Elisha’s Bones (15 page)

“In a manner of speaking.”

I’m terrible with money. I met Ernesto back when we were excavating Quetzl-Quezo, when Henry helped facilitate a deal with him to allow us to move some of the items out of the country through San Cristóbal. Ernesto never got his cut. I imagine he still holds a grudge that my word was not my bond.

“Where’s Esperanza?” I ask, and there’s a hardness in my voice that I can’t remember having put there before.

“You mean the pretty young lady riding with you?” He waves the question away. “Don’t worry about her. She’s fine.”

I have no confidence in his assurances. I pull against the ropes but it’s no use, and Ernesto’s goons have the firepower.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask.

“You have an outstanding bill of seventy-five hundred dollars, if my memory serves.”

“I can cover that.”

He gives me a pitying look and shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Jack. I’ve received a better offer.”

“Excuse me?”

“Apparently you’ve left a few more angry people in your wake. I’ve been paid the sum of fifty thousand to kill you and your associates.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Who would want to have me killed?” Even as I ask the question, I have the answer, and it sends a chill through my body. I feel light-headed and the room fades for a second. When I steady myself, I look down at my injured side. Bandages have been wound around my stomach, and a large section of the fabric is soaked through, but there is no blood dripping onto the floor.

He shrugs.

I’m in a panic now because, although I’ve had guns pointed at me before, this is the first time I can see myself actually being shot.

“Has he already paid you?” I ask.

“Half. I’ll receive the other twenty-five thousand when I provide proof that you’re dead.”

He’s fishing. Otherwise he would have just killed me and collected his fee.

“What if I can beat the offer? Cover the twenty-five, plus get you that much more?”

“We’ve already been down that road, Dr. Hawthorne. You weren’t able to come up with the money, remember?”

“That was then,” I say. “But you’ll need to let me make a phone call.”

His eyes narrow and bore into me. I don’t know this man well, but I know his type. He has little compunction about killing, but he’s also smart enough to know when a murder can unduly complicate his other business activities. I’m a foreigner, which would bring the government here were they to find my body in a ditch somewhere. And Esperanza’s death would make the national news: University Professor Found Dead in San Cristóbal.

“That’s fifty-seven thousand, five hundred,” he says, lifting my cell phone from his desk. “Twenty-five to cover my losses, another twenty-five for the lives of you and your associate, and”—he smiles—“the seventy-five hundred you owe me.”

“Will you accept an account transfer?”

He nods.

“But first, I need to see Esperanza.”

Ernesto raises an eyebrow. “I don’t see as you are in any position to make demands.”

“If I’m buying her life, as well as my own, shouldn’t I make sure she’s all right?”

After brief consideration, Ernesto gestures to one of his men, who leaves the room. The other man adjusts his grip on his gun—a reminder. I’m made to wait a long time, and Ernesto watches me without saying a word, almost without blinking. It’s more than a little unnerving. The first time I met him, his stare reminded me of the dispassionate gaze of a crocodile. I’m about to make idle chitchat, just to break the awkward silence, when Esperanza walks into the room, her arm held at the elbow. Relief greater than I have ever known washes over me and, after her escort unties me, I struggle to my feet and gather her into an embrace. I guess I’m not used to these extreme emotions because, while she seems to share my joy at the reunion, she is the first to push away, and I find it difficult to let go.

“That’s beautiful,” Ernesto says.

“Jack, what’s going on?” Espy asks.

I mouth
later
and reach for my phone. I have a moment’s hesitation as my thumb hovers over the speed-dial option for Duckey. I reconsider.

Reese answers on the second ring.

“Hello, Jack.”

Before those two words finish their digital echo, my brow is furrowing, although it will take a little longer for me to figure out why.

“Gordon, I need a favor.”

There is a few seconds’ pause before he asks, “What sort of favor?”

And then it clicks; one of the things that has most impressed me about this man has been his accessibility. When we’ve talked, the atmosphere has been one of equals. Now I sense a patrician iciness, and I can’t keep a sick feeling from swelling my stomach. Despite that, and what it might portend, I press on. “Mr. Reese, I need you to transfer fifty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars to the bank account of a man who is holding me at gunpoint.”

