Bottom Feeder Page 25

  “She doesn’t know I took these while she slept. I thought she might need evidence someday.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through photos of Maddy’s bruised and swollen face. The last picture shows ugly finger indentations on her neck.

  “He had some cuts on his face,” Beraz finishes, “Her clothes were being ripped off when I finally got inside the apartment, but she held her own.”

  I think of the line of devastation Cordell has drawn. Lamont, Jeremiah and Chris were part of the destruction. Since Lamont was driving Mama’s car, I can’t help but wonder if she was the intended target.

  “And the scars—”

  “Scars?” I question, cutting him off. “She never told me about any scars.”

  Beraz clenches his jaw. “I saw them.”

  Zip ties. College rings. Belt buckles. His words bounce around in my brain without full comprehension of anything. All that time Larry was hurting her, she never told anyone. She took the beatings like a cross to bear, saving everyone except herself.

  “She received a letter from some woman named CC . . .” Another story follows about murders and FBI investigations.

  Shit. This must have be what Maddy meant that day in the car when she told me everything had another story behind it. How she held herself together over the years is a miracle in itself. I spent twelve months in a warzone, but she spent damn near her entire life in one.

  I was a pawn in Cordell’s game, just like she said. All the things he spit out of his venomous mouth about her were false. I knew it all along. Instincts are instinctive for a good reason.

  Beraz adds another shocker to the list. “She joined up.”

  “She what?”

  “She leaves for basic training in two weeks.”

  “Where’s her AIT?” AIT is short for “Advanced Individual Training”. In short, it is job training after ten weeks of basic combat training. Mine took place in Alabama for ten weeks, then Florida for twenty-eight weeks. After that was Airborne training in Georgia for another three weeks. Not too many soldiers willingly volunteer to jump out of planes with fifty pounds of gear strapped to their back, but I was one of the few and haven’t regretted a single moment. Questioning my decision, yes. But no regrets.

  “Fort Sam.”

  “San Antonio? She’s doing something medical?”

  Beraz nods. “Medic.” The military’s version of an EMT or paramedic.

  Women sometimes have a hard time in the military. Not because they are weaker, but because they are tested on different levels. And I don't mean in classrooms or in the field. I mean mentally. Emotionally.

  Something tells me Maddy can hold her own against even the worst drill sergeant. Placing others before herself is a skill in which she already excels. She never complains, never talks back.

  Yes, she will be just fine.

  “I’m going back to New York this week. Wotley approved the leave already.” He shakes his head. “I think Maddy left an impression on him.”

  So I’ve been told.

  “I want you to go with me.”

  Huh?

  “To New York.”

  Huh?

  “Maddy needs help with the Beemer.” Beraz stands. “I’m going to tell you now that shit might get dangerous, so choose your answer wisely.”

  “Why me?” After everything, why would she want me there?

  He walks to the door. Without turning he quietly replies, “Because she trusts you.”

  After work the next day, a few of us are playing Texas Hold ‘Em in Dominguez’s room. I’m down too much money to mention, so I fold and give my seat to Morris. A 4x6 picture frame is sitting on Beraz’s desk. The black and white photo of Maddy sitting in a café with a hand cupped beneath her chin tugs at something in my chest.

  A row of photo booth pictures are pinned to the corkboard. The first three are Beraz and Maddy being goofy. The last, however, brings me back to the night at the Pacific. Their intense kiss makes me wonder how long it lasted after the picture was taken. I take the picture down to inspect it further and notice the swelling on her face.

  “That panocha has got it bad,” Dominguez says over my shoulder. “He’s up talking to her all night, every night.”

  Placing the picture back on his desk, I turn to face Dominguez. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Nada.” He shakes his head. “Except for the fact you got it, too. ¡Diache! I don’t even think he hit it while he was up there. What’s the use in going if you’re not gonna fu—“

  I raise my hand to cut him off. “First, I don’t ‘got’ anything. Second, you really have to stop talking about her like that.”

