Caged: Reclamation
Chapter 19
Getting out of Baracoa was uneventful. Todd took a taxi, getting in with his bag and pup a little after midnight. He refused to take a last look at the convent because he really did think he might burst into tears, that emotional control still absent. He then drove across the mountains through the night to the airport near Guantanamo Bay. There, he met the pilot who worked with Beatrice that was to fly him to Havana.
Dawn had not broken yet.
Father Paolo had expected a tall, brown-haired man traveling with a black pit-bull terrier. He understood this was the patient from the bombing though he was never to say that aloud to strangers or confirm to anyone who asked that he had delivered a barely-alive patient covered in soot to Mother Superior that one night, long ago. Hard to believe the man survived. He certainly did.
Angel walked with only a slight limp… the only indicator he had ever been a patient at all. He dressed in classic American clothing: light-blue Levi's, black Adidas, white tee-shirt, and an open flannel he used as a jacket of sorts. He carried a black Nike duffel bag slung across his shoulder. The beginnings of a beard, short hair beginning to flop to the side, and a scar on his cheek, gave him a rugged look. He walked confidently, shoulders back, head up, purpose in his step as he made his way to the hangar where the 1958 cargo plane sat ready for its early morning flight. The dog had a similar air about him.
"Um…Padre Paolo?"
His voice betrayed him—he sounded slightly unsure, maybe even nervous.
The priest smiled and shook the man's hand. "Hello, Angel. It is a miracle of God that you are here."
Angel returned the kind welcome and acknowledgment with a slight nod, a serious gaze, and a glance at his dog.
"Thanks to Las Hermanas," he clarified.
Paolo smiled wryly, "As I said, God."
That got a genuine smile, eyes warming at the clever use of his words against him. The Father then gave the man a pat on the back and took the leash and before long, they were airborne. When they parted in the Havana airport after the two hour flight across the island of Cuba, the priest gave Angel a blessing, a prayer, making the sign of the cross on Angel's forehead.
"May He deliver you safely, my friend."
Questions floated in gentle light eyes and the Padre said, "I believe for you."
Later Father Paolo would get on his knees and pray for the man he only knew as Angel, a very dangerous man he'd been told. The snake tattoo suggested the story to be true. However, if he was the devil, then he was for certain a fallen angel. Paolo had never seen such honest vulnerability in a man like him for when he stepped into the morning light, he turned and said, "I hope your belief… works." He did not trust the world or God and from the tone… he wished he could.
After a needed visit to a decent plot of weeds for Abram, business tended to, water given, Todd ambled to the terminal that handled chartered flights for international destinations. Pedro booked the trip specifically with the purpose of hiding Todd. He'd be traveling with a tour group from the university and Todd was dressed just as a Cuban national would imagine an American to dress. Everything he wore the sisters had gotten from the black market and everything was a knock-off except for the Levi's.
Only speak to Americans or Canadians or Brits, Pedro suggested, because Spanish sounds the same to them no matter who speaks it. Though Todd's Spanish was passable, he did have a bit of an accent natives recognized as likely American. The sisters often argued about this, some saying he sounded like the children of European residents, that nobody would doubt he was born here but raised by English speakers.
You mean raised by hoodlums!
Yeah, yeah, his style of Spanish sounded like Cuban convicts because... obviously. He cursed a lot, lazily dragged his vowels, and his grammar was for shit. His American accent wouldn't matter normally but it was a red flag since he carried a Cuban passport. No such thing as naturalization but for very few and Americans were not on that special list. So... he'd have to have been born in Cuba to get that passport and no Cuban-born adult still living in Cuba would have an American accent. So…
… don't talk to Cubans once you reach Customs.
For the record, Pedro did not get him an American passport because he didn't have the connections for it and he did not want Customs siccing the full force of the U.S. of A. in scanning a forged American passport.
Cuban national he'd be, then.
Todd walked to the counter, Abram at his side, to show his ticket and passport and now his nerves came to life. Jesus Christ… would the identification get pegged as forgery right off the bat? Would his fucking picture be posted on walls in every international law enforcement agency? Why didn't he dye his hair and wear contacts and maybe a baseball cap…
Oh FUCK.
And this wasn't even the hard part.
You got that right.
