A week later a friend called me from Ohio. "Neelie, I got something from John in the mail. It came from Mexico. Is everything alright?"
I was silent for a few moments. "Was it a package?" I asked, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. "Did you open it? Don't open it, Jay. It could be . . ." Nausea rushed through me and I felt like I was choking.
"I didn't open it. It's a large brown envelope and it was addressed to you care of me. I got a separate note from John in a different envelope. He instructed me to get the package to you. Are you there?"
I took a couple of deep breaths and managed to gasp, "Yes. Do you know what's in it?"
"It feels like a lot of paper."
I was holding onto the kitchen counter for support and my knees started to buckle. I found a chair and sank into it. "Are. . . Are you sure that's all it is?"
"Yeah. Just paper—a long letter or something. Are you sure you're okay?"
I forced my voice to sound as normal as possible. "Yeah. I'm fine thanks Jay. I just bumped my knee when I answered the phone," I lied.
"So, I'll send it to you, okay? Is John alright?"
I swallowed hard. "John passed a week ago. Can you hold onto that envelope for a while? I'll let you know when I'm ready for it."
"Oh, God, Neelie. I'm so sorry. I didn’t know. What happened?"
"KIA. He was working undercover. And for that reason, please don't tell anyone else you have that package. It could mean danger for me and Bryony."
"Sure, Neelie. And I'm so sorry again. I'll wait for your instructions, and meantime, I'll keep it safely locked away."
IT WAS ALMOST eleven months later when Mom and I were visiting my Aunt, that I drove across the state line to meet with Jay at a lonely gas station in Ohio.
"John stressed that I must make you promise not to give it to anyone, no matter what," he said. "You must never let anyone else get a hold of this." My heart jumped when I took it from him and it was all I could do to keep a straight face and a steady voice to thank him.
Back at Aunt Mary's farm in Pennsylvania, I slipped it under the mattress of the bed I was sleeping in.
Later that night, I stared at John's neat handwriting for a while before I slipped my nail under the flap and opened the envelope. With trembling hands, I fingered the thick folded sheet of paper. I knew what it was. John had told me about it the last time he was home. It contained a set of blueprints showing the layout of Iglesias' villa, which was like an impenetrable fortress. The higher-ups in the DEA would kill to have this information.
I didn't want to look at it, and a started to push the contents back into the envelope when my eye caught a note written on the back of the plans, 'Get the boy.'
I had no idea what that meant, but there was no mistaking John's cursive handwriting.
I placed the envelope in my suitcase and took it home, lost in thought about that note. Get the boy. I was halfway home when it hit me. I had heard a rumor that John had gotten close to the drug lord's wife—way too close, which is what had cost him his life.
The rumor said John had had a child with her. I had dismissed it as trash talk. John would never betray me like that.
Sending those blueprints was his last effort to communicate with me. He wanted me to get the boy—his child? The only problem is, how do I do that? Iglesias, kingpin of the la Serpiente de Coral Cartel—is the cruelest and most powerful of all the current Mexican drug lords.
Did he think I would join Special Forces and try to get into the secret confines of the cartel, the way he did? Or should I just call the drug lord up and say, "I'd like to take custody of my husband's child."