The Assassin's Case (18 page)

              The road wound down into the picturesque valley. Though still miles away a town became visible at the edge of the river where it spilled into the ocean. He risked a glance in Grant’s direction, he seemed to have calmed down.

              Tedesco cleared his throat. “Can I say something to you?”

              “I don’t guess I can stop you.”

              “Well. I’m worried. About your faith.”

              Grant laughed. More of a scoff. “My faith? I told you. God either doesn’t exist, or just doesn’t care.”

              “What about us?” Tedesco waved a finger between them.

              Grant raised an eyebrow.

              “There are roughly three-hundred-eighteen-million people in the U.S. That’s three eighteen followed by
six
zeroes,” Tedesco said. “Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that you were the person to find that case?”

              “That’s all it is. A coincidence. I live in Gulf Shores. Period.” Grant wasn’t about to let Tedesco know that he had wondered the same thing.

              “Well, what about this then?” Tedesco held up the backpack.

              “What about it?”

              “Look.”

              Grant took a glimpse into the rearview mirror and pulled the truck to the side of the road. He grabbed the backpack. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

              “The holes.”

              Probing the pack with his fingers he located the punctures. Two bullet holes. One on the outside, one on the side. They appeared to be caused by one bullet as it entered and exited the backpack. “So?”

              Tedesco grabbed the bag. “That bullet should have killed me.”

              “Something in your pack just deflected the bullet. What of it?”

              Reaching into the pack, Tedesco removed a Bible. A large leather bound study volume. “
Something
is right. Here.” He passed the book to Grant. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

              Grant peered at the cover, marred by a bullet hole.

              “Open it,” Tedesco urged.

              Using his thumb, Grant flipped through the pages. The bullet path didn’t travel straight through as would be expected. It veered through the pages from left to right, finally emerging on the far right side of the pages near the back of the book.

              “Can you explain that?” Tedesco asked.

              “Well … I …”

              “You can’t. Don’t try. There’s no way the paper in that book should have deflected that bullet.”

              Grant passed the Bible back. “It doesn’t prove anything.” The words didn’t sound very convincing.

              “There’s something else I’ve noticed too,” Tedesco said.

              “And just what is that, oh great and wise guru?”

              Tedesco ignored the sarcasm. “You feel alive. Probably for the first time in years.” He nodded. “Yes. I see it.” He grew more confident as he realized the transformation he had seen in Grant over the last couple of days. “This has been good for you. Cathartic.”

              Grant’s only reply was a glare.

TWENTY-ONE

Though only a little after three in the afternoon the two men were exhausted. And hungry. Grant’s stomach growled at just a fleeting thought of food. The road became narrow, winding through tunnels of vegetation. Their path took them past banana, mango, tobacco, coffee, and sugar cane plantations.

              Grant followed the narrow lane into San Blas. Everything that Puerto Vallarta was, it wasn’t. It appeared to be a quaint fishing village, but judging by the numerous
gringos
walking the streets, it was also a tourist attraction. Grant steered the truck through the village, searching for a spot to eat and snatch a good night’s sleep. The town was surrounded by white beaches and ocean to the west, a broad estuary of the river and a mangrove swamp to the north. The town square contained the ubiquitous church and steeple, adobe buildings, and open air market. Near the sea and the river, thatched roof restaurants and shanties were abundant. Remains of eighteenth century architecture littered the village. The fronds of numerous towering palms waved in the wind, imparting the feel of an oasis.

              It seemed the highway had brought them through a time warp. Grant returned waves and smiles cast in his direction. “What do you think?”

              “Nice place.”

              “No. Where to eat. Sleep.”

              Tedesco considered a moment. “We should probably find someplace a little out of the way. Just in case.”

              Grant nodded. “I think you’re right. For all we know Cane may have enlisted the help of the Mexican authorities.”

              “Let’s find some food,” Tedesco said.

              They drove through town and past the beach. A couple of blocks from the central plaza they saw a McDonald’s sign.

              Grant shook his head. “Nah.”

              “That looks more like it.” Tedesco pointed to a restaurant sign.
Tradiciones.

              After locating a parking spot, which wasn’t very difficult, as there were no other cars on the street, they went inside. The hostess led them to a table and the smells wafting from the kitchen made Grant’s stomach gurgle.

* * * * *

Completely sated on corn tortillas and Carne Asada Grant forced himself to stop eating before he became so full he couldn’t move. With a full belly weariness settled over his bones, his muscles achy.

