CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

The heat was oppressive further to the south in Columbia as Hawk drove the final miles on his mission. He was mildly excited, hoping that his instinct, honed over the years, was correct this time, that at last there would be a connection he could follow to the ring of child pornographers that they had been trying for several years to find and destroy.

The visit of the old lady, Abuela Teresa, had started wheels rolling and daily the pieces were falling into place. What a brave, caring thing the old lady had done…. Traveling all the way to Quibido by the unreliable autobus, patiently waiting for him in the Zocalo while he watched her from a café across the square, concerned that she might not be who she claimed. Then their meeting and what she had confided to him, slowly making all the scattered pieces fit until he became enthused, paid to have a friend return her by car to Jurado while he ran checks on what information he had been given.

The cloth she had so carefully protected in a clean plastic bag went to the lab for testing, came back a week later with positive results, not that it proved anything, still it was a start.

He thought again of Owl, his good friend who had searched so patiently for her mother these many long years, only to be disappointed, and of the time they had worked together outside of Bogota. Only her sharp eyes and quick, sure shot had saved his hide that long night. For this he had owed her and he had made a half hearted attempt to find information about the man, Emilio because of it. Now the little he had learned, coupled with the information from the old lady had sent his finely honed radar into over drive, knitting the pieces of several puzzles together. Perhaps he could now finally, complete payment.

He eased the dirty, beat up truck into the curb in front of the cantina in Jurado, sure that the rattle-trap appearance would hide the finely tuned motor and all the hidden additions he had made to the vehicle and stretched his long body, cramped from the long hours of driving. The road dust had permeated his skin, clothing and even into his mouth and he was eager to rinse out his throat with an icy cerveza.

It was early evening, the cantina only partly full of patrons as most of the men would be home having dinner. He wandered to the back of the room and sat with his back to the wall, glancing around casually at the men lined up along the dusty bar or the few sitting at littered tables drinking yet one more beer.

No one looked like the grainy, distant photo he had managed to find of his quarry.

He asked for and received a beer from a world weary bar-maid, scowled at a short, used up whore who had tried her gap toothed smile on him and concentrated on the hazy doorway, looking out into the dimming light on the street, waiting for the man he had left a message for regarding a business proposition.

An hour of time lapsed, three beer had vanished {the third into the filthy sink in the bano} as well as a whole platter of the snacks grudgingly placed on the table by the bar maid. Suddenly the man he had come to see came in the door and paused to roughly post a young boy against the door frame before glancing around the room.

Emilio spotted the only stranger immediately and swaggered over to the table to hold out his thin dirty hand and smile nervously.

“Senor Munoz? I am Emilio Guitierez.”

He was mid height and very thin, his black eyes nervously flitting to Hawk’s calm features, his constant sniffing betraying the cocaine habit Abuela Teresa had surmised he developed while away working in the drug labs.

They sat drinking and talking about fishing, the weather, the local women for a while, until Hawk tired of it and posed his first real question to the fidgety man just after he paid for the next round of drinks.

“My contacts tell me that you might be able to supply me with some subjects for a film my Jefe would like to make.”

“This is possible. I often run across people who would like to become stars.”

Hawk held his gaze on the man opposite, not bothering to scoff at the thought of this scruffy, degenerate running in the same circles as performers and quietly went on.

“They would need to be young…very young, mostly male and inexperienced…. We prefer to teach them what they need to know.”

Emilio grinned suddenly, a foxlike look that made Hawk feel the urge to puke.

“In the doorway…. This one is untouched… the son of a woman who lived under my care for a time.” He sniffed and patted his pocket, looking for a small package that he yearned to snort up his veined nose.

Hawk glanced at the boy and shrugged. “He is perhaps a little old. Is he your son?”

“No, my wife died before she could produce a son for me. This one is the son of a woman given to me to keep my house clean and my bed from being too cold. He will not have eight years until July. He works with me from time to time and cleans the house now that his Mama has gone to be with God. He is good for nothing else, always with his nose in the books his Mama left in the Casa or sitting in the cemetery talking to his Mama’s grave.”

Hawk casually threw a twist of plastic on the table and saw the gleam in Emilio’s eyes as he palmed it, opened the tiny bag and with his back to the room, sprinkled a small mound on the back of his hand… one long sniff and the powder disappeared except for a thin rime of white around his nostril. He pinched his nose and sniffed again, not wasting a single grain. The remainder of the bag disappeared into his pocket.

“Tell me how you came to have this one in your keeping.”

Emilio told him without hesitation how he had worked for the Jefe, how the plane had been shot at and crashed and the woman had been found the next day, dazed, injured, her memory gone, stumbling about in the jungle. She had been kept to become a worker until her pregnancy became apparent. Soon after this his wife had stepped on one of the traps set around the camp and was impaled on a long, sharp bamboo stave. The Jefe had given the Gringa to Emilio and when the child was born he kept him as well…it was the only way to keep the woman calm. She died about 2 years past and he had kept the boy to cook and clean the casa but now he had need of money and a woman to warm his bed. He was ready to part with the boy, along with the other orphans that his friends in the city would bring to him from an orfanato. He would be part of the shipment to be picked up this coming Saturday, a week from today. The cities had many homeless orphans… he could get more, easily, girls too, if they were wanted.

They talked and drank for another 2 hours, Emilio finishing the plastic bag and another that Hawk gave him, becoming very eloquent about his operation as time passed and both trust and indiscretion grew. At one point Hawk struggled to fight the urge he had to draw the long, sharp knife from his boot and permanently stop the sickening disclosures that Emilio let spew from his mouth but he held his peace, knowing well what Owl would do to the man when she was told. It would be a more fitting end.

A point came when no more intelligible answers came out of the man’s mouth and Hawk sat forward in his seat, passed Emilio 2 more small bags and some ‘good faith’ money and said he would be back early in the morning on Saturday to see what merchandise Emilio had on offer before the pick up was made by the other buyers in the darkness of night.

He left, noticing that the boy he was now sure was the son of Penny and Philippe Ruiz was leaning against the wall of the cantina, fast asleep, wanting to take him now, get him away from the evil he was forced to live with but unable if Ghost was to succeed in the more important mission of closing down the pornography ring.

Once safely out of town, he pulled over, took his cell phone and laptop out of the compartment behind the seat, plugged in the roaming card and sent an urgent message to Owl, telling her most of what the slimy Columbian had told him and the plans he was sure Ghost would implement quickly.

**