Reckoning for the Dead (6 page)

“I'll be sure and send him a thank-you note.”

Although Seth had covered up his disappointment well with a soft chuckle, his eyes mirrored everything he felt. She knew he was worried about her and had been disappointed she hadn't asked him to come. In the end, he had to settle for feeding her, arranging for a reliable rental car, and stocking her sedan with Harper-worthy munchies. Field-tested eats, he'd called them. Jess didn't get on the road until early afternoon and had nearly nine long hours ahead of her.

She'd arrive well after dark at a remote location she'd never been to. And the only ferry making the trek to Madeline Island stopped at midnight. If anything went wrong, it would be close, but lingering with Seth in Chicago had been worth it.

She ached, having to leave Harper behind. Even Floyd had grown on her. She tried to imagine living with someone else, especially someone like Harper. She kept odd hours, took risks, and had never answered to anyone. The abuse she had suffered in the past was a strong driver for the woman she had become. Could she change the way she looked at the world for him? Despite the fact that she loved Seth, how would she feel about sharing her life?

Self-doubt had always been her number one enemy. It was easier to picture Harper getting tired of her than the other way around. When anything good happened, her first response was to beat herself up over it. And things hadn't changed much over the years. By the time she made it to Bayfield and the ferry, she had a wad of tension in her stomach the size of Floyd's head.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” she muttered.

Jessie bought passage on the Madeline Island Ferry Line and pulled her vehicle onto the loading zone behind a guy in a red pickup. In no time, she was waved onto the ferry and told where to park. She could have stayed in her rental car for the half-hour ride to the island, but the moonlight dappled on the water was far too enticing. Jessie headed for the bow of the ferry and let the cool breeze tousle her hair.

In the distance, she saw the lights from La Pointe, a small town shining its beacon along the shoreline of Lake Superior. No big-city lights spoiled the incredible canopy of stars over her head. She took a deep breath and leaned against the railing, feeling incredibly small and inconsequential.

Whatever she learned the next day from Chief Cook would change everything she knew about her mother. She felt certain of that. She wanted to brace herself for what would come next, but she had no idea what that might be.

She had just begun to think her life had turned a corner, with Seth and Alexa and her best friend, Sam Cooper, in her life. And working for the Sentinels had been a step in the right direction, too. It meant she had a steady income and could leave behind her ratty Chicago apartment and the scumbags she had tracked for money as a bounty hunter, working one bail jumper at a time.

If she learned that her past was darker than she could have imagined, what new ways would she find to punish herself for coming from a crappy gene pool? Jessie shut her eyes when she felt the sting of tears. Wallowing in self-pity had its appeal, but the ferry had docked, and she'd arrived at La Pointe.

After she'd disembarked from the ferry, she got a better look at the small harbor town. The place wasn't much more than a few dimly lit streets that intersected. A visitor would have to work damned hard to get lost.

Except for a few bars, La Pointe was closed for the night. Most of the other businesses were geared for the tourist trade. Gift shops, quaint cafés, realty offices, and motels with self-serve Laundromats lined the narrow streets. When she located the police station, it was on the main drag across from a diner and a local watering hole, with a motel only a short walk away.

“Looks like I've struck the mother lode.”

Jessie pulled into a parking spot near a motel that had a flashing red neon sign claiming it had a vacancy. Once she got out of her car, the sound of waves ebbing against the shoreline haunted her memory like a tune she was desperately trying to remember. La Pointe had triggered something in her that she couldn't quite put a finger on.

Only occasional laughter and jukebox music coming from a nearby bar interrupted her trip down memory lane. The remote location and the small size of the town made her wonder about her connection to it all. The place probably had a thriving tourist trade, and, during the day, it no doubt had its merits; but at night, it left her feeling lonely and on edge. Every shadow held demons from a past she needed to know more about.

How did you end up here, Beck?

Standing outside her car, Jessie looked around. There wasn't much to see this time of night, but she got a real hinky vibe when she thought about living in a town like this. There'd be no place to hide from who you were, and everyone would know your business, or think they knew it. Living in a place like La Pointe would be a disaster for someone like her. That was why living with hordes of strangers, like she had in Chicago and New York, had been a major relief. Except for Sam and Harper, no one knew her story. And she could reinvent herself whenever she felt the need.

