Romeo's Tell (A disappearance mystery turned international thriller) Page 5

  Chapter 14

  “You’re gonna have to press a little harder.”

  “Really? My fingers are already killing me.”

  “No pain, no gain, Babe.”

  Chad was giving Jill her first guitar lesson. They were in Jill’s dorm room, sitting on the same couch where Chad and Michael had had their introductory chat a few days earlier. The bent and dusty music stand in front of them was holding a dog-eared copy of Alfred’s Basic Guitar Method Book 1 opened to page 8, the first page that contained any notes that were actually intended to be played. Jill wasn’t having fun yet.

  At the moment, the sounds coming from the guitar had a broken-bat kind of ring to them.

  “You have to apply pressure in the right place to get a clean sound.” Chad gently moved Jill’s index finger into the correct position then firmly pressed it down while Jill hit the high E string repeatedly. Eventually, once Chad had provided enough added pressure, a clean sound emerged. “There, that’s an F.”

  “Are you kidding me! You have to press that hard? All the time? I’ll have blisters on my fingers. Now I know what Paul McCartney was talking about at the end of ‘Helter Skelter.’”

  “McCartney sang ‘Helter Skelter’ but it was actually Ringo who blurted out the ‘blisters on my fingers’ thing. And what you’re going for are calluses anyway. Before you know it, it will hardly hurt at all.”

  “Oh, calluses. Much better.”

  “Come on, you’ll get it. Just try to keep your fingers right behind the frets, not on top of them. Before you know it, not only will you have major-league calluses, you’ll be playing Jingle Bells like a master.”

  “Jingle Bells,” Jill said dubiously.

  “Yeah, Jingle Bells. You know,” he began singing, “jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, oh what fun it is—”

  Unable to take any more of Chad’s crooning, Jill cut him off with a sweetly sarcastic, “Wonderful,” at the same time treating him to a look that said something along the lines of, “that’ll be enough out of you, wise-ass.”

  “Seriously, once you get a little better with the single notes, we’ll start you on some chords and you’ll be on your way. You can do a lot with just a few chords.”

  Jill took on an impish smile.

  As Chad started talking again, her face went blank. She slid the guitar to the side and started leaning heavily in Chad’s direction. He had a feeling where this was going. And it was fine with him—more than fine.

  “Forget the frets. I’ll show you what I want to be on top of, Mister.”

  So ended lesson one (on guitar).

  Chapter 15

  Now

  Mesaroja, El Salvador

  As he woke, it didn’t take long for Chad Swan to realize he was still recovering from serious demolition work that had recently taken place somewhere inside his skull. He guessed he’d had another rough night. Or was it a rough couple of nights? Two million brain cells, four million brain cells. What difference did it really make?

  Chad soon realized that the pounding he assumed was coming from inside his head was actually someone banging at the entry to his cabin. He then heard the raised voice of his friend Pablo Cruz shouting from the other side of the rattan door.

  He glanced up at the old, yellowed clock hanging on the opposite wall with a vague feeling of appreciation for the fact that this particular remote village in the central plateau of El Salvador actually had dependable electric service. Chad felt some admittedly bizarre kinship with the resurrected clock, which, like him, had spent its teenage years in some obscure high school in the US. As the face of the old analog clock came into focus, so did the realization that he was late for the 9:00 AM class he was supposed to be teaching.

  Chad called out without raising his head from the pillow. “Cinco minutos, Pablo. Uh, five minutes,” he repeated in English, remembering it was more important for Pablo to practice English than it was for them to converse in the most mutually natural tongue.

  Pablo responded through the closed door in clear but heavily accented English. “Okay. Thanks Chad. I’ll tell the class.”

  With considerable effort, Chad managed to sit up on the side of his bed. He closed his eyes forcefully, as if he could somehow squeeze the fog out of his head. When he opened them, he could see his hands were shaking so badly that the year-old scorpion tattoo on his right hand looked like it might have been alive. Through the ethyl mist of his dehydrated brain, it occurred to him that it must be a sign of the DT’s when your own tat gives you the creeps. He shook it off and got to his feet.

