Chapter 9

 

Monday, January 18th, - Friday, January 29th, 1993

 

 

     Rick left Carson Baily's house that night as quietly as he'd entered it, though considerably quicker.  He estimated he hadn't miss the Bailys' killer by more than a half an hour.  He briefly wondered if the car he'd hidden from could have been driven by the murderer. 

 

     Rick made it back to his truck without further incident.  He didn't call the police when he arrived home.  He didn't even call Abby.  He knew the Bailys would be found sooner or later.  He didn't intend to be questioned as to why he was in their home, nor did he have the desire to be implicated in their deaths.  If what Jose said was true, then Carson Baily got exactly what he deserved.  Rick's only regret was that Mrs. Baily had been murdered as well.  More than likely she was guilty of nothing more than being Baily's wife, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

 

     Rick paced the floor of his houseboat in frustration during the early morning hours before dawn.  He recalled in stark images the murdered couple.  His best hope of getting answers regarding A.J.'s whereabouts was lying in silk pajamas with a severed neck.  Unfortunately, as the old saying went, dead men tell no tales.

 

     Two days later, Carson and Jeanette Baily were found by their youngest daughter.  The woman had grown worried when she was unable to get a hold of her mother by telephone after repeated tries.  

 

     A week after the Bailys' bodies were discovered the La Jolla police were still working with few clues.  They knew the house had been entered through the French doors, and that someone had hidden in the shrubs along the south side of the home because the bark was disturbed.  Other than that, they'd been unable to recover so much as a single fingerprint.  Nothing had been taken nor disturbed that the Bailys' daughters were aware of.  None of the neighbors had seen or heard anything suspicious.  And the extremely odd thing was, as far as the police were concerned, was that no one seemed to know what Carson Baily did for a living.  According to his neighbors he was one of the nicest men around.  The neighborhood kids had an open invitation to use his pool, and if you asked him to borrow a hammer he'd more than likely show up at your house and fix whatever needed fixing himself.   But when questioned as to what the man did that afforded him such a sumptuous four thousand square foot home in ritzy La Jolla no one seemed to know.

 

     According to his daughters, Baily traveled a lot and always had.  If they knew more than that they weren't talking.  Rick guessed they probably did, in fact, know more, but were also wise enough to keep their mouths shut.  Not that Rick could really blame them for that.  More than likely they feared Eduardo Agilar as much everyone else did. 

 

     What the police themselves guessed Rick didn't know.  He suspected they figured Baily was into trafficking drugs, or employed by the mob, or maybe they even had contacts that tied him to the Agilar family.  Whatever the police thought there was no doubt they assumed Baily had gotten himself mixed up with the wrong people and had paid the ultimate price.

 

     Three days after the Bailys were buried, the body of an unidentified Hispanic man approximately twenty-five years of age turned up in a gully along Interstate 5.  He'd been shot once in the back of the head at point blank range. Rick normally wouldn't have paid attention to the small blurb on the news regarding the man's murder, but this time he took special interest in it. 

 

     Rick was now certain word had traveled to Eduardo Agilar that the details surrounding A.J.'s disappearance had been leaked.  The man found dead along the interstate was no doubt the compadre¢ who had been talking to Jose¢.  And Carson Baily had been killed to keep him from talking to Rick. 

 

     Rick didn't know if that meant Agilar knew Jose¢ had come to see him, or if Eduardo Agilar was simply covering all his bases.

 

     Whatever the reason, it made no difference to Rick.  Agilar was Rick's last hope of finding A.J.   If the man thought he could scare Rick Simon off, then he was sadly mistaken. 

 

     The day after Jose's compadre¢ turned up dead, Rick sat at his kitchen table with a map of Mexico spread out before him.  One evening very soon, he would feel the need to make another unannounced late night visit.

 

 

Chapter 10

 

November, 1992 - December, 1992

 

    

     In the three years Dominique Cascia had volunteered her time at St. Jude's Shelter, she had yet to run across a man quite like Jack.  

 

     The day after Malachi brought the blond to Dominique he immediately began working around the shelter to earn his keep.  Without asking anyone, or being given any instructions, he picked up a broom and swept the floors.  When he finished that job he got a bucket and mop out of the janitor's closet and cleaned the floors until they shined. Despite his janitorial skills, Dominique soon learned that Jack’s real talents were culinary in nature.  More often than not she found him in the kitchen when she went in search of him.  Soon the men who took their meals at the shelter were raving about the quiet blond dude who was, "One helluva cook.”  Among other things, Dominique began to wonder if Jack had been a chef at some time in the past.

