Echoes of a Distant Summer (41 page)

“All part of the security consulting biz, hey?” Jackson said in a friendly, teasing manner. The puppy whined, reminding Jackson that he had been left tied to a column. As he untied the dog, he asked, “How was my grandfather doing when you left?”

“Not too well,” Carlos replied. “He’s having some problems with his heart. He needs to rest quietly and he doesn’t know how to rest.”

“Well, I want to see him again,” Jackson said, feeling a sudden urgency. “I have to tell him something. Do you think that it would be a problem if we went to the hospital now?”

“No, it’s not a problem.” Carlos smiled. “Your grandfather and the Ramirez brothers own the clinic. Many of the doctors and nurses who work there had their education paid for by El Negro and Señor Ramirez.”

“It’s the clinic mentioned in the property papers that my grandfather donated to that doctor,” Jackson commented as they walked back to the house.

“Yes, I mentioned it in the car when you first arrived,” Carlos answered.

Despite the lateness of the hour, there was still vehicular traffic clogging the streets. As they sat in the limo waiting for the traffic to crawl forward, Jackson asked Carlos, “Did you know my father?”

“Yes, but he was killed before I got to know him well. We first met on
one of your grandfather’s annual hunting trips when I was about fifteen or sixteen. He was nine years older so we weren’t friends, but he was nice to me.”

“I don’t know anything about your family, Carlos. You’ve never mentioned your mother or your father.”

Carlos shrugged. “My father’s dead. My mother lives in Chiapas. There’s no reason to bring them up in conversation.”

“Is it that you don’t want to talk about them?”

“I was born of poor Indian folk living in a village in rural Chiapas. My father died when I was little. We were dirt poor and always close to starvation. It’s a monster being poor and a pure-blood Indian in Mexico.

“El Indio saved me from the streets. He was my mother’s cousin and he visited us on my thirteenth birthday. When El Indio left he took me with him.”

“How’s your mother doing now?”

“She’s alive and well. I bought her a house when I was twenty-one. I put all my brothers and sisters through college. One of them is a doctor. Another is a teacher. One is an artist. And I was able to do that because your grandfather helped me.”

“Hell of a story!” Jackson said with a shake of his head.

“The world is filled with stories,” Carlos replied. “Most don’t end as well as mine. Look, there’s a break in the traffic!” Carlos pointed to a broad side street. He spoke in Spanish to the driver, who turned and took the detour as directed.

When the limo arrived at the clinic, the gate was shut, but as soon as the guard saw the limousine he hurried to open the gate. The front doors were unlocked by another guard. As Jackson ascended the stairs he heard a siren. When he entered the hall, he saw nurses and doctors running to the far end of the hall. Jackson headed toward his grandfather’s room, which was in the opposite direction.

Thinking that his grandfather might be asleep, Jackson entered the room quietly. As he opened the door he saw a man in a white coat leaning over the bed. Over the man’s shoulder he could see his grandfather’s thin arms flailing away frantically.

“What going on here?” Jackson demanded.

The man turned and Jackson saw blood on his hands. The man held something shiny and he flicked it with a snap of his wrist in Jackson’s direction. Jackson had started toward the man, but he stumbled over the
legs of a body sprawled on the floor. As Jackson lost his balance and fell against the foot of the bed, the knife intended for him flew past his shoulder and stuck in the wall. His attacker followed his knife throw with several kicks aimed at Jackson’s groin and solar plexus. Jackson barely had time to block the attack before he regained his balance.

Once he was squared up to the man, Jackson saw that he had a considerable size and weight advantage. The man was thin and wiry, but his body was rip-cord strong. He had dirty blond hair that occasionally fell into his face and squinting eyes. There were no words spoken. Jackson knew that he was in a fight to the death. He was letting the years in the dojo control his actions and reactions. After blocking the man’s initial attacks, Jackson even began to feel confident, parrying and attacking, often grazing the man, coming closer every time. Jackson was just getting into a rhythm when the man pulled a large knife from his belt and slashed it in the direction of Jackson’s neck. Jackson barely eluded the tip of the knife as its sharp blade sliced through the arm of his shirt, nicking his skin.

