Once More to Die Read online

  Sandy hunched farther over her keyboard than seemed possible.

  Linda said, “I’m sure you’ll out maneuver them all, Suzie, you always do. Anyway, so the Border Patrol and Customs slaps on a red alert after the young lady in question had cleared both sides of the border.”

  “I feel a lot more secure with them in charge,” Suzie said.

  “To continue,” Linda said, ignoring her sarcasm, “a couple of hours later, and maybe only coincidentally, the vehicle entry area of the U.S. border. All hell erupts. This is the current feed.”

  Several officers were standing aside with spent fire extinguishers and three firemen were spraying foam on a burning van in the center of a sea of vehicles, all empty and stopped. Obviously, the fire truck couldn’t get any closer because of the stalled cars and Suzie could see no fire truck. Somehow oddly this disappointed her. She’d always loved fire trucks and their machinations. Whoever figured out the internal plumbing and workings was a genius—though she suspected, like many other things modern, that the contemporary fire truck was merely the tip of the evolution of that particular animal.

  “Now run it back, Sandy,” Linda told her. The scene unfolded backwards too fast to follow as the feed reversed.

  Then they watched as traffic inched forward innocently. Finally, a van she recognized came into view.

  “Watch the motorcycle operator, not the van.”

  Fascinated, Suzie Q observed a figure in a bulky denim jacket and helmet with a full-darkened faceplate. As the line of cars moved jerkily, she guessed the rider was female from her motions. “You’re saying that’s María Elena?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Oh, believe me, I can tell,” said Linda.

  “I don’t know if I like that,” said Suzie Q.

  “Put your guns away, Suze, it’s okay.”

  “Sandy,” Suzie asked, “do you think that’s our girl?”

  “I can’t tell, Ms. Quantrell.”

  “I’m sure,” said Linda. “Watch.”

  The camera angle was such that they couldn’t see what the rider was doing, but she lighted a cigarette and Linda sighed jealously. María Elena’s arms and hands moved and Suzie noticed the hanging scarf was gone. “Back it up until that scarf appears on the handlebars,” she ordered.

  Obediently, Sandy did so. “She’s dipping it into her gas tank,”

  Linda glanced appreciatively at Suzie. “You still got it.”

  Suzie knew when she was being schmoozed. “Back to the cigarette part.”

  Sandy fast-forwarded until they returned. They watched her move a little and light the scarf. They watched her warn the occupants of nearby vehicles. They watched her pull even with the van and flip the cigarette into it. The watched her weave her motorcycle in front of the van and do a wheelie to jump a traffic island and speed out of the picture. They watched the flames shoot out of the gas tank opening. They watched the occupants run. They watched panic ensue. They watched the explosion. They watched until the scene returned to a live feed.

  “You know that’s our girl? For sure?” Suzie asked Linda.

  “I do.”

  “How?”

  “It ain’t easy since she’s sitting in these pictures and you gotta ignore above the waist on accounta the jacket, but I recall the Orlando airport video. Ankles the same. Great legs, even in jeans. Hips. The way she holds her head high. The precise movements. And, most of all, in Orlando she was favoring her left shoulder from some kind of injury. In the current video, you can tell her shoulder has mended, but she still faintly and subconsciously favors it.”

  “What’s it mean?” Suzie asked.

  “Means she, at least, was last seen in Nogales, Arizona on this day.”

  “Why is she there?”

  “Dunno, Suze. I expect she’s found a place to hide out.”

  “I concur,” said Suzie. “So why is she tempting fate by crossing the border and returning? She knows they have her on all kinds of lists so we can track her. It’s a big risk.” She paused and thought. “Okay, how often does a high profile fugitive cross the border and then return shortly thereafter?”

  “Drugs?” asked Sandy.

  “Yep,” replied Suzie Q. “Legal or illegal. That would explain the fireworks. She could have thought they would search her and diverted attention.” She considered for another moment. “In reality, it could be anything. She could be meeting someone; buying ID; arranging something; looking for information. Anything.”

  “I think she has a sixth sense,” Linda said. “She knew they’d be on the lookout for her in particular.”

  “And why is she hiding from us, too? She knows about JTF 13, though you and I’ve never met her. We’ve dealt with the old man and now Don Diego.”

  “I’d have liked to meet her,” said Linda.

  “The day’s already bad enough and here you go pining after María Elena?”

  “Not really. I simply find her attractive.”

  “Humpf.”

  “But Suze, this is where you earn your big bucks. What do we do? What do we do if we find her? What do we do if someone else finds her? Like those marshal guys or Border Patrol or anybody?”

  “Don’t know, Linda. We’ll interrogate her and find out exactly what the hell is going on.”

  “I fear we’re gonna have to do something before that event, if it does happen.”

