One Wrong Step (25 page)

C
elie followed Saledo’s nephew from the landing strip to a high adobe wall. When the plane had flown over this spot, Celie had taken in every detail of the landscape—the arid flatlands, the craggy cliffs jutting up to the west, the strip of green scrub bushes stretching from north to south, where she guessed there might be a river or stream. Celie longed to make a break for it, but the trio of men standing alongside the landing strip had convinced her not to risk it.

Or rather, their machine guns had.

Celie turned her gaze toward the steep hillside up ahead of her. Atop it sat a hulking adobe house, its warm brown color so close to that of the surrounding rock, it almost blended in. The house was tall, with at least four levels and ornate wrought-iron balconies outside the many windows. A road zigzagged down from the top of the hill, its route announced by the startlingly yellow Hummer making its way through all the switchbacks right now. Celie wondered if this vehicle would transport her up to the main house.

And was Manny Saledo at the wheel?

The nephew stopped in front of a rough-hewn wooden gate and punched a code into a keypad mounted on the wall. The gate, which looked deceptively rustic, made a clicking noise and swung back on an electronic arm. Soon the Hummer ground to a stop right beside Celie. Saledo’s nephew opened the back door.

“Please,” he said, gesturing for her to get in.

She glanced over her shoulder at the airfield, willing a helicopter full of paratroopers to drop down from the sky. But the landing strip was just as empty as the azure sky above it.

Celie climbed inside the monstrous car. As she scooted across the seat, she realized her purse was still on the plane.

“We forgot my purse. Could I get it, please? It has my medicine in it.”

The nephew got in beside her, not acknowledging that she’d said a word. He pulled the door shut and snapped a command at the driver, who Celie noticed was only a boy. The child couldn’t have been more than thirteen.

Instead of heading up toward the house, they cut across a field. The Hummer bulldozed over sagebrush and giant prickly pear cacti and spiky plants that looked like agave. They drove over a cattle guard and through an opening in a barbed-wire fence before continuing down a bumpy incline. They lurched over a dried-up creek bed, and Celie had to grip the handle beside the door to keep from careening to the other side of the vehicle. A smile played on the boy’s lips, and he seemed to think this was a game.

Saledo’s nephew barked out another order, and soon the Hummer rolled to a stop. Celie looked through the windshield and saw a short, portly man striding toward them, a shotgun slung over his shoulders like a yoke.

The nephew popped open his door and jerked his head to the side, signaling for Celie to follow him.

She couldn’t move. Her body was cemented to the seat as the man with the shotgun came closer.

The nephew reached a hand inside the door and beckoned her to get out. “Come on. My uncle wants to meet you.”

This was an order, not a request. Celie slid across the seat and stumbled out. She stood up and found herself standing eye to eye with a balding, middle-aged man.

This was Manny Saledo?

With his faded blue jeans and western-style shirt, he was the polar opposite of his nephew. He had a strong nose and big jowls and a gut that hung over the top of his gold belt buckle. His black, ostrich-skin boots were caked with reddish-brown mud.

A discussion ensued between the two Saledos, and, although Celie couldn’t understand a word of it, she knew it was about her. She scanned the landscape around her and noticed a pair of boys off in the distance. They were separated by about fifty feet or so, and each stood beside a skeet-shooting machine.

Finally, the nephew turned to her. “My uncle says you surprise him. He was expecting a blonde Amazon, I think.”

Celie’s eyes widened, and she looked at Saledo. What on earth had he heard about her?

She stood there, trying to look meek and harmless, hoping Saledo would realize she was no threat to him, that this was all some huge mistake.

Saledo said something to his nephew, and then turned his back. Suddenly his great baritone voice boomed across the field. The boys jumped into action, and a clay pigeon shot into the air. In a lightning flash, Saledo raised his shotgun, fired, then swung the weapon toward a second pigeon coming from the opposite side. He reduced both targets to dust.

Celie watched him, slack-jawed, as he did this again and again. She felt the nephew’s eyes on her, and she clamped her lips together in a vain effort to hide her terror.

