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Authors: Paul Levine

Illegal (36 page)

BOOK: Illegal
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EIGHTY
Payne peered up at the second-floor windows of Rutledge's sprawling farmhouse.
Dark and quiet.
The only sounds came from the fields, crackling insects, and whirring sprinklers. That would change soon enough. Payne wondered if Rutledge was a sound sleeper.
Payne's plan was both simple and dangerous. Rutledge had no wife and no children. But he had those three old peach trees he treated the way perfumed ladies treat their French poodles.
Payne had parked on a side access road and, lugging a chainsaw, crawled over a fence of painted white logs. Thanks to the wonders of Vicodin, he wasn't in pain. More like numb and light-headed. Very little feeling from the shoulders down, other than a tingling in his fingertips, as if he'd grabbed the wrong end of a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
Something in the air had changed. What was it? A sizzle. Not quite a sound, more like a scent. Overhead, the stars were obscured by thick clouds.
It smells like rain.
Payne used two hands to muscle the machine—a McCulloch Xtreme he'd bought at a twenty-fourhour Wal-Mart—to the base of the nearest peach tree. He should be wearing a helmet, work boots, and cut-resistant pants. Instead, he wore U.C.L.A. shorts, black Nike Zooms, and a T-shirt with the slogan
"I'm Already Against the Next War."
Payne tried yanking the cord, but his right hand wouldn't close properly. Awkwardly, he used his left hand. The starter kicked over and the chainsaw coughed and sputtered to life.
He bent over in an awkward crouch. If the chain slipped or bucked, he could slice his thigh. With all the painkillers, would he even feel it? The chain bit into the wood, making a high-pitched whine, like a frightened horse. Chips blasted his bare legs. He shot a look over his shoulder toward Rutledge's house. Still dark.
The tree trunk was less than two feet in diameter, the wood soft, and the task did not take long. He put the saw on idle, yelled "Timber!" and pushed. The tree fell with a
whoosh
of branches and leaves, ripe peaches smushing into the ground. The air smelled of wet earth and sweet fruit, mixed with gasoline fumes.
Still no sign of life from the farmhouse. In the distance, to the southeast, summer lightning backlit the clouds that shrouded the Sierra Nevadas.
Halfway through the second tree, the chain jerked and kicked back. Payne got control just before the saw would have pierced his femoral artery. A moment later, a light came on at a second-floor window.
Hurrying, Payne finished off the tree. The silhouette of a large man emerged onto the balcony.
Simeon Rutledge.
Shouting something Payne couldn't make out over the roar of the chainsaw. Rutledge disappeared from the balcony, and the second tree toppled.
Payne crouched at the base of the third tree just as Rutledge reappeared on the balcony. Gun in his hands. Rifle or shotgun, too dark to tell.
A
blast
. Definitely a shotgun. But the trees were a good two hundred feet from the house. The buckshot ran out of steam before reaching Payne, the pellets pelting the leaves like a soft spring rain.
Another blast, another shower of buckshot, dribbling through branches and rolling harmlessly across the soft earth.
Payne kept at it, the chainsaw chunking through the last tree.
One more gunshot echoed across the yard.
Payne pushed the tree over and clicked off the chain-saw. In the distance, the rumble of thunder. Yep, rain was coming.
Rutledge shouted something. His ears still ringing from the chainsaw, Payne waved at the old man, the way a gardener might acknowledge his boss.
"¡El jefe!"
he shouted. "You were wrong! The trees didn't outlive you."
"Dead man!"
Now Payne could hear him.
"You're a dead man, Payne. And she's a dead woman!"
His blood aflame. Rutledge burning for revenge.
Payne dropped the chainsaw and took off at a trot. He would disappear behind a stand of live oak trees and circle back to where Rutledge would never look for him. The front of the house. Enraged that Payne had gotten away, Rutledge would move quickly to fulfill his threat. And, without knowing it, he would lead Payne right to Marisol.
Payne could not be sure about any of these things. All he believed with absolute certainty was that if he did not rescue Marisol, within the hour she would be dead.
EIGHTY-ONE
The pain was a roaring fire, a welding torch applied to ribs and spine.