  “Yeah. I’m working on that,” Suzie said. “You have the full resources of the Arizona branch of the FBI working on this?”

  “We do, and they’re not happy. They’re overwhelmed these days with drug stuff and murders and kidnappings. Phoenix is the second highest kidnap frequency after Mexico City nowadays.”

  Suzie turned to go back to her office.

  “Ms. Quantrell?” said Sandy.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s a Byronic hero?”

  Suzie smiled, the first time today. “It’s from Lord Byron and his writings. The dark character is mysterious, he’s flawed, he’s cunning, he’s an outlaw of sorts, he hates people who have power over him, yet he’s world-weary.”

  “Mr. Atkins is all those things?”

  Suzie Q shrugged. “Beats me. I suspect he’s some or all of those things and more. We don’t know anything about him—other than he’s killed maybe nine or ten people since all this started, even though those people likely needed killing a lot. Usually by the end of the piece, this Byronic hero has a good heart. There’s stuff about sexual dominance and bipolar crap, Freudian stuff, which don’t really fit in this modern world.”

  “If he’s even in the game any longer,” Linda said. “Last guess, he was in San Antone.”

  Sandy said, “He sounds like a real hero.”

  “Not if he’s dead,” said Suzie Q.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: HER

  María Elena sped toward the hidden cabin. She had to force herself to slow down since she was raising a small dust trail. As Tommy had taught her, when she was within a mile, she stopped and turned off her engine and got out to listen.

  Nothing, just hot wind.

  She resumed driving and drove past the cabin looking hard, then turned around and returned to the cabin, parking so that the SUV was pointed outward. No use in a quick escape if you had to back out of where you parked.

  For a moment she breathed deeply. Her body cried for sleep. She got the hideout revolver from under the front seat.

  Wearily, she dismounted and walked around the outside of the house. She peaked inside and saw nothing out of place. She slipped inside the back door. It would be difficult to hide someone in the one bedroom cabin. As she’d learned, the first thing she did was return to the SUV and hid the pistol under the seat again. Then she went back inside using the front door. This constant paranoia was almost to the point of obsession. But, she observed, it had kept Tommy alive and well for years and even this day, it had to have saved her ass. God, she was tired.

  Tommy was still in bed, to
ssing and turning, and the fever had not broken. She got some water and forced him to drink and swallow the first tablets. Ordinarily, she could figure the number of milligrams of chloroquine per kilogram of weight, but she relied on the lady pharmacist. The first couple of days were the most important. She forced him to drink the entire glass of water. That woke him somewhat and she dragged him into the bathroom and then back outside to the shower. While his fever was still going, she had to keep cooling him off.

  She stripped down to her bra and panties again and held him under the water. Then she dried them both off again and took him back inside. She reflected she was going to have a lot of laundry to do. She changed into her pajamas and sat on the bed alongside him and bathed his forehead and chest with a cool, wet rag.

  She awoke with a start. She was sitting beside Tommy on the bed with a wet rag in her hand and she was oh, so tired. Her eyes were crossing and she felt nauseous. Malaria was mosquito carried and therefore was not contagious. She told herself that and repeated it. She realized she was at the end of her rope. She elbowed Tommy aside a little, and fell alongside of him. In thirty seconds, she was asleep.

  In six hours, she woke because Tommy was tossing and turning and had laid his left forearm under her breasts and was gripping her rib cage. She checked the time. Strangely, she felt refreshed. She heated up some broth and fed it to him. He was conscious, but not completely aware.

  Finally, he slumped back. His eyes roved and clouded over and he fell back asleep.

  María Elena rummaged around for something to read. She glanced at Tommy guiltily. She’d known this moment would come since he refused to tell her about the book in his duffel. The stuff from his duffel was stacked neatly on a side table. She found the book and brought it to the chair she’d put beside the bed.

  Kipling? The Portable Kipling? He was concealing a book of stories and poems by Rudyard Kipling? Tommy did some strange things, but this was weird. Why the secrecy? Maybe he was screwing with her? She wouldn’t put it past him, not at all. “Gunga Din” had always been one of her favorites. She sat back and read it. She’d always liked Kipling, his words rolled off your tongue. When she was done, she started thumbing through the book, but not far. In fact, the poem just before “Gunga Din” was called “Tommy”. Uh, oh, this was too much of a coincidence. And in the space below the poem, there was some handwriting.

  She started reading the poem, but it was so mesmerizing, she started over and read it aloud.

  I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,

  The publican ’e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”

  The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,

  I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:

  O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;

  But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,

  The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

  O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.

  I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

  They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me;

  They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,

  But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!

  For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;

  But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,

  The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,

  O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

  Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep

  Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;

  An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit

  Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.

  Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?”

