Hot Sur (70 page)

“I would have wanted to say more,” Rose admits. “To say, for example, not to boast, ‘Lieutenant, you brought down the man, but my dogs defeated the god.’ But I squeezed his hand, and said that other thing instead, which I’m pretty sure is why he let me go just like that. At the end of the day, things came out well because I stuck to my script, as if I were a minor character in
CSI
.”

“Things could have turned out a lot worse,” I tell him.

“True.” He laughs. “Fatally so. But there was a good turn in the end, you know. A string of mistakes that led to a final success.”

Throughout that week and the following one, the news cycle focused almost solely on the end of The Passion Killer and the brave men and women in uniform who brought him down in a masterful operation. The Glock turned up in the bushes, and witnesses attested to hearing three shots, and inside the yellow truck the Gift from God the authorities found countless gadgets of death, crucifixion, and martyrdom, so they did not hesitate to claim self-defense and had no problem justifying leaving the body of the super serial killer with more holes than a colander.

“It was nearly noon when I finally returned to North Star,” Rose tells me, “and I almost didn’t find anyone there.”

Ming had stayed back to wait for him, his nerves frayed because the old man had taken so long. “But what happened, Mr. Rose?” Ming came out to greet him fussing and complaining. “I was going nuts, sir. I figured the worst. Where have you been? The police came by; everything is super tense. The owner of the motel started shitting on himself, panicked about harboring so many strange people. He asked us to please return the keys and practically threw us out into the street, not in a bad way, but kicking our asses out anyway.”

María Paz and Violeta had set off to avoid any more risks, and were waiting in some camp trailers on Lake Champlain, near Tinconderoga, about an hour away.

“They got out of here just in time,” Ming told Rose. “María Paz and Violeta. Ten more minutes and they would have been fucked. Just as they’re leaving, the cops burst in asking all kinds of questions at the reception desk. Everything is on high alert, Mr. Rose. Pro Bono’s murder has stirred the wasp’s nest and unleashed the state and federal agencies, all chasing The Passion Killer. It seems he had been followed from Brooklyn, and they are convinced that he is here in Vermont.”

“Makes sense,” Rose said. “But I don’t understand, Ming. How could the girls just leave . . . who are they with?”

“We’re going to see them in a bit,” Ming said, “I’ll explain everything, but not now, especially not here.”

“Wait, Ming, I have to apologize for one thing . . .”

“Later, Mr. Rose,” Ming said, dragging him toward the Toyota.

“I must tell you at once, I lost your grandfather’s gun.”

“You lost it? Well, what’re we going to do? It’s not important, Mr. Rose. But let’s go, let’s go!”

“Can I have some breakfast at least?” Rose protested. “I could use a shower too, but let me grab some breakfast and feed the dogs.”

“Later,” Ming said. “I’ll take my car, follow me.”

“Let’s just go in mine,” Rose said. “We’ll come back to get yours later.”

“Please do what I say, Mr. Rose, follow behind me.”

The winds, which began to rage as they neared their destination, pushed the Toyota sideways, and Rose had to struggle to keep it on the road. He was so tired. He would have preferred if Ming had driven. After all, Ming knew where they were going and he didn’t. Rose didn’t know where or why, but above all else he was simply exhausted, almost medically in need of rest at home for a week, or a whole month. He couldn’t wait to escape this winter at the end of the world, and observe the season instead from his window next to the crackling fireplace, a nice cup of Earl Grey with a cloud in hand, and his three dogs spread beneath him. He felt truly exhausted, and particularly old.
I am already an old man,
he thought, as he struggled to keep the car on the road.
Now there is nothing else to do but to keep getting older.
In the back, dogs slept like rocks, very worn out themselves: in the end, they were the veterans of a tremendous battle. And nobody knew, or was going to know, except themselves and Rose.