 

     Unlike the majority of the area's homeless men who showed up to work at the shelter on only a sporadic basis, Jack was there every day from the time the sun rose until it set.  He willingly pitched in and did whatever job needed to be done.  Whether it was taking out the garbage, sorting laundry, or cooking, he never complained.  He simply did what was asked of him, or went in search of things that needed doing.   It was then Dominique began to realize he wasn't a man of the streets.  She got the feeling his daily work routine at the shelter was very important to him.  It seemed to provide him with a sense of security, and a sense of something familiar that he'd recently lost.  The nurse didn't know how she came to that last conclusion.  It wasn't as if Jack ever told her anything about himself.  It was simply the impression she got as he continued to show up promptly at eight a.m. day after day. 

 

     By the time November ended Jack had earned enough work tickets from the shelter to 'buy' himself a pair of tennis shoes, a light weight jacket that instantly replaced the old blue one with the broken zipper, a pair of jeans, and another shirt.  Jack's diligence caused him to accumulate tickets so fast Dominique teased him by telling him he'd soon have enough to buy the shelter out from under her church. 

 

     Two weeks after Dominique had first met the blond man she gave him a follow-up medical examination. The blood sample she'd given one of Mercy Hospital's lab techs showed an elevated white cell count, which was directly related to Jack's bronchial infection.  Other than that, everything was normal and she was thankful he showed no signs whatsoever of the AIDS virus.

 

     Dominique's subsequent examination revealed his ribs weren't nearly as tender as they had been, his lungs were clear, and his temperature normal.  Again she realized what an enigma this strange, quiet man was.  He was one of the few homeless men the shelter had ever provided medication for who actually took it when he was supposed to, and for as long as he was supposed.  Most of them ended up selling what Dominique gave them for what little money they could get for it.  The cash, in turn, went for booze or more potent drugs. 

 

     But not Jack.  He was different.  And as the weeks passed, Dominique found herself thinking about him on a frequent basis even when she wasn't at the shelter.  She often wondered exactly what circumstances had left him without a home and a family.

 

     As well, as the weeks passed the blond man began to open up and talk more.  By no means was he a chatterbox, and around strangers he said virtually nothing.  But at least with Dominique and Malachi he began to willingly carry on conversations.  He seemed to feel a degree of trust with them that he felt with no one else.  The frustrating thing for Dominique was that those conversations only pertained to the here and now.  Jack never revealed anything about his past, or where he'd come from.  When Dominique would ask about those things, such an utter look of panic and fear would cross his handsome face that out of pity she'd quickly change the subject.

 

     Therefore, as much as Dominique wanted to know more about Jack, she'd learned to accept him for who he was.  A kind hearted gentle soul, who seemed to be struggling to survive in a world foreign to him.  When she'd watch him from afar as he cooked a meal or swept the floors, she'd think again of the family she knew he must have somewhere and wonder how they could have abandoned him.  What could he have possibly done that would have caused them to turn their backs on him?

 

     The holiday season was rapidly upon Dominique that year.  Her full schedule kept her in constant motion.  She divided her time between work and the shelter as was her habit, but as well had to squeeze in Christmas shopping and attend the holiday parties to which she'd been invited. 

 

     Dominique didn't have to work Christmas Eve, so chose to spend it at the shelter. A number of parishioners from her church were doing likewise.  They tried to make the evening special for the homeless people who crossed St. Jude’s threshold on that holy night.  There were even a few women and children in attendance.  The ladies from the church served a turkey dinner complete with gravy, rolls, mashed potatoes, stuffing, vegetables, and homemade pies.  They fed more people than they did on an average evening, but that had been anticipated and no one went away hungry.

 

     There were two gifts each for the children in attendance, and a young priest from Dominique's church held a short service after the meal was finished.

 

     It was close to midnight when the kitchen had been put back in order and Dominique was gathering up her purse and coat from Father Papanek's office.  As she turned for the door she gasped in momentary fright.

 

     "I'm sorry," Jack apologized softly.  "I didn't mean to scare you.  I just thought...I thought that perhaps you'd like me to walk you to your car."

 

     Dominique smiled at his endearing shyness.  The way Jack stood in the doorway, with his head slightly bowed and his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his blue jeans, gave her the impression he was asking the prettiest girl in the class out for ice cream and was afraid she'd say no.    

 

     But Dominique had no intention of during down the gallant offer made by such a handsome gentleman.  "Thank you, Jack.  That's very kind of you."

 

     Jack helped the woman slip into her coat.  Not for the first time she wondered where he'd come by his ever-present manners.  Again, this was not something she ordinarily encountered amongst the indigent men she ran across at the shelter.  Nor was it something she ran across in an overabundance amongst the men she worked with, or dated.

 

     Dominique slipped the strap of her small purse over one shoulder and smiled up at Jack.  "I guess I'm ready to go."