  But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll,

  The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

  O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

  We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,

  But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

  An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,

  Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;

  While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,

  But it’s “Please to walk in front, Sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,

  There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,

  O it’s “Please to walk in front, Sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.

  You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:

  We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

  Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

  The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.

  For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”

  But it’s “Saviour of ’is country” when the guns begin to shoot;

  An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;

  An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

  And written by hand in bold black ink immediately below the body of the poem:

  But it don’t matter, when the shootin’ begins,

  They send us out once more to die,

  They send us out once more to die.

  Kill this one they tell me,

  Kill that one they tell me,

  But I ain’t never killed nobody,

  Nobody who didn’t need killin’.

  They send me out once more to die,

  They send me out once more to die.

  T. Atkins

  The Everglades

  2012 AD

  “You read beautifully, college girl.” He was lying on his side, eyes open, watching her intently.

  For a moment she couldn’t speak. What was wrong with her? Well, maybe, she told herself, you are not used to staring into the open soul of a killer. Could it be that he had been secretive about this Kipling because it reflected his own soul? She decided that maybe now she was beginning to understand the man.

  “It’s…wonderful…and touching.”

  “It’s a fucking poem.”

  “That’s what Kipling’s Tommy would say. Could this be the genesis of one Tommy Atkins in this room right now?”

  “If that’s what you want to believe.”

  She handed him the ever-ready glass of water. “Drink.”

  She didn’t want to become emotional over this discovery. But it showed where he thought he fit in the world. The every-man soldier, military or civilian, it didn’t matter. Or maybe that was just what he was comfortable with.

  She mused on the theme. “You’re not just another trooper, Tommy. You’re special. You’re unique. You are not just any soldier in any war. Certainly not in this day and age. You don’t fit the world very well, but that surely was and is to my advantage.” She realized she was talking from her own viewpoint; this was starting to make her uncomfortable. Jesus and Joseph, get over the philosophy queen crap.

  “You went to college too long,” he told her and rolled over on his back. He held out the empty glass for her to take from him. “Here. It’s not an everyday glass, it’s unique and special.”

  “Yes, Tommy.” She took the glass.

  “Read it again, Florence.” He popped his right eye open and looked at her. “Please?”

  She did so softly and he was asleep before she finished.

  As she watched Tommy snore lightly, she reflected that it had been a good thing they were here, alone
and in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona when he had his malaria relapse. Suppose they’d been running from motel to hotel, stealing cars and switching tags? She wasn’t sure she could have handled that.

  María Elena almost wished they could stay here forever. She didn’t want to face the future. It seemed all elements were aligned against the two of them, including earth, wind and fire. She smiled to herself when she thought that there was nobody left, no agency, no people, and no group, which wasn’t searching for them with lethal intentions.

  But right now none of that mattered. The only thing significant in her world was that Tommy had begun to recover. A strange feeling washed over her as she realized how really scared she’d been.

  She leaned forward and took his hand and wrapped both of hers around it. She sat there for a long time without moving.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: HIM

  A week later, Tommy was on his feet and well rested. But he continued to be weak.

  They sat at the kitchen table eating chicken cooked over a mesquite fire outside.

  “For a man, you cook well,” said María Elena.

  “For a woman, you sure eat well,” said Tommy.

  She favored him with a smile.

  “I been on my own my whole life. I cook, clean, do laundry.”

  “You’d be a real catch for some woman.”

  “You betcha, Florence Nightingale. You proposing?”

  “Well, what’s in it for me?”

  He grinned. “A life of leisure and entertainment.”

  “I must say since I met you, Tommy Atkins, I have been entertained to death almost daily. Only in the last few days have I encountered the leisure part. I’ve even learned stuff from you.” She wiped her mouth daintily, then grabbed another piece of chicken and took a big bite.

  “So, what have you learned?”

  “How to drive, how to live in the mirror when I drive, how to think in a crisis, stuff like that.”

  “So, Florence, how’d you come up with the chloroquine?”

  “So, Tommy, how’d you, ah, liberate yourself from federal custody?”

  “The chloroquine connection?”

  “Yep. You gotta tell me first.”

  “Sure thing, Flo. I was stuck in the pen for a long time. It was a state penitentiary outside of Tampa while I was waiting for police investigation and trial. Feds already tried and convicted me. I think the feds didn’t mind since they were overcrowded and would’ve had to pay a lot of back and forth transportation. Florida was making money housing federal prisoners. Then I had a malaria relapse. They sent me to the infirmary, sort of a mini-hospital there. A year or so later, it happened again. Remember, my work assignment was there in the medical unit. It’s amazing if you keep your nose clean and you got any kind of intelligence, you can get an easy job. Anyway, I had one of the screws primed. I had already told him the combination of one of the self-storage units and he’d gone there and was a hundred grand richer. He helped me.”