CHAPTER 16
CARLOS
Five Years Ago
August 14
San Jose, California
Thomas swung open the passenger door with a flourish and gestured inside. “Let’s go for a ride.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.” I tightly gripped the phone. It buzzed incessantly. “How about I meet you at your office tomorrow?”
Thomas leaned on the door. “Come on, Carlos. You look like shit and I bet you’re hungry. The least I can do is buy you lunch.”
As if he hadn’t done enough already. “How did you know I was coming?”
“Isn’t that the million-dollar question?” He smirked. “I’m ready to talk if you’re ready to listen. Last time you threw a temper tantrum.” He scratched his cheek where I’d punched him last December.
I wasn’t in the mind-set yet to meet with him. I had my own game plan. Plans Natalya and I repeatedly drilled through. Spontaneity wasn’t in the rule book, and neither was a tour with Thomas as the guide. I spun around, looking for the rental-car kiosks. “I’ll get my own car and follow you.”
“You have no idea who anyone is or where you should go. Get in the fucking car, little bro, or I call my buddy over there and he’ll put you back on the plane to Mexico.”
Near the door to baggage claim stood a man. He wore a golf shirt, casual pants, and wraparound sunglasses. He looked like any other traveler at the airport except for his demeanor. It screamed government. He watched us cautiously.
Fear coursed through my veins, turning me cold. I looked around the airport, the flow of cars in front of me and the deafening noise of a jet overhead, and I saw no other choice. Either we created a scene or I went with Thomas.
I dumped my bag at his feet as if he were a parking valet and slid into the front seat.
“I wish you would have called me. I’d have had more time to prepare,” he said, and slammed the door.
My phone vibrated again and Natalya’s face lit the screen. I tapped the red icon, sending her call to voice mail; then I powered down my phone. Hopefully she’d forgive me later. I also hoped it wouldn’t be the last time I recognized her face.
“Where are we going?” I demanded when Thomas sank into his seat.
He finished a text, tossed his phone aside, and pulled from the curb. “Lunch, and if you’re up for it, a trip down memory lane.”
“Not interested.”
“That’s a load of shit. Why else would you come home?”
“This isn’t my home, and it’s none of your business.”
Thomas stopped hard at a red light. I slapped my hand on the dash to stop my forward momentum.
“Where you’re concerned, it is my business. Your situation is my fuckup and I intend to fix it. Simple as that. Besides, we’re family. Aren’t you the least bit curious about your sons’ uncle?”
“Leave them out of this.” I yanked on the seatbelt I’d forgotten to buckle.
He glanced at me, then back at the road. “I bet you’re here to see Aimee. She filed a restraining order against me.”
My mouth twisted. Served him right.
“She and Ian recently married.”
“Good for them.”
Thomas stole a glance at me. “You don’t care, do you?”
I shrugged a shoulder.
He swore colorfully. “There’s no way in hell I want to be anywhere nearby when James finds out she married someone else. He’ll be out for blood.” He chuckled, humorless. “My blood.”
“Let’s hope for both our sakes that never happens.”
“How about Nick? Are you planning to see him, too?”
“Who’s Nick?”
He smacked his forehead. “Keep forgetting you aren’t you. He’s been your best friend since we moved here from New York.”
“How old were we then?” I asked before I thought better not to.
“You are curious.” He wagged a finger at me and changed lanes, slowing the car as we exited the freeway. “You were eleven. I was thirteen and Phil fifteen, maybe sixteen. Can’t recall.”
At the mention of Phil’s name, I had the sudden urge to flee. I gripped the door handle.
“He’s in prison for another five years or so. When he was indicted for laundering, he plea-bargained for a shorter sentence and struck a deal with the Feds to tell them everything he knew about the Hidalgo cartel. He’d be locked away for ten or so years otherwise. After the shit he put me through, I’d do anything to keep him there. That’s why I’m hoping James remembers what happened in Mexico. Other than that wound on your hip, I don’t have proof Phil took a shot at you. It’s his word against mine.” He nudged my upper arm. “Hey, man, you okay?”
