Quickly, he left the booth, crossed the parking lot to the trail and headed down to the beach. The trail cut between rock outcroppings and obscured any view below. McCaleb didn't see the beach until he got to the bottom and made the final turn to the left.
The beach was empty. He walked straight out to the water's edge looking both ways but the sand in both directions was deserted. Even the horses had been taken in for the day. His eyes were eventually drawn to the pocket of deep shadows beneath the rock overhang. He headed that way.
Beneath the overhang the sound of the surf was amplified to a magnitude that sounded like the cheering in a stadium. Moving from the bright light of the open beach into the deep shadows temporarily blinded McCaleb. He stopped, closed his eyes tightly and reopened them. As his focus returned, he saw the outlines of the jagged rock surrounding him. Then from the deepest pocket of the enclave stepped Crimmins. He held the Sig-Sauer in his right hand, the muzzle of the weapon pointing at McCaleb.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "But you know I will if I have to."
He spoke loudly so that his voice would carry above the din and echo of waves.
"Where is he, Crimmins? Where is Raymond?"
"Don't you mean, 'Where are they?' "
McCaleb had assumed as much but the confirmed knowledge of the terror Graciela and Raymond were feeling at that moment-if they were still alive-cut into him. He took a step toward Crimmins but then stopped when Crimmins raised the aim of the weapon to his chest.
"Easy now. Let's be calm. They are safe and sound, Agent McCaleb. Not to worry about that. Their safety, in fact, is in your hands. Not mine."
McCaleb made a quick study of Crimmins. He had jet black hair and a mustache now. He was growing a beard or needed a shave. He wore pointed-toe boots, black jeans and a denim cowboy shirt with double pockets and a design seam across the chest. His current look put him somewhere between the Good Samaritan and James Noone.
"What do you want?" McCaleb demanded.
Crimmins ignored the question. He spoke in a calm voice. He was confident he had the upper hand.
"I knew if anyone would come, it would be you. I had to take precautions."
"I said, what do you want? You want me, is that it?"
Crimmins stared wistfully out past McCaleb and shook his head. McCaleb studied the weapon. He could see the safety was off. But the hammer was not cocked back. It was impossible to tell whether Crimmins had chambered a round.
"My last sunset here," Crimmins said. "I have to leave this place now."
He looked back at McCaleb, smiling as though inviting McCaleb to acknowledge the loss.
"You performed much better than I had anticipated."
"It wasn't me. It was you, Crimmins. You fucked up. You left your fingerprints for them. You told me about this place."
Crimmins frowned and nodded, acknowledging the mistakes. A long beat of silence went by.
"I know why you came here," he finally said.
McCaleb did not reply.
"You want to take from me the gift that I gave you."
McCaleb felt the bile of hate rising and burning in his throat. He remained silent.
"A vengeful man," Crimmins said. "I thought I told you how fleeting the fulfillment of vengeance is."
"Is that what you learned, killing all of those people? I bet when you closed your eyes at night, the old man was still there, no matter how many you killed. He wouldn't go away, would he? What did he do to you, Crimmins, to fuck you up so bad?"
Crimmins tightened his grip on the gun and McCaleb could see his jaw take on a more pronounced line.
"This is not about that," he responded angrily. "It's about you. I want you to live. I want to live. None of it will have been worth it unless you live. Don't you see that? Don't you feel the bond between us? We are tied together now. We are brothers."
"You're crazy, Crimmins."
"Whatever I am, it is not of my doing."
"I don't have time for your excuses. What do you want?"
"I want you to thank me for your life. I want to be left alone. I want time. I need time to move my things and find a new place. You will have to give it to me now."
"How do I know you even have them? You have a fishing pole. It's nothing."
"Because you know me. You know I have them."
He waited and McCaleb said nothing.
"I was there when you called and groveled to her machine, when you pleaded for her to pick up like a pathetic schoolboy."
McCaleb felt his anger become shaded with embarrassment.
"Where are they?" he yelled.
"They are close."
"Bullshit. How'd you get them across the border?"
Crimmins smiled and gestured with the gun.
"The same way you took this across. No questions asked going south. I gave your Graciela a choice. She and the boy could ride up in the front and be on their best behavior or they could ride in the trunk. She acted accordingly."
"You better not have hurt them."
McCaleb realized how desperate he sounded and wished he hadn't said it.
"Whether that happens depends on you."
"How?"
"I leave now. And you do not follow. You do not attempt to track me. You get in your car and go back up to your boat. You stay by the phone and I will call you from time to time to make sure you are there and not following me. When I know I am safe from you, I will let the woman and the boy go."