Now it was the man who parried every attack and forced the fight with his slashing blade. Jackson, backed up against the wall, picked up a chair and held it over his head. The man smiled and tossed the knife from hand to hand. He was showing off. Jackson timed his charge for the moment that the knife was airborne and then ran straight at his attacker, driving him backward against the wall with a crash. One of the legs of the chair hit him in the stomach, a second pinned his knife arm briefly, but he pulled it free and slashed at Jackson’s face. Jackson dodged backward, barely avoiding the knife, and then rammed the chair forcefully into the man’s body again. This time Jackson felt the satisfying crunch of broken bones as the man’s ribcage caved in slightly. The man’s knife hand was caught underneath one the chair legs. As he fought to free it, Jackson looked around for some sort of weapon to end the fight. Next to him on a hospital cart was his grandfather’s bone-handled hunting knife. Jackson flung off its sheath and jammed it deep into the man’s chest.

The next moment, the man freed his arm and slashed again at Jackson, this time slicing his arm. Jackson fell back, dropping the chair in the process. The man took a few steps toward Jackson then fell on his face. Not wanting to get caught by a ruse, Jackson tipped the hospital cart over on the man for a reaction. There was none. He stepped on the
man’s arm and removed the knife from his hand. Holding it at the man’s throat, he quickly frisked him for other weapons. Finding none, he checked for a pulse; the man was dead. Grateful that he had stabbed the man in a vital place, Jackson stood up and went over to check on his grandfather. The old man was bleeding from a deep stomach wound.

Jackson snarled bitterly, “Goddamn my grandmother! She sold us out! She sold us out, Gramps!”

His grandfather said nothing. His eyes were glazing over, but when he saw Jackson, he actually smiled and mumbled something softly that Jackson couldn’t hear. Jackson turned away to get medical assistance, but his grandfather restrained him with a surprisingly strong grip. Jackson saw that the old man wanted to say something. Jackson leaned over to hear his grandfather’s words. The old man whispered, “You’s my blood.”

“Let me get help, Grandfather,” Jackson urged, peeling the old man’s fingers off his arm. His grandfather shook his head and whispered, “Time to go. You ready now.”

“Ready, Grandfather?” Jackson questioned. “No, I still need you. Grandmother sold us to the enemy. I need your help.”

“You ready, boy! Tell Serena—tell Serena …” The old man fell silent.

“Tell her what, Grandfather? Tell her what?”

In a soft, hissing voice the old man whispered, “Tell her—tell her thank you!”

Jackson demanded, “For what? For sending this assassin?” There was no answer; he was talking to a dead man. The old man had died with his eyes open and a slight smile on his face. Gently, Jackson closed his grandfather’s staring eyes. An overwhelming sadness settled upon him. He realized that he loved his grandfather and, more important than that, he knew that the old man had loved him, perhaps not in the way most civilized people could appreciate, but it had been love. Tears began to trickle down his face. It was uncanny that the years of professed hatred could be pushed aside so easily. The love that Jackson thought had withered had merely lain buried under his indignation. It now pushed through to the surface and there was no denying it.

The door opened behind him and Jackson whirled, ready to face another antagonist, but it was Carlos who entered. He hustled Jackson down to the car, explaining that there were two other assassins still in
the building. He told Jackson to go home and be careful, that he would take care of all the paperwork regarding the old man’s death and the body of his assassin.

When Jackson entered the dark, still house, he was on the alert. The driver had returned to the clinic to assist Carlos, but before he left he had given Jackson an old British service revolver. It was an unwieldy Webley .455. Jackson hoped there would be no reason to fire it: The gun looked as if its frame would blow apart with the first shot. He did not have to worry. Mario came out of the dark, carrying a shotgun. In the candlelight of the kitchen, Jackson saw that both the women were present. The younger woman, who was somewhat stocky and in her early thirties, had even armed herself with a hammer, which she carried stuck in the strings of her apron. Combined with her no-nonsense attitude, she looked like a formidable opponent. With the thought that nothing increased security like a dog, Jackson went and released the puppy.