The woman at the counter looked at the dog and smiled and asked if Todd brought food for the darling. He nodded and felt sick to his stomach because the attendant studied his passport with a furrowed brow like something was wrong so he played up his nervousness. No choice. He could NOT cover.
Dear God please please please no no no…
In Spanish, trying to use as few words as possible, he asked, "What are you doing with him?"
He squatted down to kiss Abram and pet him, his eyes closing briefly, hoping like hell his nervousness came off the way he wanted it to. He flashed fearful eyes at the attendant.
"Ah… you have not flown with your dog before?"
He swallowed and shook his head, "Nah."
Another attendant came to the counter and she reached for Abram's leash, her hand out. "I will take him—"
"He cannot stay with me?" He bit his lip as he stood back up and rubbed his heart, sweating now, his heart racing. The one with that passport was clicking away at the computer. Kept checking the passport against his ticket.
The dog attendant smiled sadly, "Do not worry, sir. Your dog will be fine. And so will you. Now please, the food for….?"
"Abram," he grumped. He thought for a second to flirt a little, to maybe get the attendants to like him but then he realized they might remember him, the idea making him more nervous. Maybe they'd remember him anyway, his scar noticeable, the dog noticeable, whatever accent he had in Spanish noticeable…
Prison for a bombing.
Fuck!
Abram whimpered as he gave the bag of food to the attendant who then put a tag on Abram's collar. She handed Todd a receipt and headed off through a door, leash in hand, and he ached at that, panicked at that.
He looked at the attendant with his passport and pleaded, "Miss, please, my dog…do not lose him."
"No worries, sir. We have only lost one pet this year but that was because the mom and dad did not treat the dog for an illness he already had."
She stamped the ticket and handed him back his passport and smiled. "Through that gate. Your group is already there. American customs will process you in Miami. Bon voyage!"
He gave a nod and stuffed the papers into his bag, huffing a thank you and rushing to the gate. He wondered what the problem was with the passport. Prayed to GOD that scrutiny didn't get repeated at American Customs.
That ain't nothin'.
Prison for a bombing.
Prison for a bombing.
Prayed traveling at peak time, landing in Miami at 11:00 a.m., would actually help him enter the U.S. undetected. Any airport on a Saturday morning was mad-packed and Miami International was notorious for their long Customs lines.
That ain't gonna matter. All the hours in a line ain't gonna matter.
Pedro assured him on the phone a few days before he left, "My son, I know that airport, I know how the agents behave when there is a crowd. They are pressed for time. Nothing in the paperwork will get their attention."
The paperwork ain't the problem.
While the forged passport was near flawless and computer records would be clean thanks to Pedro's contacts… any more digging would show Angel Victor died in Baracoa in 1998 at the ripe old age of 74. He was terrified of that… more digging.
That's not what's gonna get you.
Prison for a bombing.
Fuck!
He walked into the wait area and collapsed on a seat, tired and stressed, definitely thinking of a hotel as soon as he got to Miami. He had American cash to cover the days of travel, a good amount but nothing crazy. Yeah, the idea of a bed and good old American pizza ordered in sounded heavenly.
If you get there.
The group surrounding him was lively and ready to begin an East Coast tour. University types so they argued over sights to see, pointing out bits of an itinerary, laughed excitedly, and Todd sweated at the whole thing, having no idea how the hell he'd get out of this if someone recognized him or caught on to the forged passport and visa. He wanted to puke on the floor right here, right now.
That paperwork ain't the concern, Señor Cabron.
He checked the clock and it read 9:00 a.m. Two hours from now and he'd be landing in Miami. If all went smoothly, he'd then rent a car and make the two-day drive up the coast to Llanview, Pennsylvania. Staying in Miami though would make it a three-day trip. Abram had proper papers, no forgery needed, so he didn't expect any issues there.
Then Pedro's house. He had no goddamn idea what he'd do next.
Just get there.
He needed water or else he really would throw up. Digging into his bag, he found a small bottled water and a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and he felt like a homesick child at the sight. Tears welled as he sucked the water down. He then carefully brought out the chicken sandwich: roasted chicken and home-grown lettuce on the convent's homemade bread. He wiped his eyes hard, hoping nobody noticed the big tough guy in the corner crying like a baby.
He hunched forward and slowly ate. Every bite hurt to the core. He'd never taste this bread again, never see the sisters again, never see their prideful looks when they watched him eat something new that they made or when he wore something they gave him… a hundred such things about them.