McCaleb shook his head. He knew it was a lie. Killing Graciela and Raymond would be the final misery Crimmins would joyfully and without guilt bestow on him. The ultimate victory. He knew that no matter what happened after, he couldn't let Crimmins off the beach alive. He had come to Mexico for one reason. He now had to act on it.
Crimmins seemed to know his thoughts and smiled.
"No choice, Agent McCaleb. I walk away from here or they die alone in a black hole. You kill me and no one will find them. Not in time. Starvation, darkness . . . it is an awful thing. Besides, you forget something."
He held the gun up again and waited a beat for McCaleb to reply but there was nothing.
"I hope you think of me often," Crimmins said. "As I shall think of you."
He started walking toward the light.
"Crimmins," McCaleb said. "You have nothing."
Crimmins turned and his eyes dropped to the gun now in McCaleb's hand. McCaleb took two steps toward him and raised the muzzle of the P7 to his chest.
"You should have checked the duffel bag."
Crimmins countered by raising the Sig-Sauer to McCaleb's chest.
"Your gun's empty, Crimmins."
McCaleb saw doubt flick through the other man's eyes. It went by fast but he caught it. He knew then that Crimmins had not checked the gun. He didn't know that it contained a full clip but no round had been chambered.
"But this one isn't."
They stood there, each man holding the muzzle of his gun a foot from the other's heart. Crimmins looked down at the P7, then up to McCaleb's eyes. He stared intently, as if trying to read something. In that moment McCaleb thought about the photo in the newspaper article. The piercing eyes that showed no mercy. He knew then that he had those eyes again.
Crimmins pulled the trigger of the Sig-Sauer. The hammer snapped on an empty chamber. McCaleb fired the P7 and watched as Crimmins jerked backward and fell flat on his back on the sand, his arms outstretched at ninety-degree angles, his mouth open in surprise.
McCaleb moved over him and quickly grabbed away the Sig-Sauer. He then used his shirt to wipe off the P7 and dropped it on the sand, just out of the dying man's reach.
McCaleb got down on his knees and leaned over Crimmins, careful not to get blood on himself.
"Crimmins, I don't know if I believe in a God, but I'll hear your confession. Tell me where they are. Help me save them. Finish it with something good."
"Fuck you," Crimmins said forcefully, his mouth wet with blood. "They die and that's on yo
u."
He raised a hand and pointed a finger at McCaleb. He then dropped it to the sand and seemed drained by the outburst. He moved his lips once more but McCaleb couldn't hear him. He bent over closer.
"What did you say?"
"I saved you. I gave you life."
McCaleb stood up then, brushed the sand off his pants and looked down at Crimmins. His eyes were tearing and his mouth was moving as he labored for his final breaths. Their eyes connected and held.
"You're wrong," McCaleb said. "I traded you for me. I saved myself."
45
McCALEB DROVE ALONG the gravel roads on the bluff over the village of Playa Grande and studied each house and trailer he passed, looking for the telltale sign of a telephone line hookup or a mounted microwave dish. He had all the windows of the car open and each time he came upon a property that fit the search profile, he pulled the ear in close, turned it off and listened.
Not many of the properties were connected to the outside world by telephone or airwaves. McCaleb assumed most of the people who lived in so remote a location chose to do so because they didn't want that connection. They were expatriates and recluses, people who wanted to be cut off from the rest of the world. It was another reason Crimmins had chosen the place.
Twice people came out of their homes to ask McCaleb what he wanted. He showed them the photos but got negative responses. He apologized for the intrusion and moved on.
By the time the sun was close to the horizon, he was growing desperate. Without daylight he knew his search would be untenable. He would have to stop at every house or wait until the following morning. That would leave Graciela and Raymond alone somewhere for the night, without food and light, probably no heat, scared, bound or held captive in some way.
He increased his speed and quickly moved through an entire trailer park, stopping only once to show the photos to an old woman sitting on the front porch of a decrepit trailer. She shook her head no at the photos and he moved on.
Finally, after the sun was gone and the sky held the last of the day's light, he passed a crushed-shell drive leading over a small rise and then out of sight. A gate was pulled across it and posted with a No Trespassing sign printed in Spanish and English. McCaleb studied the gate for a few moments and saw that it was tied closed with just a short length of wire through the hasp. He got out, pulled the wire free and pushed the gate open.
Once over the first rise, McCaleb could see that the drive led to a trailer home set on the next rise. The ticking of anticipation began in his chest when he saw the small dish mounted on the flat roof. As he got closer, he could see there was no car parked under the aluminum carport. He also noticed a small Quonset-style storage shed at the back of the property near an old fence. Sitting on top of several of the fence posts were bottles and jars, as if set out for shooting practice.