Marisol did not even try to struggle as Zaga squeezed the breath from her. She was facedown, Zaga on top of her. He shifted position, dug an elbow—sharp as a pickax—into her ribs.
Breath shot from her lungs.
Then a sharp jab in her lower abdomen.
The pruning shears!
In the pocket of her apron. The thumb lever that locked the blades now tore at her flesh through the thin fabric.
If I can get my hand under my body, I can grab the shears.
The cellar was lit only by the narrow beam of her flashlight, aimed above her head. She tried to judge just where Zaga's face would be in the darkness. Pictured herself plunging the curved blades straight through an eye. But his weight kept her pinned to the dirt floor, the shears trapped in place.
Zaga made a sound, a half laugh, half snort, as he ran a hand up the back of Marisol's right leg, tearing at the fishnet stockings.
"So they finally dress you like the
puta
you are."
His hand slid under the short dress and pulled at the elastic of the lacy underpants. "What do you think? One
rapidito
before you leave us?"
"Let me up, and I'll treat you good, Mr. Zaga."
Another snort-laugh. "Oh, you'll treat me good, but you'll do it facedown in the dirt. You and your precious
almeja
you don't share with nobody."
He slid a finger into the crack of her ass.
His phone rang.
Zaga adjusted his weight, reached into a buttoned pocket of his Western shirt, and pulled out his cell phone. He checked the LCD display and answered, "Sim, I was just gonna call you."
Marisol sucked in a breath, drawing in dust along with oxygen. Above her, Zaga was silent, listening. If he stood, she would have a chance to go for the shears.
"He did what? The bastard!" Shouting into the phone.
Another few seconds of silence.
"Sure, I know where she is. I got her right here. Bitch was trying to run."
Why is
el jefe
asking about me?
"Jeez, Sim. Why dirty your hands? I'll take care of her. Then me and Javie can go after Payne."
Another pause. Then, "Okay, okay. I know who's boss. And Sim, I'm sorry about those Elberta trees. I know how you felt about them. Jesus."
Zaga clicked off the phone and slipped it back in his pocket. "The boss got a hair up his ass. He wants to do you himself."
Zaga got to his feet, dusted off his jeans. "No use arguing with the biggest bull in the pasture."
He grabbed Marisol by one arm and slung her to her feet.
As she rose, Marisol grabbed the pruning shears from her apron. Her momentum carried her close to Zaga. She swung the shears in a tight, hard arc. An uppercut he didn't see in the darkness.
The curved blade buried itself in his neck, catching the cartilage just below his voice box. He gasped and made a choking sound.
Her thumb found the lever, unlocked the mechanism, and the spring-loaded blades flew apart, widening the wound.
A wet, gurgling sound bubbled from inside his throat. He staggered back a step, then wobbled to one side. She yanked out the shears. A hot breath of air whistled from the wound. Misting blood showered her face. She stabbed again, deeper into the soft tissue of his neck. She must have hit an artery. A gusher of blood poured over her.
His body spasmed and his legs buckled as if his spine had just melted. He dropped to his knees, like a parishioner in church. The rest of him followed, collapsing slowly and neatly, straight down, like one of those old hotels demolished by well-placed explosives.
Marisol stood there soaked in his blood, breathing hard, her body trembling. She was about to pick up her change of clothes and head through the tunnel door when the staircase lights blinked on.
"Mr. Zaga. You down there?"
The guard.
"Mr. Z. You okay?"
Barefoot and bloody, Marisol grabbed the flashlight, swung open the iron door and, flailing at cobwebs, plunged into the black hole of the tunnel.
EIGHTY-TWO
Wired and edgy, Sharon believed it would be a sleepless night. She was holed up with a twelve-year-old boy in the hotel room. Jimmy was out there in the dark somewhere, playing lumberjack with some old peach trees.
Trespass.
Malicious mischief.
Destruction of property.
And just maybe, getting a young woman and himself killed.
She hadn't been able to talk him out of it.
Foolish. Reckless. Dangerous. Pure Payne.
