Payne could not be sure about any of these things. All he believed with absolute certainty was that if he did not rescue Marisol, within the hour she would be dead.
EIGHTY-ONE
The pain was a roaring fire, a welding torch applied to ribs and spine.
Marisol did not even try to struggle as Zaga squeezed the breath from her. She was facedown, Zaga on top of her. He shifted position, dug an elbow-sharp as a pickax-into her ribs.
Breath shot from her lungs.
Then a sharp jab in her lower abdomen.
The pruning shears!
In the pocket of her apron. The thumb lever that locked the blades now tore at her flesh through the thin fabric.
If I can get my hand under my body, I can grab the shears.
The cellar was lit only by the narrow beam of her flashlight, aimed above her head. She tried to judge just where Zaga's face would be in the darkness. Pictured herself plunging the curved blades straight through an eye. But his weight kept her pinned to the dirt floor, the shears trapped in place.
Zaga made a sound, a half laugh, half snort, as he ran a hand up the back of Marisol's right leg, tearing at the fishnet stockings.
"So they finally dress you like the puta you are."
His hand slid under the short dress and pulled at the elastic of the lacy underpants. "What do you think? One rapidito before you leave us?"
"Let me up, and I'll treat you good, Mr. Zaga."
Another snort-laugh. "Oh, you'll treat me good, but you'll do it facedown in the dirt. You and your precious almeja you don't share with nobody."
He slid a finger into the crack of her ass.
His phone rang.
Zaga adjusted his weight, reached into a buttoned pocket of his Western shirt, and pulled out his cell phone. He checked the LCD display and answered, "Sim, I was just gonna call you."
Marisol sucked in a breath, drawing in dust along with oxygen. Above her, Zaga was silent, listening. If he stood, she would have a chance to go for the shears.
"He did what? The bastard!" Shouting into the phone.
Another few seconds of silence.
"Sure, I know where she is. I got her right here. Bitch was trying to run."
Why is el jefe asking about me?
"Jeez, Sim. Why dirty your hands? I'll take care of her. Then me and Javie can go after Payne."
Another pause. Then, "Okay, okay. I know who's boss. And Sim, I'm sorry about those Elberta trees. I know how you felt about them. Jesus."
Zaga clicked off the phone and slipped it back in his pocket. "The boss got a hair up his ass. He wants to do you himself."
Zaga got to his feet, dusted off his jeans. "No use arguing with the biggest bull in the pasture."
He grabbed Marisol by one arm and slung her to her feet.
As she rose, Marisol grabbed the pruning shears from her apron. Her momentum carried her close to Zaga. She swung the shears in a tight, hard arc. An uppercut he didn't see in the darkness.
The curved blade buried itself in his neck, catching the cartilage just below his voice box. He gasped and made a choking sound.
Her thumb found the lever, unlocked the mechanism, and the spring-loaded blades flew apart, widening the wound.
A wet, gurgling sound bubbled from inside his throat. He staggered back a step, then wobbled to one side. She yanked out the shears. A hot breath of air whistled from the wound. Misting blood showered her face. She stabbed again, deeper into the soft tissue of his neck. She must have hit an artery. A gusher of blood poured over her.
His body spasmed and his legs buckled as if his spine had just melted. He dropped to his knees, like a parishioner in church. The rest of him followed, collapsing slowly and neatly, straight down, like one of those old hotels demolished by well-placed explosives.
Marisol stood there soaked in his blood, breathing hard, her body trembling. She was about to pick up her change of clothes and head through the tunnel door when the staircase lights blinked on.
"Mr. Zaga. You down there?"
The guard.
"Mr. Z. You okay?"
Barefoot and bloody, Marisol grabbed the flashlight, swung open the iron door and, flailing at cobwebs, plunged into the black hole of the tunnel.
EIGHTY-TWO
Wired and edgy, Sharon believed it would be a sleepless night. She was holed up with a twelve-year-old boy in the hotel room. Jimmy was out there in the dark somewhere, playing lumberjack with some old peach trees.
Trespass.
Malicious mischief.
Destruction of property.
And just maybe, getting a young woman and himself killed.
She hadn't been able to talk him out of it.
Foolish. Reckless. Dangerous. Pure Payne.
Her job tonight was to keep Tino safe. They had talked for hours, the boy chattering about going to a Dodgers game with Jimmy and enrolling in some school Jimmy had picked out, and Jimmy somehow getting them immigration papers, even if he had to fudge the truth a little.
Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy.
Tino was the president of the Jimmy Payne Fan Club. Maybe its sole member. The boy worshiped him. But would he still, after tonight? What if Jimmy didn't rescue Marisol? What if his actions led to her death? Sharon couldn't help but think of all the horrible possibilities.
Tino couldn't sleep, either. Together they watched television. Sharon made microwave popcorn. In typical male fashion, the boy asked for the remote, then hop-scotched through the channels. Just like his hero.
Sharon couldn't keep her mind on the programs. Jay Leno's jokes seemed duller than usual. Sports Center 's nightly baseball clips all looked the same. Tino clicked through one channel after another, settling on a shopping network that sold diamond rings for thirty-nine dollars.
Tino stared into space, his attention wavering. Sharon could only guess what fears plagued him tonight.
Then he surprised her. Without warning or prelude, he said softly, "Himmy told me what happened. To your son."
"Oh."
"Himmy's really messed up about it."
"I know."
Tino picked up his baseball glove-the one Jimmy bought him-and pounded a ball into the pocket. "Maybe the two of you will get back together. You know, help each other with all that bad stuff."
"Did Jimmy tell you to say that?"
"No way. I just see how he feels about you."
"I'm hoping he'll get over that."
Tino gave her a look. Too serious for a twelve-yearold. "But will you get over him?"
"What do you mean?"
"If you didn't love Himmy, you wouldn't have come up here."
Before she could process that, the door burst open, splintering off its hinges.
Sharon dived for her shoulder holster, slung from the bedpost.
"Freeze!" Rigney in the doorway, aiming his Glock at her.
She obeyed, hands inches from her gun.
Tino jumped out of bed and pivoted like Omar Vizquel at shortstop, sidearming the ball straight into Rigney's chest. The cop howled and staggered a step backward but didn't drop his gun. "Punk! You little punk greaser."
"?Chingate!"
"No, fuck you, kid."
"Put the gun away, Rigney." Sharon glared at him. "Jimmy's not here."
"No shit. He's out playing Paul Bunyan." He gave her a gotcha grin while using his free hand to gingerly touch a rib where the ball had nailed him. Moving toward the bed, he grabbed Sharon's holster from the bedpost.
"What are you doing here?"
"Enforcing the law." He flipped over a badge hanging around his neck. "Duly appointed deputy, named by the chief himself."