  “Yeah? Why is that?”

  “Because,” Beraz answers from behind Dominguez, “The next time something like that comes out of your mouth, I’m going to put my boot so far up your ass you’re going to taste leather.”

  Dominguez rolls his eyes. “Whatever, mamabicho. I hope she’s worth the trouble.”

  “She’s worth everything to me,” Beraz mumbles after Dominguez walks away.

  Maddy

  “What’s this?” President Highland asks.

  “Withdrawal forms, sir.”

  He leans back in the oversized leather chair and folds his hands across the top of his bald head.

  “Your tuition is paid in full, Miss Carrington.”

  I choose my words carefully. “I understand, sir. I would like to transfer the tuition money to someone who needs it.”

  “You would like to trans—what?”

  “Jordan Erins is unable to afford tuition after this session. I would like my tuition transferred to her.”

  “Are you going back to Georgia, Miss Carrington?” His spits out the name of my beloved state like turpentine rolling off his tongue.

  Be nice, Carrington. Don’t drop an f-bomb. Don’t drop an f-bomb.

  “Will you be able to transfer the tuition, sir?”

  The President rubs both hands across his head in frustration. “Mr. Carrington said all matters of your education will go through you, but this is insanity. You are absolutely certain about this?”

  “I’d like to give her the opportunity she deserves.” She is the only person who never judged my accent, my weight or height. Jordan is the closest thing to a friend I have here. Not that we would ever go to dinner or have a sleepover or anything. Besides, she wants to be here.

  “I’ll arrange the transfer,” he assures. “You obviously have something better planned for your life, Miss Carrington?”

  I rise from the chair and strap the duffel bag over my shoulder. “I joined the military, sir.”

  President Highland scoffs. “Why would you give up an education at such a respected school to join a bunch of jarheads?”

  I don’t tell him that jarheads are labels for Marines, not soldiers. Actually, I refuse to answer at all. Any explanation I come up with is not worth the trouble.

  Besides, the less President Highland knows, the less information he can relay to Cordell.

  Jackson

  The hum of the plane’s engine is white noise to my restless mind. I sleep for the first hour of the ninety minute flight. Beraz is supposed to wake me at the first sign of a nightmare.

  I wake up when my legs begin cramping. I usually get the aisle seat in order to stretch out, but Beraz is five inches taller and needs the extra room.

  See, I’m not an asshole all the time.

  I peek at the intricate detail of a black and white gothic peach tree Beraz is drawing in his sketchbook. The roots run beneath a black sea of angry waves. A storm lashes out like the hands of evil are trying to uproot everything good in the world. The only color is a single peach hanging from the tip of a sagging branch. On closer inspection, the flawless lines are not really lines at all, but words. Swirls of pristine script make up every curve of the spindled branches, each raindrop a single word.

  “For Maddy,” he says without looking up.

  “The picture?”

  “T
he book.”

  “Isn’t jewelry easier?”

  Beraz shakes his head. “She wouldn’t like that.” He smudges the tree trunk and makes a few more strokes on the paper before closing the book. “Maddy is unlike anybody I’ve ever met, you know? I mean, she’s good. Genuinely good.”

  He says this more to himself than to me. I really don’t want to hear about how much of a good person she is. I have a feeling Beraz is about to tell me anyway.

  “I dated a girl for three years before joining the army,” he says. “She hated me for joining, said I was being selfish for leaving her when I had unfinished business at home. She broke up with me to be with someone else in the Disciples—the same gang I joined because of her. How fucked up is that?”

  “Minus the gang part, that happens to a lot of us who join up, Beraz. Who you were at home doesn’t mean that’s who you are now. Our job, in a sense, is both selfless and selfish. We don’t get to choose who fits what category”

  He nods. “The first night I met Maddy—you know, on her birthday—we were driving to the restaurant and she was just letting me go on and on about my family and work. She was interested in what I had to say. How many people have you met that actually care about your family back home? Or what you do at work all day? Or care why you joined in the first place? But most of all, someone who cares about these things and doesn’t give a damn about how much you messed up in the past?”