He had never in his life felt this way. Couldn't remember any parting that—
He paused… yeah, the closest was leaving his mom's cabin when he was nine, the last time he saw her alive, but he didn't know that then. He knew the world now. And because of all he knew, he wanted to get up, get his goddamn dog, and go back to his tower room where nobody could hurt him, judge him, threaten him, kill him.
But also… unlike the time in the cabin...
… at the Convent he couldn't hurt anyone. There, the monster was well locked up, truly caged. And no, he would never have touched Joella and wouldn't have killed Pedro anywhere on the convent property. Ok?
Whatever. Fuck you.
The only things that stopped him from going back was Téa and the promise to Jed that he'd see him in Llanview. He had to get home...
He ate the last bite, then folded the wax paper like a revered treasure map, a reminder that if all went to shit he had a place to go. Beatrice had promised he could return and live the rest of life as Angel. He would be forever welcomed.
He bent over and slipped the paper into the Bible Beatrice had given him. That's when he noticed another small bottle there and picked it up. Sandy dirt in an empty glass soda bottle. Green glass. He twirled it, holding it up to the light. Saw a note.
He unscrewed the cap and took out the paper and swallowed hard at all the signatures of the sisters with little wishes and he could practically hear the whispers and giggles because this was kind of improper, their work acts of God and their names suggested vanity. He caressed the names, doing his own roll call, Beatrice's name printed in Maria's hand. He figured the soil came from the garden. He carefully tucked the bottle away. Wiped away stubborn tears.
No, no, he never felt like this before and he couldn't even name what he felt. See, the convent spoke to Todd and Todd was a broken soul, would always be a broken soul and unearned kindness was the thing that brought him to his knees except right now… he needed to be the monster. He needed to be Blanco, the bastard separate being Téa believed in so deeply, like Jed, the way Jed believed, that she shot him, would have killed him if it wasn't for R.J. Gannon.
But goddamn… he didn't feel like a monster right now.
The announcement boomed across the waiting area and everyone started gathering their stuff and Todd's stomach jumped because in less than two hours he'd be facing the biggest hurdle… fucking United States Customs and Border Protection.
Todd re-settled into his window seat after a visit to the bathroom. The two young women in the aisle and middle seats were re-buckling themselves. They were 15 minutes from beginning their descent and then they'd be landing in Miami. Todd looked out the window and saw nothing but the blue of a seemingly unmoving ocean.
He had tried to catch a few winks but turbulence made it impossible. He didn't much mind it but the young woman next to him very much minded and she grabbed the seat in front of her and when she did he saw cuts all up and down her wrists. Repeated thin lines from a razor blade. A cutter. That usually came from trauma. Learned that from all the hospitals he'd been in, learned what he did with the cigarettes was another form of cutting. Had a hard time looking away.
When the shaking stopped she realized how visible her forearms were, the sleeves having slipped up. She sat back and put her sleeves back in place. She couldn't be more than fifteen or something and she kept trying to pull those sleeves down. Clearly wished she could disappear.
Todd finally put his hand on hers, saying automatically, thoughtlessly, in Spanish, "It is who you are. It is okay. No shame."
Letting her go, he then put his left hand on the armrest, palm up, and pushed his own sleeve up, revealing the burn marks he'd done to his wrists that had permanently scarred. Heroin track marks followed, dark markings in between tattooed tadpoles. Slipped the sleeve further down and the beginning of his psychotic break showed up. He gazed at her as she delicately touched the scars, the barest of touches.
"It does not matter what people think," he said quietly. "You are a survivor. You do not have to hide the injuries."
She looked at him sorrowfully, seeming to recognize a kindred spirit, and then nodded. Todd fixed his sleeve, returning to watch the water coming up fast. The pilot came on and announced their imminent landing.
The girl tapped his arm and when he turned, she asked, "Have you visited Miami before?"
He shook his head, looking at her again, "No, have you?"
"No, I am here to visit my aunt while my mother tours the states. A month I will be here. I left my friends. I did not want to come."
"It's exciting, I think. I want to see if the clubs are like in Havana."
She laughed, "Nothing is like Havana."
"You are probably right."