Jessie looked into the window of the motel office and saw the light of a TV cutting the shadows in a room behind the counter. Someone was up. Her hiking boots crunched gravel until she hit the wooden boardwalk in front of the motel. When she stepped inside the front door, a doorbell tinkled overhead. The cramped space was filled to the rafters with knickknacks for sale, small-sized containers of toiletries, gum, and breath mints, and plenty of snacks even Harper would endorse.

“You come off the last ferry?” The motel clerk stepped out from the room where she'd seen the TV.

Jessie spied the clerk's name posted on a wall plaque behind the counter. Byron McGivens.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. You got a room, Byron?”

“Sure do.” He worked the keyboard of his computer and kept talking. “If you came off that ferry, did you drive from somewhere or just walk on?”

“I drove up from Chicago.” She was tired enough to let Byron's prying get to her. “What's with the twenty questions?”

“I didn't mean anything by it.” He shrugged and had a hard time looking her in the eye. “Living in a small town, you get curious, that's all.”

Jessie hadn't noticed before, but the guy got a little antsy when she pushed back on his questions. She'd probably overreacted.

“Sorry. Guess I'm a little tired.”

After an awkward moment, the guy broke the ice.

“Okay, I've got another question, but this one's business. How long you stayin'?”

“Not sure.” Jessie narrowed her eyes. “Can I tell you later?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

The guy had on a royal blue T-shirt with the name Madeline Island printed in white across his chest. He looked to be in his thirties, with dark thinning hair and a day's worth of scruffy growth. After she handed him her credit card, the clerk had another request.

“I'm gonna need to see some ID.”

“Sure.” She fished for her driver's license and handed it to him.

“You can never be too careful these days,” he said after he'd taken a good look at her ID and handed it back. “I've got you in number 12. Less road noise there. You can park around back.”

“Thanks.”

Jessie took her room key and headed to her car. She drove around back and carried in her one bag. The motel room was basic. Near the front door was a window with an air conditioner below it. One table was tightly squeezed next to the queen bed, with the bathroom toward the back and plenty of shag carpet in between. The room smelled moldy, like every other low-rent place she'd ever stayed in.

“Just like home.”

Before she unpacked, Jessie reached for her cell phone and hit her speed dial, making a call to the one guy who could make her feel better.

Harper.

“Hey,” she said quietly, finding solace in the sound of his sleepy voice. “It's me.”

Shoreview Motel

After midnight

“You told me to call. A woman checked in just now.”

Byron McGivens spoke low. Even though no one was within earshot at this hour, it seemed like the thing to do. He didn't expect the rapid-fire questions that came at him before he had a chance to think. This time of night, his brain wasn't working on all cylinders.

“Yeah, I checked. Her name's Jessica Beckett. And I verified that by her driver's license. She drove up from Chicago.”

The motel clerk stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward the window, looking down Main Street.

“You need me to do anything else?”

Before he even got his question out, he was left listening to nothing but dial tone, with not so much as a good-bye. He would have been irritated with the rude way he'd been treated, but with the cash he'd been given, he overlooked it. Spying on a guest was easy money. And he hoped he hadn't seen the last of his newfound good fortune.

If his services were needed again, he'd be ready.

The Pérez Compound

Outside Guadalajara, Mexico

Estella had stayed as long as she dared, but after seeing bright light erupting from the makeshift jail cell and hearing the screams of a man in pain, she knew they were torturing the American, and she ran.

She tore down the stone corridor, back the way she'd come. There was nothing she could do for the man, not now. Tears clouded her eyes, and she had never felt so alone. When she hit the night air, she sucked it into her lungs, fighting back the sadness that threatened to choke her.

After Estella closed the door behind her, she leaned against it before she collapsed. Trembling, she made the sign of the cross and slid to the ground, clutching her arms around her. How did she end up here? And what would become of her? A small part of her had hoped the prisoner would be strong enough to escape and save her, but now she knew that would never be.

If her mother had known this, would she still have sold her to Guerrero?

Estella knew the answer to that question, and it made her sick. Her own mother had betrayed her. And she would've done it again if it meant more money for her next fix. When she had the strength to walk, Estella stood and headed for her room in a building next to the main house. She crept through an adjacent patio garden and stuck to the shadows, which would hide her from the guards patrolling the grounds. When she'd made it to the hallway—and knew her room was at the end of the hall—she breathed a sigh of relief. No one was waiting for her outside.