  Most people are either scared to know about the job or could care less what I do all day. The latter is usually my preference. If others bothered to find out, they would see that my job isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s no worse than a police officer putting their life on the line every day. As far as family goes, I prefer my personal life stay personal.

  “. . . and I asked her if she believed in war and you know what she said? ‘War is a necessary evil . . .’”

  “But evil is subjective,” I mutter.

  It took a long time, but I finally realized what Maddy was asking me in the car that night. Evil isn’t cut-and-dry or black and white. It is a murky gray area between the giver and the receiver and everyone else on the outside looking in. Or looking away.

  “I wonder if she has food.”

  “I hope so,” Beraz replies, cramming his duffel into the trunk of a cab. “I’m starving.”

  Since Maddy is spending the morning withdrawing from school, Beraz and I take a cab to her apartment. Heavy traffic made the ride a lot longer than expected. By the time we arrived at Maddy’s apartment building, Beraz was licking the wrapper of a melted Snickers bar and I was praying her refrigerator was stocked with something edible.

  “If she only has vegetables in there,” Beraz says, answering my unspoken plea, “the place she works is just around the corner.”

  “Mr. Beraz,” the doorman greets with a broad smile. Wow. He must really love his job. “Back in town so soon?”

  “Hey, Sonny,” Beraz replies. “We’re visiting for a couple days. This is Monroe.”

  Sonny opens the door and nods, “Nice to meet you Mr. Monroe.”

  “You, too, sir.”

  Maddy’s apartment building is a swanky modern high-rise with a parking attachment, a doorman and security team. This makes me wonder how Larry got into her apartment in the first place.

  The answer is obvious and unnerving: someone here is on Cordell’s payroll. Someone of his mentality will not leave a threat without surveillance. In this case, Maddy is the threat.

  Beraz pulls out a set of keys and begins to unlock each of the four deadbolts. I raise my eyebrows at the locks. He shrugs. “She changed them and added one before I left.”

  The apartment is spotless. The type of spotless where you’re afraid to breathe on something for fear your breath will leave traces of condensation. Beraz removes his shoes and places them neatly on the tile next to do the door. I follow his lead.

  My eyes go wide when it hits me: the smell of freshly baked deliciousness.

  “Hell yeah!” Beraz says, reaching for something on the counter.

  I walk into to the large open kitchen. Here is the part where I should notice the views from the floor-to-ceiling windows, what the countertops are made of, or if the furniture is classic or contemporary. Instead my mouth waters at the sight of a plate of huge cinnamon rolls dripping with icing.

  “She left a note.”

  “What does it say?” Beraz asks over a mouthful of cinnamon roll.

  I bite into my own, licking the icing from my fingers before reading aloud, “‘Hey guys, I know you were probably dreading my fridge full of veggies so I made these. If you’re still hungry, Peggy will be glad to make you something (and if you flirt a little, it’ll be on the house). Make yourselves at home. Love and Hugs, Maddy.’”

  “Dammit, I love that girl,” Beraz proclaims, grabbing a carton of organic milk from the refrigerator.

  I cram another cinnamon roll in my mouth.

  Maddy

  “You like this place?”

  Agent Mace sits across from me in the back room of a family-operated bakery in Jamaica, Queens that I will leave unnamed for now. My lawyer’s parents own the place. I come here often.

  “I like the obscurity,” I reply. “Cordell would never expect me to come here alone.”

  “Hell, I wouldn’t come here alone.”

  “I thought you were a tough FBI agent, Suit.”

  “Smartass.”

  I nod. “Usually.”