I see Ernesto frown, but he does not move to end the call. Even he understands that the bold truth is sometimes the only way to go.

Reese doesn’t answer right away, although I can hear him breathing so I know the signal hasn’t cut out. It’s an odd request, even of a man with his fortune, so I give him the time he needs. Meanwhile, I keep an eye on Ernesto, knowing that his magnanimous sensibilities won’t last long. Finally he asks, “What will happen if I do not transfer this sum?”

The question chills me. “Then this man will kill me,” I say.

I don’t have to look to Ernesto for confirmation. He will kill me for the money, whatever the consequences. What I do see is the look on Esperanza’s face—the realization that our situation is even more precarious than she may have thought. I give her a wink.

Gordon releases a sigh, and my heart begins to work its way up to my throat. I do my best to keep panic from surfacing on my face, but when Gordon gives me his answer, it’s all I can do to keep from dropping the phone.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” he says, and the line goes dead.

There’s no telling how long I hold the phone in my hand. I can’t focus on anything until I hear Ernesto clear his throat. With that, it hits me that Gordon Reese has just signed my death warrant. My mind is a vacuum, despite the half-formed thought that I’ve just been fired—which I will take a great deal more offense at if Espy and I survive. When I look up, it is not Ernesto’s eyes I search out, but Espy’s, and it doesn’t surprise me that there’s nothing but calm in them, even though she has to know what has just happened.

“Am I to assume that you’ll be unable to make good on your debt yet again?” While he sounds smug, there is also a hint of disappointment in Ernesto’s question. He would have preferred to earn his money without the inconvenience of disposing bodies.

“Wait,” I say as Ernesto gestures at one of his associates. When the man wraps an arm around Esperanza, gripping her throat in beefy fingers, I repeat, “Wait! Please!”

Before Ernesto can say anything, or make whatever gesture means
break the pretty girl’s neck
, I stab at the buttons on the phone, praying I get the number right the first time and angered with myself for not putting it in speed dial. I hold my breath as the phone dials, and it’s into the fourth ring before Romero answers.

“Romero! It’s Jack. I don’t have time to explain, but I need to ask for a very large favor.”

“Jack?” It takes my friend a moment to orient himself, but when he does, he doesn’t hesitate with his response. “What do you need?”

“I need you to transfer money to a bank account.” I clear my throat and add, “I’m good for it, I promise.”

“How much?”

“Fifty-seven thousand, five hundred . . .”

There is a sound that might be a muffled curse, but while I feel for my friend, I have no other choice. Romero is a high-end supplier of artwork and antiquities to the world’s wealthiest people, and I know what his markups are. Out of all the people I know, Romero is the likeliest to have this sort of available cash.

Ernesto is watching me with the expression of a man pondering which of the lobsters in the tank looks the tastiest.

Romero knows that his sister is with me, and it’s probably that knowledge which prompts what he says next, even though I’d like to think it’s the result of a trust built over a decade of friendship.

“What’s the account number?” Romero asks.

I look to Ernesto, who provides me with a bank account number. When I relay the information to Romero, there’s a pause as he writes it down.

“I have it. I’ll call my bank as soon as we hang up.” He then says in a quiet voice, “And if anything happens to my sister . . .”

“Understood,” I say.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Romero presses.

“I’ll tell you when we get back. Thanks, Romero.”

I hope he can hear the gratitude in my voice, but his acknowledgment is a mere grunt before disconnecting.

Several anxious minutes follow as we await confirmation that Ernesto’s account—one I’m certain is a dummy, untraceable back to him—has taken the transfer, and Espy is silent throughout. But when Ernesto, with a phone call, verifies that his account has grown by a considerable amount, and he graces us with a satisfied smile, she says, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”

Ernesto offers a smile that is almost gracious. “Dr. Hawthorne and I simply had an old debt to settle.”

When she hits me this time, I am wholly unprepared. And since my midsection has suffered a grievous injury, the solid blow does more damage than she’d likely anticipated.

“You owe someone else money? What’s the matter with you?” And then she starts in again with the cursing in Spanish.

