The Salt House Read online

  THE SALT HOUSE

  A Max Strong Thriller

  MIKE DONOHUE

  CONTENTS

  The Salt House

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part II

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK

  ALSO BY MIKE DONOHUE

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  THE SALT HOUSE

  A Max Strong Thriller

  Mike Donohue

  For my grandmothers –

  You didn’t get a chance to read this one,

  but I’m sure you’re handselling them in heaven.

  If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell.

  VIRGIL

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alex Blackburn sat at his desk and read the pages for the third time. It didn’t take long. Bad news rarely wasted time. There were only four pages. A cover letter, of sorts, and then three official documents. Each was a copy, but still, complete with signatures, notarized dates, and what appeared to be an embossed seal at the bottom. He recognized all the names listed.

  His name and address on the envelope were handwritten. No return address for obvious reasons. He might have dismissed it as junk mail and discarded it unopened if it had been printed, that would have been a very costly mistake, but the handwriting had caught his eye. It had arrived mixed in with the rest of the day’s mail and Consuela had placed it in the tray on his desk. It had sat there ticking away like a bomb for four hours until he’d finished a late afternoon conference call and picked up the stack.

  The letters were blocky, in black ink. The envelope was cheap, plain white. It was probably one from a box of 50 or 100 and available at any drug or office supply store. The envelope was thin, and it bulged with the folded papers inside. He pulled out the letter and flattened it on the blotter. At this point, he was more curious than concerned. The first time he didn’t really read the pages, he’d skimmed them, looking for context, his name, or trigger words that might tell him what it was about. Did he need to tune in and pay attention or could he pitch it all in the trash? He flipped through the pages. Some sort of legal documents. Something related to Rose and the ranch.

  The second time, he read each word and became more concerned. By the time he reached the signatures and seal, a cold tightness had crept through his gut. The intent of the letter was clear enough and the documents were short and straightforward. He didn’t doubt the originals would hold up to whatever scrutiny was needed. He looked at the names and dates and did the math. His mind rapidly spun out different scenarios and outcomes. None of them ended well for him. Not unless he did something about it.

  He weighed his options and then reached for the phone but hesitated. There was the standing meeting, of course. They talked once a week. He didn’t like to call or bring anything up outside of that forum. He didn’t want to give the man any reason for unease. This would be the first time he’d ever done it. Should he wait? No, the weekly meeting was still four days away. He should call. But should he handle it on his own? That was an option, but it brought its own risks. That type of response was not in his primary skill set. Not anymore. He’d done it before, of course, but he’d been a younger man. A totally different man. To get where he was now, sitting in this office, he’d needed to take certain types of risk. Now, it was different. He needed to keep his hands much cleaner. He didn’t need to take those risks, but he still needed to manage risk. What was the best way to manage this specific risk? If he went about it on his own and it went wrong? The man wouldn’t react well. But if he handled it quickly and cleanly? Maybe it never had to be mentioned at all. Or, maybe he could position it as taking initiative and being accountable. Was it worth the risk?

  He went back and forth for a few more minutes and then picked up the phone and dialed a number. He was never a man to waste time. He always felt better when taking action. The only way out is through was a primary rule for him. He hung up the phone feeling a little better. This was unexpected but could be overcome. Perhaps whoever had sent it was actually doing him a favor. If he hadn’t known about it, or learned about it too late, he might have lost everything.

  He spun around in his chair and looked out the window. The setting sun cast the pool and patio in a soft golden light. Beyond the pool, near the barn, he could see the horses grazing. It was a lot to lose. Most people would see a peaceful and bucolic scene. Not Blackburn. Blackburn saw it as necessary window dressing. It all added up to status and power and money. The three keys to opening up locked doors in this world. Blackburn had already opened a few doors, which was actually impressive for someone with his background, but he wanted more. He knew those doors were just the lowest rungs of the ladder and he didn’t intend to settle for that. He intended to keep climbing right out of this backwater town. He intended to keep going until there was no higher rung to grasp and he no longer had to make the sort of phone call he’d just made.

