The Trust (29 page)

He had sacked out on the plush cream-colored chair facing my direction. His black shirtsleeves were rolled neatly over his wrists, a few inches shy of the elbow. The cabin lights were dimmed, but I could still make out half a tattoo on his forearm. It looked like some kind of spider-sun, disappearing inside his sleeve.

What the hell is that?

His eyes were closed. He was indifferent to the rich smell of leather wafting through the air. The sights out the window, a blue-black night where all the stars had gone into hiding, held no special interest for him. Nor did the bar, stocked with top-shelf scotch, bourbon, and vodka.

Me—I was wired. And it was not the kind of wired where you touch the wooden paneling or ask the pilot about all the gauges in the cockpit. Father Ricardo wasn’t telling me everything. I wanted to grill him, find out where we were going.

I reached over to nudge his shoulder. Nothing more than a friendly jostle to wake him up. In that moment, even before I touched him, he exploded into a rolling ball of martial arts. Caught me off guard. Snatched my fingers. Bent them back. Ninety degrees, 110, 125, and still going. Shards of pain stabbed up my right arm. I flipped onto the cabin floor like a rag doll, his choice, not mine. The move saved my wrist from splintering.

But didn’t stop the pain.

Ricardo rolled on top of me. His iron knee crushed my chest. His left hand choked my throat. He reared back and readied the right like an open skillet, poising to mash nose and nostrils into the gray of my brain.

I couldn’t breathe. But I could smell the violence. Sweat and adrenaline oozed from his pores. Perspiration and fury curdled with his talcum, and I wanted to wretch.

“What are you doing?” His tan face turned crimson with rage, the sides of his mouth damp with spittle.

“Trying to wake you up.” I croaked the words in a faint rasp. I could feel my mind shoving off.

“Oh.”

Ricardo released his bulldog grip. He backed off my chest. I started to wheeze, gulping oxygen into my lungs, hacking it out at the same time. The act of breathing felt like somebody was rubbing sandpaper inside my throat. Back and forth. Dry and rough. And once my lungs were settled, I watched the stars lift as my consciousness returned.

“Sorry, Grove.”

“What the hell was that?”

I rolled onto my side, pushing his knee away, feeling the heat rush to my face in a wave of embarrassment. That’s what happens when you get your ass kicked. I hadn’t managed any defensive maneuvers. Not one fucking swipe of his hand. Not even a raised elbow for chrissakes. I was down and dying before I knew what was happening. And the words from my kickboxing coach came roaring back:

“You got no street in you.”

Ricardo tried to help me back into my seat. I pushed him away. “What kind of priest charters a private plane?”

“Not me.”

“You learn those moves in the seminary?” I rubbed my throat.

“No. But they keep me safe in Manila.”

Ricardo’s eyes twinkled. He had kicked my ass, and now he was savoring the thrill of victory. The momentary smirk was subtle, easy to miss. The smug look washed from his face before most people would notice. But I saw the half smile, the dancing eyes. He had dropped me like a washed-up lightweight, and I wanted another shot at the title.

“Is the Catholic Fund paying for this plane?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then who?”

“I told you.”

“Told me what?” Damn, he infuriated me. “Would you finish a thought for once in your life?”

“They’re running us around.”

“On a private plane?”

“Did you go through security?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Did anyone ask to see your identification?”

“No.”

“Do you think there’s any record of us on this flight?”

“No.”

“You’re finally catching on.” Ricardo smiled, the right side turning up more than the left.

“Then where are we going?”

“Fort Lauderdale.”

“How do you know?”

“The pilot told me.”

“Is he one of them?”

“I keep telling you: I’m a priest, not a cop.”

And I’m Mother Teresa.

“What happens once we get there?”

“Planes, trains, automobiles.” He rolled down his sleeves, hiding the tattoo. “I have no idea.”

I sat back in the gloom of the cabin and didn’t say another word. I just watched and waited and paid attention. There was no way Ricardo would get the drop on me again. I visualized a jab to the nose, a roundhouse kick to the chest, an uppercut to the gut that would drive the air from his lungs.