 

     A few people from the nurse's church gave the woman curious glances as she passed by them with Jack at her side.  She paid no attention to the questions she could clearly read on their faces as she wished them Merry Christmas.

 

     The lateness of the hour, and the fact that it was a holiday, caused even this rough section of town to be unusually quiet and calm.  Thousands of stars were twinkling overhead.  One seemed to stand out from the others and shine with special brightness.  Dominique pointed upward in wonder.

 

"Look, Jack.  That star is just like the star that guided the wise men and shepherds to the manger."

 

     The blond man smiled down at her and saw the childlike rapture that shone from her face.

 

     When she caught a glimpse of his laughing eyes she gave his body a gentle bump.  "You must think I'm silly, acting like a kid over one little star.  It's just that I love Christmas.  It's a very special time to me."

 

     Dominique could hear the sadness in his tone when he said softly, "You're not silly.  Christmas is a special time."

 

     The nurse looked up at her escort, but he offered no more.  When they arrived at her car Jack seemed reluctant to say goodbye to her.  She felt so sorry for him, knowing that while she had a family awaiting her arrival, he would see Christmas Day dawn in a cold alley.  For like Malachi, the blond man rarely slept in the shelter.   As much as was possible, Jack seemed to have found a home in Beulah Land, and friends amongst the people who adhered themselves to Malachi like sheep adhere themselves to their shepherd.

 

     Dominique stuffed her purse underneath the front seat of her car, pocketed her keys, then locked the vehicle once again.  She turned and smiled up at Jack. 

 

     "I don't think I'm ready to go home yet.  Would you like to walk a little farther with me?  Just a few blocks from here the streets and storefronts are decorated with lights and ornaments."

 

     Jack smiled and nodded.  "I'd like that."

 

     The couple proceeded four blocks north where they crossed an invisible boundary that seemed to lead from one world to another.  No longer were the buildings abandoned and marked with graffiti.  No longer were winos passed out in alleys.  No longer were homeless men sleeping on grates, hoping to catch some warmth from the steam that rose up from below. This was the far edge of an area of the city where many of San Francisco's elite shopped.  The stores that lined the sidewalks only carried the highest quality of goods, and bore nationally known names. 

 

     Thousands of tiny white lights shone from every window.  The posts of the streetlights had been wrapped in red and white ribbons. Smiling Santa Clauses and busy elves beckoned from many a window.  Others were filled with miniature Christmas villages complete with trains and fake snow.  From somewhere overhead a sound system softly serenaded the couple with Silver Bells.

 

     As the pair slowly strolled down the deserted sidewalk, Dominique pointed out decorations or storefronts that caught her eye.  Sometimes she'd even make Jack chuckle softly as she ran ahead of him with the enthusiasm of an excited child.  She loved to hear Jack laugh, and he did it so rarely that when he had occasion to Dominique always stopped whatever she was doing and just listened.  At those times rather than laugh with him, the nurse found she wanted to cry for him.  She wished she knew what painful secrets this man was harboring.

 

     When Jack caught up to the exuberant woman it only seemed natural for her to slip her arm through his.  He must have thought it was natural, too, because he didn't pull away from her, but rather looked down and smiled.  They walked on a few more blocks before reluctantly turning around and heading back in the direction from which they'd come.  They crossed the desolate street and ambled on the opposite side so Dominique could peek in those shop windows as well.

 

     "Oh, jewelry," she gasped when she came to a window decked out in gold and red.  The lighted display was like a winter wonderland with mounds of snowflakes billowed around diamond rings, gold chains, and tennis bracelets nestled in red and green velvet boxes.  "I love jewelry.  It's my one and only vice."

 

     Jack was surprised.  He had never seen her adorned in anything but a wristwatch and the kind of inexpensive earrings and necklaces one buys at a discount store.  "Really?"  He questioned softly.  "I didn't know that.  You never wear much of it."

     The nurse had her nose pressed against the store's window.  Jack saw her shoulders shrug underneath the bulk of her coat.  

 

"That's because I can't afford it.  At least not the really expensive pieces.   But that doesn't mean I can't dream."  She slid along the smooth glass and pointed a finger.  "Oh, Jack, look.  Pearls.  They're my absolute favorite.  I've always wanted a string of real pearls."  Dominique turned her head to get a better look at the price tag with its tiny writing.  "One thousand dollars.  I guess that means Santa won't be putting those under my tree this year. They're a little too rich for both my blood and his."

 

     Jack looked down at her tiny form.  His tone was full of shyness and regret.  "If I could, Dominique, I'd buy them for you."

 

     Dominique slipped her arm through Jack's again, and for just a moment rested her head against the sleeve of his maroon coat.  It smelled so clean, as did the rest of him.  Dominique had come to learn he was fastidious about his appearance.  He showered and shaved every day at the shelter.  And even though his thick flaxen hair had grown to within an inch of his shoulders, it always held the faint pleasant scent of shampoo and was neatly combed.