After a few minutes of more ocean-watching, he felt another tap on his arm. He turned and she asked quietly, "What did you survive?"
Too many words required. The question was huge and provoked a dispute as to whether or not he survived. Did he?
"Monsters."
That resonated. Asked, "How do I kill them?"
"Tell the truth about them. To the strongest person you know. The most powerful…"
She nodded yet again. They didn't talk anymore. He knew what he said. He implied she should tell another monster.
What are their names, mari? Tell me.
The plane landed and rolled into the bay to disembark. He hoped Abram was ok. Another layer of scrutiny but Pedro suggested it was the opposite… more chaos… less chance of getting spotted. Guaranteed there'd be numerous wealthy ladies trying to get their babies out of quarantine.
If you get there.
The girl stood up, smiled thoughtfully, waved goodbye, and scooted away with a family member. He hoped she could get to the right monster. That's all he could do.
Hope.
He moved over and stood to get his bag. His heart raced and he knew he had to knock it off or he was going to be responsible for his own fucking downfall. Be confident. Be a fucking Cuban national with a perfectly regular passport and visa and here on a tour. Be the goddamn monster.
Prison for a bombing.
Fuck!
He waited in the interminably long line for Customs, no special area for the chartered plane. When he'd flown back and forth before, he sometimes used Pedro's hired jet and the landing spot was different, fewer people, and he always picked low-traffic times. This was Saturday crazy.
He was legitimately anxious to get Abram but also crazy nervous all over again. Sick-nervous. He'd never done anything like what he was about to do. An officer passed by and Todd asked about his dog which he used as a cover for his on-fire nerves. Officer said in Spanish that the kennel was to the right, down the hall, follow the signs, once he got through Customs.
Todd purposely moved away from the charter plane tour group. Picked a line with a lot of British people. Didn't want any Cubans catching on that an American had a Cuban passport. Found himself studying the people, trying not to be obvious. He wondered if he'd see anyone he knew. Worried he would. Suddenly it dawned on him that Miami was probably the last place he should stay overnight. Too many Cubans.
Cubans mean MK.
Worry about that later.
That ain't nothin'.
He spotted the next step in this fucked-up journey, the REALLY hard part of today. The thing that sent him spiraling. Straight ahead lay the machines that were going to catch him.
Fingerprints and facial recognition cameras. Yeah. High-powered biometric technology.
Fucking hell.
Prison for a bombing!
He and Pedro talked about this. They could have avoided it by getting a smuggler to sneak him across the border using under-the-radar boats. Or get a raft and risk the sharks. The length of time getting across the ocean and risk of awful things happening made those impossible choices. Pedro also could have used his private jet and then smuggled Todd off the plane.
All those possibilities carried another problem: the only people Pedro knew to do the smuggling were gangland operatives who would have recognized dead Blanco. News would have traveled fast that the King was headed home. And that was no good because that would cause more chaos in an already chaotic environment.
This left fooling the machines as the better choice. It was the fastest way onto American soil but also the fastest way to prison.
Fingerprints were easy. He had silicon fingertips Pedro had his people make for him. They would work. All ten fingers based on computer-generated fingerprints. He'd put them on in the plane. He was okay with this. Not a problem. His people knew their shit. The prints would be of a person unrecognized by any system in the world.
The picture… that system had to be fooled as well. This wasn't as easy. Two things he did. First, he put a specialized shimmering lotion on his light beard that would trick the camera using light, misdirecting the camera about the shape of his chin and cheeks. Second, a silicon piece on the bridge of his nose that would once again trick the camera. This he also put in place before leaving the plane. His one bathroom trip. The young girl hadn't noticed anything so at least he knew the prosthetic didn't draw attention.
With those things in place, the resulting picture, like the fingerprints, would theoretically not get recognized by any system because that person did not exist.
Angel Victor was a country bumpkin from Cuba who had no life. He was entirely off the grid. If all went well, Todd Manning would still be dead and not caught crossing into the United States.
It should work.
This… is what had his nerves on fucking fire.
He moved up in line and soon faced the machine. He had to be very cool. Couldn't hesitate because innocent people have no reason to hesitate. He breathed and fumbled for the passport. He then placed it on the machine and it gave him the okay symbol. Great. He swallowed hard and now he needed to scan his fingerprints. He put his right hand on the screen. He hardly breathed.