  Despite Chad’s occasional rough days, the people of Mesaroja were fortunate to have someone of his talent working with them—and they knew it. There was no denying that he had been in a rough patch for the past several weeks. But even during the times the demons were at his heels, Chad was still the best teacher of technology, and probably the best teacher of English, the village ever had.

  Pablo was a good friend. He knew Chad from the old days, before the demons, when Chad had first started his volunteer trips to Central America. Chad had taught Pablo and his brother, Angel, to speak English in the process of teaching them system development and security techniques that were a stretch even for top-notch technical pros in the States. Along the way, Pablo and Angel had helped Chad polish his Spanish to the point where he could nearly pass for a native speaker.

  Thanks to Chad, Pablo Cruz was now a teacher too, and Angel Cruz had been able to pursue his dream of working in the United States and becoming a US citizen.

  Pablo’s long-term dream was to establish a world-class system development group in Mesaroja. The communications bandwidth required to support such an operation wasn’t in place yet, but it would be by the time the programming and testing teams were sufficiently trained. Having this entirely new and very substantial source of income would make all the difference in improving life for the people of Mesaroja. And Pablo, with Chad’s help, was going to make sure they did it right.

  * * *

  Aside from the fact that it set somewhat of a bad example, Chad’s occasional tardiness was not usually a problem for Pablo. But in today’s lecture, Chad had seemed particularly cloudy, distant, and unfocused.

  When classes were out, Pablo thought it wise to make sure Chad got something to eat. As the two walked across the red clay from the village school to catch a late lunch at the larger of the two cantinas in Mesaroja, Pablo took the opportunity to see if he could help his friend snap out of his funk. He felt certain that the genesis of Chad’s downward spiral could be traced back to when Chad lost his wife, Becky, and that contact with family might help Chad pull himself out of the mire.

  “When was the last time you call your daughter, my friend?”

  “Called my daughter,” Chad corrected. The two had an ongoing agreement that when they were alone, they would always let each other know of any obvious language mistakes.

  “Right. right, okay, when was the last time you called your daughter?” Pablo repeated, emphasizing the correction.

  Chad had to think for a minute. It would have been two weeks since he last spoke with Morgan, right? Or possibly three? Or . . . ? Ultimately, he just took a stab at it. “I don’t know, maybe three weeks.”

  “When you don’t know for sure, that probably means it’s time to call her, no?”

  All Chad really had in the forefront of his mind right now was where his next shot of tequila would come from. “Yeah I guess so,” he managed. “I’ll call her tonight, okay?”

  “As long as you say it, I know it will happen,” Pablo said, knowing the type of gentle pressure that was most effective when dealing with his mentor-turned-friend.

  Chapter 16

  Morgan Swan was used to her father’s calls coming right around 9:00 PM, usually on Thursday nights, every couple of weeks. When Jane Mannix contacted Morgan three days ago, Morgan didn’t mention that she hadn’t heard from Chad Swan in over a month and wasn’t sure exactly when he would call aga
in.

  The calls from her father were always from a different number and always from somewhere out of the country. Morgan knew he had some way of routing his calls that made it very difficult for authorities to determine the point of origin. Even with this sophisticated deception in play, the calls were always kept short—five minutes or less. He had told her he would be switching to Internet-based calls via a technology similar to Skype, which he said would make things easier. But so far, that hadn’t happened.

  It was a few minutes before 9:00 and, although it was a Wednesday night, Morgan was hoping that, because a call from her dad was so long overdue, he might call tonight. This hope—the same that had been dashed on several previous nights—was about to be realized.

  While making routing arrangements earlier in the day, after having been reminded by his good friend that a call to his daughter was long overdue, Chad had to pay attention to the date for the first time in weeks. He cringed when he realized that, among other things, he had missed his daughter’s birthday.

