No Way Back: Part 3 of 3. Andrew Gross

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СКАЧАТЬ The article said she was a photography major at Denver. It said some of her photographs were currently part of an exhibition at the Arts Center. There was even a link to them. A follow-up note said the collection had been expanded to include some of her final shots, taken moments before her death.

      I clicked on them, not even sure why.

      I scrolled through Ana Lasser’s photographs of old-woman fruit vendors in their stalls by the road—sharp-cheeked, sun-hardened faces. I saw Culiacán, with its white stucco houses and church towers. I looked in the deep-set eyes of a young boy in a narrow doorway staring back at the camera. I realized this would have been just moments before the shooting. Was he one of them? One of those child killers enlisted by the cartels who a second later would have pulled out an automatic weapon like a toy and sprayed death on them? Or was he just staring back at Ana, the killers scrambling in doorways and on rooftops, knowing what, seconds later, was about to take place? His look held a kind of fascination for me.

      “Ana Lasser,” I read in the bio accompanying her photographs, “who was tragically shot and killed along with two other DU students in Culiacán, Mexico, moments after taking these shots, was a senior at DU majoring in photography. She came from …”

      Suddenly it was like the off switch in my body turned on.

      I stared at the words that followed, my brain sorting through what it meant. My eyes doubling in size.

      “She came from Gillian, Colorado …”

      I read it again, the truth slamming me in the face that I’d been looking at it all wrong.

       This is for Gillian, asshole… .

      All wrong.

      Suddenly the whole thing seemed to just fall into place. What Curtis had to have known that led him to Lauritzia. What she had to have known.

      And more important, what Hruseff would have killed for in order to keep secret.

      You have no idea what you’ve stepped into, he’d said as he raised his gun at me.

      Now I did. Now I did know.

      That that ambush was somehow not related to the Bienvienes at all. But to this girl …

      Ana. Lasser.

       “A photography major … from Gillian, Colorado …”

      I read it again and again, unable to lift my eyes. This murdered girl, this seemingly random victim, who, I now knew, hadn’t stumbled into tragedy after all. But was at the very heart of it.

      Who, I now realized, was Gillian.

       CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

      I pulled out the throwaway phone from my bag and rushed outside. My hands shook, not from the late-October chill but from the sudden realization that Ana Lasser was Gillian. That the Bienvieneses hadn’t been the intended targets of that ambush at all.

       She was.

      I hid myself against the far side of the Explorer and pressed the number I had already loaded in. I was just praying he hadn’t already called the police on me.

      It started ringing. The receptionist answered. “Harold Bachman,” I said, as soon as I heard her voice.

      “Who should I say is calling?”

      Who should I say? My name was on every newscast in the country. “Wendy” was all I came up with. “Just tell him it’s incredibly urgent. Please.”

      My head spun in circles while I waited for him to come on the line. I tried to figure out just what this meant. The world had shifted. Curtis had to have found this out as well. That was why he had to find Lauritzia. To see if she knew too. Or maybe to get to her father.

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