Killer Swell

34

I thought about calling Emily, Liz, and Randall, all for different reasons, but couldn’t get motivated about any of those options. I avoided doing all three, ordered Chinese, and listened to the Padres get pounded by the Dodgers on the radio out on the patio.

Sleep came in spurts, in between thinking about Kate and the guilt of avoiding Emily and lying to Carter. I got out of bed at six, found a few good waves near the jetty, and rode those for about an hour, then came back and showered and dialed Ernie at eight on the nose.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” he said when he answered the phone.

“Yeah. Just too excited.”

“Jesus,” he said. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” I heard papers moving on his desk. “You got a pen?”

I fished one off the coffee table. “Yeah.”

“You know the Cultural Plaza in TJ?”

“Sure.”

“Be there at noon,” he said. “Then call this number.” He read me an unfamiliar number. “Let it ring twice, then hang up. Someone will come and get you.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“I got no idea, Noah,” he said, his voice indicating that he didn’t want to know either. “I’d tell you to take some help, but I doubt you’d get to him if you did.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“I could probably go,” Ernie offered. “They might let me go with you.”

“No,” I said quickly, before I could change my mind. “I don’t want you to do that.”

We both knew what I was implying. If something was going to happen, I wanted it to happen to me, not Ernie.

“I owe you,” I told him.

“Damn straight,” he replied. “Make sure you get back to pay up.” He hung up.

I stared at the number Ernie had given me, unsure of where it was going to lead me. I was indebted to him because he’d gone out on a limb to get me the information I needed. His board of directors would probably frown on the ease with which he was able to arrange a meeting with Alejandro Costilla.

I spent the next two hours picking up my place, trying to burn the nervous energy that was slowly building in my body. The house was spic-and-span when I left a little after ten.

I drove to the outlets where Carter and I had met Costilla for the first time. The dirt lots that sit across from the stores serve as free parking for those walking across the border. After five minutes of deliberation, I slid my gun under the seat and locked up the rented SUV.

Walking the hundred or so yards across the border feels no different than walking a hundred or so yards in any other place. Small children offer to sell you gum, old women sit stonelike on the sidewalk presiding over handmade jewelry, and Americans walk south in droves. You simply walk through a fence and under an overpass and you’re in another country.

The taxi drivers swarm as soon as you cross, though. A thin, younger man waved at me, raised his eyebrows. I nodded. He spun and opened the door of a beat-up, dusty white Ford Escort. He shut it behind me and hustled to the driver’s seat.

“Where you go, sir?” he said, smiling in the rearview mirror. “Revolucion?”

I shook my head at his mention of the area of nightclubs that most Americans sought out. “No. The Cultural Center in the Plaza.”

He gave a quick nod. “Si.”

He followed the other taxis as they pulled away from the sidewalk in a cloud of dust. The entry roads at the border crossing are dirty and bumpy, but after about a five-minute ride, you are on streets and highways that are indistinguishable from those on the American side, save for much less traffic.

The Plaza is fifteen minutes from the border but we made it there in about ten. The taxi pulled into the traffic circle and slowed to a halt.

The driver turned around. “This good?”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling a twenty from my wallet and handing it to him. “Thanks.”

He took the bill, nodded with a big smile, and gave a small wave.

I hoped that Liz or the DEA would not be interviewing him in the next few days as potentially the last person to have seen Noah Braddock alive. At least they’d know I tipped well, though.

The Cultural Center is in the newer, more modern section of TJ, and for the most part looks very similar to what you might see in the downtown area of a midsized American city. The main building is a museum, showcasing the history of the Baja California peninsula. A fountain is the centerpiece of the outdoor plaza, with families carrying shopping bags, vendors selling ice cream and drinks, and picnics on the grass.

I walked around the fountain for a moment, looking for a phone, the mist from the water cooling me off in the afternoon heat. I had just spotted one when I felt a gun barrel dig into my ribs.

“Mr. Braddock,” a voice said in my ear. “Good to see you.”

I turned sideways awkwardly and recognized Ramon. “Can’t say the same.”

“Do I need the gun?” he asked.

“No.”

The gun eased out of my back, and I turned a little more to see him.

Ramon wore gray linen slacks and a tight black T-shirt. The same hard eyes reminded me of why I’d been wary of him before.

“Where we headed?” I asked.

He pointed to a silver Mercedes slowing in the traffic circle. “Right there.”

“And then?”

He laughed as we walked toward the car. He opened the rear passenger door for me, and I got in.

Two men I didn’t recognize were staring at me from the front seat. The driver had a fat head, shaved bald, and eyes that were almost swallowed up by his chubby cheeks. His partner sported a tight crew cut of black hair, bright green eyes, and a sweaty upper lip. Neither smiled.

Ramon slid in next to me. “Go.”

The two men turned around, and the car started to move.

Ramon produced a blindfold that looked like one of those sleep masks people wear in hotels.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d put this on,” he said.

“If I don’t?”

He smiled. “I’d appreciate it if you’d put this on. Yourself.”

I took the mask from him and slipped it on over my eyes. Tiny slivers of light slithered under the mask at the bottom of my eyes, but everything else was black.

I adjusted to riding in the dark and tried to listen for sounds that might give me an idea of where we were headed. The only thing I could make out was the hum of the air conditioning and the constant whir of the wheels on the road.

We rode in silence for what I thought I calculated to be about an hour, but I knew that my sense of time was tenuous because of the silence and lack of vision.

The car slowed to a stop, the tires crunching over gravel.

“Please remove the mask,” Ramon said.

I did, and the light felt violent and unfriendly.