Her room was next to the maid's quarters, not much more than a closet, with only a bed and one lamp on a small wooden table. There was no lock on her door. Even if she wanted to hide, she couldn't do it.

She slowly turned the knob of her door and peeked inside. When she saw that the room was dark, she slipped in with hands outstretched as she fumbled for the lamp.

When she touched the chest of a man, standing in front of her, she screamed. An arm tightened around her neck, cutting off her air.

“No, please . . . d-don't hurt m-me,” she begged in Spanish, not recognizing her own voice.

“You should have thought about that before.”

When the man whispered in her ear, she recognized his voice. And his smell had haunted her nightmares. Ramon Guerrero had her by the throat. She couldn't breathe. In the dark, she never saw his face, but Estella knew Ramon took pleasure in her fear.

Chapter 5

The Pérez Compound

Before dawn

R
amon Guerrero had found a new way to get the attention of Manolo Quintanilla Pérez, head of his cartel. And the psychopathic tendencies of his number two man, Miguel Rosas, would aid him in doing so.

He had wanted to surprise Estella Calderone in her room, but when she wasn't there, Guerrero had waited. Every minute that ticked by made him angrier. With her disobedience, she'd forced him to punish her. He had no choice if he wanted to retain his reputation.

“Open the cell of the American,” he ordered as he hauled the girl down the corridor, by her hair.

A guard did as he was told and stood back as Guerrero shoved the girl to the stone floor inside. When she hit the ground, she cried out in pain. And as he expected, Miguel Rosas was waiting in the corridor.

“String her up,” Guerrero demanded, but when the jailer hesitated, he yelled, “Now!”

After the man reached for the chains, Guerrero waved his hand.

“Use that rope, over there.” He pointed. “Her wrists are too small for the chains.”

He didn't have to see Rosas's face to know that the man was enjoying this.

“You surprise me, Guerrero, but in a good way.” Rosas smiled. “Since this is your idea, you take the lead, and I shall watch. Please, carry on.”

Although Rosas stepped into the shadows, Guerrero felt his eyes on him. He would have preferred Rosas take charge and do what came naturally to a man like him.

Estella had disobeyed him. He owed her nothing, but when Guerrero saw that Rosas wasn't going to take over, he took a deep breath and thought about what would come next. How far would he be willing to go to impress a man he didn't respect?

“Please . . . don't do this,” the girl begged, with tears glistening in her eyes. “I swear. I only left my room for a little while. It was too hot inside. I needed fresh air. Please.”

“You're a lousy liar.” He glared at her and pretended to be angrier than he truly was.

When the guard hoisted her off the ground, she cried out in agony. That was when Guerrero turned toward the American, who could barely lift his head. No matter what would come next, the blame would not be his.

“You see? You have done this,” Guerrero yelled, and grabbed the man's hair, forcing him to look in his eyes. “Are you willing to let this innocent girl die in your place?”

Guerrero found himself pleading for Estella in earnest. He hoped the American would take pity on her, something he could not afford to do, not with Miguel Rosas watching. If the prisoner cooperated, he could release her without looking like he'd compromised. Sure, the girl needed to be taught a lesson; but if Rosas had his way, she would pay with her miserable life.

When the American opened his mouth to speak, Guerrero hoped he would let him off the hook, but that wasn't the case.

“Using that girl? You're a . . . c-coward, man.” The prisoner could barely speak, but he'd said plenty.

Guerrero had no choice now. He had to save face in front of Rosas and his own men.

“Very well. This is on you.”

He slid his knife from its sheath and slowly walked back toward Estella. Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed.

“Oh, no . . . Please. Don't do this, Ramon.” Her plea echoed off the walls in the small cell. Guerrero gripped the hilt of his blade and clenched his teeth.

Whatever came next wouldn't be
his
fault. Estella had brought this on herself. And everything would depend on what the American would do next.

LaGuardia Airport—New York City

Dawn

The morning sun was making a valiant effort at its first appearance, but the night sky was conspiring with a menacing storm to keep dawn at bay. The dark clouds left Alexa feeling tense, as if nature foreshadowed the approach of something ominous.