The sound of the Cherokee's tires turning on the crushed shells obliterated any possibility of a quiet approach. It also robbed McCaleb of the chance to listen until he stopped the car.
He pulled into the carport and stopped. He turned the key off and sat frozen still and listened. There was only silence for two seconds and then he heard it. The sound was muffled by the trailer's aluminum siding, but he heard it. The ringing of a telephone inside the trailer. McCaleb held his breath and listened to it ring over and over until he was sure. He blew out his breath and felt a jolt go through his heart. He knew he had found them.
He got out and approached the trailer's door. The phone kept ringing, at least ten times now since he had stopped the car. He knew it would keep ringing until he got inside and answered it or somebody ventured into the phone booth at the Pemex station and hung up the receiver.
He tried the door and found it locked. Using the ring of keys he had taken from Crimmins's pants, he tried several in the knob until he had the door open. He stepped into the quiet and warm trailer and looked around what seemed to be a small living room. The shades had been drawn and it was dark except for the glow of a computer screen that sat on a table against the wall to the right. McCaleb reached to the wall to the left of the door and found a light switch. He flicked it and the room was illuminated.
It was much like the warehouse he had discovered in L.A., crowded with computers and other equipment. There was a small sitting area apparently reserved for relaxation. None of it meant anything to McCaleb. He didn't care anymore. He had come for only two reasons.
He stepped into the trailer and called out.
"Graciela? Raymond?"
He heard nothing in reply. He thought about what Crimmins had said, about them being in a black hole. He turned and looked out the door, his eyes scanning the desolate landscape. He saw the Quonset shed and started that way.
With the heel of his palm he banged on the padlocked door and the noise echoed loudly inside but there was no answer. He fumbled as he got the keys out again and quickly jammed the small key with the Master Lock logo on it into the lock. Finally, he swung the door open and stepped into the darkness. The shed was empty and McCaleb felt a great tearing inside.
He turned and braced himself in the doorway, his eyes downcast as his mind filled with a vision of Graciela and Raymond, their arms around each other, in complete darkness somewhere.
That was when he saw it. On the crushed-shell drive in front of him there was a clear depression pattern crossing the two patterns made by a vehicle's tires. There was a trail across the drive, heading in the direction of the sloping hill's crest. It looked to McCaleb as if there was nothing out that way, yet someone had walked there enough times to leave the trail across the drive.
His strides increased to a full run as he headed in the direction the trail led. He came over the crest and in the drop-off below he saw the flat concrete foundation of a structure that had never been built. He slowed to a walk as he approached, wondering what he had found. Rusted iron rebars and plumbing pipes protruded from the concrete. An old pick and a shovel had been left lying on it. There was a step up onto the slab at the spot where a door obviously was to be placed but never was. McCaleb stepped up and looked around. There were no doors to a basement, nothing he saw that matched what Crimmins had said.
He kicked at one of the brass water pipes and looked down into the four-inch main pipe upon which a toilet was supposed to have been placed. In that moment he knew where they were.
He spun around and his eyes covered the ground around the slab. Noting that the step would be the front of the structure, he concentrated on the ground to the rear, looking for the spot where the plumbing would lead; a septic tank. His eyes immediately picked up an area of dirt and rock that he could tell had recently been turned. He grabbed the shovel and ran.
It took him five minutes to clear the dirt and rock off the top of the tank. He knew they had air; the pipes up to the slab would provide it. But he worked as if they were suffocating below him. As he finally opened the manhole-sized cover of the tank, the sky's dying light swept in and he saw their faces. They were scared but alive. McCaleb felt a great lifting of weight off him as he reached down to them.
He helped them out of the darkness, their eyes crinkled against even the weak early-evening light. Then he held them so tight he thought that he might hurt them. Graciela was crying, her body shaking against his.
"It's all right," he said. "It's over now."
She pulled her head back and looked in his eyes.
"It's over now," he repeated. "He won't hurt anybody ever again."
46
THE BILGE WAS a claustrophobic crawl space full of the dizzying fumes of gasoline. McCaleb had an old T-shirt wrapped around his face like a bandit but still the fumes filled his lungs. There were nine bolts that held the fuel filter he was changing in place. He had three in and tightened down. He was struggling with the fourth, angling his face forward in a vain effort to keep the sweat from running into his eyes, when he heard her voice above him.
"Hello? Anybody home?"
McCaleb dropped what he was doin
g and jerked the shirt from around his face. He crawled to the open hatch and came up. Jaye Winston was standing on the dock waiting for him.
"Jaye. Hey, what's up? Come on aboard."
"No, I'm on the run. I just wanted to stop by and let you know they found him. I'm on my way down to Mexico."
McCaleb raised his eyebrows.
"He's not alive. He killed himself."
"Really?"