This wasn’t over.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

OFF THE GRID
WEDNESDAY

Shortly after midnight we landed at Opa-locka, the private airport about ten miles north of downtown Miami. While exiting the plane, Ricardo grabbed a canvas bag. There were no logos on the sack. It was just blue and bland. I wondered, for all of two seconds, if his passport was inside.

Florida feels hot even when it isn’t. And outside the balmy night slapped us, a stark sauna against cool cabin air. Ricardo tugged off his white clerical collar and shoved it into the bag. My thoughts turned dark as I remembered that travel documents were the least of my problems.

The worst form of verbal abuse takes place inside our heads. I flogged myself for joining Ricardo. For thinking a posse of two, him leading the charge, could possibly save JoJo Kincaid. Agent Torres had voiced the FBI’s suspicions. And Annie had expressed a different concern: “You won’t do something stupid?” After Ricardo kicked my ass on the plane, I knew the good reverend was no Maryknoll priest after all. He was in league with the people who’d amputated JoJo’s pinkie, with some guy from South America named Moreno.

What the hell was I thinking?

Regret and anger about bad decisions are the wrong mind-set for a rescue mission. But that photo of JoJo, the one we saw in the conference room, kept me going. It was her bandaged hand and duct-taped face. It was the horror that stained her eyes. I wanted JoJo back in one piece and forced myself to forget what might happen to me.

Ricardo hustled to a parking lot outside the terminal, forcing me to keep pace. An unremarkable Lincoln Town Car was waiting for us, one of those black boxes that nobody buys except morticians and limo drivers. The driver said nothing to me. But every so often, he glanced in the rearview mirror and yammered to Ricardo in Spanish.

My sense of direction is the pits. But I have clients in Florida and know my way around. When we turned south on I-95, I spoke out. “Wrong way to Fort Lauderdale.”

“Forget it.” Ricardo stared out the window. He never bothered to face me. And I stared at the back of his head, hair so black it looked blue.

I thought about confronting him. “Where’s JoJo?”

Instead, I pressed around the edges and avoided a direct confrontation. It was better that way. For as much as I distrusted Ricardo, I believed he could take me to Palmer’s wife. “Is JoJo in Miami?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me where she is?”

“Give it a rest,” he snapped. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

“I don’t see why not.”

Ricardo whirled around. For a second, I thought he might throw a punch. Right then and there in the back of the Town Car. His piercing eyes glowed in the ambient light of Miami. His mouth twisted into a bloodless grin, the kind you see on a piranha. But he said nothing and turned away. I said nothing, and we all continued in silence.

We crossed over the Rickenbacker Causeway. Inside Virginia Key, our driver turned left at the Miami Seaquarium and cut right onto a dusty old road circling a monstrous sewage treatment plant. About a quarter of the way around, the Town Car stopped and Ricardo said, “Get out.”

If there was ever a time when my fear got the best of me, that was it. No lights. No cars. It was dark, deep into the night, and there was nobody around. Not a soul in sight. There was a sewage plant on one side of the road, trees and scrub on the other. We were in the boonies, a great place to pop somebody. And nobody would be any the wiser.

Ricardo pushed through the bush, a damp tangle of cypress and live oak, cabbage palm and wild coffee. The ground was soft underfoot, the mud a Gucci-eating quicksand. There were black spiders everywhere, waiting and watching from their silky lace. And I’ll be the first to admit: the hair, the legs, all eight of them, and the ominous colors—I hate those fucking things.

The air was all mosquitoes and malaria, thick with bullfrog a cappella and the roar of incoming tide. Virginia Key is home to sea turtles and manatees. But every rustle from the underbrush, the flap of wings, the occasional swish of sea grass, and I thought an alligator was charging us. Or a venomous snake was slithering before the inevitable strike.

We pushed through an overhang of mangrove, water coming up to our ankles, and found a rickety old dock that started three feet too late. There was a large boat at the end, forty feet at least, two people on board.

Ricardo hopped up on the rotting planks. “We’re here.”

“Is JoJo on board?”

“No.”

“Where is she?” I stepped out of the water, grateful to see my feet.

“We’re going to her now.”

“How long before we get there?”

Ricardo ignored my question. “Do yourself a favor, and stay away from the captain.”

“Who’s the woman?” I asked.

