“Let’s hope he shows. Any results back from the gator processing house?”
“Lab found traces of alligator blood that matched the blood found on the female vic’ hair. Liminol indicated human blood all over the damn place. Like the house of Frankenstein. The liquid in the stainless steel canisters is a combination of human glucose and water.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
Miguel Santana avoided a security camera at the gatepost by slipping under the fence. He blended with the long shadows as he approached the Brennen estate. He remembered the layout of the house. Little had changed. Except now, Josh Brennen had security cameras hidden discreetly inside the home.
Santana tried a side door. Unlocked. A very stupid thing to do. But the old man did stupid things. That was his way. Let the chips fall. Somebody else could sweep them away.
Santana closed the door softly and started toward the center of the house, more hidden cameras recording his movements. He could hear the television playing, the noise sounding like a war movie.
The old man was alone. He slouched in his leather recliner, feet up, a bottle of expensive scotch half gone. He watched a Bruce Willis movie, his eyes barely open.
Santana entered the room and stood there, observing. He could easily walk over and snap the bastard’s neck, look him in the eye, and watch him die. Or he could make it more spectacular. Maybe burn the mansion down. Let the ashes fall where they will.
Santana lifted the empty glass out of Brennen’s hand and stood there as Brennen’s eyes batted a few times before he was fully awake. He looked up. His mouth opened but there were no words, only a gurgling sound coming through vocal cords thick with mucus and sleep. He cleared his throat. “Who the hell are you? This some kind of robbery?”
Brennen started to stand but Santana pushed him hard on the chest. Santana laughed. He lifted the bottle, poured some scotch into the glass, and handed it to Brennen. He then stepped to the bar, got a second glass, and poured scotch into it. He walked back in front of Brennen’s chair.
Santana said, “Shall we toast?”
“Get the fuck outta my house!”
Santana smiled. He lifted his glass and said, “To you…and everything you are…Father.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Josh Brennen looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Where’s Richard?”
Santana laughed. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
“What’d you do to him?”
“Father, what makes you think I’d hurt a hair on the favorite son’s head?”
“What’d you want?”
“Nothing from you. I wanted something a long time ago, but you refused to give it. I wanted a name. I wanted a home. I wanted you to take care of my mother. She was one of the many young Latino girls you raped and spit on. You seemed to like her a lot. Made her your favorite. Raped her over and over until she got pregnant. She was seventeen. I know that she came to you for help. Not for her, but for her baby, your son. Me, Papa, me! And where were you when I was raped at age ten, Papa?”
“How much do you want?”
Santana backhanded Brennen across the mouth. Blood spilled down the old man’s face and into his two-day growth of white whiskers.
“You think I came here for money? You stupid old man! I learned how to make money. How to survive. I had no choice. You learn or you die. The streets of Guadalajara are where I got my education in people. Rich tourists. Corrupt police. My mother became a street whore. After you destroyed her spirit, she didn’t care about her body. She’d have sex with anyone for a dollar. Didn’t care if I was in the house or not. She made me hate her! You made me hate her! She died from AIDS, but mostly she died from abuse. Abuse started by you, Papa. When she died, she still had scars on her legs from when your contractors beat her with a fishing rod. I was thirteen when she died in the streets. I rode with the coyote into California. Lived in the barrios of south Los Angeles. Fought gangs. Stole. Learned. Survived. When I got to Florida, I came to find the man my mother had talked about when the drugs were making her crazy. I only wanted to see you…to talk with you. And I saw your true colors through the blood spilled and running into my eyes. Your blood, Papa!”
“Shut up!” Brennen screamed.
“No! You listen to me, old man.” Santana laughed. “I figured out how to get a scholarship and began medical school. Imagine, a doctor in the family! You could brag to your rich friends,‘my son the doctor.’ You must remember when I came to you. It was fifteen years ago. You had one of your men teach me a ‘lesson’ as you called it. He beat me so hard I still have problems in my head. You let him beat me, your own son, almost to death. And you stood there and watched. The last thing I remembered, before he kicked my teeth, was looking up at you, Father. Lying there in the mud and horse shit in one of your pastures, looking up at you and hoping you’d stop the man from hitting me. From hurting me, your flesh and blood! But all you did was stare, those eyes burning though me. Guess what, Papa? We have the same eyes. I see yours are covered in cataracts, but I remember when they had color. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, Father. But what if you have no soul? What do you see through those windows? You see hell. Evil can exist in many forms. When it’s inherited in the spirit, it can be disguised. And that’s the art to true evil. You’ve succeeded at it for years, Papa. Making people believe you’re just a good ol’ rancher. In reality, you’re a man who can slit the throat of a human as easily as lamb.”
“Shut up! Brennen said, throwing the scotch in Santana’s face.
“Oh, I know it’s hard to listen to Father, but it’s time you admitted it. I’m just like you, a man without a soul. That’s what you gave me. Like father…like son.”
“Like fucking hell! Get out!”
“You don’t give the orders old man! Pick up that phone by your side and call your other son up to the big house. We can have a little family reunion.”
“No!”
There was a slight noise in the foyer. Santana looked up to see Grace Brennen in her motorized wheelchair. He grinned, walked over to her and pushed the wheelchair in front of Brennen’s chair. Santana placed both hands on her neck. In a voice above a whisper, he said, “Call him or I’ll snap her neck. It’s a painful way to die. And you can sit there and watch it. Call him now.”
SEVENTY-SIX
Richard Brennen wasn’t sure what to think. The old bastard rarely called him to the house this late, and for no apparent reason. He sounded drunk, but then he always sounded drunk after 10:00 P.M. He entered through the side door that led through the kitchen. He picked a banana out of a fruit bowl.
As he rounded the end of the hall and stepped into the great room, he stopped. “Mother?” he said, dropping the banana at his feet. “Daddy, what happened? Did you fall?” Brennen approached his father just as Santana stepped out from behind an alcove.
“Greetings, my brother.”
Richard Brennen turned around to stare at a strange man with a pistol pointing at him. “Who are you?”
“I’m your brother.”
“Like hell you are!”
“I am. Our father is in denial, but he knows it’s true. True as the color of my eyes.”
Richard looked at the man’s eyes and then he looked at his father’s eyes. “Who is this? What’s this about? Some kind of half-ass blackmail? My opponent, Charlie Matthison, behind this?”
Santana laughed. “Half-assed blackmail? Come on little brother. I think larger than that. If I’d wanted to blackmail you, I could have sent these to your opponent.”