 

     "That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me, Jack.  As a matter of fact, it's a better gift than the pearls ever could be."

 

     Jack didn't make a reply, but rather returned her soft smile when she lifted her head.  They strolled along in silence for a few blocks with Dominique lost in thought.  If she could only find out more about this mysterious, sad man she might be able to help him.  Jack's voice interrupted her musing. 

 

     "What time is your family expecting you?"

 

     "Whenever I get there.  Don't worry, they'll wait for me."  Dominique brought her wrist up and glanced at her watch.  "They'll just be getting home from midnight mass about now.  Everyone usually goes.  Even my two sisters who are married, along with their husbands and children.  Then my dad cooks a big breakfast for us before we all find places to crash around the house in order to catch a few hours of sleep.   When the sun is just beginning to rise so are my nieces and nephews."

     "How many do you have?"

     "Nieces and nephews?"

 

     Jack nodded.

 

     "My sister Mercedes and her husband Gerard, have two boys and a girl.  Justine and Tom have a girl and a boy.  The oldest amongst all the children is only five, so as you can imagine things are pretty crazy."

 

     Jack smiled.  "It sounds wonderful."

 

     "It is.  Someday I hope to have a few little ones of my own to add to the fiasco, as does my youngest sister Vanessa."

 

     The couple's walk was slowly taking them back to the dreary neighborhood the blond man now called home.

 

     "Jack?"  Dominique cautiously broached.  "What's Christmas like where you're from?  What kind of traditions does your family have?"

 

     For a brief second Dominique actually believed the man was going to answer her.  His mouth opened as if to form an automatic reply.  She found herself holding her breath in anticipation of finding out some small bit of information that might allow her to further help him. 

 

     And in that brief second, Jack saw the image of a man flash before him as clearly as if that man was standing in front of him.  He wore a cowboy hat, sported a moustache, and his eyes bore an ever-present mischievous twinkle.  Next came a woman.  A petite, fashionable lady in her late sixties with neatly coifed hair and a loving smile.  Just as the memories of that man and woman were about to slam to the front of Jack's mind, another image outran them.  A man with eyes that gleamed like a mad wolf's, and with a smile as cold as a rattlesnake's who told Jack he'd better never remember.  Who told the bruised and battered man as he was shooting something in the vein in Jack's right arm, that he'd better never tell anyone who he was or what had happened to him, or that man with the mischievous twinkle and the woman with the loving smile would be killed.  They'd both be tortured and killed, and it would be all Jack's fault.

 

     For just a moment Jack wondered why the deaths of two people he didn't even know should matter so much to him, and in that moment another part of him threatened to surface.  A part of him that he knew had, at one time, gone by another name and lived in another place.  Perhaps another part of him who at one time had known those two mysterious people that so often haunted his dreams at night. A part of himself that Jack instinctively knew was best forgotten. 

 

     A part of himself that Jack truly felt was better off dead.

 

     "Jack?"  Dominique hailed the man in a quiet, worried tone. 

"Jack, are you okay?  Jack?"

 

     The blond man gave his head a slight shake.  His eyes were momentarily vacant.  When life returned to them his words were softly muttered.  "Yes.  Yes...I'm fine."

 

     "Are you sure?"

     "Yes."

 

     "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to bring up...painful memories."

 

     Jack's words were spoken so quietly Dominique almost didn't hear them.  "Don't worry about it.  There are no memories."

 

     The nurse knew that wasn't true.  She had seen the memories all over his expressive face for the few seconds his mind receded to wherever it was his thoughts had traveled.  She was sure she'd seen memories of a place he called home, and maybe even memories a family there who loved him.  Then she mentally scolded herself for her wishful thinking.

 

     Don't be so foolish, Dominique.  You're only seeing what you want to see.  You have to face it.  Jack is just like all the rest of the homeless men you've encountered over the past three years.  Yes, so maybe he keeps himself cleaner and far surpasses most of them when it comes to his work ethic, but the fact of the matter is he lives in an alley, and for all intents and purposes has no family.  Whoever those nameless people are, wherever they might be, they've evidently long-forgotten him.

 

     Dominique bowed her head and brushed at a tear with her free hand.  She didn't want Jack to see her crying for him.

 

     When they came to her car he waited while she unlocked it and climbed inside.  She hated to leave him, but her father would be waiting for her to arrive before starting breakfast.

 

     The idling engine broke the stillness of the night.  "I guess I'd better get going."

 

     Jack nodded.  "Yes, you'd better.  Your family is expecting you."

 

     She looked up into his blue eyes.  She wanted to cry all over again at the loneliness she saw there.