              The surreality of the situation wasn’t lost. Here he sat, sharing a meal with his family’s killer. Grant studied the man’s face, searching for signs of the killer he knew once lurked behind those eyes, but finding none. By the hour Grant was finding it more and more difficult to hate this man, and he hated himself for it. He felt that by letting go of his hatred he was betraying his family. But the former hit man had one thing right. Something Grant couldn’t deny. His family would not want him to live the way he had been.

              Throw into the mix the longing he felt to see Jaime. Just to be near her. His ache to be with her matched the pain in his muscles. To say the least, his emotions were confusing. Hate and grief had been his sustenance for so long. He had to admit that since this all started he had been invigorated. It was almost as if another chance had been tossed in his lap.

              He shook his head in amazement watching Tedesco cram the local cuisine into his mouth. He washed down the last bite with the local version of a margarita. A glass with straight Tequila garnished with a lime wedge. Tedesco winced at the obvious pungency of the liquor, and sucked a breath through his lips. “Wow. That’s powerful stuff.” He reached a hand around a mug of Tecate and gulped down a healthy swig. The drink was followed by a smile. “Ahhh. Much better.”

              “I thought you religious folk didn’t drink?” Grant said.

              Tedesco raised his glass. “In moderation, my friend. Besides, beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

              “I don’t remember that one. Proverbs?”

              Tedesco shook his head. “Uh, uh. Benjamin Franklin.”

              Grant tried not to smile, but failed.

              While Tedesco continued stuffing his mouth a group of six men entered. They ordered drinks and began to pound down shots faster than the waitress could bring them.

              These were not tourists. The more they drank the more rowdy they became. They began catcalling and groping the pretty, dark-haired, waitress. Grant and Tedesco were the only other patrons. A couple of the men in the group leered in their direction. It was time to go.

              He waved for the check and the waitress brought it over. Two-hundred-forty-two
pesos
. Roughly eighteen dollars. Tedesco dug in his pocket and pulled out enough cash to cover the bill, and a generous tip, then continued eating.

              “We should go,” Grant said.

              “Uh, uh. Not yet.” Tedesco mumbled past a mouthful of pork
Carnitas
.

              Grant nodded toward the boisterous group. “I smell trouble.”

              “Me too. That’s why we’re not leaving yet.”

              Before he could offer up an argument, Grant scanned the room. The waitress stood behind the bar, eyes wide with fear. The hostess stood by the door, wringing her old hands. The cook stared through a window from the kitchen; his eyes darted from the group of men to the hostess and the waitress, then back to the men. If Grant guessed, he would say this was a family business, father, mother, and daughter.

              “Senorita.” The grungy leader of the group called to the waitress, waving her to the table. When she arrived he grabbed her, pulled her onto his lap, and began groping and kissing her.

              “No, por favor!”
No, please!
She slapped and pushed at his arms and finally broke away.

              The man stood and pushed her against the wall, holding her, continuing the unwanted attention.

Grant reached for the gun wedged between his waistband and the small of his back. Tedesco reached across the table and placed a hand on Grant’s shoulder. Tedesco shook his head and stood up abruptly enough to push the chair back with his knees. The screech of the chair scraping across the tiles caused all heads to turn.

Grant spread his palms in front of him, bowed his head, and smiled. He leaned back and crossed his arms.
This should be good.

              Tedesco wiped his mouth with a napkin and turned toward the group. “Gentleman. I don’t think you guys are her type.” He took a step forward. “Por qué hace no usted permite que ella ir?” He lowered his voice, his tone menacing. “Y sale.”
Why don’t you let her go? And leave.
             

Grant’s Spanish was rusty, though at one time he had been quite fluent, a necessity when working in southern Texas. Even so, he got the gist of Tedesco’s entreaty. He also got the gist of their reply. It wasn’t very nice.

The grungy gang all stared toward Tedesco. Sneers of contempt on their faces. Their head honcho pushed the girl to the floor. “No vaya dondequiera. Tendré razón espalda.”
Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.

As soon as his back was turned, the girl scrambled toward the kitchen, where her father emerged with a large butcher knife. The proprietor grabbed his daughter with one hand, the knife in the other, and glared at the gang with defiance. “Vaya ahora. Mi esposa ha ido para la policía.”
Go now. My wife has gone for the police.

