No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (26 page)

Striking one, an orange flame sparked and the match lit. Michael held it in front of him as his eyes adjusted to the sudden appearance of light. The small flame felt and looked like a miracle. He put the match to a candle, and the tunnel brightened.

When he first moved to New York from Boston, Michael had found a self-published ‘zine at the Gotham Book Mart and Gallery. The ‘zine was dedicated to the New York Underground. It was filled with black and white photographs, sketches, and maps interspersed with stories about the thousands of “mole” people who lived beneath the city. There were poems about abandoned subway stations decorated with elaborate mosaics and crystal chandeliers, and reviews of secret nightclubs underneath Broadway that had been built during Prohibition and were still in operation.

Most of what filled the pages of the ‘zine were myth, but the water tunnel under Tompkins Park was true.

Michael removed his jacket. The temperature in the tunnel was near 110 degrees, and he felt the sweat begin to coat every part of his body in a gritty film.

He followed the dirty tunnel for roughly a half-mile. There, it split into two more narrow and even smaller passageways. Michael chose the tunnel on his right, and walked 150 yards to a door that looked like an old jail cell. A series of corroded bars, each four inches apart from one another, sealed the passageway to the wider and more maintained tunnel on the other side.

Michael blew out the candle and put it inside a second wooden milk crate near the door. Then, he reached his hand through the bars. He closed his eyes, and tried to find the lever. Once he found it, Michael said a brief prayer to himself, and then lifted. The lever resisted. He lifted again and, this time, he heard a click. The door swung open.

Just thirty feet more to a shaft leading up to the main Amtrak station.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

It was past midnight when Vatch finally made it home. The adrenaline was gone, no longer masking the pain. Each breath he took felt like he was inhaling needles through his broken nose. The swelling in his face had increased two-fold, and the muscles in his arms, back, and neck were exhausted.

Vatch wheeled across his sparsely furnished living room and into the second bedroom that he had converted to a home office. Vatch turned on the lights and went over to his desk.

He stared up at the photographs of Michael Collins. The kid he had been hunting for two years while everybody else at the bureau told him to let it go. Now, after getting close, Michael Collins had disappeared again. Rumors were flying of an investigation into him for firing his gun at an unarmed man on a busy street.

“
Investigating me.” Vatch shook his head. “Ridiculous.”

If he had wanted Collins dead, he could have killed him, thought Vatch. Instead, all he wanted to do was freeze the situation. Stop the van, and keep Collins from going anywhere with a few warning shots. Nobody would get hurt, and nobody
was
hurt. It was just a few warning shots.

Vatch thought back to the white delivery van with no plates. It had to be the people who Collins had stolen the money from. They knew he was in trouble, maybe had even gotten wind of the indictment, and wanted to get at him first. Or, maybe, they were only trying to help Collins escape, but that didn’t make any sense. Collins had fought them. He didn’t want to go.

Vatch reached around to the nylon bag strapped to the back of his wheelchair. It contained his trophy. He opened the bag and retrieved the only good thing that had happened that day. Just touching it made him feel better: Michael Collins’ briefcase.

Vatch had interviewed many of the kid’s former girlfriends who swore Collins cared more about that briefcase than he had about them.

Michael Collins had left the briefcase on the street when he ran. It was evidence that should’ve been bagged and kept in a storage locker somewhere, but Vatch wanted it for himself. His hands ran back and forth across the soft honey-brown leather, and then he unfastened the brass latch.

Inside, there was a three-ring binder. Vatch removed the binder and placed it on his desk, and then started to remove the other folders and clipped bundles of paper.

“
Whatcha doin’ ?”

Vatch jumped.

He turned and saw Anthony standing in the doorway.

“
How many times do I have to tell you not to come in here through the window? Come to the door and knock. Knock on the door. That’s what real people do. Only freaky kids go creeping through windows.”

“
Sorry,” Anthony said, “my momma’s working late, again, and I saw the light on from the. ...” The boy paused, noticing Vatch’s face for the first time. “What happened to you?”

“
Nothing.” Vatch looked over at the clock on the wall. “You should be in bed.”

“
I’m not tired.” Anthony walked further into the room, a look of concern. “You need some ice? I can get an ice pack for you.”

Vatch shook his head.

“
I’ll be fine.”

“
I think you need some ice.” Anthony turned and started to walk out of the room and toward the kitchen, but stopped after only a few steps. He looked back. “Did he do that to you?” Anthony glanced at the photographs of Michael Collins on the wall above Vatch’s desk.

Vatch didn’t say a word.

“
I hope you get him.”

“
Me too,” Vatch said. “Me too.”   

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

The ten-hour train ride from New York City to Montreal gave Michael time to sleep, but the sleep didn’t come easy. He needed assistance from a half-dozen shots of Jameson to calm his mind. Once the sleep came, Michael crashed hard.

There was nobody else to disturb him in the Superliner compartment. He could be alone with the sound of wheels rolling over the tracks, a circle of sound that reminded him of the waves outside Hut No. 7 and the calm of the Sunset Resort & Hostel.

When he woke up, Michael showered in the world’s most compact shower stall.

Feeling like a human being again, it was time to get rid of the platinum hair. He would have to go through customs in Montreal, and Michael needed something that more closely resembled the picture in his passport.

Wrapped in a bath towel, Michael stood in front of the sink and mirror. He reached into his green knapsack, and found the box of hair dye. He had purchased it the day before when he had originally gone gold. Michael removed the box, tore open the top, and then began to comb the auburn color into his hair.