Closing her eyes, she pushed the thought aside and sank into her seat on the US Airways jet as it pulled from the gate. She took solace in the fact that she was finally on her way to Mexico and breathed a sigh of relief. By late afternoon, after a change in carriers to Mexicana Airlines, she'd be in Guadalajara after layovers in Charlotte, North Carolina, and Mexico City.

Seeing herself in the reflection of the small window over the wing, she hardly recognized her face. She'd changed her hair color and used contact lenses to alter her distinctive blue eyes to hazel.

She had used fake ID to get past TSA security. And if someone came looking for her image on security cameras, she'd be impossible to recognize. On her neck and arms, she had fake tattoos applied with ballpoint pen, and she walked with a pronounced limp. And her secondhand clothes made her look like a homeless bag lady. Alexa had picked a disguise with layers of clothes in case she had to change on the run, literally.

In her line of work, being a chameleon came with the territory. And it was a skill that would come in handy where she was going. After a fitful sleep last night, she'd had plenty of time to think about her encounter with the two men on the streets of Manhattan. She knew they'd been sent to track her. And she also knew exactly who had sent them.

Donovan Cross.

She didn't have to know the man, only the type. He had pretended to be sincere when he'd told her how Garrett had died. That had been the mark of a real player with a streak of mean. She'd seen the act before. Hell, she'd played the part herself a time or three.

All she had to do was stay one step ahead of that bastard. And with the coordinates and location in Mexico that Tanya had given her, maybe she'd have an edge before Cross knew she was out of the country.

But one other thing was perfectly clear, and it was strangely comforting. If Garrett were dead, Cross wouldn't have sent a team to track her. More than ever, she felt certain her instincts were dead-on.

Garrett was in trouble. And Donovan Cross had no intention of letting her throw him a lifeline.

The Pérez Compound

With Miguel Rosas watching, Ramon Guerrero had to make it look good, even though he hated cutting into the tender flesh of Estella Calderone. She'd been a virgin when he first came to her bed. Her skin had been untouched and perfect.

But now, as he tightened his grip on the knife, he knew she would bear his marks forever. When the tip of the blade cut into her skin, the girl cried out.

“Please . . . don't do this. I beg of you, Ramon.”

Under the flickering flame of a torch, he watched a stream of her dark red blood trail down her arm and leach into her blouse. And when she pleaded for him to stop, Guerrero saw the American flinch.

“Using that g-girl, you're a c-coward, Raymond.”

“My name is Ramon. And you are the coward, not me. You are the one who is allowing this to happen to her.”

“Turn your blade on me. I'm the one you want.”

“And still, you do not talk. Why is that?” Guerrero turned toward his hostage and pointed the knife at his eye. “This girl does not have to suffer because of you. All you need to do is answer our questions. Is that so difficult? This could all be over if you would only cooperate.”

“You mean we could all be friends? Well, why didn't you just say so?”

Guerrero clenched his jaw and glared at the man. He was tired of his insults.

“Always with the smart mouth. You think this is a game?” He shook his head, but when Guerrero turned his back on the American and stepped closer to Estella, the man spoke up again.

“You work for Pérez.” He said it with certainty, as if he knew that for a fact.

“Who?”

“Now who's playing games?”

Guerrero took a risk and glanced at Miguel Rosas, Pérez's watchdog. The man's dark eyes glared back, yet he remained in the shadows, content to let him hang himself.

“Go on,” Guerrero said. “What were you going to say?” He turned back toward the American and kept his face a blank slate.

“Before you go past the point of no return, you should contact your boss. Tell him about me.”

“What makes you think you are worth his time . . . or mine?”

“You do, or you wouldn't have brought me here.”

Without warning, Guerrero slashed his knife across the chest of the American. Caught off guard, the man cried out and gritted his teeth. Although his sudden show of violence seemed to redeem him in the cruel eyes of Miguel Rosas, Guerrero wasn't pleased with the fact that his hostage knew where he was. It made him all the more determined to push the man to talk. Everything he hoped for would depend on it.

“Pérez knows me. If you get him here, he'll tell you that.” The American winced in pain as his chest bloomed with fresh blood. “I'll talk to Pérez, no one else.”

Guerrero gripped the knife tighter in his hand, ready to cut the man again, but Rosas stopped him. He didn't say a word. He only tilted his head, ordering Guerrero to come with him. He resented being called like a dog, but he followed anyway.

When they got outside the cell, out of earshot of the prisoner, Guerrero spoke first.

