Free Man in the Middle by Ken Morris Page B

he is tired of your ascendancy. He calls you a gringa who married his brother and stole the family business. He says we should never have forsaken the old ways. That you need to be replaced.”
    “He wishes to go back to the dangers of brokering drugs when we can broker money, safely, more profitably? He is a dangerous fool.”
    “I agree. What would you have me do?”
    Against Sarah’s snowy skin and white hair, rage appeared like a red mask, flaming her cheeks. She considered the situation for a moment. “You will get a large, wooden box. It will have enough space to fit Fernando Guzman and three days’ water and food. You will put a hole in that box. You will attach an eight-foot pipe—a hollow pole—to that hole. Air will flow through, just enough to keep the traitor from suffocating. You will bury that box, with Fernando in it, six feet deep, in a cool, shaded spot that no person will pass by. Like our Lord Jesus, on the third day—that is, after three complete days and nights—you will take several of the family members on a picnic near that shady grave. You will comment on that pole, poking from the ground. You will organize the men and dig until you solve this mystery. When you uncover the box, with my dead husband’s stupid brother, you will open it. Before you raise Fernando from the dead, you will tell him: ‘It is a lucky thing Sarah Guzman suggested this picnic.’ He will understand.”
    “This is a good plan, Tía . I believe we cannot kill the fool, lest we create additional dissension. Some do not believe your husband, Enriqué, committed suicide—that such a devout Catholic would allow his soul to be damned.”
    “They believe a man, such as my husband, would buy and sell drugs, and have men murdered for stealing a gram of cocaina , but would not commit suicide?”
    “Indeed. It is loquera . Still, you make a wise and merciful solution to the problem of Fernando.”
    “You will have no trouble completing this task?”
    “None. I will use people unknown to the family.”
    The rumble of thunder gave a gentle shake to the house, while the scent of ozone filtered through the window.
    “That is good, Carlos,” Sarah said. “Since we have now completed our business, feel free to help yourself to food—the cook has put out fruit, breads, an ample bounty in the sitting room. If you wish to avoid the approaching storm, stay here today and tonight. My home is, as always, your home.”
    “ Muchas gracias .” Carlos bowed and backed away.
    As did most of their conversations, this one ended with many unspoken understandings.

CHAPTER SIX

      F ROM THE AGE OF THIRTEEN , P ETER HAD WORKED AT LEAST TEN FIRST -days on the job. His various occupations had included construction, gardening, motel clerk, camp counselor, and a host of other non-memorables whose only attraction was the paycheck that kept him marginally solvent. But this represented more than simply a new job. It was a high-paying job for which he had little grounding. It was also something he sorely needed.
    For six hours, Peter spun in his bed, filled with the anticipation of a runner, waiting endlessly for the starter’s pistol to fire. His mind, reviewing and re-reviewing future roads he might travel down, allowed little more than a snippet of sleep. He didn’t mind, though. He had almost enjoyed the agony of the long night, filled with the anticipation of the upcoming day. If this were any normal day, he would have been exhausted from a night of tossing and turning. Instead, he now felt like he could put his feet together and vibrate his way to Stenman’s offices. A gallon of adrenaline guaranteed that fatigue would not be part of today’s agenda.
    Instructed to arrive at half past five, Peter didn’t mind the predawn start. He knew the New York Stock Exchange closed at one in the afternoon on the West Coast, so that meant early in, early out. Maybe leave by three or at the latest four and still be able to put in ten or eleven