When Darkness Falls (19 page)

T heo kept waiting for the buzz.

Had the food from the wagon been laced with any kind of sleeping agent, some noticeable effect should have kicked in by now. Theo felt nothing. It was like the time Jack had decided to walk on the wild side and bake pot brownies, only to discover that he’d paid his Colombian yardman a hundred bucks for a bag of oregano. Actually, it was Theo who had made the discovery. Jack thought he was stoned. Poor Jack.

How will that guy ever survive without me?

“I want out of here,” said the weatherman. He spoke softly, to no one in particular. It wasn’t even clear that he’d intended to utter his thoughts aloud.

“What did you say?” said Falcon, challenging him.

“I didn’t say anything. It was him,” the weatherman said, pointing with a nod toward Theo.

In another setting, with hands untied, Theo would have snapped the little twerp in half. For his own sake and that of the girls, he kept his cool. “I want a beer,” said Theo. “That’s all I said.”

“Ain’t got no beer.”

“Try room ser vice.”

“Try shutting your damn mouth.”

“Can you at least give the men a turn in the bathroom?” said the weatherman.

Falcon nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Aren’t you going to untie us?” said Theo.

“No. Hop on over there and let Natalia the jinitera hold it for you.”

They did exactly that, and when they finished, a tense silence gripped the room, like the calm before the storm. Falcon had finally removed his coat, but he showed no sign of complying with Jack’s demand that he turn it over to the police for examination. It was bundled up in the corner next to the little generator. Theo had been eyeing the contraption for several minutes. The thing looked to be about a hundred years old, except that portable generators probably didn’t exist that long ago. Maybe twenty-five or thirty was more like it. The black metal box was scratched and dirty, with a nasty dent in one corner, as if it had been dropped off a building. One of the knobs or dials was missing, and all that remained was a screw protruding from a round hole in the box. There were two meters-amps and volts, Theo presumed-and the glass casing over one of them was shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. At one time, this might have been a working generator, and perhaps it had even been overworked. Theo had to wonder if it was still operational.

He wondered, too, about the metal beads in the bag.

Twelve hours. That was Theo’s best guess as to the duration of this standoff so far. He wondered how long the cops would let it go before sending in SWAT and breaking down the door. A day? Two? He seemed to recall that the FBI’s infamous siege of the Branch Davidian compound in Waco had dragged on for nearly two months. Things were always more complicated when dealing with a crazy man. Falcon was beginning to make David Koresh seem sane.

“I want out of here,” said the weatherman. It was a whimper, just above a whisper. His face was pinched, and his eyes were closed tightly, as if he were trying to wish away the misery. The guy was on the verge of losing it.

“Quiet!” said Falcon. “Or you’re next on the grill.”

The grill? Theo wondered. What did he think they were now, hot dogs and hamburgers?

“It’s too hot in here!” shouted Natalia. She and her injured friend were still inside the bathroom with the door closed. “Please, open the door.”

Falcon didn’t move.

Theo felt for the girls. It was boiling hot in the main room. Opening the front door had brought a three-minute blast of fresh air, but that was gone already, and they were again breathing the same air over and over. A triangle of sweat pasted Theo’s shirt to his back, and after his quick bathroom break, he could only imagine what it must be like for those two girls trapped inside the tiny bathroom with a toilet that didn’t flush. Theo said, “You need to open the bathroom door.”

Falcon was staring at the paper bag, silent.

“Hey, genius. They could suffocate in there.”

Falcon’s gaze remained locked on the paper bag, as if he were in a trance.

Natalia shouted, “She’s getting worse. Open the door!”

Falcon didn’t flinch. Theo was about to shout and tell him to snap out of it when, finally, Falcon rose and started toward the bag.

Falcon said, “You just won’t listen, will you?”

Theo wondered if Falcon was talking to him, but he didn’t think so. Falcon seemed to be drifting into another one of those delusional episodes of his.

“You hear me, Swyteck?” said Falcon. “I told you to ask Paulo what I want. Why don’t you listen to me?”

