27. Surviving on an Island Without Cockroaches

The first hour of the flight home passes in tense silence. When we got to the warehouse in the morning, we found Sands in a futile argument with RC about staying longer. Lee arrived within the next forty minutes, and then I was saying adios, unwillingly, and climbing aboard the plane. El/George/Benito had a stony expression on his face as I stepped out of his final embrace, and the light in his amber eyes was gone.

Sitting quietly in the cabin, I'm thinking, feeling, planning...this isn't right. I try to imagine what's going on in the wake of our departure. Is Sands asking for help from his remaining stalwart? Are they going to make a stand, or is that dusty black jacket even now striding away from Culiacan?

"So, you think you can take me?" RC asks suddenly. Oh good grief, we're back to that? Of all the irrelevant bullshit!

I raise my right hand and take aim with the pop gun. I was ready for this. "Yes. Although I was hoping I wouldn't have to."

"Fine. Then suppose you put that down so we can talk."

"Why? A gun this small, the bullet shouldn't go through you and depressurize the cabin."

Lee squeaks. We ignore him staring at each other, waiting for the other to blink.

"Glad you're paying attention to detail, Kate. I suppose I deserve your recent hostility, after sending you out to get captured like a pawn." Perfectly calm, looking over at me like I'm holding nothing more lethal than a real pea-shooter. "Sometimes, dear girl, it's so simple to push your buttons. Especially with matters automotive. I trust you learned something from the experience?"

One thing I've learned from this week: lots of interesting new Spanish words that I suspect no nice Mexican girl would know. I let several of them fly now. Doing something dumb and getting myself captured-that was bad enough-knowing that I was set up to do it, knowing that I could be so stupidly predictable-that infuriates me.

"You did a good job."

"But...?" I spit.

"No buts. You did a good job. You didn't fall apart, even when they tortured you. You got up and kicked ass. We took that operation apart, and you personally made certain that we wouldn't have any more trouble with the man in charge."

How can anyone be so oblivious to oncoming disaster? "Yeah, well, I may have done more harm than good. Sands says Gomez's father has a big operation down in Guadalajara. He's bound to want to know what happened to Junior." More cartelistas will descend on Culiacan; who's going to drive getaway?

"That's not our problem. Relax, Kate. Take tomorrow off, get some rest."

"Sands says fighting cartels is like mowing the lawn - doing it once doesn't mean you're done with it."

"I have allergies. That's one of the reasons I live in a condo. I'm smart enough not to let myself in for all that upkeep. Sands doesn't have to fight cartels." RC shrugs. "Hell, I'd give him a job. He wants to be macho and get revenge, fine. I've done as much as I'm going to do. Come in Friday morning and we'll talk some more."

Stashing the little gun back in my bag - it's not exactly working for intimidation anyway - I lean back in my seat, my thoughts more chaotic than ever. I should never have gotten on the damn plane, I think. There may be a few days grace, depending on how tight the Gomez operation is, but then, count on it, all hell is gonna break loose.

It's almost sundown when we land. I head out to where the Chrysler is parked, and when I climb in, stare blankly at the steer horns in the back seat. Last Saturday seems like it happened years ago. I remember buying them, patting myself on the back for finding a clever gift for Kevin, but now they've taken on a surreal quality. My shiny car seems too new, somehow. It's not the Batmobile, it's not the GT350 - even with all the non-stock extras, the mystique just isn't there.

Several hours of near-silence aboard the small plane have given me time to think. Instead of going directly home, I make a few detours. Kevin, my financial advisor, is surprised to get his Christmas present in June - above and beyond the shock value of the present itself. He's from Texas and proud of it; for years, we've had a running joke that he really ought to have a set of longhorns for his car. The fact that his car is a purely generic Lexus is beside the point.

A doctor of my acquaintance is home, and I pay him a visit next. My story about an accident in the wilderness during a camping trip is received with a short nod. I don't really expect him to believe the tale; as long as he doesn't report it, we're fine. He says my arm is healing nicely, although he's incredulous about the use of waxed dental floss for sutures. Thinking of getting those stitches, I smile ruefully. Many, many people go their whole lives without ever being shot, says a husky voice in my head.

I pick up Chinese takeout on the way home. I'm tired of restaurants, but too tired to cook. I'm going to shoot him like a cook...

The townhouse is mine. Like the Chrysler, it feels alien now. All my expensive, tasteful furnishings and electronic toys seem like relics from someone else's life. I throw my dirty clothes in the washer and take a long, hot shower in a bathroom I don't have to share with strangers. This is the first time I've been alone for more than a few minutes in days. I ought to welcome it, but at the moment, even Sands calling me obnoxious endearments is preferable to the hollow silence. This is my life, and a week ago, I was fine with it. Suddenly, it's intolerable.

On TV, a bunch of whiny yuppies are trying to survive on an island without organic produce or Starbucks. Oh, the horror. I turn it off impatiently. The radio isn't any better. Someone wanting to sell me a car segues into a shredding guitar riff. A faded bedspread and golden light, soft notes plucked lovingly...

It's a very long night. I'm in my own clean and comfortable bed with fresh linens and the climate controlled to a perfect 80 degrees - and I can't sleep. I wasn't this jumpy prowling through the hacienda with people shooting at me, but here, there's no one watching my back. I was not worried with you at my back.

At least there are no cucarachas.