“Pull over.” I blew out a breath, feeling light-headed.
“Lunch, remember?”
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Hang tight. We’re almost there. Barrone’s is your favorite. You always loved eating there.”
Fury punched through me. “What part of ‘I’m not interested’ about any trips down memory lane did you not get?”
Thomas held up a hand in surrender. “We’re just eating and talking. I’ll drop you off at your hotel when we’re done. I won’t bother you again while you’re here.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
Thomas chuckled. “Fair enough. You don’t trust me, I get that. But understand this: since we were kids, I’ve always had your back. I’ll never stop looking out for you.”
I thought of Julian and Marcus. They were five years apart and Marcus was still too young to play ball and hang out with Julian and his friends. But his face did light up when Julian paid attention to him, and his head swung like a bobblehead toy looking for his brother when Julian wasn’t around. Would they become closer as they aged? Would Julian stick up for his younger brother? I couldn’t fathom what life had been like between Thomas and James. I didn’t feel a familial connection.
Thomas turned into the restaurant’s parking lot and eased into a spot. Despite the urge to eat and run, Barrone’s was good. We stuck to neutral topics while we ate, with Thomas doing most of the talking. He told me about how he was rebuilding Donato Enterprises, acquiring new clients in Asia and South America. And he complained about how our mother had been on him to marry and procreate. Someone needed to take over the business when he keeled over. Then he asked about my art and sons.
I pressed my back into the chair and tossed the napkin on the table. “Is Julian my son?”
“Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“The adoption. Was it legal? Am I legal? You said my ID is real. How is that possible?”
Thomas glanced around the dining area, then leaned on his forearms and lowered his voice. “Your situation is unique. I couldn’t talk about it in Mexico and we really shouldn’t discuss it here, in public. But I don’t know how much more time you’ll give me, so here it goes.
“Phil eventually confessed his association with the Hidalgo cartel. He told me about the laundering, how long he’d been placing fictitious orders and shipping our merchandise over the border, and that you’d told him we knew about it. That Donato Enterprises and the DEA had struck up a deal and had a sting operation in place. The Feds wanted Phil’s broker in hopes it led to the whereabouts of Fernando Ruiz. He runs the Hidalgo cartel.
“Phil didn’t know I was in Mexico looking for you when he first called to tell me about your so-called fishing trip and that you were lost at sea. At the time, I’d just found you at the hospital. You’d been there a few days and were still delirious, so I didn’t tell Phil I’d located you. His original story, before he confessed everything, was that you fell overboard and disappeared. That’s the story I went with when we—we, as in the DEA—had to make it look like you’d died. I think he tried to kill you, or he was pressured to kill you.”
“By whom?”
“Phil confessed one more thing.” Thomas tapped a finger on the table. “He was meeting with a couple of the cartel’s lieutenants when you walked in on them. After some brief conversation you were taken to a back room. Phil says they had you in there close to an hour and when they brought you out, you were barely conscious. Your nose was broken and the side of your face”—he points at my scar—“was torn up and bloody. He said it looked like someone had hit you with a two-by-four. That’s when they hauled you out of the bar and put you on a boat to dump your body. Phil doesn’t think you confessed to the cartel about our deal with the DEA and I don’t think so either because you didn’t know the particulars. But he does think the guy who tortured you is the same one the DEA has been after: Fernando Ruiz. Phil never saw him, but thinks you did. And should they learn you’re still alive, they might try to kill you again. Everyone else is biding their time to find out who you saw and what you heard. You might have information that can lead us to the whereabouts of Fernando Ruiz. Assuming we’re lucky, we’ll capture him without your help; then you can leave the program without worrying whether you should look over your shoulder the rest of your life. You can leave the program at any time. It’s your life. I was the one who insisted you be placed into it. I argued you could be a credible witness at Fernando’s trial once he’s captured but that your life’s in danger in the meantime. I also wanted to keep you hidden from Phil. We needed him to focus on his job for the cartel, not searching for you.”