“Damn it, Mr. Rose, you almost didn’t make it. My heart was in my mouth, thinking you were so irresponsible to get lost at the worst time!” María Paz yelled, coming toward him on the shores of Lake Champlain, trying to keep her balance in the gale winds that made her shiver and buckle. “But what a face, Mr. Rose, as if you’ve just come home from a war . . .”

“Well, sort of. And Violeta?”

“I’m sorry?”

Conversation was almost impossible. The wind whipped their faces and made the skin on their cheeks flutter, got into their mouths and pilfered their words, and every step forward they tried to take was followed by two steps backward. María Paz was all wrapped up in her hard-shell outfit, ready and dressed for the journey through the realms of ice, everything covered except for her eyes and a few locks of hair, very black, which whipped madly in the wind like a pirate flag.

“Where’s Violeta?” Rose asked again, screaming this time.

María Paz was beside him now, clinging to his arm, but such was the violence of the wind bursts that despite their proximity they could only hear each other if they screamed.

“It’s the Boreas,” Rose said.

“Who?”

“The Boreas, the north wind, blowing like a fucking mini hurricane!”

“Listen, Mr. Rose, we have to move it along. Violeta is waiting for us just ahead, in a four-by-four,” María Paz screamed. “She’s coming with us! What do you think, Mr. Rose! She said she wanted to come. She decided all on her own, without even me asking. I swear, I didn’t have to press or anything, she alone decided. She didn’t want to return to school. So I brought her with me. I’m taking her!”

“So you arranged things with the coyote?”

“What?

“The coyote! You talked to the coyote?”

“What coyote, no, I didn’t talk to any coyote, he sent me to hell. Insulted my mom, even called me a bitch. I offered to pay twice the fee, counting on your generosity, of course, Mr. Rose, sorry about that. But no, even then. I begged and begged until he told me to go fuck myself and hung up.”

“And so?”

“Elijah is taking us!

“Who?”

“Elijah, from the motel . . .”

“How did that come up?”

“The man wearing the cap put me in contact, the motel manager. Don’t worry, Mr. Rose, everything is arranged. Good people, this Elijah!”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“How do you know he’s good people?”

“You can tell by his face! But hurry, Rose, Elijah says we can’t wait long.”

“And where do you think you’re going with all this wind?”

“Elijah says it’ll stop soon.”

“At least you got rid of the cyber-coyote.”

“What?”

“What about Violeta? She’s not going to leave stuffed into the false floor of a Buick LeSabre.”

“Buick? What? Wait, Mr. Rose, my scarf is flying away. What about Violeta?”

“How are you going to get her across?”

“Very easy, see, Violeta is a gringa! She has a valid passport, so no problem there. And you too, so I’ll go hidden in the four-by-four with Elijah, and Violeta leaves with you.”

“With me?”

“With you, silly, who else!”

“With me? To where?”

“First to Canada, then to Seville.”

“You’re crazy, María Paz, I can’t go anywhere.”

“You’re the crazy one; do you think I’m going leave her here for Sleepy Joe to make mincemeat of her?”

“Sleepy Joe no longer exists.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Sleepy Joe: kaput,
fini
.”

“What’re you saying?”

“He was gunned down by the police.”

“Really? Unbelievable . . . And how do you know, did you hear it on the radio?

“More or less.”

“A shoot-out? But that man is immune to lead. Are they sure he is dead?”

“Deader than John F. Kennedy.”

“Son of a bitch. Even better. But let’s go, Rose, tell me about it later. So let’s see, you in the Toyota with Violeta and the dogs, following Elijah.”

“I’m staying, María Paz. I can’t go.”

“No. Why not?”

“I’m tired, I want to go home.”

“What home, what’s there? Well, you have the dogs. But we’re your family now. Come with us, Mr. Rose, I’ll take care you from now on, like you’ve taken care of me. Don’t stay, don’t be afraid, come with us, we make a very good team.”

“I’ll be in touch, María Paz. I swear. I’ll look for you, you and your sister, wherever you end up.”