 

     "Jack..."

 

     "Yes?"

 

     A long second passed and then she shook her head.  "Never mind."   She reached up and briefly made contact with the bare hand he had resting on the upper portion of the car door.

 

     "Merry Christmas, Jack."

     She heard his, "Merry Christmas, Dominique," right before he shut the door for her.

 

     Dominique drove slowly out of the shelter's neighborhood that evening.  When she glanced in her rearview mirror she saw Jack walking away from her, headed toward Beulah Land.  She wished it really was a place of peace and rest for him, but in reality it was nothing more than a dirty alley where people with nothing and no one fought to survive another day. 

 

     As Dominique drove up the freeway entrance ramp and north to her parents’ home, tears rolled down her cheeks for the blond man she'd grown so fond of, but didn’t know how to help.

 

 

 

Chapter 11

 

Wednesday, February 3rd, 1993

    

 

     It was the first Wednesday in February 1993, and Cecilia Simon knew without a doubt her oldest son was planning something he didn't want her to be aware of. 

 

     For close to three full weeks now Rick had been preoccupied and quiet.  That last occurrence wasn't so unusual, Cecilia supposed.  Rick had been quiet ever since A.J. had vanished without a trace the previous March.  It was as if Rick's silence was his way of keeping inside the river of tears he was shedding on a daily basis for his beloved brother. 

 

     But the preoccupation was a new and added dimension to Rick's grieving.  As was his absence from his mother's life.  After A.J.'s disappearance, Rick had fallen into the habit of calling Cecilia every day just to see how she was and to tell her he loved her.  It wasn't unusual for him to stop by the house four or five times a week, as well.  But now the phone calls were slowly diminishing, and Rick's visits had suddenly returned to just Thursday evening's, when he knew his mother was expecting him for dinner.  This past Thursday evening he'd barely said two words to Cecilia the entire three hours he was there.  When she spoke to him, she generally had to repeat herself four times before she got a response.

 

     And now this.  Rick had shown up unannounced on her doorstep a few minutes before seven a.m. with Rex in tow.  

 

     "Hi, Mom.  Uh...listen, I'm sorry to give you such short notice and all, but do you think you could take care of Rex for a couple of days?"

     Cecilia, still in her nightgown and robe, opened the door wide and allowed dog and master to enter.  In the past she might not have been so gracious upon being disturbed at such an early hour by a wayward son with an odd request.  But A.J.'s disappearance had taught Cecilia to value whatever unorthodox reasons might bring her oldest son to her home.

 

     "Sure, honey.  Do you have an out-of-town job?"

 

     Cecilia could hear the hesitancy in his tone.

 

     "No...no.  Just uh...some business that I need to attend to."

 

     Rarely did Cecilia Simon ever question her adult children as to their private business, but for some reason she suddenly felt an urgency to do so.

 

     "What kind of business?"

     Rick's eyes momentarily fled from his mother's.  "Oh...just this and that.  It shouldn't take more than two days.  Three tops.  I won't be gone long."

 

     You're a lousy liar, Richard Simon.  You always have been where your mother is concerned.

 

     Rick's words grew distant as he walked away from Cecilia.  "So listen, I'll just leave Rex’s dog food and leash in the kitchen for you."  When the lanky detective returned it was to give his mother a quick peck on the cheek.  "Thanks again, Mom.  I'll see ya' in a couple of days."

 

     Cecilia's question stopped her son before he could flee across the threshold.

 

     "Where can I reach you if I need you?"

 

     Not once since A.J.'s disappearance had Rick gone anywhere without giving his mother a phone number where he could be reached.  Although with the arrival of the new year they had both privately given up hope of A.J. ever being found, it was still a habit Rick adhered to. 

 

     Rick chewed on his lower lip in the same manner A.J. always had when caught by his mother in a lie.  This was the first time Cecilia could ever recall seeing her eldest do that . 

 

"Well...uh...Mom, that's the thing.  I don't have a number to give you right at the moment.  I'm going to be...in and out a lot.  But it's not really important anyway, 'cause I should be back in a day or two."

 

     "Where are you going?"

 

     When she received no answer, Cecilia persisted.  "Rick?  I asked you where it is you're going."

 

     For a few seconds Cecilia didn't think Rick was going to answer her, and was rather surprised when he did finally speak up.

 

     "Mexico."

 

     "Mexico?  Did someone hire you for a job down there?"

 

     Rick's reply was spoken so softly Cecilia had to strain to hear it.  "Yeah...you might say that."

 

     Before his mother could ask anymore questions, Rick kissed her on the cheek again.  "Bye, Mom.  And thanks a bunch."

 

     Cecilia didn't know why a shiver raced down her spine, or why she suddenly feared for Rick's safety.