I stared at him as if he’d told me the plot of a summer blockbuster and not the sequence of events that led me to who I was today. The scar on my face throbbed and the slash on my hip burned, the only physical connections I had to that day’s events. Wounds the doctors and Imelda thought had happened when I swam ashore. From waves tossing me against the rocks. It was the way my mind interpreted it happening in my dreams.
“What is this program you’re talking about, and who is Jaime Carlos Dominguez?”
“You are. You’re in Mexico’s witness protection program. Lucky for you, a measure authorizing benefits that include new identities was recently signed into law. Due to the situation, I called in some favors and submitted an urgent request. You had me listed as your power of attorney and you were in no condition to make decisions about your life at the time. The government issued your identification paperwork but I bought your gallery and house. I opened and funded your accounts. I created your backstory. I remade you to save you,” Thomas explained, punctuating each statement with the tap of his finger on the tabletop.
“Why Mexico? Why not relocate me here?”
“There or here, you’d still need protection until Fernando Ruiz is captured, tried, and convicted. Hiding in plain sight, that’s the foundation of any witness protection program. The fugue provided an extra layer. We hid you from you.”
So James would leave Phil alone and they could carry out the sting operation.
The waitress brought Thomas the check and he thanked her. He glanced at the figures and reached for his wallet. “You can’t ever tell anyone who you truly are. You must remain hidden until Ruiz is captured and you can provide a testimony.”
“What if James doesn’t remember anything?”
“Then I recommend we bring you and your sons home and set you up in witness protection here. Until Fernando is captured, the Hidalgo cartel needs to think you dead, or they’ll send someone else after you.”
I drank deeply from my water. What a mess. “Where does Imelda figure into all this? Does she know about everything?”
“She doesn’t know you’re in the program. I convinced my contact to let her play the role of your sister because she was well established in the community. She had credibility, so I made her part of your backstory. People knew her and would believe her. They would believe who you are, and in turn, you’d continue to believe yourself. I didn’t foresee she’d get tired of pretending since we had a financial arrangement. I thought she’d come to me first.”
“She was afraid of you.”
He shrugged, indifferent. “Still, I should have predicted what she’d do.” Thomas snapped for the waitress, who took the bill and Thomas’s card. “Have you done any further research into your condition?”
I slammed the water glass a little too hard on the table. “No . . . why?”
“I’ve read some papers. Your condition isn’t an easy one to treat.”
“I don’t want treatment.”
“Yeah, I read about that, too. Guys like you don’t want to recover their original identity. Why is that, do you think?”
“Other than the fact we’d be exchanging one set of memories for another? How about our previous selves were assholes?”
The waitress returned with the final tab. Thomas signed the check and tucked away his credit card. “James was a better man than me.”
“Still doesn’t change the fact I prefer the man I am now over him.”
“Is your life really that much better?”
“You tell me. I have nothing to compare it to.”
Thomas inhaled, nostrils expanding. “I thought it was at one time. I helped set you up so you had the life James aspired to have, but now . . .” He moved his hand up and down, measuring me. “You’re scared.”
“Cautious.”
“Weak.”
My hands curled into fists. “Untrusting. Are we through here?”
Thomas leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I came across some interesting cases during my research. You know there aren’t any meds available to help you.”
“I don’t need help. I’m fine the way I am.”
“Have you tried hypnosis?”
“We’re done here.” I stood.
Thomas expelled a long sigh. He looked across the room, his gaze not focused on anything in particular. He knocked on the tabletop and stood. “I’ll take you to your hotel.”
On the way out, Thomas’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then at me. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” He answered the call as we walked to the car. “You’re ready?” He paused, listening. “I’ll be right over.”
He frowned at the phone as he disconnected. “I have to swing by our warehouse. It’s a new location, but it’s on the way. Do you mind? It’ll only take a moment.”