“You swear. Swear for me.”

“I swear by Cleve.”

“So be it, amen. So this is good-bye, Mr. Rose, until very soon. I love you, don’t ever forget that, and thank you very much for everything, absolutely everything. You have been my blessing. Are you sure you don’t want to come? Everything is arranged. Elijah has no problem taking all three of us, with the dogs . . . Cheer up, man, a little bit more and we’re on the other side, look at these trees, syrup trees. That means we are almost in Canada.”

“Go, María Paz, go.”

“Wait, I have to say good-bye to Ming, and to Otto, Dix, and Skunko. And to a few others before I leave here.”

The north wind is born in the lake, skating on the water, dancing on the surface as it pushes the waves against the shore, where they break in white foamy fans. After rising from the lake skyward, it becomes a planetary wind, reaching clouds, chasing them, swirling back down, wrapped in fog.

María Paz took a few steps away from Rose, stood with her back to him, facing the lake and the strong gale so that her hair shot back and her eyes became slits. “Good-bye, my dead,” she said. “Good-bye, Bolivia, my pretty Mami. I leave you here. Take care of yourself alone, because I can’t come back. Ciao, Mami, you see how things turned out, both a dream and a nightmare, and now, good-bye, Mami, good-bye. I’m taking Violeta, and I’ll always take care of her, like I promised you. So don’t worry, rest in peace. And good-bye, my Greg, you were a good person in spite of everything, and I know you are up there where you should be, feasting on your kapustnica with the Virgin of Medjugorje. And good-bye, my beautiful Pro Bono, the greatest of men and the most handsome among the angels. And good-bye, my creative-writing professor, Mr. Rose of my soul, my friend, and my love, I better not say good-bye to you because I won’t stop crying. Well, then. That’s it. Oh, wait! I’m forgetting to say good-bye to Holly, Holly, my fascination, my Holly with her beautiful black dress, as lost in the world as I was. Maybe someday our paths will cross, Holly Golightly, but for now, bye! Oh, dear God of mine, and I need to say good-bye to Sleepy Joe. How am I going to say good-bye to that? I would like to say good-bye forever and ever and ever, to the very point I never would have met you or seen you. But I can’t do that. That would be a lie, an impossibility, because Sleepy Joe, you are my nightmare, which I’ll always carry inside me. Even dead as you are and against my will, I’ll take you with me, what can I do, not everything is victory. So now. Since I have said good-bye to almost all my ghosts, I now say good-bye to the living. Good-bye, my coworkers, farewell, friends, I wish a good life for all of you. Good-bye, Mandra and my sisters of Manninpox, I wish you nothing less than freedom. And good-bye to America. Ciao, America, I won’t be coming back. I have no idea, really, if I’m leaving or if I never really got here.”

María Paz now turned to Rose.

“I won’t say good-bye to you, sir,” she told him, “because we will meet up soon, you promised me and I believe you, because you have to believe people. But I’ll leave you with a gift to keep you company. Take it, Mr. Rose, I’ve been taking good care of it to this very day, from now on it’s your turn to care for it.”

“What is it?”

“Cleve’s notebook. What he wrote here is how he lived his last days. You’ve been wanting to know for a long time, Mr. Rose. Take it, read it, let your son be the one to tell you himself.”

Rose took the notebook, stroked the cover gently, and put it in his pocket. He bundled himself tightly inside his coat to protect his skin from the wind, and passed a hand through his white hair in a vain attempt to keep it in place.

“I have something for you also,” he said.

And as Perseus offered Athena the freshly severed head of Medusa, old Ian Rose, ceremonious and overcome with emotion, handed María Paz the red backpack.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © Daniel Mordzinski

Laura Restrepo was born in Bogotá, Colombia. She has written numerous bestselling and prize-winning novels, including
Leopard in the Sun
,
The Angel of Galilea
, and
Delirium
. Her books have been published in more than twenty languages.