“Do you believe him? You think he knows Pérez?”

“No. He's only stalling for time,” Rosas said.

“But shouldn't we let Pérez decide?”

Rosas was an arrogant man who presumed too much. And Guerrero resented him for it.

“We don't need to waste his time.” Rosas put his hand on Guerrero's shoulder and softened his tone. “You showed good instincts to bring the girl into this. The American reacted to her pain, I saw it.”

“So what are you saying?”

“We let him think he has won, for now.” Rosas smiled. “But I will return later, to pick up where you didn't have the stomach to continue.”

Guerrero started to speak, but Rosas held up his hand.

“This is what I do, Ramon. Let me do my job, and we shall both get results.”

Rosas didn't wait for his reply. He turned his back and headed down the corridor, back to the main residence. Rosas had dismissed him, like a servant who was beneath him.

Guerrero had no doubt that Rosas would kill Estella, just to make the point that he was in charge. And Guerrero would be no closer to getting recognized for his efforts than he was before. Letting Rosas take over wasn't an option.

Guerrero knew he had to do something, but did he have the balls to contact Pérez himself and go around the cartel boss's number two man?

“Hell, yes.”

La Pointe, Wisconsin

Two hours later

Dressed in a Chicago Bulls T-shirt, jeans, and a hooded navy sweatshirt, Jessie hunched over her first cup of coffee, barely looking up at the waitress who poured it. She hadn't paid attention to the name of the hole-in-the-wall diner either, but she'd seen that kind of place many times on stakeouts. The clank of plates and the incessant chatter of the patrons were background noise to the thoughts roiling around in her head, thoughts that hadn't stopped all night long.

After spending the night staring at the ceiling of her motel room and catching the blur of red digital numbers on the nightstand alarm clock count down her boredom, Jessie was glad when dawn came. It gave her an excuse to be upright. And her motel was next door to the diner. All she wanted was coffee, but the waitress was hoping for a better tip.

“You know what you want, honey?” A woman with overpermed gray hair leaned across a Formica counter, popping gum. From the look in the woman's eyes, she'd seen it all and had lent a hand to invent the best parts.

“Not yet, but I'm sure it'll come to me.”

“It'll come to you if I bring it. You see, that's how it works here. You tell me what you want. Joe back there cooks it like he knows how. Then you eat it, pay, and give me a big tip so I can retire to the Bahamas.”

“What have you been smokin'?” Jessie mumbled as she took her first gulp of caffeine.

“What was that, darlin'?”

“Nothing.” Jessie set down her mug and grabbed a menu, giving it a quick eyeball. “Gimme two eggs over easy with bacon and toast.”

“You might as well take the hash browns that come with that. I hear they're sublime.”

Jessie narrowed her eyes at the woman, who had polished her attitude to a fine sheen. And flinging it so early in the morning was a skill Jessie had come to respect.

“Fine.” She held out her coffee mug. “Top me off, will ya? And keep it coming.”

“You got it.”

After the waitress called out her order, Jessie saw her own face in the mirror behind the counter. Under the fluorescent lights, she looked tired. Dark circles under her eyes made the scar across her eyebrow more pronounced and ugly.

The words “sullen” and “unfriendly” came to mind, which was fine by her. Not everyone was a frickin' ray of sunshine in the morning. When she gulped down more coffee, she noticed another pair of eyes staring back.

A uniformed cop with a newspaper under his arm was throwing bills on a booth table. She guessed that local law-enforcement officers kept an eye out for strangers sporting an attitude.

LEOs in small towns were like that. That was why she preferred the anonymity of getting lost in the masses of Chicago or New York City. She didn't appreciate getting rousted by the local law, especially before she had finished her coffee.

“You Jessica Beckett?” the cop asked as he walked toward her.

Before she said anything, Jessie looked down at the name badge on the man's uniform. Chief Cook, the man she'd come to see. She crooked her lips into a lazy grin, knowing from experience that the gesture would come off looking more like a sneer than hospitable. Even though she and the law seldom saw eye to eye, she reined back her usual cynicism to greet the man proper.

“Yes, that'd be me. How's it goin', Chief?”

The man ignored her attempt at small talk. With a stern face, he eyeballed her like the cops in Chicago usually did. And he got down to his agenda, the real reason he'd struck up a conversation in the first place.