He let it stand for ten minutes, and then showered again, watching the excess color flow down the drain. When the water ran clear, he knew that it was done. Next stop: Mexico.

###

The plane touched down in Cancun shortly after 1:30 p.m. Although everything had gone without a hitch, Michael was still on edge, worried that somebody would recognize him and that he would need to run.

Michael moved with the tourists, up the aisle, and then finally out the door. The instant he walked outside, he felt his bones began to thaw. The sun had never felt so welcome, and he allowed himself a single moment to let his guard down. He closed his eyes. The warm rays beat down on his face.

Michael descended the short flight of stairs onto the runway. He maneuvered through the terminal, out customs, and finally to one of the cabs lining the street. Every place Michael went, he kept looking for a way to escape, planning how to avoid the police, or, worse, one of Mario Deti’s men.

“
Hola,
” Michael waved at a cab driver standing in a queue outside the airport. “Down the coast?”

“
Si,
” the driver smiled and patted the hood of his 1971 Volkswagen Beetle. “Runs good.”

Michael opened the back door, got inside, and they were on their way. His return to Mexico wasn’t smart, but he needed to come back. Even surrounded by memories of Andie Larone, Hut No. 7 was still his home. It would take a day or two for Mario Deti and the Professor to track him down, hopefully a little longer. And then, who knew?

The Volkswagen bounced along Route 307, which runs the length of Mexico all the way to the Gulf of Honduras. They left the fantasy resorts and shops of Cancun behind and headed into the vast open spaces of Mexico, miles of brush and scrub on one side with lush forests on the other. Occasionally, Michael caught a glimpse of the cobalt blue Caribbean water with its pristine reef below, or they would pass a tin shanty peddling produce or gasoline along the road, kids playing soccer in a dirt patch outside – glimpses of the real Mexico.

Michael leaned back into the seat. He tried to imagine leaving, trying to find another place to live. And then, for how long? Deti wasn’t going to stop. $500 million was something worth some effort.

Michael felt a tinge of guilt, as he thought about Lowell Moore. Lowell was in just as much danger as Michael, but he didn’t have the luxury of running away. He had the firm.

“
Next turn off.” Michael glanced behind them. There was nobody. “Take a left.”

The driver slowed, and the car turned off the paved highway and onto a dirt road. The speedometer dropped to less than five miles per hour, as the cab navigated around potholes and debris.

Finally, the space opened and the jumble of huts and buildings comprising the Sunset Resort & Hostel were visible.

“
You stay here?”

“
Si
.” Michael opened his green knapsack and removed some money for the fare. “This is it.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

A four-inch gecko scurried under the bed when Michael opened the door. The hut was stale, so Michael opened all of the windows to allow the fresh ocean air inside. He took his knapsack off of his shoulder, and retrieved the photograph of the Irish revolutionary from inside. Michael set the picture on the nightstand.

The difference between a terrorist and a revolutionary, he thought, was that the revolutionary wins. 

Michael turned away from the photograph, not feeling much like a revolutionary, and crossed the room toward the kitchen.

Hut No. 7 was approximately 650 square feet. On one side there was Michael’s bed, nightstand, and dresser. There was no television, and certainly nothing plasma or “high definition.” On the other side, there was a sink, an old 1950s Maytag refrigerator, small table, two chairs, and a hot-plate. These comprised the primary elements of Hut No. 7’s kitchen.

The two “luxury” items were the tiny wedge-shaped bathroom (only three of the twelve huts at the Sunset had their own bathrooms) and a dusty record player that sat on the floor. Next to the player, there was a stack of vinyl LPs, primarily jazz with a few Cuban classics, like Sexteto Occidente and Lazaro Herrera. When he signed the lease, Michael had insisted that the record player and collection be included in the deal.

He opened the refrigerator. The interior was hollow, except for a six-pack of beer. That suited Michael just fine.

Michael took out the six-pack, walked back to his nightstand, opened the drawer, and removed a tattered copy of Burmese Days by George Orwell. He set the book and the six-pack on his bed, and then continued to rummage through the drawer for his sunglasses and a bottle of sunscreen.

His list for the afternoon and evening was fairly short, no sub-lists and no sub-sub-lists. It did not entail legal research, drafting memorandums, chasing down/running from members of the mob, or fighting embittered agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

He would, instead: (1) change into his bathing suit, (2) get drunk, (3) read, (4) pass out, and (5) scream at the top of his lungs as the warm salty Caribbean surf crashed into him. Not necessarily in that order.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

The Professor removed the small piece of paper from his wallet. He unfolded it, read the numbers, and punched them into his cell phone. Four rings, and then an answer.

“
Hey.” He folded the paper and returned it to his wallet. “It’s me.”

“
What did I say about calling here? You’re not to call me here.”

“
Where is he?” The Professor ignored the rebuke. “We’re in this together, you and me. Deep.”

“
You think I don’t know that? I know that.”

“
Then where is he?”

A pause.

“
Vatch got the fake names Collins uses on his fraudulent passports, don’t ask me how. We ran a check through the FBI’s computer system, and it shows a hit in Montreal, and then one at the Cancun airport.”

“
Back to the Sunset?”

“
The Bureau is going through the State Department. They’ll send some Mexican cops over to the resort to check it out.”

“
When?”

“
Don’t know. It’s Mexican time combined with a diplomat’s sense of urgency, so we’re waiting. If they get him, they’ll extradite Collins up here.”

“
All right.” The Professor checked his watch, wondering if he could still get a flight out of New York. “Anything else?”