to store junk. Two dead mice lay perfectly still in traps, their necks snapped in two.
She begins in Nathan's bedroom by going through a tall chest of drawers. Nothing. She looks under his bed and between the mattress and the box spring. She examines every inch of his cluttered closet. The house has a conventional, framed foundation, no concrete slab, and the hardwood flooring gives way slightly with each step. She taps the flooring, searching for a more hollow sound, for evidence of a hiding place.
I suspect Nathan has hidden his loot somewhere in the house, though probably not in one of the main rooms. Nonetheless, we have to look everywhere. If he's smart, which is a stretch, he has split it and is using more than one hiding place.
From his bedroom, Vanessa inspects the guest room, giving the dead mice plenty of space. At 12:30, she begins turning off lights, as if Nathan is winding down. Room by room she goes, checking every corner, every plank, every pocket. Nothing goes unturned or untested. It could be in the walls, the floors, the dry-wall above the ceilings, or it could be buried in the backyard or stashed in a safe at Bombay's.
The cramped basement has seven-foot ceilings, no air-conditioning, and unpainted cinder-block walls. After spending an hour there, Vanessa is soaking wet, and too tired to go on. At 2:00 a.m., she stretches out on the sofa in the den and falls asleep with her hand on the Glock's holster.
If Rashford was hesitant to work on Saturday, he was almost belligerent on Sunday, but I gave him little choice. I pleaded with him to accompany me to the jail and pull the same strings he'd pulled the day before. I gave him a $100 bill to facilitate matters.
We arrive at the jail just before 9:00 a.m., and fifteen minutes later I am alone with Nathan in the same room used yesterday. I am shocked at his appearance. His injuries are evident and substantial, and I wonder how long the guards will allow the abuse to continue. His face is a mess of gashes, open wounds, and dried blood. His upper lip is bloated and protrudes grotesquely from under his nose. His left eye is completely shut and his right one is red and puffy. He is missing one front tooth. Gone are the cutoffs and cute Hawaiian shirt, replaced by a dirt-stained white jumpsuit covered with dried blood.
We both lean forward, our faces just inches apart. "Help me," he manages to say, almost in tears.
"Here's the latest, Nathan," I begin. "The crooks are demanding $1 million from the jet's owner, and he's agreed to pay it, so these scumbags will get their money. They're not going to charge me with anything, as of this morning. For you, they want a half a million bucks. I've explained, through Rashford, that neither of us has that kind of money. I've explained that we were just passengers on someone's jet, that we're not rich, and so on. The Jamaicans don't believe this. Anyway, that's where we are as of right now."
Nathan grimaces, as if it hurts to breathe. As bad as his face looks, I'd hate to see the rest of his body. I'm imagining the worst, so I don't ask what happened.
He grunts and says, "Can you get back to the U.S., Reed?" His voice is weak and scratchy; even it is wounded.
"I think so. Rashford thinks so. But I don't have a lot of cash, Nathan."
He frowns and grunts again and looks as though he may either faint or cry. "Reed, listen to me. I have some money, a lot of it."
I'm staring him straight in the eyes, or at least his right one because his left one is closed. This is the fateful moment upon which everything else has been created. Without this, the entire project would be a gargantuan disaster, one horrific and lousy gamble.
"How much?" I ask as he pauses. He does not want to go on, but he has no choice.
"Enough to get me out."
"A half a million dollars, Nathan?"
"That, and more. We need to be partners, Reed. Just me and you. I'll tell you where the money is, you go get it, you get me out of here, and we'll be partners. But you gotta give me your word, Reed. I have to trust you, okay?"
"Hang on, Nathan," I say, pulling back and throwing up both palms. "You expect me to leave here, go home, then