Saledo abruptly turned to face her. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Do you speak Spanish?” he asked in a heavily accented voice.

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“We have a word,
respeto
. In English you say ‘respect.’”

Celie nodded dumbly.

“Your husband, Robert, he did not know this word.”

Saledo’s voice thundered again, and two pigeons went flying almost simultaneously. He shattered both of them with ease. Then he turned back to Celie.

“Years ago, your husband came here as my guest. He and his friend”—he turned to his nephew—“
como se llama?
”

“Josh Garland.”

“
Sí, sí.
Josh Garland.” He looked back at Celie. “Your husband and Josh Garland spent a weekend here. We hunted dove together. I shared my food, my horses, my women. In my culture, such hospitality is a signal of respect.”

Celie’s throat felt like sandpaper. She knew she should say something, but her mouth wouldn’t form any words.

“Stealing from a man, this is
falta de respeto
. Disrespect.” He held his gun pointed down, casually, as if it weighed nothing. “Your husband stole from me. And then you stole from me.”

“I didn’t—”

“No talking!” He stepped toward her, glowering. “Just listening!”

Celie glanced at the nephew, looking for help. He smiled vaguely, like he was enjoying himself.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and this seemed to have a calming effect.

“In my business,” Saledo continued, “respect is everything. It is a currency. And when one man shows disrespect, you lose some of that currency. Then another will do the same, and another. If I allow this to happen, I become a poor man. It is like…it is like dominoes. One domino can make all the others fall. That is why you are here. Do you understand?”

Celie bit her lip, swallowed. It was time to make her case, but she needed to do it in a way that wouldn’t anger him.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Robert Strickland isn’t even my husband. He
wasn’t.
Before he died. We were divorced. And I never—”

“
Basta!
” Saledo held up a hand. “We will finish this later.”

Celie wanted to protest, but she could see his temper rising. He took another step closer, and she caught a sour whiff of perspiration. She tried not to cringe.

“Tonight,” he said, “You will pay for your husband’s disrespect. And when that is paid for, you will pay for yours.”

Vincent brought the plane down smoothly, and if it hadn’t been for John’s churning stomach, he would have congratulated him on an impressive landing.

As it was, he barely managed to get out of his seat without puking.

Two hours and thirty-eight minutes had passed now, and John was so wound up he could hardly think. As soon as his feet hit the tarmac, he jogged across the pavement toward the primitive airport, searching for any indication of a car for hire—a taxi, a bus, a freaking rickshaw. There was nothing. The airport—if you could even call it that—was located on the northeast outskirts of Monterrey, closer to Saledo’s property than the main airport in the city. Not only was the place a shithole, it was practically deserted except for someone tinkering with the engine of a single-prop plane. The plane sat in a neat row of other single-and twin-engine aircraft parked along the apron near the main building. Logos for several charter airlines had been painted on the building’s cinder-block walls; no one seemed to be manning those operations.

The door to the main building opened, and a uniformed man stepped outside, shielding his eyes from the glare reflected off the tarmac. Abrams flagged his attention. The agent was in charge of dealing with local officials, somehow convincing them to allow three Americans into the country without proper documentation. John wasn’t sure whether Abrams intended to accomplish this with his FBI shield or with money, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass as long as the fed did it quickly.

A dinged white pickup pulled onto the tarmac and stopped near the airport’s main entrance. A young man in blue coveralls hopped out of the truck.

“Hey,” John called, rushing toward him. “Is that your truck?”

John peered into the pickup. The driver looked like some kind of aging cowboy, with a ten-gallon hat, a faded plaid shirt, and a face like cowhide.

John switched to Spanish. “Is this truck for hire?”

Both men eyed John silently, so he promptly produced some twenty-dollar bills. The skydiving school had taken plastic, but somehow John doubted that would work here.

“I need a ride. To a place maybe twenty miles from here. Can you take me?”

“Where?”

