The Last Witness

[FOUR]

Kensington, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 3:30 P.M.

Ricky followed Hector out the back door of the row house. As they walked toward a gate-the same razor-wire-topped chain-link fencing that surrounded the three backyards also separated them-he noticed that there was another heavy smell in the air, a different one, not quite as metallic as earlier.

On the other side of the gate, Ricky saw the large-gauge electric power cables, more or less concealed, running to the center row house from the PECO meters of the houses on both sides of it. He followed Hector past the enormous air-conditioning unit, a new one that had been spray-painted in clouds of black and gray so it would not stand out, then onto the small wooden back porch.

The industrial smell was getting stronger. Ricky turned toward it and saw where it was coming from. A sheet-metal hood, bowl-shaped and also spray-painted with gray-black clouds, was mounted outside a rectangular hole at the foot of the back wall. It covered what had been a small window to the basement. Ricky visualized the four-inch-diameter vent tube behind it. The tube went down to the heavy steel lid that was cinched tight to the top of a 110-gallon drum, a ring of flames from a gas burner flickering under it.

Hector, approaching the back door, saw him looking at the vent.

“Another day and then that’s done.” He shrugged. “Bigger ones take a little longer than usual.”

Hector slipped a key in the door’s dead bolt, turned the knob, and swung it open. When they stepped inside, Ricky saw that there was another curtain of floor-to-ceiling clear plastic. Immediately beyond it, at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement, there were two cardboard boxes, their sides labeled “Technical Grade Sodium Hydroxide Lye Beads.” One bulged with women’s clothes. The other, half full, contained shoes and purses.

“All that,” Hector said, “is to get incinerated.”

Ricky nodded.

Hector pulled the plastic curtain aside, and they entered.

Hector grinned and made a sweeping gesture toward what was the main floor of the house. It held a giant tent made of the plastic sheeting-inside which was a small forest, two long rows of bushy green plants six feet tall-and what looked, at least by comparison to the old house, like a space-age array of hoses and wires and tubes supporting the tent.

“My controlled growing environment,” Hector said, waving Ricky inside the tent. “This is much better than what I started with in Miami. And soon we start another one in the first house.”

Hector had stripped the interior shell of the house bare. Then a framework of two-by-four studs had been added, and between the studs thick fiberglass insulation installed.

The entire room was then outlined in the tent of heavy plastic sheeting. Industrial-sized sheet-metal vents brought in the air-conditioning while other sheet-metal boxes drew the air out of the tent, sending it to activated carbon charcoal filters that removed odors and contaminates, then routed the scrubbed air back to the air conditioner. The complete volume of air in the tent was refreshed once an hour. The recirculated air was augmented with carbon dioxide created by burning natural gas in what once had been the kitchen and in the basement.

The forty plants were in two neat rows of twenty. They grew in plastic pots that sat on wooden racks built two feet high, allowing warm air to circulate around the roots. A web of black irrigation lines, on an automated pump system, regularly fed the plants a solution of nutrients from a sterilized stainless steel reservoir that resembled an oversized hot water heater.

Hanging a few feet from the ceiling were two rows of fluorescent light fixtures, each with ten one-thousand-watt lamps. The ropes passed through pulleys mounted to the ceiling, allowing the lights to be raised as the plants grew. Wall-mounted fans, above and below the height of the lights, circulated the air, as did big box fans, some set up to push air through the thick plant leaves while others pulled the air.

While it had been chilly outside the tent, the air now felt very warm and, with the high humidity, almost steamy.

And there was the strong, distinct smell of marijuana.

Ricky remembered what Hector had told him when he first started the project. It sounded like another language.

“When the plant terpenoids evaporate, there is produced a chemical. It has an odor that is organic and heady. It smells the same as pot when it burns. If that gets to the outside, word would spread and we will have a rip-off. Or what happened to me in Miami-the cops come. So I will create a sealed space.”

“These plants are healthier than our first ones,” Hector now said. “With more air flow, their stalks grow bigger. And with bigger stalks, the nutrients can travel better. And with more nutrients, the yield is bigger and better.”