  He initiated the call at 8:00 PM sharp—9:00 PM Morgan’s time—using his Iridium Extreme handheld satellite-phone. Some months earlier, he’d rigged an external antenna system to allow using the sat-phone from inside his cabin.

  Morgan answered midway through the second ring with the simplest of greetings, hoping hard that it was Chad Swan on the other end of the line. “Hello.”

  Even this one-word sample provided enough tone for Chad to recognize the heightened level of anxiety in his daughter’s voice.

  “Hi honey. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I know there’s no excuse. And I’m really sorry for missing your birthday.”

  Morgan breathed an internal sigh of relief. “It’s okay, Dad.” She was so very glad to hear her father’s voice, but for some reason, she felt like crying. She resolved that was not going to happen.

  Chad didn’t dispute Morgan’s letting him off the hook, although he knew his absence and lack of communication really weren’t okay. “Are things all right with you? You have everything you need?”

  Everything but a father who stays in the same country, was Morgan’s first thought. But, as with the tears, she managed to rein in that sharp tongue.

  “Yeah, fine. School’s getting ready to wrap up and it’s kind of busy with finals and papers and stuff, but it’s okay.”

  “That’s good, good.”

  After a loud silence, Morgan added, “And then there’s graduation two weeks from Sunday.”

  Holy shit! Chad wondered just how many of those rough nights he had really had. Missing Morgan’s birthday was bad enough. How could he have allowed his only child’s college graduation to sneak up on him like this?

  The next thing he heard himself say might have surprised him more than it did Morgan. “I’m going to be there, I promise.”

  “Dad, I don’t understand exactly what you did or why you did it, but I know you can’t risk coming here.”

  Tortured on the other end of the line, Chad’s anxiety level swelled, along with his frustration over the situation he’d gotten himself into. The two shared silence until Morgan broke it.

  “Dad, some woman by the name of Jane Mannix contacted me a few days ago. She says she knows you from years ago and that she needs to talk with you about some note that her son found and that the police are looking for you too. She said you would know her as Jane Paulson.”

  The complete bewilderment Chad felt while listening to the bulk of what Morgan had just said turned instantly to a complex jumble of slightly-reduced bewilderment, happy recognition, and crushing sadness upon hearing his daughter speak Jane Mannix’s maiden name. He said nothing until Morgan snapped him back.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Do you know her? Does she have something to do with the trouble you’re in?”

  “No. Yes, I know her. No, she has nothing to do with the FBI thing.”

  “She says you need to see this note but wouldn’t tell me what it’s about.”

  Chad didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he was certain that Jane wouldn’t have tried to get to him through Morgan unless it was extremely important.

  “Morgan, listen. This just gives me another reason to come see you. There are some things I should explain—and I want to see you graduate anyway. Don’t worry, I’ll take precautions.”

  Morgan wasn’t talking now. She couldn’t without breaking the resolution she had made to herself only moments earlier. Finally she managed something. “Okay Dad, I would really love to see you.”

  “Please ask Jane to send you a copy of the note to hold for me. I have to go now. I’ll call you soon, okay. I know it might not seem like it, but I love you, Morgan. Very much.”

  “I love you too, Dad.” She added a soft, “Goodbye,” but realized before she finished saying it that the line had already gone dead.

  Chapter 17

  Then

  It was a Saturday afternoon. Tonight’s gig at The Circuit Board in Syracuse was the Alpine Light’s first paying performance in a city other than Ithaca. It worked out well that it was so close to Jill Paulson’s hometown. She had been able to put the word out to some of her old friends, so the band would have a sort of built-in fan base for the night.

  Though the other three band members had played together many times, this was the first time that Michael Murdoch, Jill’s childhood friend, would play in a gig as the band’s drummer. Blake Mackenzie, the band’s vocalist and lead guitarist, was not yet convinced that Michael could cut it as a drummer. The band’s bass player, Morgan Bassar, was okay with it, knowing that’s what his lifelong friend, Chad Swan, wanted.