He waited a few moments, and finally he answered his own question, speaking as if he were Jack. “I’m listening, Falcon. I just don’t want to play any more guessing games.”

Another sudden change of expression, and Falcon was himself again. “You’ll play whatever game I want you to play. Tell me, Swyteck. It’s not a secret. What do I want? What do I really want?”

He mulled it over, now playing Jack. “To speak to Alicia Mendoza?”

“Nah, that’s old news. This bullshit has gone on way too long. You can’t solve things that easy. Not this late in the game.”

Another role change. “Then just tell me what you want.”

He was suddenly Falcon again, leaning closer to the bag, as if to stress the importance of his point. “Okay, here’s what I want: I want to hear Alicia beg to talk to me.”

Falcon chuckled in reply, the way Jack might. “That’s not going to happen, pal.”

“Oh, yes, it will, Swyteck. Before long, she’ll want to talk to me so bad it hurts. She’ll want it so bad that she won’t ever forget who Falcon is. And when we’re done, she’ll thank me. She really will. She’ll thank me.”

It was strange to watch a man carry on a conversation so convincingly, as if Jack were in the room, but it suddenly occurred to Theo that Falcon wasn’t delusional. This time, he was crazy like a fox. Falcon had figured it out before Theo. There was a microphone in the bag, and from the look in Falcon’s eye, Theo could tell that he was about to tear the bag apart and destroy it. Before that happened, Theo wanted to convey one last bit of information to Jack. “Hey, Falcon.”

He looked in Theo’s general direction, but he was still too busy keeping up both ends of his conversation with Jack to focus on Theo.

Theo said, “The girl in the bathtub really needs a doctor.”

Falcon didn’t answer.

“Did you hear me?” said Theo, speaking in a voice that was loud enough to be picked up by the listening device. “I said, the girl in the bathroom is hurt and really needs a doctor.”

Falcon picked up the paper bag and dumped the food, drinks, and metal beads onto the floor. He took the beads and laid them in the corner beside his generator. Then, slowly, he tore the grocery bag at the corners and laid the brown paper flat on the floor like a doormat. He began walking on it, ever so carefully, like a man fearful of stepping on a landmine.

“A doctor, huh?” he said with his second step. “You say the girl needs a doctor?” Another step. “That’s really too bad. Because the doctor is nowhere to be found.”

He took two more steps, inching closer to the crisscrossing seams of the bag’s double bottom. “But if you find him,” he said, raising his foot, as if poised to kill a cockroach, “if you do manage to talk to that chickenshit doctor, you be sure to ask about la bruja.”

He brought his foot down with full force, and the smashing of the tiny microphone between the seams made a small pop that could be heard across the room. “The witch,” he added, but only for Theo’s benefit.

I n a reflective moment outside his mobile command center, Vince allowed himself to wonder what he was missing.

Vince didn’t think of himself as an existentialist, but, ironically, his blindness almost forced him to step outside his own body and see himself. Sometimes he saw a happy Vince adapting to a world that didn’t depend on sight. He knew the smell of Alicia’s perfume and how it faded as the day wore on. He could hear footsteps around him and even differentiate between the heavy plod of SWAT members and the lighter step of Alicia as she walked away, toward the restaurant, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He could feel the breeze on his face and smell the Laundromat down the street. He heard helicopters overhead, the buzz of traffic a block away as it was being rerouted around the barricades on Biscayne Boulevard. With a little extra concentration, he could suddenly distinguish buses from trucks, trucks from cars, little cars from gas-guzzlers. Nearby, a pigeon cooed, then another, and it sounded as though they were scrapping over a piece of bread or perhaps a bagel that someone had dropped in the parking lot. A car door slammed. Men were talking in the distance. No, not just men-there was a woman, too, though Vince couldn’t make out the words. In some ways, he was more aware of his surroundings, or at least of certain details of his surroundings, than many sighted persons.