Hector showed him the bank of monitors.

“This is the perfect growing environment,” he said proudly.

Ricky saw that the readouts showed:

TEMPERATURE: 78 DEGREES F

HUMIDITY: 50 PERCENT

CO₂ (PARTS PER MILLION): 1,500

“And see these leaves?” Hector went on. “No webs of mites, no bugs, no nothing but perfect formation.”

Ricky nodded. “How did you get rid of them?”

“Same as we kill all pests, whether they have two legs or eight. We turn up the gas burners and create more carbon dioxide-the see-oh-two.” He pointed to the monitor. “If we crank that up to ten thousand parts per million for an hour or two, spider mites and everything else is wiped out.”

Hector pulled from his pocket a jeweler’s loupe and handed it to Ricky.

“Check the color inside the heads of the trichomes. Almost perfect. This crop is about ready to harvest.”

Ricky nodded, made a cursory look with the magnifying glass, then handed back the loupe.

He looked him in the eyes.

“It is good, Hector. Really good. But I came for something else. I need your help again.”

Ricky glanced at the cardboard boxes labeled “Technical Grade Sodium Hydroxide Lye Beads.”

“Another?” Hector Ramirez said. “Just say who and when.”

Ricky Ramirez looked back at him and began: “When is right now. Who is not as simple. That is why I need your help. That woman Krystal ran to? She is. .”

Five minutes later, Ricky finished, “. . and we don’t know how to find her to get the books.”

Hector began to laugh.

“What?” Ricky snapped, thinking he was being mocked.

“No, Ricky. But this also is simple. You have already called it.”

“Called what?”

“The halcones. You said they want to be assassins. Then we can make them assassins.”

Ricky thought about that for a moment.

“How can they shoot this woman if we don’t know where she is?”

Hector shook his head.

“You know where she works. .” he began.

“But she might be there. She might not. There is no time to wait.”

“So you repeat what happened with that Krystal. You do not wait. You draw the woman out with bait. Use the girls from the home. Kill one or two to make a point. Then leave a message: ‘Another dies every day until you bring my things.’”

Ricky thought about that, then nodded. “Or every hour. That could-”

He jerked his head at the distinct sound of gunshots coming from down the street, then exchanged glances with Hector.

Wordlessly, both men hurried toward the rear door.

As Ricky followed Hector back through the first row house, with Hector again holding his Kalashnikov, he saw the short Hispanic was leading the lookouts in through the front door.

“What happened, Jaime?” Hector demanded.

“Tell him,” the short Hispanic said to the teenaged lookouts.

Hector looked at the heavier of the two.

“Tito?”

Ricky saw that Tito was grinning.

“That scrawny-ass Jamaican bastard came up to Juan demanding weed,” Tito then said. “I told him to get him and his stinky ass homies off our street. Then he took a swing at me-and missed ’cause he’s fucked up and all-and then the other two started coming across the street at us, and Juan pulled his nine out.”

“That didn’t stop the fuckers,” Juan picked up, holding his right arm straight out, his palm parallel to the floor with his finger and thumb mimicking a pistol. “So I squeezed off a pop at ’em.”

Hector exchanged a look with Ricky.

Told you, Ricky thought.

“One?” Hector challenged. “We heard more.”

Juan shrugged. “Maybe three, four. That got ’em turned around.”

Chubby Tito started laughing.

“What?” Hector snapped.

“You shoulda seen that Jamaican dude then. I never thought he could get that scrawny ass runnin’ that fast!”

Juan said, “Sure did. Ran right past the others. Left ’em.”

“Did they see you come here?” Hector said.

“Never looked back,” Juan said.

“Assholes and elbows, that’s all we saw,” Tito added.

Hector looked between them, then turned to Jaime.

“Go get the motorcycle. Take it around back.” He pointed at the Kawasaki motorcycle by the door. “Then take that one out back. And call in more lookouts.”

Jaime nodded and started for the door.

“You two,” Hector said to the teenagers. “Come with me.”