Her job tonight was to keep Tino safe. They had talked for hours, the boy chattering about going to a Dodgers game with Jimmy and enrolling in some school Jimmy had picked out, and Jimmy somehow getting them immigration papers, even if he had to fudge the truth a little.
Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy.
Tino was the president of the Jimmy Payne Fan Club. Maybe its sole member. The boy worshiped him. But would he still, after tonight? What if Jimmy didn't rescue Marisol? What if his actions led to her death? Sharon couldn't help but think of all the horrible possibilities.
Tino couldn't sleep, either. Together they watched television. Sharon made microwave popcorn. In typical male fashion, the boy asked for the remote, then hop-scotched through the channels. Just like his hero.
Sharon couldn't keep her mind on the programs. Jay Leno's jokes seemed duller than usual.
Sports Center
's nightly baseball clips all looked the same. Tino clicked through one channel after another, settling on a shopping network that sold diamond rings for thirty-nine dollars.
Tino stared into space, his attention wavering. Sharon could only guess what fears plagued him tonight.
Then he surprised her. Without warning or prelude, he said softly, "Himmy told me what happened. To your son."
"Oh."
"Himmy's really messed up about it."
"I know."
Tino picked up his baseball glove—the one Jimmy bought him—and pounded a ball into the pocket. "Maybe the two of you will get back together. You know, help each other with all that bad stuff."
"Did Jimmy tell you to say that?"
"No way. I just see how he feels about you."
"I'm hoping he'll get over that."
Tino gave her a look. Too serious for a twelve-yearold. "But will you get over him?"
"What do you mean?"
"If you didn't love Himmy, you wouldn't have come up here."
Before she could process that, the door burst open, splintering off its hinges.
Sharon dived for her shoulder holster, slung from the bedpost.
"Freeze!" Rigney in the doorway, aiming his Glock at her.
She obeyed, hands inches from her gun.
Tino jumped out of bed and pivoted like Omar Vizquel at shortstop, sidearming the ball straight into Rigney's chest. The cop howled and staggered a step backward but didn't drop his gun. "Punk! You little punk greaser."
"¡Chingate!"
"No, fuck you, kid."
"Put the gun away, Rigney." Sharon glared at him. "Jimmy's not here."
"No shit. He's out playing Paul Bunyan." He gave her a
gotcha
grin while using his free hand to gingerly touch a rib where the ball had nailed him. Moving toward the bed, he grabbed Sharon's holster from the bedpost.
"What are you doing here?"
"Enforcing the law." He flipped over a badge hanging around his neck. "Duly appointed deputy, named by the chief himself."
Sharon felt like spitting at him. "How much they paying you, Rigney?"
"Take it easy, Detective. I'm saving your ass."
"What about Jimmy? You saving him, too?"
"Your ex is dead meat. But I got nothing to do with that." Rigney turned to Tino. "C'mon, kid. Let's go."
"No fucking way," Tino said.
"Relax. I'm taking you to your mother. The chief's gonna send both of you back to Mexico. With some cash, for all your trouble."
"Is that what Cardenas told you?" Sharon said.
"He's a cop, for Christ's sake. What do you think he's gonna do—kill them?"
"You are so dense, Rigney. Cardenas works for Rutledge."
"So what? Who do you think we work for, the Red Cross? Money buys everything and everyone. Rutledge is no different than the bigwigs in L.A. He just wears cowboy boots instead of Italian suits."
"We're supposed to fight corruption, Rigney."
"Losing battle." He reached into a jacket pocket and tossed a pair of handcuffs to Tino. "Cuff her to the bed frame."
"Chingate,"
Tino said for the second time.
Rigney grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and shoved him toward the bed.
"Go ahead, Tino," Sharon said.
Tino hesitated. Rigney clopped him on the side of the head with an open hand. "Now!"
"Do as he says, Tino," Sharon said.
The boy snapped one cuff around Sharon's right wrist, and the other to the metal frame.
Rigney pulled out a roll of duct tape and tore off a piece. "Someday you'll thank me, Detective." Before she could reply, he covered her mouth with the tape. Then he grabbed Tino by the arm and said, "C'mon kid, smile. You're headed to a family reunion."
BOOK: Illegal
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