Page 21 of The Children of Eve

“Give back what you took. I’m asking you for the last time. You and the others, you leave them somewhere safe, we make a call. Urrea doesn’t ever have to know it was us.”

“I’ve told you before: They stay.”

Bern sat back. He was about to say “Then I can’t” when his cell phone rang. Bern checked the caller ID and felt life lining him up for another punch to the gut. The last time a call had come through from this number, it was to inform him that their shipment of cocaine was now in the hands of the U.S. government.

Bern put the phone to his ear and began thumbing bills from his money clip as the check arrived.

“Yeah,” he said to the caller. “I know who this is.”

Bern listened. He turned the check to its blank side and scribbled some notes.

“Okay. You tell her she needs to get him out, whatever it takes. Make sure she appreciates there will be consequences otherwise. Anything changes, you call me.”

He hung up. Devin was watching him.

“How bad?” Devin asked.

“Roland Bilas got picked up by customs at LAX. He was flying in from Mexico City with a handful of obscene statues and some old blankets in his suitcase.”

Devin closed his eyes. Bilas had been told—no,ordered—not to head back across the border for a while. He’d also been paid well for his part in the Urrea operation to ensure he had no cause for complaint. Devin wasn’t about to dismiss Bilas as greedy or stupid—the man had never struck him as either—but that wouldn’t stop him from having Bilas’s hands stomped to paste once he was out of custody.

“Has he lawyered up?” Devin asked.

“As soon as he was charged. I have the lawyer’s name.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Not that I remember, but someone will get in touch with her, tell her we have an interest.”

Bern didn’t think Bilas would hold up well under pressure. Bilas had never been arrested and would be scared even before hard-faced officials began talking about jail time, time that might go away if he was prepared to name names.

“He’ll know better than to give them anything,” said Devin.

“You think? Jesus, Devin, my granddaughter would have a better chance of holding up under questioning, and she’s six years old. We need to make sure Bilas isn’t kept anywhere worse than a holding room at the airport. God forbid they use the weekend to put him in lockup with a copy of the Prison Rape Elimination Act as a fiction option.”

It was all unraveling. This was the beginning of the next stage. Bern could feel it.

“Make sure the lawyer is aware that if Bilas talks, we’ll be the least of his problems,” said Devin. “No matter what protection he’s promised in return for testimony, Urrea’s people will find him. Silence is his best chance of staying alive.”

“It’s in hand.”

“I wantyouto call her, not anyone else. Fix it, Aldo.”

Bern headed for the door to make the call outside. Devin Vaughn remained seated. He still had a little brandy left in his glass, but Bern had barely touched his. Devin reached across and added Bern’s portion to his own because alcohol helped more than pills. The fucking child kept crying, that was the worst of it. The nightmares he could handle, but not the crying. Still, Devin wasn’t sorry for what he’d done.

Because the child was beautiful.

CHAPTERXVII

Many miles to the east, in a Virginia town unloved even by those who lived there, or perhaps by them most of all, Harriet Swisher woke to find her husband, Hul, absent from their bed, the sound of the wind replacing his soft snoring. She immediately began to worry. The Swishers were both in their seventies, but Hul was in poorer health than his wife, and Harriet spent more time fretting about him than he did about her, even if she suspected he might well outlive her, ornery cuss that he was.

But what would he do without her? She buttered his toast every morning and laid out his jammies on the comforter last thing at night, had done since the day after their wedding. He rarely made a decision without first consulting her, and while he didn’t always agree with her point of view, he’d take time to consider what she’d said, which was more than most men she knew did when presented with a woman’s opinion—and probably most men she didn’t know, too.

Sometimes, Harriet feared Hul might manage better in her absence than she and everyone else believed, because husbands could be frustrating that way, strategically incompetent until they could afford to be no longer. After she was dead, Hul might well discover previously untapped abilities to butter his toast, lay out his jammies, and make sensible decisions without her input. But should he suddenly begindating some local jade a month after the funeral, she’d come back from the grave to haunt him, she swore she would. He and his tramp wouldn’t know a moment’s peace.

Harriet called out to him.

“Hul? Where are you?”

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