The Mexico Run (20 page)

    "Can you understand me, Angel? Can you hear me all right?"

    He made a motion of his head as though in assent. "Can you talk?" I asked.

    His voice came in a thin whisper, and I had to lean close to his lips to hear him. The words were barely discernable.

    "They killed her," he whispered.

    "Don't try to talk," I said. "I'll ask questions and you nod yes or no. Did you meet her as we planned?"

    He nodded and then struggled to speak. I again leaned close, putting my ear next to his shattered lips.

    "Were waiting," he muttered. "Were waiting at the corner of highway. Took us back to boat. Killed her there. Beat me."

    I could see the tremendous effort it cost him to speak.

    "Don't try to talk anymore, Angel," I said. "God, I can't tell you how sorry I am I got you into this. But I promise you, I promise you on my word of honor, that I will get you out of it. No matter what I have to do, I will get you out of it. And I will try to make it up to you some way, some time."

    I again could see him struggling to nod.

    "Are they treating you all right now?" I asked.

    Again there was that semiaffirmation. He sort of half-beckoned so that I would again lean closer to hear him.

    "Sorry,
amigo,
sorry about the girl. I tried…"

    "I'm sorry about you, my friend," I said. "Sorry I ever involved you. But believe me, Angel, it is not over. We'll get you out. We will get you free."

    Once more he croaked out a few words.

    "Animals," he said. "Monsters. Be careful,
amigo."

    I patted his arm, forced a smile. "I'll be careful, Angel," I said. "I will go now. You need your rest. I will be going, but I will be back soon. And, Angel, don't worry. Somebody will pay for this.

    Leaving the prison a few minutes later, I remembered my words, "Don't worry." It was hypocritical advice. He had plenty to worry about. And I had plenty to worry about. But one thing I was sure of. No matter what I had to do, no matter what it took, I would get him out of this jam, even if it cost me my life.

    I returned to La Casa Pacifica, and had not been back in my room for more than twenty minutes when there was a telephone call for me. It wasn't necessary for Captain Hernando Morales to identify himself. I recognized his voice. His message was brief and to the point.

    "You have contacted the people I suggested you see?"

    "No," I said, "I have not. I've been busy doing more important things."

    "You found your friend resting well?"

    I didn't bother to answer.

    "If you are interested in his welfare, if you don't want him transferred back to his original cell, I suggest you take my advice about the visitors I discussed with you in our last conversation. You understand?"

    I understood only too well. "Yes," I said. "I understand."

    I had no difficulty in finding the Del Rey Hotel in downtown Ensenada. It was a small, family-type hostelry, obviously designed for the tourist trade. There was a large, screened-in veranda occupied by some dozen or more elderly American couples, and I walked past it into a small lobby. A thin, white-haired man who looked to be in his early seventies was behind the desk, and he greeted me in a mid-western accent.

    I'd brought a single suitcase in with me and I told him that I wanted to check in for a couple of days.

    He asked me if I was alone, and I told him I was, and that I was expecting some people down from up north. I told him their name was Wilson and that they were driving a blue Buick station wagon and I wanted to know if they had arrived yet.

    He shook his head and half-smiled, "We got a blue Buick station wagon, but the people who arrived in it are named Hutchinson. That gray-haired couple out on the porch. The woman in the wheelchair. I guess your folks will be along a little later."

    I thanked him and then took my bag and followed the bell boy to the room. I was beginning to get rather curious about this couple named Hutchinson. How could they interest Captain Morales? I waited for some twenty minutes and then strolled down through the lobby and wandered out onto the veranda. It took me only a second to spot the slender, gray-haired woman in the wheelchair, with an afghan rug pulled over her lap.

    The man next to her looked to be in his middle seventies and seemed to be in excellent condition for his age. He was white-haired, wore black, hornrimmed glasses, but his face was unlined and he had sparkling blue eyes and a healthy complexion. He was a good six foot two inches tall, but couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and sixty pounds at the most. He was conservatively dressed and despite the heat, wore a necktie and a gray, tweed jacket.

    His wife had a bag of knitting on her lap and was busy with a pair of needles. He himself was reading a paperback novel.

    There was an empty rocking chair next to them, and I strolled over and slumped into it.

    They both looked up at me and smiled in a friendly fashion. I said, "Warm this afternoon."

    He didn't look up from his book, but his wife turned toward me and smiled. "Philip is a little hard of hearing," she said. "Once he gets that nose of his into a book, nothing can distract him. It certainly is warm. I've been telling Philip to take his coat off, but he likes this kind of weather. I'm Mrs. Hutchinson."

    "Mr. Johns," I said. "Mark Johns. Glad to know you. You folks down visiting?"

    She reached over and shook her husband by the arm, and he looked up a little dazed. "Philip," she said. "Philip, this is Mr. Johns."

    He turned to me and nodded. "You don't have to yell, Mother," he said. "I can hear you."

    "We've been all the way down to Mexico City, stopped at Acapulco, Taxco and Guadalajara, and now we're on our way back," Mrs. Hutchinson said. "Philip loves this country, but I'm getting anxious to get back home. I can just take so much of this heat."

    "Where is home?" I asked.

    "Well, we're from the middle west, but we're going to stay with our daughter in San Francisco for the next couple of months, and then I don't know. We just may go traveling again. We like to tour. I can't get around much, but I do like to drive and see the scenery as we go from one place to another."

    She shook her husband by the arm again. "You like the scenery too, don't you, Philip?" she said.

    He gave up on the book. "I've had enough scenery to last me for quite a spell now," he said. "Kind of anxious to get back to the States myself. Mother here, well, she wouldn't mind going forever if we'd let her. Where are you from, Mr. Johns?"