The machine scanned his hand.
Got the ok symbol.
It asked for the left hand. He repeated the process. He held his breath as the scanner's light crossed the screen. Got the ok symbol.
Now the camera. A light went on and the screen directed that he get closer to the camera. He breathed in and slowly released his breath.
Tranquilo, Blanco, tranquilo.
He heard Raquel's voice in his head, his eyes watering.
Prison for a bombing.
Click.
Tears welled over with the purest fear he felt in a long time.
Prison for a bombing.
Prison for a bombing.
Another death.
Lots of different deaths, Jed.
The okay symbol flashed on the screen.
He huffed and felt all his strength roll out of his body. The machine would now be analyzing all that shit. He'd know when he got to the agent if the tricks worked.
Fucking hell.
He stumbled as he backed away from the machine and he grabbed up his passport at that. He was sweating. He picked up his bag and rubbed his face, wiping the stress-tears, the prosthetic bridge coming off. He stuffed it into his pocket.
Prison for a bombing prison for a bombing prison for a bombing.
As he stood in line once again, he reminded himself of why he was here.
Téa Delgado.
I'm tryna save your life, woman. Jesus fucking CHRIST.
Soon enough, he was at the desk and he was goddamn shaking with fear. Couldn't stop it, couldn't control it. He would soon know if the low-tech tricks worked.
He took out his papers, his passport. Handed them to the officer, a stern-looking man. In Spanish, clearly an American, he asked, "Pleasure or business?"
"A tour. To New York." He sort of smiled, not sure he smiled, sweat prickling on his neck and back. Then with a made-up accent, said in English, "Sta-choo of Leeb-air-tee!" He almost shouted in a kind of madness, wanting to scream the words in a Tourretic fit...
Prison for a bombing fuck shit cunt prison for a fuck shit bombing twat prison for a fucking bombing
FUCK!
"Okay, okay," the officer said. "How long are you here for."
"Two weeks."
"Where are you flying in from."
"La Habana."
"Are you travelling alone."
"With a group."
"Are they here."
"I am meeting them tomorrow."
"How much cash are you carrying."
"A thousand dollars?"
"Do you have anything to declare."
"No."
All memorized questions that didn't sound like questions.
And then… the officer looked at the computer screen and he got that same look the ticket attendant got. Looking closely at the passport. Looking at Todd. Looked at the screen. Clicked keys on the computer.
Todd interrupted him, "I am worried about my dog. I want my dog."
The officer looked up, "Dog? What dog?"
Getting a stricken look on his face, "I brought my dog on the plane. Please… where is my dog?" Added accented English. "Please?"
Another officer must have seen the distress on Todd's face, heard it. Clearly understanding him, she said, "He traveled with a dog. He's asking where he can retrieve it." No accent. Todd kept his eyes on the first officer, pretending not to understand that she was referring to him. He could hardly breathe.
Prison for a bombing fucking shitting cunting prison fuck for a fuck shit bombing.
Prison for a bombing.
FUCK!
"My dog?" He repeated to the first officer who still had a fucked-up look on his face as he studied the passport and the screen. "Please, sir, sir, where is my dog?"
The first officer looked at Todd and then said to the other officer, "My Spanish is sort of crap so can you tell him?"
She nodded and then moved closer to Todd. "Sir? Your dog is safe. As soon as the paperwork clears, you can pick him up. The kennel is down the hall. Over there. See?"
Heavy American accent. He was relieved. She wouldn't hear his accent most likely. But they both might hear his admission.
Prison for a bombing fuck prison goddamnit horseshit prison bombing Havana prison bombing fuck shit horse dick hell!
FUCK!
He looked at her as earnestly as he could manage.
"Thank you… to the right? There?"
"Yes, the kennel." Then she said the word in English. "Kennel."
"Ken-nel," he repeated with his made-up accent. As if he was learning that word for the first time.
FUCK!
The officer shrugged, distracted enough. Said to the other officer. "Does this picture look like him?"
Todd froze, his lungs actually seizing. His heart pounded against his chest, the pulses banging in his head, loud as fuck. He glanced down instinctively to hide his face but he knew that was like pulling out a gun but he had to do something because he felt all the blood drain from his face and pool in his bladder and he thought for a moment he might piss himself. He breathed.
Tranquilo, Blanco, tranquilo.