 

     To her son's retreating back she called, "Rick!"

 

     Rick had his fingers wrapped around the door handle of his pickup when he turned.  "Yeah?"

 

     "Be careful!"

 

     Even from this distance, Cecilia could see his smile.  "I will be.  And, Mom?"

 

     "Yes?"

 

     "I love you."

 

     Rick was already backing out of the driveway when Cecilia formed her reply.  "I love you too, Rick.  Oh, my precious son, I love you so much."

 

     Rick wasn't even to the end of his mother's block before Cecilia was picking up the phone and dialing Downtown Brown's office number in Los Angeles.

 

 

Chapter 12

 

Wednesday, February 3rd - Thursday, February 4th, 1993

 

 

     The oppressive heat of the day had evaporated rapidly as night descended on the Mexican desert.  A man with dark grease paint on his face, and wearing khaki colored fatigue trousers and a camouflage field jacket, made his way quietly over the uneven sand.  He carried his Magnum in one hand and left the other free.  This time there were no clouds to cover the moon, which was just as well as far as Rick Simon was concerned.  This time he needed the moon's light to guide him.

 

     The small Mexican city of Durango was four hundred miles southeast of Tijuana. When Rick arrived he rented a room at a small motel off the beaten path under the name of Ray Marlowe.  It didn't matter much to him that the air conditioning unit never cooled his room below eighty-five degrees, nor did it make much difference that a flock of chickens belonging to the manager squawked and scattered each time he walked outside.  There was a cantina close by where Rick could get a cold beer, an excellent enchilada, and where everyone seemed intent on minding his or her own business.  If anyone wondered why an American was this far south into Mexico, and such a distance from the normal tourist attractions situated all the way down the Pacific coast, no one asked. 

 

     The sun was beginning to set when Rick exited the bar and walked out to his pickup.  Within a few minutes he had left the city limits and was headed south.  Although Rick hadn't been able to pinpoint the exact location of the Agilar estate, he had a fairly good idea as to how to come damn close to it based on what Jose¢ had told him, and based on what he'd found out in subsequent weeks of investigation work.  He probably could have gotten more specific directions had he been willing to make inquiries in the bar.  But Rick had been afraid to do that for fear somehow news would race back to Eduardo Agilar that there was an Americano in the area who was asking suspicious questions about him. 

 

     Rick took three wrong turns and ended up in a sand dune once.  He thanked God for 4-wheel drive as he easily got himself out of that last predicament.  Overall, he wasn't in any great hurry.  If it took him until dawn to locate Agilar's estate so be it.  He'd simply return to his motel room, sleep the better part of the day, and complete his mission the next night.  Rick was so close to finally having some answers concerning A.J. that he wasn't about to blow it by being careless or impatient. 

 

     It was fifteen minutes after twelve a.m. when Rick turned off a sand packed road to travel a paved one.  He thought it was strange to run across a blacktopped surface out in the middle of the desert.  The realization suddenly dawned that he was probably on a private road.  And who else but Eduardo Agilar could afford a three mile long black top surface in this part of Mexico?

 

     Rick cut the lights on the Dodge and backed the vehicle up until he was once again on packed sand.  He wanted to find a secluded spot for the silver Ram truck that had replaced the Powerwagon a few years back, but didn't have much luck out in this barren part of the country.  He finally settled on pulling it over to the side of the road.  He hadn't met another living soul in the past hour.  Hopefully, his luck would hold.  If not, Rick hoped whomever ran across the vehicle assumed its owner had incurred a breakdown.  And he hoped whomever that person was, he or she didn't work for Eduardo Agilar.  To be on the safe side, the detective had already removed anything the truck contained that identified Rick Simon as its owner while he was still back at the motel.  The verification of insurance, registration, and other miscellaneous scraps of paper had been well hidden in his room. 

 

     It didn't take Rick long to smear the black grease paint on his face until only his light blue-gray eyes remained to identify him as a Caucasian.  He exchanged his Panama hat for his camouflage cap and reached under the seat for his gun. He had declared he had no firearms in his possession when entering Mexico.  He knew the boarder guards wouldn't search his vehicle unless they had reason to be suspicious.  He didn't give them any, so they simply waved him on through. It wasn't the first time Rick had thought he could give them a few pointers on how to better carry out their so-called jobs.

 

       Rick outfitted the automatic weapon with the loaded magazine and stuffed another one in the deep pocket on the left side of his field jacket.  In the pocket on the right went a variety of paraphernalia the detective thought he might need, that had been smuggled down in a tackle box including several short lengths of rope, a handful of bandana style handkerchiefs, three pairs of handcuffs, and his lock picks.  He clipped his flashlight to the waistband of his trousers. He debated whether or not to bring along the canteen he'd filled with cold bottled water right before leaving the motel.  He worried it would inhibit his movements, so decided to leave it in the truck.  The night temperature had plummeted with the setting sun and was hovering around fifty degrees.  For now Rick knew he wouldn't need the water.  And by the time the sun was bearing down from the desert sky broiling everything it touched, Rick planned to be long on the road home to San Diego. 