Other times, however, he looked at himself and saw a foolish Vince who blithely skated by in a world that acted upon him and described itself to him through sound, smell, taste, and touch. The foolish Vince failed to realize that he lived his life largely in a reactive posture, failed to appreciate that things still existed even if they concealed themselves and did not call out to him for recognition.

He wondered where the patches of silence lay in this assignment, and he wondered what secrets they held.

“Paulo,” said Sergeant Chavez.

Vince turned at the voice and faced the SWAT leader. “Yeah?”

“Chief Renfro’s on the line. Wants us to conference. Come on, in the SWAT van.” He took Vince by the arm and tried to steer him toward the van. Vince resisted, not because he didn’t want to go but because Chavez was apparently of the mind that blind folks should wear a brass ring in the nose so they could be led around like stray calves. “My hand at your elbow will work just fine,” said Vince.

They entered the van through the side door. Chavez directed Vince to one of the captain’s chairs, took the other one for himself, and slid the door shut. “We’re all here, Chief,” Chavez said into the speakerphone.

“Good,” said Renfro, her voice resonating over the speaker.

“You want another update already?” said Vince.

“Not unless something’s changed in the last five minutes.”

“No change.”

“Good,” said the chief. “Chavez and I were just talking, and we have both reached the very same and firm conclusion. I know you won’t like this, but it’s time to start angling for a kill shot.”

“What?”

“We’re going to take him out,” said Chavez, as if translating.

“But he just admitted that he has no bomb,” said Vince.

The chief said, “We don’t give that any credence. Falcon clearly knew there was a listening device hidden in the bag when he said there was no bomb.”

“I don’t think he was trying to trick us.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Chavez. “The message from Theo Knight was loud and clear. There’s someone inside the bathroom who’s hurt and needs a doctor.”

“I agree,” said Vince. “I was just working out my next phone call in my head. Let me see if I can talk Falcon into letting her go to the hospital.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Chavez.

“Let him talk,” the chief said. “Paulo, how do you propose to get the injured hostage out of there?”

“We can roll a gurney up to the door, just like we did with the food in the wagon.”

Chavez scoffed. “Falcon won’t trust that. We planted an eavesdropping device in the food bag. He’ll probably think a gurney rolling into the hotel room is a Trojan horse loaded with specially trained, three-foot-tall SWAT members.”

Vince said, “Maybe he’ll let a doctor come in and see her.”

“Maybe he’ll hold the doctor hostage, too. Chief, you and I have been over this already, and time is a-wasting. That girl could be dying in there for all we know.”

There was silence, then the chief said, “That’s where I keep coming out on this, Paulo. I can’t let you keep talking indefinitely, knowing that there’s a hostage in need of medical attention.”

“So we’re going in, right?” said Chavez. “That’s the plan.”

“That’s not a plan,” said Vince. “Not unless you want dead hostages on your hands.”

“Paulo’s right,” said the chief. “I want to try a sniper shot before we break any doors down. Maybe we can get him to open the door or come to the window. Paulo, I need you to help us set it up.”

Suddenly, it was as if all the questions were answered, as if the real reason for his involvement were being trumpeted from the hilltops. Vincent Paulo wasn’t there to negotiate for the release of hostages. His highly conceived role was to facilitate and assist in Falcon’s execution. And he had the sinking feeling that this had been the foolish blind man’s role from the beginning.

“All right, Chief. Let me see what I can come up with.”

J ack was standing by the Dumpster behind the restaurant, ready to make a follow-up phone call to his father. He’d punched out six numbers when a uniformed officer interrupted.

“There’s someone at the barricade who insists on seeing you,” she said.

It was one of those eerie doo-doo, doo-doo moments, as Jack got the impression that his father had shown up just as he was about to place the call. “Who is it?”

“Says she’s your abuela. I told her you were kind of busy. But she’s, to put it mildly, persistent. Kind of a crazy old lady. No offense. My abuela’s crazy too.”

Not like mine, thought Jack. He put his phone away. First things first, and Abuela never came second. “All right. Lead on.”