Prison for a bombing.
Prison for a bombing.
Fuck hell horseshit twat!
FUCK!
He breathed and worked to keep his expression the same as it was seconds before they mentioned the picture, yeah, he was concerned for the dog, looking at the officers and not his passport that lay open on the desk like a frog awaiting dissection because of course he wouldn't understand what the guy just said. He chewed his thumb nail and studied the hallway, whispering, "Ken-ell, ken-ell."
The female officer shrugged at the first one, "Of course. Look at the scar. Same scar. Of course it's him. The cameras are perfect." She then said in her Spanish, "Sir? Have you ever left Cuba before? Visited other countries?"
Todd shook his head, his voice caught in his throat.
"See? He's not in the system. It's clean."
Todd swallowed, gazing back at that hallway, craning his neck, trying desperately to see down that hall where his dog would be. "Ken-ell?"
The second officer smiled, "Yes, the kennel. Your dog is there. Show them the papers for the dog."
The first officer then gave up the closer look. Glanced at the massive line of people behind Todd. "Okay, you're cleared." He handed Todd back the passport. In his very accented Spanish, said, "Welcome to the United States. Enjoy your stay."
Practiced phrase. Just like those questions. Says the phrases over and over again.
Prison for a bombing prison for a bombing prison for a—
Not today, bitch!
Todd stuffed his papers into the bag, making like he was too anxious to get to his dog to say a thank you and hoofed it down the hall, heading towards the kennel. Sweat rolled down his back, tee-shirt sticking to him like glue, wet like he'd just run a marathon. Saw a bathroom… went in… saw a free stall… jumped on that… slammed the door closed... locked it… dropped his bag… spun on his heels and…
… vomited whatever was left of that sandwich and water.
Oh my fucking GOD.
He made it.
Holy SHIT.
Thank the goddamn Lord.
He spat the last of sour saliva into the bowl and leaned back on the bathroom's metal wall, tears forced out and rolling down his cheeks, shaking like crazy. Panting, he reached for the saint on his neck and pressed the bit of imprinted metal with his fingers.
There are all kinds of deaths, Jed.
Todd passed the papers to the attendant in the kennel, papers impeccable, and in less than ten minutes, he saw his pup pulling on the leash and happy. When they brought him through the door, Todd dropped his bag and squatted down and hugged his dog as tight as he could. He could have cried right then and there.
A few feet away, Todd heard the attendant say to someone. "I always love when they pick up their babies." She was clearly touched by his loving up of Abram…. except she had no idea that she just gave "baby" to a goddamn border-jumping terrorist that blew 13 pedophiles to Kingdom Come. The king of Hell… resurrected.
He then took a breath, tore away from Abram, and picked up his bag. The two walked out of the kennel, and when they hit the sidewalk outside the building, Todd couldn't deny he felt kinda invincible. He smiled and closed his eyes to the sun a few moments, thinking of the Cuban sea cooling his hot bare feet.
See ya, suckas!
He was too drained to go very far. Miami motel it would be. He walked to the rental place for a car that would take him up the coast. He looked at grinning Abram and asked him in English because he no longer needed to play a Cuban national on TV, "What kinda wheels you want?"
The kid behind the counter got on his toes and looked at the black pitbull. The kid smiled. "He needs a Jeep. Top down. Head out the window."
"Let's do it."
Todd paid the fee and paid for insurance. Asked the nice guy behind the counter to help him find a motel that took dogs and was on the beach. Kid did exactly that. Found a two-star place called Miami Palms. Gave him a map.
"Take that tram over there. It'll take you right to the lot."
He did just that. Took him a minute to remember how to drive and where the fuck he was on that map. But as soon as things got right in his head, Todd drove out of there with his American-forged driver's license. Yeah, one last piece Pedro got to hide Todd in plain sight.
Angel Victor was also an American.
Two hours later he was on a bed with a coin machine that could give him a massage and his dog snoring a storm right next to him. He sucked down the rest of the Coors beer and put the empty on the nightstand. Sniffed as he studied the burner cell phone he bought from the motel out in the lobby. It gave him an idea as to what kind of motel this was. The humidity reminded him of Baracoa. The pizza he chewed reminded him of a million other pizzas he'd been eating since he was five.
He dialed a number written down for him.
"Hello?"