    I told him that I was from San Francisco and was down on a business trip, and we started talking then, and they told me that they carried their own water because they didn't trust the Mexican drinking water, but that they loved the food.

    "Had indigestion ever since I crossed the border," Mr. Hutchinson said. "But I can't stop eating it. So you're from San Francisco? Well, that's where we're heading. I understand they've got some really great restaurants there, too."

    I said that they did. We talked a little more, and they explained that they would be leaving in about three days. They were going to take a couple of days to make it up to San Francisco and would probably lay over in Los Angeles for a day. They wanted to know if I'd been in Mexico long, and I told them I had just checked in a couple of hours before, and would be around for the next day or two.

    I signalled to a waiter who was passing by and asked if we could have drinks sent out to the porch. He said we could, and I invited them to have a drink with me.

    Mrs. Hutchinson surprised me and said that she'd take a double martini. He stuck to Coca-Cola. We talked a little more, but I didn't learn a great deal, except that she was knitting a sweater for her grandchild and that he was sorry that he'd retired and hoped maybe that he could get back to teaching on a part-time basis when they eventually returned home.

    They seemed to be a very nice, solid elderly couple, and again I was baffled at what possible interest Captain Hernando Morales might have in them.

    I was absolutely certain of one thing. They couldn't conceivably be involved in any smuggling operation he might have in mind. I would have bet my life that they probably had never been guilty of anything more illegal than violating a traffic law. If they were putting on an act, it was certainly a perfect one.

    And then all at once it hit me. They were legitimate all right, and that was exactly why he was interested in them. The Hutchinsons could have crossed any border in the world without raising suspicion.

    I should have figured out from the very beginning what was in the back of the captain's devious mind. And I probably would have, had I been not so preoccupied during those last few hours with my own problems.

    We talked for a little longer and they invited me to have dinner with them that night at the hotel, but I explained I had a previous engagement and told them I would undoubtedly see them again before they left.

    I didn't go back to my room, but went out and got in my car and returned to La Casa Pacifica. I was hoping they would be lucky, that they might change their plans and leave before I was able to contact them again.

    I had dinner that evening at La Casa Pacifica, and was mulling over an after-dinner drink, trying to make up my mind whether I should return to the Del Rey Hotel for the night when the decision was made for me.

    This time Captain Hernando Morales made his contact indirectly. The contact came in the form of a tightly wrapped and sealed package of approximately the size of a small cigar-box. It was handed to me by a taxi cab driver and it had my name and address on the outside and instructions in Spanish to deliver it to me in person.

    Attached to the package was an envelope with my name on it, along with the instructions, Please Open At Once. I took out a penknife and slit the envelope and extracted a sheet of paper. He had wasted no words.

    "You are to find out the exact time the Hutchinsons plan to leave for the United States. Prior to that time, you are to place this package in their station wagon. You must do so without arousing suspicion. This package must be placed in the well which carries the spare tire, and in such a way that it cannot be seen, should anyone casually check that part of the car. Immediately upon concealing the package you will return to La Casa Pacifica and you will write the exact time of their departure on a slip of paper, place it in an envelope and hand it to Mr. Billings. There must be no hitch at any point in this operation."

    There was no signature, but there was a P.S.

    "You may be interested to know that new evidence has turned up, and there is a possibility that Angel Cortillo may be innocent. He will, of course, be held while further investigation is being made."

    Again there was no signature. I had the whole picture now. I didn't have to open that tightly wrapped and sealed package to know what it contained. And I could read between the lines of that not-too-subtle postscript.

    If I was a good boy and did just what I was asked to do and did it without making any mistakes, my friend Angel Cortillo would be decently treated and perhaps eventually be cleared on the phony charge on which he was being held.

    If I didn't… Well, I didn't want to think about that. Obviously, it left me with no option. One thing did bother me though. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that the Hutchinsons would be transporting an illegal drug, probably heroin, across the border, and I wondered just how Morales' cohorts planned to retrieve it once it was safely in the United States.

    There was little doubt in my mind that if I succeeded in concealing the cargo in their blue station wagon, they would get it across without difficulty.

    It was a clever plan and about as foolproof as any that I could imagine. If by one chance in a million the illegal contraband were to be discovered, the trail would end with the Hutchinsons.

    For a moment or so I was tempted to open the package and examine its contents. I knew that if I was right and it contained raw heroin, there must be enough inside to bring in several hundred thousand dollars on the street in the United States.

    I didn't like it. Didn't like any part of it. But there was very little I could do about it.

    I could, of course, contact the American consulate, give them the package and explain the whole story to them, and they in turn undoubtedly would be able to reach the proper authorities in Mexico without alerting Captain Morales. On the other hand, I knew that if I were to do this, I would have to explain my previous relationship with the captain. To make any story hold up, I would have to give the details concerning my initial dealings with him.

    This just possibly might help Angel Cortillo as far as the murder charge was concerned, but it would also mean that he would be back in jail on a smuggling charge, and I'd be in jail along with him.

    The more I thought of it, the less feasible it seemed. And certainly there was no guarantee that Angel would be off the hook, as far as the murder charge was concerned. I wouldn't in fact be able to prove anything conclusively against Captain Morales. He could deny the entire story, and I realized that he probably had enough influence to get away with it.

    I was hooked and I knew it. Captain Morales had me exactly where he wanted me. I think at that moment I would have gunned Morales down in cold blood gladly, if it would have done any good. But it wouldn't. I was already suffering a sense of guilt because of Sharon's death, for which I held myself indirectly responsible. I was equally responsible for the situation in which Angel found himself, and the only possible way I could help him was by playing along.