When he returned to the kitchen, it was obvious that Mario and the two women were upset. Carlos had called from the clinic and had informed them of King’s passing. They repeatedly offered their condolences to Jackson on the death of his grandfather. The older woman, her hair streaked with gray, wanted Jackson to know that his grandfather had been very good to her, that she was loyal and was prepared to stay if Jackson needed. Jackson was touched. Through Mario, he told them all that their loyalty was unquestioned, but that he would prefer they return to their own homes rather than risk potential injury. He said he did not know if the house would be attacked. The older woman called her son to come and pick her up. Mario refused to leave; he had his pride.

The younger woman, whose name was Theresa, had no other home. She had worked for King nearly eleven years. He had taken her out of a brothel in Chihuahua when she was nineteen. From the texture of her hair and the shape of her nose and lips, Jackson could see that she had African ancestors in her lineage.

Jackson informed both Mario and Theresa that they should remain on alert until Carlos arrived. He went to his grandfather’s gun cabinet and took out the matched pair of forty-five-caliber Colt pistols. The custom ivory grips made the guns feel comfortable in his hands. They had been his grandfather’s prize possessions: Series 70 National Match
Gold Cup, single-action pistols. Jackson donned a double-holster harness, attached custom-made silencers to the guns, checked their operation before chambering a bullet in each weapon. As he put the guns into his holsters he wondered what Elizabeth would think of him. He situated Mario at the back door near the kennel and Theresa in the foyer. Jackson and the puppy made regular rounds of the house, but otherwise they were based on the balcony, overlooking the courtyard.

Within the hour Carlos arrived with the Ramirez brothers, along with two prisoners. Jackson had no time to ponder his grandfather’s passing or the fact that he himself had taken a human life. It was not that these events meant nothing, but rather they loomed so large on his horizon that he was only capable of seeing that portion which was closest to him. He put the puppy in the kennel and went to see the two men who had helped murder his grandfather. When he walked out the front door, they were kneeling in the courtyard with their mouths taped shut and their hands tied behind their backs. Their faces were bloody. It was obvious that they had undergone some rather brutal questioning.

Jackson looked at the men and felt no remorse. “Who are they?” he asked Julio, who was standing next to him.

“They work for the same organization that killed my father!” Julio said as he delivered a powerful kick to the abdomen of the man kneeling closest to him. The victim gasped and fell over on his side, moaning.

Reuben stepped forward and said, “We do not have much time. Their superiors know about this house.”

“How did they find out? How did they find where my grandfather was?”

“They got a tip that you would be faxing and receiving information at the Data-Max Corporation and they saw you get out of the limousine yesterday. From that time on, you were followed. By tomorrow morning, you must be out of here or you will be in grave danger.”

“I don’t know if I can leave that soon,” Jackson said absentmindedly. He was preoccupied with the knowledge that his grandmother was assisting the enemy. “I want to bury my grandfather first.”

“El Negro did not want to be buried,” Julio advised. “He wanted to be cremated and have half his ashes spread on the Sea of Cortez and the other half in San Francisco Bay.”

“Well, I want to do both,” Jackson stated simply.

“We’ll send the urn to you,” Reuben suggested. “If you stay here, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Julio said, “They’ll try to kidnap you or kill you.” He gestured to one of the kneeling prisoners. “At least, that’s what we learned from our friends here.”

“What purpose would be served by kidnapping me?” Jackson asked with surprise.

“They didn’t know that,” Reuben answered. “All they knew was, it was better to capture you alive than kill you and it was better to kill you than let you escape.”

“What purpose could I serve as their prisoner? Why is it valuable to have me dead?” Jackson shook his head with concern. “There’s some factors missing out of this equation.”

“It might have something to do with the bonds or possession of the corporate certificates in the Swiss Algiers Company,” Reuben offered.

From the kitchen, there was the sound of a scream. Jackson started toward the house, but Carlos came to the door and explained that Theresa’s brother had been the man assigned to guard Jackson’s grandfather on the graveyard shift. It was his body that Jackson had stumbled over in the hospital room.

Jackson turned to face the Ramirez brothers. “I could leave tomorrow, but I want to take many things from this house with me, including the dog.”