             
The groper tilted his head back and laughed. Then as one the group approached Tedesco. The big man spread his hands in front of him. “Yo no busco el problema.”
I’m not looking for trouble.
              “Estúpido hombre blanco.” The man grinned, revealing a gold tooth, and switched to broken English. “You may not be looking for trouble. But you found it.” He took up a position behind his five
compañeros
.

              Tedesco drew himself to full height, his broad shoulders dwarfing them. He dropped his huge hands to his sides.

              As a unit the five guys rushed Tedesco. A combination of a right cross followed by a left cross, spilled two of the gang to the floor. A third leveled a hay maker at Tedesco’s chin. Tedesco grabbed an arm and a handful of shirt and heaved the man off his feet, flinging him to crash into the bar. He waded into the remaining two, smashing them down with his fists. The leader still hung back.

              Grant tipped his chair back against the wall, relishing the show.

              The last two men fell before the crashing fists of Tedesco and he turned to their leader.

              The man pulled a wicked looking knife from a sheath hidden beneath the tail of his un-tucked shirt. The blade had to be at least nine inches long. “I’m going to cut you up, gringo.”

              While the two men circled, the rest of the cronies began to stir, three of them pulled out knives of varying sizes.

Grant expelled a breath and tipped his chair forward.

The grunge gang’s leader slashed the knife at Tedesco’s face. He ducked and then the blade plunged toward his stomach. He closed his large hand over the back of his attacker’s knife wielding hand. The leader tried to pull away but Tedesco’s grip wouldn’t relinquish. Still holding the hand, Tedesco drew back and delivered a punishing right to the jaw. As the man hit the floor Tedesco relieved him of his weapon.

Two of the gang leader’s cohorts gained their feet, about to rush Tedesco’s back.

Grant grabbed the back of his chair and moved to intercept, stepping between them and Tedesco. They rushed Grant. He moved to the side and tripped the first one, then swung the chair like a baseball bat at the second. The solid wood chair caught him in the shoulder and sent him tumbling to the ground. Grant turned. The man he had tripped stood up. Ignoring the knife in the man’s hand, Grant lashed out with a head-rocking roundhouse kick.

Only two of the grunge gang remained conscious. Tedesco joined Grant and they turned to face the two men. They stared back with empty hands, apparently not high enough in gang’s hierarchy to warrant knives.

“Está sobre,” Tedesco said.
It’s over.

Before the men could respond, two members of the local
policía
burst through the doors, the proprietress a step behind. The policemen wore short-sleeved khaki shirts and black boots. They scanned the room, their eyes roving over the grunge gang before settling their gazes on the dynamic duo of Tedesco and Grant. The frowns indicated they wouldn’t be greeted as the heroes of the day.

              The restaurant owners besieged the older policemen with a flurry of words, spoken too quickly for Grant to pick up but a few snatches of the conversation. They pointed at the group of thugs and at Tedesco and Grant. He did glean that the older police officer was the chief.

              The chief finally held up his hand for silence. He strode toward the gang’s leader and lifted him by an arm from the floor. The chief berated the man for a moment and Grant’s stomach sank when he picked up the word
sobrino
, the hooligan was the chief’s nephew.

             
Fantastic.

              All six of the group were roused and pushed out of the front door, all properly scolded of course, but sent on their merry way.

              The chief tucked his thumbs into his leather gun belt and turned, leering first at Grant then Tedesco. “Brawling is frowned upon in San Blas. Amigos.” Even through the thickly accented English the way the word
amigos
was spoken left no doubt about the man’s true feelings.

             
A good deed never goes unpunished.

             
The chief surveyed the damage done to the restaurant. “I think if you pay for the repairs we can look the other way. This time.”

              “But we—” Tedesco’s attempt to explain was interrupted by a wave from the chief and another proclamation.

              “And a day or two as my guests should cool you off.” He smiled. “So, next time maybe you’ll think before resorting to violence.”

              Grant elbowed Tedesco and the big man shrugged.

              “Turn around. Hands behind your backs.”

              They complied and handcuffs were snapped on their wrists. The cold steel bit into Grant’s skin, tight enough to cut off his circulation.

The chief’s associate patted them down and pulled the gun from Grant’s waistband.

The chief tsk-tsked. “Oh, senor, this is no good.”

Grant glared at Tedesco as they were led outside.

The young waitress blocked their exit. She shoved past the police officers and cupped Tedesco’s face in her hands. “Gracias. Thank you. Muchos gracias.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.