle to form, like in the school playground and for
them to tussle out their disagreement together proved futile. Grabbing at
Surfer, two of the other guys locked their arms around his and the third sunk a
blow into his groin, and then dug his knee into Surfer’s chin as he doubled
over. Like some wild cat in a struggle for life and death, Surfer managed to
struggle out of the arm locks, stamping on one guy’s foot and elbowing the
other in the face. The cavalry arrived, but instead of striking blows, they
simply restrained the aggressors.

Surfer rose to his full height and dusted
off his jeans with his hands, as if it was all in a day’s work. In my
peripheral vision, someone charged out of the throng at Surfer’s rear,
half-running, half-shuffling like a javelin thrower and holding a blade aloft.
I stuck out a leg and tripped him. One of those
damn now I’m in it
feelings
that hung over me. The guy hit the dirt, then, rolling over and springing to
his feet, he faced me. He was on me in no time, the blade poised high, ready
for a downward strike. I grabbed his wrist with both hands and twisted, taking
his arm up his back. I turned his wrist at the joint. He let go of the blade. I
pushed him away, stooped to pick up the knife, and tossed it out of reach.

The blade hadn’t even landed when I
realized all I had done was to pass the baton. One of the gang members picked
up the knife and headed in my direction. A huge guy stepped out of the
onlookers and thrust out his arm, catching my assailant on the throat, his
halted momentum sending him spineless to the floor and writhing, holding his
throat. The Hulk-like figure stepped forward and picked up the knife, slipped
it into his belt and then raised his hands.

‘Stop, enough.’

Surfer joined me. ‘Thanks for that, I owe
you.’

I nodded in acknowledgement, keeping an eye
on the big guy. The American crew released their captors. Both sides separated
a respectful distance, but still throwing each other dagger stares.

‘What’s all this about?’ Big Guy asked.

Around six-foot-six tall, with a shiny bald
head, he had “MS-13” tattooed across his forehead, with enough clues from his
other tattoos to indicate he was a top man in his gang. A scar ran vertically
through a closed left eye, giving him an even more menacing appearance. Yet
more evidence of battles was evident, with what looked like bullet entry scars
peppering his chest. Clearly, this wasn’t a man to mess with. More of his crew
stepped out behind him. He held his muscular arm aloft and waved at the crowd.
They got the message and dispersed, leaving the warring factions facing each
other.

‘He owes money for drugs and skipped
without paying,’ Rico said and spat his blood on the dirt.

‘How much is the debt
–
in dollars?’ I called over to Rico.

‘Fifty.’

I turned to Surfer. ‘Pay the man.’

‘No way, it shows weakness.’

I couldn’t believe that a life could be so
cheap and that Surfer would risk dying for a lousy fifty bucks. If Surfer
thought I’d murdered someone, it was time for a bluff. ‘Either pay the man, or
I’ll kill you myself.’

‘No way. He can wait.’

‘You asshole.’ I turned to Big Guy. ‘I’ll
pay his debt.’

Surfer grabbed my arm. ‘What the hell are
you doing? You ain’t got any money, man.’

‘Yes I have. Lend me fifty dollars until
the consul gets here, and you get one hundred back. You said you owe me.’

‘Shit, man, that’s clever.’

He fished into his pocket, peeled off the
bills and gave them to me. I walked over to Big Guy and handed him the money.

‘We’re good, right?’ I asked, still shaking
from the adrenalin rush.

Big Guy stuffed the bills in his jeans
pocket, leaving me perplexed. ‘You’re a smart man. Yeah, we’re good.’ He looked
over at Rico. ‘I’ll take it from your account, Rico. You have seven days for
the rest of what you owe.’ Big Guy clenched his fingers together and cracked
his knuckles. Rico skulked away with the rest of his injured pride, but with
the score settled.

Surfer tapped my shoulder. ‘Come on.
Everyone’s honour is intact. Let’s get bedded in.’ Surfer set off walking to
the stairway.

‘Incidentally, talking about honour,’ I
said, ‘you owe me a hundred and ten dollars for saving your ass, so we’re all
square.’

He whirled around and frowned. With his
arms at his sides and his fists clenched, Surfer’s arm muscles twitched.

‘And, you have a problem with that?
Remember, you said you owe me?’

I sensed his mind ticking over, then he
broke out into a grin and relaxed. ‘Nah
–
no problem.
It’s all cool, man. You learn the rules fast.’

We walked in line with the rest of the
American crew until we reached our cell. My resilience dropped as we entered.
There were no chairs to rest on, only three sets of bunks. With six to a cell,
the beds were so close you could reach out and touch the bunk next to you.
Pictures were stuck to the walls of family and loved ones. It reminded me that
all the inmates would have a softer side and love in their hearts, somewhere
deep down. Me? I just cursed at not having Mary and the kids’ photo. All I had
were memories that were getting harder to conjure up as time went by, but my
love for them remained steadfast.

‘How come the jailers didn’t step in back
there?’ I asked.

‘It’s like I said. The inmates run the
block and the guards run the prison. The guards step in after the event, but
only to remove the dead and wounded from the yard.’ Surfer sat on a vacant
bottom bunk. ‘You’re on top. Maybe you don’t learn so quickly after all.’

I climbed up onto the top bunk, hoping to
gather my thoughts, but then I’d forgotten about Surfer and his insatiable
hunger for talking.

‘Listen, bud, you earned a tankful of yard
cred back there. Just go easy on the gas, ’cause it’s easily used up. The last
thing you want is to be running on empty in here.’