“Sure.” As long as it got me closer to a hot shower, clean bed, and a moment of privacy to call Natalya.
We drove to the warehouse and Thomas parked in back. “I’ll only be a few. Interested in coming inside?”
“I’ll pass. Thanks.”
Thomas studied me for a moment. “Suit yourself.” He opened the door and left.
I watched him punch in a code in the box by the door and heard the click as the lock released. Thomas went inside and I waited in the car. Five minutes later, I was still waiting. Ten minutes later, I got out of the car and paced. Twenty-five minutes later, angrier than a hornet’s nest, I decided to go inside and haul his ass out.
Then I remembered the door had an automatic lock.
I knocked and no one answered. I banged on the door. Still, no one answered. I yanked the handle and the door flew open. “Whoa.” I stopped the door’s momentum with my foot and peered inside. It was pitch-black.
“Hello?” I listened. Somewhere off to my left, plastic crinkled.
I moved into the warehouse. The door slammed behind me. I skimmed a hand along the wall, found the light switch, and flipped it on. A high-wattage bulb buzzed on a few feet from my face, blinding me.
Shit. I held my forearm above my eyes.
“Carlos.” A disembodied voice said from beyond the light. “Look at me until I say something.”
I lowered my arm slightly and squinted. “Who’s there?”
“Don’t talk. Just listen. Listen . . . listen . . . listen.” The voice soothed in an even cadence. “In a moment, I’m going to say one, two, three, and when I do, I want you to nod.”
I listened and waited.
“One . . . two . . . three,” came the monotone voice.
I nodded.
“Now continue to nod, and as you nod I want your eyes to close. I want them to feel heavy like you’ve stayed up too late. You’re tired, Carlos.”
I weaved.
“Your eyes feel heavy . . . they’re very heavy . . .”
My eyelids closed.
“Go to sleep . . . you should . . . sleep.”
I crumpled to the floor.
The buzz of heated whispers reached me as the darkness in my head ebbed. I forced open my eyes, which felt like ripping duct tape off a flesh wound. Light emanated from overhead. It wasn’t blinding like the one I swore flashed in my face a moment ago, but it did burn. My eyes watered and my forehead throbbed. My limbs felt heavy as though pinned to whatever I was lying upon. I tried moving my head toward the voices. Pain shot across my temple.
Damn, that hurt. I groaned.
Whispers faded and a face appeared above me, blocking the light fixture. He looked familiar.
“What’s your name?”
I frowned and moaned again.
“What’s your name?” he asked in firmer tone.
My name? My name is . . . my name . . . my . . . name . . . is . . . “Carlos.” The word scraped over dry vocal cords.
“Shit.” The face disappeared and the heated whispers buzzed again.
I willed my arms to move. Stiff plastic crinkled underneath. I cradled my head. When had it ever hurt this bad?
Once, I thought. In the early days after my accident.
I blew out a breath as memories shimmered into view. The accident, therapy, my wife, her death, my sons. Thomas, that asshole. Natalya. Oh man. I needed to call her. Focusing on the light overhead, I tried to get some control over the pain.
Voices rose, transitioning from a buzz to a hiss, moving faster. Two, or maybe three, people were here with me, and they were arguing. The ligaments around my ears tensed as I tried deciphering their words through the pain.
“Memory inhibition . . . brain imbalance . . . need a neural image from prior to the episode.”
“Not possible. Can we try again?”
“Not here . . . shouldn’t have come . . . lose my license . . . bring him to me.”
I tried sitting up. Pain shot from my head and down the ridges of my spine. A long, low groan emanated from my chest.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The suggestion hasn’t worn off yet.”
“You gave him a headache?”
Someone cursed, then sighed, long and impatient.
“What else can we do?”
“Nothing really, other than pinpoint the stressors. Go from there.”
There was a long pause before, “I think there might be another way. I’ve got to get him to the hotel before his tail thinks something other than a tour is happening.”