“I still don’t understand why someone would pay that much to have you killed,” Ernesto says. “I’m not certain you’re worth it.”

“I’ve wanted to have him killed,” Esperanza responds. “And I would have probably paid a lot to see it happen.”

Ernesto laughs. “I like her.”

“Now that we’re settled up,” I say to him, ignoring the budding camaraderie, “can you tell me anything about this guy?”

After my brief conversation with Reese, I’m convinced that, rather than the Australian who has entwined himself in my affairs, the man who made the deal with Ernesto was Gregory Hardy. The timeline fits; Ernesto’s visitor made his offer two days ago, and Hardy showed up at the dig site the following day, yesterday. I don’t believe in coincidence. It doesn’t help me understand why Reese would want me dead, but at least it’s a plausible theory.

“My curiosity got the better of me, too,” Ernesto answers. “Which is why I had him tailed.”

“You beautiful human being.” I’m choosing to ignore the failure of that statement on so many levels.

“He’s smart. Three vehicle changes. We almost lost him.”

He’s waiting for some sort of vocalized appreciation for keeping an elusive quarry in his sights, but he’s not going to get it from me.

“Whoever he was,” Ernesto continues, “he spoke with an accent that at first I thought was South African, but we determined it was likely Australian.”

The chill that seems like a frequent visitor returns now. Ernesto’s information would seem to indicate that my Reese theory is wrong. “How did you determine that?”

“Because he caught a charter flight to Caracas, where he boarded a plane bound for Sydney,” Ernesto says with a wink.

Criminal distrust is a wonderful thing.

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Regrettably, no.”

“How were you supposed to prove that you killed me?”

“By emailing a picture of your carcass to him.”

“Oh.”

Ernesto has walked us to the door of the business, which is a legitimate industrial supply company where he rents office space. He’s told me that the other SUV escaped and, while he had orders to eliminate anyone traveling with me, he thought that bringing the chase into the city would have been imprudent. I’m glad Antonio got away. I imagine the superstitious man thought he was being punished for desecrating holy ground. He probably drove all the way back to Caracas, crossing himself the entire way. I wish him Godspeed. Ernesto had no information about the car driven by Gregory Hardy. According to his men, there were only two vehicles in our party at the time they opened fire. At this point, I can’t spare the resources necessary to care about him.

Ernesto leads us outside and, with no parting words, allows a metal door to close between us. Esperanza and I are alone on the sidewalk in the less-than-touristy part of San Cristóbal. Warehouses rise up on either side of the street, and there is a smell in the air that more than hints at chemicals and burning rubber. The ground is wet, and there are brown puddles everywhere and hundreds of drowned worms around us.

I start walking, picking a direction that takes us away from an alley filled with people sitting amid refuse. There’s an intersection ahead, where we may be able to catch a cab.

“What kind of life do you lead?” Espy calls after me. “People with guns, mysterious Aussies taking contracts out on you, a trail of bad debts all over the world?”

I can’t help but laugh. It’s funny because of the truth: that I am a boring college professor who seldom leaves my apartment. It’s this place—this crazy country—that has made me into something else.

“Why are you laughing? I’m hungry, my leg hurts, and I want to be back in my apartment taking a long bubble bath.”

Despite her irritation, I laugh harder, until there are tears pooling in my eyes. This whole thing is absurd. How did I get here? Evanston University seems like a world and a lifetime away. It’s something I want to get back to, but I’m not sure how. There are things left unfinished—things I have to see through if I ever want to have even a modicum of peace teaching. The irony is that I was leaning toward giving up. I was going to let my fear of opening up something large—something quixotic—keep me from pursuing the matter. I would have stuck my head in a hole and kept out of the whole sordid business. I would have flown to Dallas, reported to Reese that I could find no evidence to support his theory, and that would have been that. If they’d left me alone, that would have been the end of it. Instead, someone tried to have me killed—either Reese or this mysterious Aussie who has inserted himself into my life. Maybe they’re part and parcel of the same entity. Regardless, they’ve proven that I cannot return to my former existence—not without forever looking over my shoulder.