“Girl Louie, the first mate.” Ricardo took two steps toward the boat, but stopped and turned around. He waited for my undivided attention. “You really want JoJo back in one piece?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Keep your mouth shut, and everything will work out fine.” In that moment, he gave up pretending to be a priest. And I gave up pretending to believe him.

*   *   *

Girl Louie checked her lines on the boat. Hearing a disturbance in the water, a sound unlike any night calls in the Florida Keys, she looked in our direction and gaped at Ricardo.

She stood frozen for a second, two at the most.

Then in a blinding burst of comprehension, she hurdled the boat gunwales and dashed toward him across the weathered planks. Three feet away, she touched off the dock and sailed through the night.

Ricardo caught her midflight, staggered back to the right, and spun around from her momentum. Girl Louie morphed into a human octopus, wrapping her athletic legs around his torso, limbs everywhere, probing his face, his ears, his jet-black hair with her long, practiced fingers.

The two kissed, hard and hungry, none of those cheek-cheek pecks favored by androgynous strains from New York country clubs. The two locked lips and lingered, savoring their carnal past.

“Long time, Bong.”

“Too long.”

By and by, Girl Louie relaxed her thighs and slid to the creaky old dock. She was fit, trim, chesty, built like a stripper with sea legs. I guessed her to be five foot four, 110 pounds. She wore bikini bottoms and a faded pink T-shirt a few sizes too small. There was a black heart outlining its caption:
YOU HAD ME AT BACON.

Yikes.

The scene was weird, discomfiting. Ricardo was dressed in reverend black, halfway to third base with Girl Louie, and answering to the name “Bong.” He was definitely no priest. But only a few hours ago, I had been addressing him as “Father.” And I found it hard to kick the habit, to stop viewing him as a man of the cloth.

“Who’s your friend?” asked Girl Louie.

“My banker.” Ricardo aimed 12-gauge eyes in my direction, warning me to stick with his story. His expression made me wonder if there was dissension among the goons.

“Let’s go,” the captain bellowed.

Girl Louie scrambled across the deck like a spider monkey, gathering up ropes, stowing gear, checking, checking, checking. Ricardo climbed a ladder to the control tower, where he joined the skipper, who had one hand on the wheel and the other on the throttle. The roar of engines drowned the seaside cicadas, which sound like pulsating sprinklers that sweep great jets of water across suburban lawns.

We were under way.

“You want some beers up there?” Girl Louie hollered at the two men up top.

“Yeah,” the captain replied.

“How about you?” Girl Louie smiled at me, and I saw her face for the first time. She would have been pretty from thirty feet. Knockout figure, big teeth, and sun-colored hair. But from five feet, she was hard around the edges. The crow’s-feet and vertical splits over her lip, all the calling cards from the sun and the booze and the life among men at sea, were gaining momentum.

“No thanks.”

We motored out of the cove, pointing in the direction of Fisher Island. Our boat, the
Blue Pearl,
rounded the bend. And that’s when the captain gunned the engines, a cone-shaped wake trailing behind, city lights fading into the distance. He remained at the helm, scrutinizing the chop over the bow, occasionally turning to the port or starboard side. He searched, ever vigilant, for floating debris.

Or the authorities.

Fifteen minutes outside the cove, the engines roaring full bore, Girl Louie stood across from me. The night was calm, the sea peaceful. But the boat still thumped across the swells. She was steady on her feet, at ease with the boat’s motion. Me—I settled clumsily onto the boat’s fighting chair.

“Not what you expected, right?” She suppressed a smile.

“Especially for an old boat.”

“Seventy-one Hatteras Convertible refitted with two nine-hundred MAN common rail diesels.” The first mate glowed from her words, almost to the point of reverence.

The details meant nothing to me. But I let Girl Louie talk, hoping conversation would prime the pump. That she would disclose where we were going. That I would get the skinny on her connection to Ricardo, Bong, whoever he was.

“What’s a nine hundred MAN?”

“A marinized Mercedes engine. We’re cruising thirty-four knots, but we can hit forty.”

“Sweet.” I pretended to be impressed, like I could give a shit about marinized anything.

“The original configuration only did eighteen.”

I was about to ask, “Why all the speed?”