"I'm here. I got through Customs."
Pedro Moreno dropped to his knees in his living room. Raised his eyes to the heavens. "Praise God, my son."
"Yeah. I got a car. I'll be there in two days. I'm staying the night in Miami."
"Yes, rest, eat." But also a warning. "Don't stay long. There are people in Miami—"
"I know. I'm leaving in the morning."
"Are you all right?"
"I don't know."
"I have cottages… on my property. One is ready for you."
Todd grew quiet. He had taken a huge leap in trusting Pedro to get him across the border. It worked. He was too worn out to think about hate. "Thank you," he said.
"I told you, I knew God would protect you."
"Gotta go."
He hung up. Looked up the other number and dialed. Jed whooped like he'd won the lottery when he heard his dad's voice. "Jesus fucking Christ, I can't believe you got through. Fuck!"
"I know. I'm still sweating. Anyway...I'll be at Pedro's place in two days. Probably get there in the evening so I'll call you, ok?"
"Yeah, yeah." He sighed and then got emotional. "I'm really glad you're here."
"Me too. Um… how's Téa?"
Too many beats of quiet.
"Jed? All okay?"
"You aren't gonna believe what she's doing."
"What." Couldn't control the growl.
"According to Gloria, Téa's meeting with Eladio Merced—"
"What?"
The phone got staticky, "Dad?"
"Jed?"
Then it went dead.
"Fuck!" Threw the phone against the pillows of the bed, forcing sleepy Abram to get off the bed to resume his nap on the carpet. Todd groaned, the world closing in on him. What… the… holy hell? What was his Delgado doing?! He knew that guy. Head of Los Muertos. He had the smallest run-in with him in Statesville and he was a real smooth fucker. He had to get home. Hell with the Miami motel. He got to his feet and… and…
... collapsed back down. Yeah, that wasn't gonna happen. Exhaustion made leaving an impossibility.
He picked up the phone and tried dialing Jed back but it wouldn't go through. Then he saw a text and clicked to read.
I gotta handle kids. Talk later. Love you.
He texted right back, Okay. I love you too. Later alligator.
Got back a, In a while crocodile.
He touched the screen, his heart squeezing at the idea that Jed was maybe with Lucia, Reese, Rose, raging Espie. He closed the texts. Stared at the numbers to make another call. He chewed his lip and pressed the back of his hand on his mouth. The number was in his head. One number he remembered. His windows were open and the ocean's roar filled him with a childlike wish to be home.
He dialed the numbers. Held the phone to his ear. And goddamn… she answered.
"Hello?"
He stopped breathing. Hit the mute because he had no control of the aching whimper that escaped. He hunched over and closed his eyes, shaking like mad.
"Hello?" She said it again, pausing.
He wondered if she knew it was him. Like before. Like when he was on the streets and heroin was everything. Tears rolled down his face when he heard her sigh.
"I don't know what game you're playing but I don't have time for this shit."
He wanted to respond. He wanted to say her name. He unmuted the phone because he wanted her to hear the sea, his heartbeat, his aliveness.
"Well, fuck you too," she said, her voice softening.
And that was that. Line went dead once again.
Téa stared at her cell… she had heard crashing waves, heard a hitched breath. Heard the muting and the unmuting. She pushed the phone away and it skidded off the kitchen table, past the box of ashes in front of her. Sipped her coffee. The house was quiet. Jed, back-stabbing Jedediah who spent a month chasing nothing but bullshit, took all the kids to get ice cream because she was spitting angry that he looked sun-kissed and strong and had hair like Todd's and loving hazel eyes when he said, "I'm sorry I hurt you by going there but I had to," sorry sorry sorry.
I hate that word, Delgado.
It took everything in her not to dump the ashes down the sink.
Fuck you… you left me, you fucking bastard. You left your family. You chose hell.
She huffed and coffee spilled and no matter how hard she tried to silence it, the memory of his voice still broke through. Another phone call. Long ago.
"Téa ... you hold me ... okay ... you tell me ... there's something ... beyond this ... that's here ... the hell ... okay ... I need to know…"
"Beyond what? Beyond ... you being alone?"
"Beyond all of it. Beyond life ... that when I die ... I won't hurt anymore ... you tell me that."
It took a long while for the soul-wracking tears to finally stop.
To be continued...