Whatever they were talking about, I wasn’t going to find out. I curled on my side and dropped. My nose, chest, and knees connected with the cement floor.
“Gah!” I slid my knees inward and cupped my nose.
Feet thundered to my side. Hands grasped my armpits, hauling me back onto the plastic-covered couch I’d been lying on. I propped elbows on knees and dropped my face in my hands. My nose throbbed. I cautiously touched the bridge.
The couch dipped beside me. “I doubt you broke it.”
My brain finally caught up and connected the voice beside me to Thomas. “Muck you,” I said, the words muffled in my hands.
“I didn’t mean to take so long. I was just leaving when you came inside.”
“What happened?” My head screamed and I squeezed shut my eyes. I still saw that blazing light every time I closed them. Its shape and intensity seared into my retina.
“You flipped the switch on the torchlight, tripped over the cord, and hit the floor. You went down harder than a steel beam dropped by a crane. Scared the shit out of me.” He chuckled uneasily.
I lifted my head and looked around. “Where is everyone?”
Thomas gave me an odd look. “Who?”
“The other people who were here.”
He slowly shook his head. “There isn’t anyone here but us.”
“I heard voices . . .”
Thomas’s mouth slid into a curve and I slammed mine shut. I knew exactly how that statement made me sound. Crazy.
“How are you feeling?”
Nausea coiled in my stomach like the snake of a brother sitting beside me. I didn’t believe a word of his, but I wasn’t in the condition to argue.
He clapped my shoulder. “Let’s get you to the hotel.”
I slowly stood and promptly lost my balance. Thomas grabbed my upper arm and I shook him off. “Don’t touch me.” I started to walk toward the door. “Just . . . leave me . . . the fuck . . . alone.”
He held up both hands. “Sure thing, bro.”
Thomas dropped me off at the hotel without any further suggestions about visiting the house we grew up in or checking out the offices of the legacy our parents had left us. But he did want to talk and offered to buy me a cocktail at the bar.
I wanted to pop three aspirin, take a shower, and call Nat.
I didn’t ask Thomas again about the people I swore had been at the warehouse with us. And the farther we drove away, the more I wondered exactly what had happened. Shrouded under the thick haze of a migraine, the incident grew fainter with each passing moment.
Thomas stopped in front of the lobby entrance and I got out of the car. He popped the trunk and the valet removed my bags.
“Carlos.” Thomas leaned across the front seat and offered his business card. “Call if you need me or have questions,” he said as if he’d just sold me a life insurance policy.
Maybe he had. Something had happened at the warehouse and I had survived intact. I was still Carlos.
His face turned serious. “I’ve missed you.”
“Yeah, sure,” I muttered, and shut the door. Thomas drove off and I tossed his card in the trash.
Once checked in to the room with my luggage and carry-on dumped inside the pencil case–size closet, I popped three aspirin, swallowed them dry, and took a shower. Scalding water drenched my hair and poured over my shoulders. I watched it course down my abs, creating rivulets across my groin and thigh. It swirled down the drain, carrying a day’s worth of travel grime into the sewers. The vein in my head throbbed and I gritted my teeth. What the hell happened today?
Anytime I thought about that warehouse and tried to recall the voices that had whispered around me, no matter how blurry the images and indecipherable the words, the skull buster in my head cranked up its jackhammer. I pressed fingers into the corners of my eyes, sorely tempted to dig them from their sockets to relieve the pressure.
I flipped off the water and toweled off my bone-weary body. Neither the shower nor aspirin helped. I felt like shit.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I went to sit on the edge of the bed and called Nat. It went straight to voice mail. I disconnected and called again a few seconds later. This time I left a message. “Crazy day. I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it later, but right now I need to crash. I love you.”
I ended the call, sent a quick text with my room number since I’d promised to do so earlier, and tossed the phone onto the bedside table. It skidded over the edge and onto the floor, but I didn’t care. I was too tired.
Groaning, I fell back onto the pillows. My eyelids dropped and I slept, through the night and well into the next day.