  They had all enjoyed the scenic hour-and-a-half ride up route 81 to Syracuse earlier that sunny day. Wanting to take no chances, the band had gotten an early start, arriving several hours before show-time. It was now just around 5:00 PM and they already had everything set up for the show, which didn’t start until 9:00. They decided that rather than go hopping around town, they would just stay put and kill the time playing poker.

  They picked out a large round table in one of the remote corners of the club and sat with their drinks, some snacks, and Morgan’s deck of Bicycles. They were in the middle of their fifth hand, focused on their cards, having a good time—each having taken at least one pot—when they heard a gruff and unfamiliar voice overhead.

  “How about giving me a shot at taking some of your money?”

  Chad could not see the interloper, who intentionally stood directly behind where Chad was seated. What Chad could see was the warmth and color drain suddenly from Jill’s face.

  “Hello Jason,” she said, in as friendly a voice as she could summon.

  At once, Chad realized that Jason Brooks, the Gaston-like brute he’d briefly tangled with at Uncle Marvin’s Alehouse some months earlier, was standing behind him. Chad guessed this was the result of either bad luck or Brooks just misreading the time in the “memo” about the band’s performance. As he thought about it, Chad realized that either way, it pretty much boiled down to lousy luck.

  Brooks lightly kicked one of the back legs of Chad’s chair. “I thought maybe pretty boy here might like sort of a rematch.” The others at the table observed intently, guards coming on. Morgan was particularly irritated by Brooks’s disrespectful demeanor.

  “Or do you only play cards and fight with people when they are too drunk to play or fight?”

  Morgan could no longer remain silent. “Are you drunk now, asshole?”

  As Brooks leaned in and sent Morgan an icy stare, Chad raised his flattened hand gently off the table in Morgan’s direction with a motion and a look that said, “it’s okay, no foul.”

  “Sure, you can play,” Chad said. He twisted around to look over his shoulder at the form towering over him. “Pull up a seat. It’s just a friendly game. Quarter limit and no more than two-raises per bet.”

  “Shit! Can’t we play man-poker? I mean, come on . . . at least a buck.”

&n
bsp; “Hey Man, no one invited you.” Blake blurted out, now having reached his limit.

  “Well, Chap here just did. Didn’t you Chap?”

  “It’s Chad,” Jill said softly.

  “Oh yeah, Chad, like the country right?”

  Chad didn’t say so, but he was slightly impressed, and more than slightly surprised, that Brooks even knew there was a country called Chad.

  “Yes, if you must, like the country,” Jill said.

  “Tell you what,” Chad said. “We’ll go to fifty cents and a three raise limit. Everybody okay with that?”

  “Whatever you say, old chap.” Brooks just couldn’t suppress the impulse to be as irritating and as difficult as possible at every opportunity.

  The others around the table responded to Chad’s suggested compromise with frustration-tempered nods, all with the vague feeling that no matter what they did, this intruder had already spoiled their karma by causing tension before their performance.

  Morgan laid out the rest of the ground rules. “It’s dealer’s choice. We rotate the deal clockwise after each hand. Fifty cent anti. Blake’s deal, I believe.”

  Blake nodded, picked up the cards, and began to shuffle. The expanded game was under way.

  Chad considered doing the formal introduction thing, but then just figured the names would come out during play. It wasn’t like any of them actually wanted to meet Brooks.

  Jill was mortified by all of this and felt awful. That is, until Chad winked and smiled in her direction. She realized that of all those at the table, including herself, Chad was the least ruffled by Brooks’s behavior.

  Play became noticeably more intense once Brooks joined in. The negative atmosphere that followed him to the table was one thing. He also kept raising to the max with every round. He cooled down a little once Morgan, the best card player at the table, had taken a few pots from him.

  Jill, who was not playing, observed carefully, hoping there would be no flare-ups. She found it interesting that now, with the increased tension around the table, the players displayed specific unconscious behaviors that could betray them. For most it was a facial expression. For one or two, it was more a body language thing or a specific physical habit.