  As he turned away from the view and closed the blinds, he had another thought. He picked up the phone again and made another call. He would come at this problem from both directions.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Raul Ortiz knew how to stretch a dollar. It was a survival skill. One his mother had sorely lacked. She had poured her paychecks down her throat as fast as the bartender could refill the glass. He’d come to an agreement with her when he was seven. He would act like everything was fine if she gave him 40 dollars on payday before she went to Tully’s. Forty dollars for two weeks, $2.86 per day, $1.43 each for him and his sister. If they wanted to eat, he needed to make everything last. Back then, he and Elena still went to bed most nights hungry, but they weren’t starving.

  He adjusted the small fan on the kitchen counter. No use sweating through his shirt before breakfast. His tie sat on the back of the chair. He wouldn’t put that on until he was ready to leave. A tie in Texas during the summer should be considered cruel and unusual punishment.

  The summers had been the worst part of his childhood. Yes, he was free from schoolwork, but no school meant no free school lunch and those couple of bucks had to extend even further. That frugal mindset was imprinted so deep in him now, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever break free. He looked down at the dry bowl of cereal and the quarter full container of milk. He added a few splashes of the milk and then thinned it out further with some tap water before he spooned some into his mouth. It tasted like soggy packing material, but it would fill him up and he wouldn’t have to buy more milk until the weekend.

  He glanced at the stack of envelopes in a pile on the table near the front door. Maybe it was good that he hadn’t ever fully broken his thrifty habit. Things had been good for a time. After his mother had drank her liver out of business, and Elena had gotten a scholarship and escaped to UTEP, he’d felt lighter. He’d gotten a job as a teller at M&P Savings and Loan. For ten years, he’d worked his way steadily up the ladder. Baby steps and half-steps and some might say sheer endurance; he’d stayed while others had left. He rose up until he became branch manager. Then, he hadn’t needed to watch every single cent, but he’d done it anyway.

  In retrospect, it was like his body knew something his mind didn’t. His body had been storing up nuts for a rainy day. And now it was fucking pouring. Almost overnight, it felt like Raul was back in that tiny hotbox apartment above the laundromat. Almost all of the mining and petroleum outfits around Tiendas Reales had closed. Business accounts and deposits had dried up. The remaining mining employees were forced to follow or find new jobs, and there were precious few new jobs in Tiendas Reales. Not enough for all the people looking for work in the last few years. Accounts were closed. Loans were defaulted on. Raul spent most of his days dealing with either irate customers or crying ones. The tearful ones were far worse, but neither left
him feeling good about himself. After thirteen years of striving, he was the local branch manager of nothing. He was in charge of a paper kingdom where all the chits and receipts were worthless.

  And soon, he wouldn’t even be that. The modest collection of M&P assets had been bought up by a large east coast commercial bank. The ax that had been hanging over his head for the last eighteen months had finally dropped last month. The TR branch would be closed and consolidated with the other M&P branch in Freer, over an hour away. He’d talked to a woman in HR and had been invited to apply for a job there. She thought with his retail experience that he had a good shot at landing one of the positions. All those years of work and he’d been invited to apply. If he didn’t secure a job with the bank, she’d said, he’d receive a week of severance for each year he’d been employed and, as a manager, he’d receive two free weeks of career job placement services. Thirteen weeks. That might see him through to the end of the year. Might. Loyalty clearly got you nothing. He’d felt like screaming at her, but he’d politely thanked her and hung up. Job placement services. He was almost perversely curious to see what the career counseling person filling that HR requirement would make of the opportunities available in Tiendas Reales.

  Thinking back on that conversation now, he wondered if that was the first crack, or had it been there already? Had the eighteen months after the announcement, that time in limbo, built up the pressure so slowly he didn’t feel it? Had he been the proverbial frog in the slowly boiling pot? Did it even matter now? He’d made his choice. He’d gone all in.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The killers both lived in Los Angeles, but not close to each other. By design, they lived on opposite sides of the sprawling city. They rarely, if ever, saw each other unless they were on a job. Even then, they often tried to remain apart until it was time to pull the trigger. At that point, it didn’t matter who saw them together. They didn’t live long enough to tell anyone.