 

     Because it was quicker than treading sand, Rick hiked for two and half miles on Agilar's nicely paved road.   When he reached the perimeters of the estate grounds he left the pavement and stuck close to the eight foot adobe wall that surrounded the large house.  Rick heard not a sound as he approached the home's front gates.  He began to wonder if Eduardo Agilar had foregone keeping the isolated estate guarded with armed men, as his father had been fond of doing at the family's ocean-side estate in San Diego that had been sold a year after the deaths of Androu and Roberto.

 

     Just when Rick thought this might be as easy as walking through the open iron gates and right on into the dark house, he heard voices talking softly in conversational Spanish.  He ducked back around from the wide entrance he'd been about to sneak through.  He secreted himself in the corner where the adobe wall met a square adobe pillar, to which one half of the massive gate was anchored. 

 

     The men stopped and stood just on the other side of the wall from Rick.   They called each other by name while laughing and teasing one another about some senoritas they'd shown a good time up in Durango.  As the laughter and teasing progressed, Rick got the impression they weren't too concerned about their assigned tasks of guarding the estate.  For a moment, he worried the guards’ casual attitude meant Agilar wasn't on the premises.  Agilar's presence, or lack of, was a chance Rick knew he was taking when he embarked on his journey.  

 

     The detective immediately decided there was no use to fret about the issue one way or another.  If Agilar wasn't there, Rick would do everything in his power to find out where he was and then track the bastard down if it took until the end of his days on this earth to find him. 

 

     As men will often do when it's dark and they think they're alone, the guards gave away far too many secrets.   In a short amount of time Rick discerned Eduardo was indeed in the house, and had gone to bed several hours earlier.  They conversed further as to whom was off that night, leading Rick to believe that aside from these two and their boss, there was no one else on the premises.  Rick hoped he'd come to the right conclusion when the men finally moved away from each other and headed off in opposite directions.

 

     Rick waited a full five minutes before trailing the man who'd walked along the wall to the west.  Now he had every reason to hate the moon as he prayed it wouldn't throw his shadow across the sandy yard.  Rick hugged the wall and crept forward.  The guard was easy to see.  He was standing with his back to Rick, staring up at the night sky, seemingly a preoccupied stargazer. 

 

     It was that preoccupation that got him clipped in the head with the butt of Rick's Magnum.  Rick's left hand flew up and covered the guard's mouth so that his moan of pain wasn't echoed throughout the grounds as he crumbled.  

 

     Rick caught the thin guard's sagging body and dragged him over to the wall.  Again, a large adobe support pillar jutted from the smooth lines of the structure, making for fairly good concealment of Rick's fallen prey.  He made quick and efficient work of cuffing the unconscious man's hands behind his back and securely binding his feet together.  A bandana handkerchief was balled up and used as a gag.  Another bandana was tightly tied around the makeshift gag to hold it in place.

 

     When Rick finally stepped back and got a look at the trussed up guard he felt a small dose of regret.  The kid couldn't have been over twenty years old.  Hardly a worthy opponent for a man of Rick's vast experience.  But then Rick thought of A.J. and how this...kid, had very likely taken part in his abduction and the beatings that ensued afterwards.  If nothing else by virtue of being employed by Agilar this young guard had to have known what was going on. 

 

     You had to have known, and you didn't so much as attempt to help my brother, did you, you little son of a bitch. 

 

     That the young man might have been too scared to help A.J. for fear of Agilar's retributions over such an act mattered little to Rick.  His anger was burning deep inside like white-hot flames burn in the belly of an iron cook stove.  If Rick didn't need answers so badly from Agilar, he just might be tempted to kill the bastard the minute he set eyes on him.

 

     Rick turned from his unaware captive and went in search of the other guard.  As Rick expected he was at the opposite end of the grounds, but was not as easy to sneak up on.  Although no overhead lights illuminated the yard's desert landscape, the moon's glow revealed Rick's concealed movements.

 

     When the man turned to face him, Rick bent over at the knees and hugged the wall. 

 

     The guard squinted into the night.  The question he asked was spoken in rapid Spanish.  "Gustavo, is that you?"

 

     In what Rick hoped was a fair imitation of Gustavo's voice, he replied softly in the same language.  "Si¢, Rafael, it is me." 

 

     "What is wrong with you?  You do not sound well."

