chapter 13
F alcon was on the run. Or, perhaps, “in flight” was a better way to put it.
One foot in front of the other. That was his mantra. Had to keep moving. The night air was cold, but he didn’t feel it. In fact, he was sweating heavily beneath his layers of clothing. He was wearing everything he owned-two T-shirts, a sweatshirt, a windbreaker, and his winter coat. The layers did more than fight the cold. He was a veritable walking suitcase, packed up and moving on to a more hospitable corner of the uncivilized world. He knew he would never see his car again. Going back to the river was not an option. Standing still was a luxury that he could ill afford. He had to keep moving farther and farther away, until his legs gave out and he could travel no more. What was that saying-just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you? Maybe it was time to leave Miami. Maybe even the country. But how?
The money. His Bahamian safe deposit box held more than enough to take him anywhere he wanted to go. True, he had vowed never to touch it. Many times over the past several months, he had even tried to give it to the rightful owner. The fact that Swyteck had been able to withdraw ten thousand dollars for his bail, however, told Falcon that his offer had been rejected and that the money was still sitting there. Unless Swyteck stole it. He wouldn’t do that, would he? Ha! Who could resist that temptation? There was absolutely no risk of ever being caught.
Where’s my money, Swyteck?
What money?
The cash in the safe deposit box.
There was no cash in that box.
I had two hundred grand in there!
Yeah, right. Tell it to the police, pal.
“Damn you, Swyteck! You stole my money!”
Falcon was cutting through a parking lot behind an all-night restaurant, and he noticed a woman headed toward her car. The expression on her face told him that his little tirade directed toward his lawyer had indeed been audible. The woman quickly found her keys-probably some pepper spray, too-and jumped inside her car.
Gotta get off the streets, he told himself. Go someplace they can’t find me.
The alley led him behind another restaurant, past a noisy tavern. The Dumpster looked like a good place to relieve his bulging bladder, but someone had beat him to it minutes earlier.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, stepping out of it.
He continued down the dark alley, though he was suddenly thinking about her again. He didn’t dare say her name, not even to himself. Even with all his extra clothing, he felt naked without his necklace of metal beads. He was without any protection whatever. Part of him realized that he didn’t need it; she was gone. The other part-the loudest part, the part that was speaking to him now-told him that she would never leave, that he could never have enough protection.
The alley grew darker with each additional step. On either side were the unadorned backs of buildings-a bar, a drugstore, a Laundromat. A half-block ahead, the lights from Eighth Street were a glowing dot in the darkness, like an oncoming locomotive. The walls were cinder blocks painted beige and white. Every door and window was covered with black security bars. If he narrowed his eyes, Falcon could almost see one set of hands after another gripping those iron bars, hands without faces-nameless faces that were linked inextricably to the secret prison cells of his past. Those were memories that he battled every day. But with the barred doors and windows all around him, his mind carried him back to a place where demons roamed, a time so long ago. A quarter-century was an eternity; a quarter-century was yesterday. It all depended on how closely he was being followed by the Mother of the Disappeared.
“PRISONER NUMBER THREE-ZERO-NINE,” the guard said in Spanish.
The prisoners did not move. There were nearly seventy-five of them, men and women, crowded into a room that could have comfortably accommodated no more than two dozen. Whether asleep or awake, most of them sat on the floor with their heads down and their knees drawn in toward their chests. Others lay on one side, curled into a fetal ball, trying to deal with various pains that made it impossible to rise even to a seated position. Many were from the nearby university-students, teachers, or staff in their twenties or thirties. The oldest was a union leader in his sixties. The most recognizable was a journalist from a major newspaper. A few were teenagers who had gone missing from local high schools. Some had been imprisoned for months; others, just days. None had bathed since their detention began. No prison garb was issued. They wore whatever they’d happened to have been wearing when they were plucked from their home or place of work and hauled off to prison. For many, a short-sleeve shirt or cotton blouse was not nearly warm enough for an unheated cell. The inmates were not told the exact location of the prison. They had no visitation rights; no phone calls or correspondence with loved ones; no television, radio, or contact of any kind with the outside world. They ate stale bread or a disgusting gruel that smelled like rotten cabbage. Some days, they ate nothing at all. Complaints, however, were never uttered. No talking of any kind was allowed-not to guards, not to other prisoners, not to oneself, not to anyone, ever. Violators were punished severely.
“Prisoner number three-zero-nine,” the guard repeated, his voice taking on an edge. He was a bulky man, broad-shouldered but bulging around the middle, like a heavyweight boxer who had gone soft. The thick, black hair on the back of his neck and forearms had earned him the nickname El Oso-the bear. It was not a term of endearment. Nicknames among the guards were a necessity. No one went by his real name.
A middle-aged man rose slowly and started toward the door. He took short, reluctant steps, walking on the balls of his feet, as if unable to place any weight on his arches or heels. He stopped at the bars, never looking the guard in the eye. “She is not feeling well,” he said softly.
The guard grabbed him by the hair, jerked him forward, and slammed his head against the bars. “Are you prisoner three-oh-nine?”
The man grimaced. A rivulet of fresh blood trickled down his forehead. “No.”
“Did anyone give you permission to speak?”
“No.”
“Then sit down!” El Oso said as he shoved him to the floor. His angry gaze swept the cell, then settled on a woman huddled in the corner. “Three-zero-nine. Here. Now!”
No one moved. Then, just as El Oso was on the verge of another outburst, the woman stirred. The cell had no lighting on the inside, only the fluorescent fixture on the guard’s side of the bars. Even in the dim glow, he could see the outline of her body. She came toward him, submissive, obedient. His eyes narrowed, and an evil smile creased his lips.
“Three-zero-nine?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied.
El Oso could barely contain his excitement. He didn’t normally get the pretty faces. It made him hard just to think about it.
He’d done plenty of women before, but never one who was pregnant.
“Bienvenidos, chica. Bienvenidos a la Cacha -la casa de la bruja.”
Welcome, young woman. Welcome to La Cacha -the witch’s house.
“HEY, CAT-FOOD MONSTER. Move it.”
Falcon turned to see a busboy standing in the open doorway to the back of a restaurant. His stinging glare stirred Falcon from his memories, but he was still not completely focused. He was barely aware of the fact that he had urinated all over his own left foot.
“I said beat it!” the busboy shouted as he hurled an onion at him.
It hit Falcon in the chest and fell to the ground. Falcon picked it up, inspected it. It was rotten on one side, but he took a bite out of the good side, signaled a silent thank-you to the busboy, and shoved the rest of it in his pocket. He didn’t bother zipping up his pants before continuing down the alley. He counted off twenty steps, then turned to see if he was still being watched. The busboy was gone.
Falcon caught sight of the old metal fire escape. It was black and rusty, and the base of the retractable staircase was fastened to the wall with a heavy metal bracket. The wall was made of cinder blocks. Falcon counted