  They had worked together for almost twenty years. They had started young in Iguala and had each killed their first man before turning sixteen. It had been a necessity. They had both come to see their work as a kind of public service. They were defending their families and communities from outsiders. If the outsiders gained control, things would have only gotten worse. The government was not going to help. Their fathers were not around. They had no choice, and they had no regrets. They did it to survive.

  Eventually, they each made their way over the border to a new life in the United States, but they didn’t seek out a new profession. They were good at what they did, very good, and they were paid well. There was no incentive to find a new job. There was plenty of work for them on this side of the border. It wasn’t much different than working at home. In some ways, it was better. They were now more anonymous. They were also older, savvier, and had a reputation among the people who mattered. They set up cutouts in Detroit and Vegas. If you needed something done, you jumped through the hoops. If you checked out and the money came through, your problem was taken care of in a reasonable amount of time. They typically worked in the southwest, but it wasn’t exclusive. They were willing to travel. Sometimes they even went back across the border. They had friends in high and low places.

  On the afternoon that the first call came through, the driver was in his back yard trying to stop the spread of citrus blast from spreading through his small grove of orange trees. He had decided the best course was to cut down the sick tree, as much as it would pain him, before it could infect the rest. He had just gone to the garden shed and grabbed an ax when the phone on his hip vibrated. He always carried it, even though it didn’t ring often. Just a handful of times each year. Only three people had the number. He slipped it out of the belt loop holster and checked the display. It was the man from Vegas.

  “Yes?”

  The driver’s voice was dry and slightly tremulous. He didn’t speak out loud very often. He’d worked hard during his time in the U.S. to lose his native accent. He did it for the same reason he had his teeth fixed, a few prominent moles removed, and his astigmatism corrected. His job required him to be forgettable, to blend in. He wanted nothing about himself to be memorable. Not his dark hair. Not his medium frame. Not his speech. Nothing. In his experience, most people looked out at the world but were only thinking about themselves. This innate selfishness meant he didn’t need elaborate distractions. His only disguise was his basic blandness. It had worked for twenty years and he expected it to continue working for twenty more.

  He listened now as the man in Vegas relayed the details of the job offer. He’d never met the man in Vegas. He’d only heard his voice, but he had done some research. He knew where the man lived. He knew his name. He could find him if it was ever necessary. This particular job was vague. Typically, he would reject it. He wouldn’t even need to speak to his partner, but it also came from an old, very trusted client. He thought about it.

  “Hello?” the man in Vegas said as the silence lingered.

  “We will take the job,” the driver said eventually.

  “Okay. Good.” The man in Vegas sounded relieved. He likely did not want to call this client back with bad news. “I will transfer the first part of the payment and then contact you with further details when I have them.”

  The driver disconnected, walked back to the shed, and replaced the ax. When he worked a job, he worked the job and nothing else. The client had his full attention. That was what he was paid for. The tree would live or die according to nature. He would not intervene. Not now.

  A minute later, his phone chimed with a notification. The money had been deposited. He walked back up to the house and checked on his mother. She was sitting on the couch watching a telenovela. He stepped back into the yard. It was unlikely that she could or would overhear him, but the driver was always cautious.

  He called his partner across the city.

  “We have a job,” he said when Mookie picked up. His real name was Alvaro, but he’d been called La Muneca, the doll, in Iguala since he was a small child with a mop of dark hair and cherubic features. The nickname had followed him over the border but had been bastardized in translation from Muneca to Mookie and, like any bad nickname, it had stuck.

  “Okay.”

  A twenty-year partnership was built on trust. His partner didn’t ask any more questions, he trusted the driver, they were extensions of each other. A left arm and a right arm. He waited.

  The driver continued. “I’ll pick you up at the San Antonio airport in two days. In the afternoon.”

  “Okay.” Nothing more needed to be said.

  Next, he switched phones and called his sister. He spoke in his native Spanish.

  “There is a job up in Sacramento. It might be a few days, maybe a week. Can you stay with Mom at night? The nurse will continue to come and check in during the day.”

  “Claro.” Of course, she responded. His sister was more than ten years younger and only had vague, hazy memories of their time growing up in Mexico. She believed her brother was an insurance claims adjuster for a large company and that he was called out on emergencies a few times a year.