 

     Rick doubled up even farther and moaned.  "I'm so sick all of a sudden.  I do not know what has afflicted me."

 

     The shadow the massive wall cast was just enough to hide the fact that Rick was a good seven inches taller than Gustavo, twenty nine years older, and wasn't wearing anywhere near the same clothing as the young Mexican guard had been.  By the time Rafael realized that, he was in the same condition as his friend.            

     Rick approached the dark house with caution.  He didn't encounter any more guards, but was not positive as to what he'd find once he entered.  When finally secluded in the shadows of the house he looked up.  It was a large white stucco structure with a tiled roof Rick assumed was red in the daylight.  The three car garage sat at ground level, and no doubt housed expensive foreign cars.  Rising above the garage, as though built on top of it, was the house.  Rick would have to climb a set of stone steps to get to the wide landing that held the front door.  Windows that ran the length and width of the home's rooms surrounded the door, making Rick think twice about attempting to enter through it.  Although the house remained dark, he didn't want to take any chances that Agilar might be lurking somewhere near those windows with a bad case of insomnia.

 

     The lanky man hugged the cool stucco with his body and skirted around back.  There he found another entrance.  This one was at ground level and secreted far under an overhead patio.  It was a simple wooden door Rick guessed might lead into a utility room, or maybe even the back of the kitchen. 

 

     Despite the darkness he was cloaked in because of the patio above him, the skilled detective had the lock picked in less than a minute.  He reached under his jacket and snapped the flashlight from his waistband.  He waited until he'd entered the house to flip it on low. 

 

     Rick found himself in a tiny entryway no bigger than four feet by four feet.  If he walked up two steps to his left he would encounter another door he assumed would lead him into the main part of the house.  Straight ahead of him was a set of wooden stairs that led to the basement. 

 

     Later Rick would wonder what made him explore the damp, underground room.  It was dark and dank, and by the stale stench that wafted up to greet him he doubted anyone was down there.  He sure didn't know why they'd want to be.  But because he didn't trust Agilar any farther than he could throw him, and because he wasn't taking any chances on this night, Rick carefully descended. 

 

     For this outing Rick had worn a pair of rubber soled military style boots, and for that he was thankful.  Like tennis shoes, the boots made no sound against the bare wood of the steps.  When Rick's feet touched the floor he was on concrete.  He let his flashlight travel the basement.  He was rather surprised at its bare, unfinished state.  He didn't know what he was expecting, but from a family as wealthy as the Agilars he supposed a finished recreation room of some sort if nothing else.  But then who the hell did one entertain this far out in the desert?

 

     The concrete floor and cement block walls kept the room cool.  There were no windows, which Rick thought was a little unusual.  They'd spared no expense on windows for the upper stories. 

 

     As Rick circled the empty room he came to a door.  It was made of heavy metal with nothing but a one foot by six inch square opening near the top.  It reminded Rick of pictures he'd seen of doors that lead to dungeons in mediaeval castles. 

 

     Rick estimated the thick steel bar that lay across the door to be seven feet long.  It was secured with a padlock.  Rick holstered his Magnum, and with the aid of his flashlight and a thin pick, made quick work of sliding the lock open.  He slipped it out of the bracket it hung from and shoved it in his pocket. 

 

     Rick lifted the steel bar from its holder next.  He quickly had to shift position to compensate for its unexpected weight.

 

     Geez, this thing must weigh seventy-five pounds.

 

     Rick was careful not to let the steel bar bang against the steel door as he removed it.  Muscle strain caused him to bite his lower lip as he eased the bar down to rest on the concrete floor.  Its weight could easily through him off balance, sending both him and it down with a clatter guaranteed to wake the master of the house.    

 

     Despite Rick's caution the bar lightly hit the floor with an echoing 'ping,' making the detective think of how the high notes on a xylophone sound when struck with a mallet.

 

     Rick crouched over the bar and listened.  Above him all remained quiet.  He supposed the small sound made by the steel coming to rest against the concrete couldn't transcend to the upper floors.  It only seemed obnoxiously loud to him because of the way the 'pings' had been magnified while bouncing off the walls of the empty basement.

 

     Rick crossed the few feet to the metal door.  He depressed the thumb latch on that handle that held it closed.  The door opened without emitting a sound, leading Rick to believe it was fairly new, or the hinges were kept well oiled.

 

     Eight concrete steps descended further underground.  Rick's right hand reached for his gun once more.  When the butt was secure in his palm Rick began a slow descent of the stairs, allowing the flashlight to illuminate the way.  

 

     By the time Rick's right foot hit the second step he knew why a faint stench had greeted him above in the entryway.  Here the smell was overpowering.  There was the sharp, acid smell of ammonia, and the pungent 'bringing tears to your eyes' stinging smell of an unwash