Abuela, of course, was Jack’s maternal grandmother, his chief source of information about the mother he had never known. Jack’s mother died while he was still in the hospital nursery. His father remarried before Jack was out of diapers. Jack’s stepmother was a good woman with a weakness for gin martinis and an irrational hatred for Harry’s first love and, by extension, all things Cuban. As a result, Jack was a half-Cuban boy raised in a completely Anglo home with virtually no link to Cuban culture-a handicap that his abuela was determined to rectify. The results were mixed, at best.

“Jack Swyteck, ven aca.” Come here.

She was standing behind the striped barricade with arms folded across her bosom, a disapproving scowl on her face. Jack remained on the other side of the barricade. This was not going to be pretty, and some official separation from her wrath couldn’t hurt.

He leaned closer, kissed her forehead, and said, “What did I do now?”

Her love for talk radio had improved her ear for English (Dr. Laura was her favorite), but when speaking, she often stuck to the present tense. “Your father calls to tell me what you are doing.”

“I asked him to,” said Jack.

“Then I turn on television news and hear your name. Is this how I should find out what you are doing?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been very busy.”

“Too busy to pick up the phone and tell me you are okay?”

“Abuela, I’m negotiating for the release of hostages.”

“On an empty stomach, I am sure.”

“I really haven’t been that hungry.”

“So you eat nothing?”

Jack suddenly felt like a five-year-old. “I had half of a coconut pastelito.”

“Hmm. Por lo menos, lo que comiste fue algo Cubano.” At least what you ate was something Cuban.

There was a picnic basket at her feet, and Jack could suddenly smell the food. She picked it up and said, “I bring you this.”

Jack took it, and all he could do was smile. “Gracias.”

“Share with your friends.”

“I will.”

A look of genuine concern came over her. “How is Theo?”

Jack tried to be positive. “You know Theo. He’ll be all right.”

She nodded, then returned the conversation to a lighter subject, as if sensing that Jack needed the diversion. She pulled back the redand-white checkered cloth covering the basket. “There are four Cuban sandwiches, still hot from the press, the way you like. The papas fritas are deliciosa with the green-olive-and-garlic mojo. For dessert, there is tres leches, which you know is my own invention.”

Jack smiled. It had been a while since Abuela had made herself the laughingstock of Spanish-language talk radio by phoning in and claiming to have invented tres leches, the Nicaraguan specialty. But who was Jack to take sides? “It’s your legacy,” he said.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “No, you are.” Then she looked at him sternly and said, “Do not be stupid.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Try this,” she said, handing him something sweet.

Jack took a bite, and it was delicious. “I love Torinos.”

“Aye, mi vida,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Turones.”

“Sorry.” You could say that Jack had a mental block about that word. Then again, you could say the same thing about Jack and roughly two-thirds of the entire Spanish language. But his idiomatic bumbling did bring a pertinent thought to mind.

“Abuela, tell me something. Did anyone back in Cuba ever refer to homeless people as los Desaparecidos? The Disappeared?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because Falcon is homeless, and he has used the term several times in our discussions. We’re trying to figure out what it means. I thought it might be some kind of Cuban slang for homeless people.”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of. But you know that man is not Cuban, no?”

“Actually, he is. I saw his file when I was his lawyer. He came here from Cuba in the early eighties.”

“He may come here from Cuba, but he is not Cuban.”

“How do you know?”

“I watch the television this morning. They show film from the last time, when the police take him down from the bridge over to Key Biscayne. He is yelling in Spanish, cursing at the police when they arrest him and say he can’t speak to Mayor Mendoza’s daughter. That is not Cuban Spanish. I have an ear for these things. Trust me. Ese hombre no es Cubano.”

That man is not Cuban.

Abuela was not always right on the money, but Jack knew one thing. When it came to all things Hispanic, her word was gold. Falcon was not Cuban. Jack could take that one to the bank. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course. Is nothing.”

She obviously thought he was talking about the food, which he wasn’t.

“No,” he said as his gaze drifted up the barricaded boulevard in the general direction of the mobile command center. “I have a feeling that this is definitely something.”