“A private house,” John said. “Out Highway 85, near Rio San Pablo.” Abrams had confirmed Marco’s information that Saledo had a house out that way, and John just hoped they didn’t have trouble finding it. Having traveled extensively in Mexico, though, John knew getting directions and actually finding a place were two entirely different things.

“Rancho Saledo,” the old man stated.

John nodded, wondering if this changed things. For all he knew, Saledo was hated by the locals. It was also possible he employed a good many of them, in which case he might be a hero.

The cowboy’s gaze flicked over John’s shoulder. John turned to see Abrams jogging toward him. Evidently, Vincent had decided to stay behind and keep an eye on his boss’s plane.

“Two passengers,” John said, pulling another few bills from his wallet.

The cowboy nodded, and John climbed into the cab.

Celie stood by the window of the sparsely furnished room and tried to formulate a plan. She couldn’t stay here. It simply wasn’t an option. The moment she’d entered these quarters, she’d been overcome with the certainty that someone had died here.

Or possibly several people. She didn’t know for sure, but there was something about the spare furnishings—a chair, a cot, a table—that made her blood run cold. Or maybe it was the machine gun–wielding guard stationed outside her door.

The only thing Celie could stand to look at was the window, but if she got too close, it spooked her, too. The view was spectacular, but it was a four-story drop to the rocky ground below. And just beyond
that
was the steeply sloping hillside leading to the scrubby plain surrounding the compound.

She was trapped here, and she got the distinct impression she wasn’t the first Saledo houseguest to be put in this position.

Suddenly a woman entered carrying a wooden tray. When Saledo’s nephew had led Celie through the spacious kitchen to the back staircase, this woman had been standing at the stainless steel sink. She was young, with a voluptuous figure and shiny black hair that hung to her waist. She didn’t look at Celie as she set the tray on the table. She wore a simple outfit of tight black jeans and a black sweater, and no jewelry. Celie doubted she was a family member. Surely a man who collected oil paintings, bronze sculptures, and expensive electronics would provide his female relatives with better footwear than faded black Keds.

“
Gracias
,” Celie said, utilizing twenty percent of her Spanish vocabulary.

The woman nodded meekly, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Celie stepped toward her.

The woman darted an anxious glance at the guard standing outside, and Celie lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you speak English?”

She nodded slightly.

“Can you help me?”

The woman bit her lip and gave a slight shake of her head.

Celie looked down at the tray she’d delivered. It contained a white ceramic pitcher, a matching cup and saucer with the cup flipped down, and a custard bowl filled with sugar packets. There was also bowl of brown soup covered in plastic wrap. Celie’s stomach lurched. She hadn’t eaten anything since a yogurt that morning, and it was almost evening.

“Would you mind pouring that?” she improvised, pointing to the pitcher. She needed to keep the woman in her room. She was the only other female Celie had seen since her arrival, and the only person besides Saledo’s nephew who hadn’t been armed with a big gun.

The woman cast a glance at the guard and stepped closer to the table. The guard—also clad in black—was staring straight ahead, military style, but Celie had no doubt he was listening to every word. She didn’t know whether he spoke English.

“Please,” Celie whispered. “Is there a way out of here?”

She looked at Celie, and her eyes filled with pity. That, more than anything Saledo had said, told Celie what lay in store for her.

The woman’s gaze slinked toward the window, and she nodded.

The window?
That
was the best way out? Even if it hadn’t been locked, it was thirty or forty feet off the ground. Celie looked toward it and tipped her head fractionally, making sure she understood. The woman nodded.

Her black hair fell in a curtain around her face as she poured the coffee. Celie watched, thinking about what she’d just learned.

The window was her best hope. But even if she managed to get through the glass undetected, she’d probably break her leg. She glanced around the room and noted that there were no drapes or bed linens or anything else that could be used to make a rope.

The woman uncovered the soup, and Celie realized she was using her other hand to arrange the sugar packets end to end in a straight line.

She was trying to say something. She traced an invisible
R
on the table.