  “I’m incognito,” he says to my raised brow at his choice of outfit. Of the several times I’ve met with him, Alexander Mace is all serious, all suit, all business, all the time. Which is why I usually refer to him only as Suit. He hates it. Today, though, he appears younger than his forty-two years in a Rolling Stones tee, dark-washed jeans and Nikes.

  I slide CC’s letter across the intricately-tiled table. Agent Mace places the letter in his lap and reads beneath the table. He folds the paper neatly and places it back in the envelope. Seconds later, a familiar elderly woman in a three-piece charcoal pantsuit and sensible black pumps approaches the table. She gives me a wink before sliding the envelope into her jacket.

  “I’ve seen her bef—”

  “I can’t tell you everything,” Agent Mace murmurs, his voice barely audible. “We tracked Cordell’s movements throughout Korea and China. He crossed into Mongolia and went south to Tajikistan. We lost him once he headed south into Kashmir. Probably took hold of a new identity when he passed through Pakistan.”

  I lower my voice to match his. “Is he moving something? Drugs? Arms? People? Bodies?”

  “That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Why haven’t you stopped him?” I ask angrily.

  He clears his throat and looks down, a sure sign he is about to feed me a lie or say something I’m not going to like. “He’s leading us to something—someone—bigger.”

  I sit back and stare at the agent’s demeanor: the defeated look written across his face, the constant furrow of his brow, the tightening of his mouth.

  “Even if you find him, someone is going to cut him a deal for information.” It’s not a question, but I wait for his reply.

  His silence declares more than words ever will.

  “A mugging, you said?” Agent Mace stares at me with intent, taking in the sickly yellow bruises on my face. I don’t bother to cover them. Makeup only makes me look jaundiced at this point.

  I drop my gaze to the clenched hands in my lap. I hate that he is looking at me with pity. I hate that he knows I am lying.

  “We lost track of Duvall weeks ago.” My fingernails dig into my palms. “Until he turned up in Georgia last week to check on Cordell’s businesses. The funny thing is, he travelled to the States with an alias.”

  I shrug. What does he want me to say? That I knew Larry was back? To confess he is the one who did this to me?

  “The alias happened to be the name of your real father.”

  My head snaps to attention at the mention of someo
ne I never knew existed. Someone who could have possibly loved me if given the chance. Now that I know he existed, I dream of him often. Although he is nameless and faceless, the warmth from his body envelopes me when he wraps his arms around my shoulders and speaks in whispers that sound like the wind. I feel his breath on my cheek and, though the words are never heard, I know they are good. I know he was good.

  “You refused protection from us before, so I’m guessing you will refuse it now,” he frowns. “I am giving you this information because you have to be alert, even after you step on that bus to leave for basic training.” I mimic his frown. “Listen, Maddy, I . . . I shouldn’t say this, but there was no evidence on those disks that your father was killed.”

  I release a breath that comes out like a sob. Weak. Why am I so weak?

  If there is hope my real father is still alive, he should stay as far away from me as possible.

  “Violet is safe?”

  Agent Mace’s cheeks immediately flush pink. He rubs the back of his neck. “Yes, she’s, uh, she’s safe. My best probie is watching her now, and she’s uh, yeah. Safe.”

  I laugh, thankful for the change of subject. “Does she know you like her?”

  He shakes his head. “She thinks the flowers I buy every other day are for my girlfriend.”

  I laugh again.

  “Don’t change the subject, Maddy.” All serious, all business, all the time.

  “Well, Suit,” I address him formally, “you will have to do something about that too-serious personality if you ever want Violet Monroe’s attention. She likes Janet Evanovich novels and picnics with peanut butter cups and sweet tea instead of cheese and wine.”

  His expression doesn’t change, but the tiny nod lets me know he is taking mental notes.

  “Have you heard anything on the accident?” According to Violet, Chris is going through painful physical therapy in order to play football next season. He doesn’t answer my calls, texts, or emails. It hurts that I may have lost a friend, but I can’t say that I blame him for ignoring me.