Thomas turned into the restaurant’s parking lot and eased into a spot. Despite the urge to eat and run, Barrone’s was good. We stuck to neutral topics while we ate, with Thomas doing most of the talking. He told me about how he was rebuilding Donato Enterprises, acquiring new clients in Asia and South America. And he complained about how our mother had been on him to marry and procreate. Someone needed to take over the business when he keeled over. Then he asked about my art and sons.
I pressed my back into the chair and tossed the napkin on the table. “Is Julian my son?”
“Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“The adoption. Was it legal? Am I legal? You said my ID is real. How is that possible?”
Thomas glanced around the dining area, then leaned on his forearms and lowered his voice. “Your situation is unique. I couldn’t talk about it in Mexico and we really shouldn’t discuss it here, in public. But I don’t know how much more time you’ll give me, so here it goes.
“Phil eventually confessed his association with the Hidalgo cartel. He told me about the laundering, how long he’d been placing fictitious orders and shipping our merchandise over the border, and that you’d told him we knew about it. That Donato Enterprises and the DEA had struck up a deal and had a sting operation in place. The Feds wanted Phil’s broker in hopes it led to the whereabouts of Fernando Ruiz. He runs the Hidalgo cartel.
“Phil didn’t know I was in Mexico looking for you when he first called to tell me about your so-called fishing trip and that you were lost at sea. At the time, I’d just found you at the hospital. You’d been there a few days and were still delirious, so I didn’t tell Phil I’d located you. His original story, before he confessed everything, was that you fell overboard and disappeared. That’s the story I went with when we—we, as in the DEA—had to make it look like you’d died. I think he tried to kill you, or he was pressured to kill you.”
“By whom?”
“Phil confessed one more thing.” Thomas tapped a finger on the table. “He was meeting with a couple of the cartel’s lieutenants when you walked in on them. After some brief conversation you were taken to a back room. Phil says they had you in there close to an hour and when they brought you out, you were barely conscious. Your nose was broken and the side of your face”—he points at my scar—“was torn up and bloody. He said it looked like someone had hit you with a two-by-four. That’s when they hauled you out of the bar and put you on a boat to dump your body. Phil doesn’t think you confessed to the cartel about our deal with the DEA and I don’t think so either because you didn’t know the particulars. But he does think the guy who tortured you is the same one the DEA has been after: Fernando Ruiz. Phil never saw him, but thinks you did. And should they learn you’re still alive, they might try to kill you again. Everyone else is biding their time to find out who you saw and what you heard. You might have information that can lead us to the whereabouts of Fernando Ruiz. Assuming we’re lucky, we’ll capture him without your help; then you can leave the program without worrying whether you should look over your shoulder the rest of your life. You can leave the program at any time. It’s your life. I was the one who insisted you be placed into it. I argued you could be a credible witness at Fernando’s trial once he’s captured but that your life’s in danger in the meantime. I also wanted to keep you hidden from Phil. We needed him to focus on his job for the cartel, not searching for you.”
I stared at him as if he’d told me the plot of a summer blockbuster and not the sequence of events that led me to who I was today. The scar on my face throbbed and the slash on my hip burned, the only physical connections I had to that day’s events. Wounds the doctors and Imelda thought had happened when I swam ashore. From waves tossing me against the rocks. It was the way my mind interpreted it happening in my dreams.
“What is this program you’re talking about, and who is Jaime Carlos Dominguez?”
“You are. You’re in Mexico’s witness protection program. Lucky for you, a measure authorizing benefits that include new identities was recently signed into law. Due to the situation, I called in some favors and submitted an urgent request. You had me listed as your power of attorney and you were in no condition to make decisions about your life at the time. The government issued your identification paperwork but I bought your gallery and house. I opened and funded your accounts. I created your backstory. I remade you to save you,” Thomas explained, punctuating each statement with the tap of his finger on the tabletop.
“Why Mexico? Why not relocate me here?”
“There or here, you’d still need protection until Fernando Ruiz is captured, tried, and convicted. Hiding in plain sight, that’s the foundation of any witness protection program. The fugue provided an extra layer. We hid you from you.”
So James would leave Phil alone and they could carry out the sting operation.
The waitress brought Thomas the check and he thanked her. He glanced at the figures and reached for his wallet. “You can’t ever tell anyone who you truly are. You must remain hidden until Ruiz is captured and you can provide a testimony.”
“What if James doesn’t remember anything?”
“Then I recommend we bring you and your sons home and set you up in witness protection here. Until Fernando is captured, the Hidalgo cartel needs to think you dead, or they’ll send someone else after you.”
I drank deeply from my water. What a mess. “Where does Imelda figure into all this? Does she know about everything?”
“She doesn’t know you’re in the program. I convinced my contact to let her play the role of your sister because she was well established in the community. She had credibility, so I made her part of your backstory. People knew her and would believe her. They would believe who you are, and in turn, you’d continue to believe yourself. I didn’t foresee she’d get tired of pretending since we had a financial arrangement. I thought she’d come to me first.”
“She was afraid of you.”
He shrugged, indifferent. “Still, I should have predicted what she’d do.” Thomas snapped for the waitress, who took the bill and Thomas’s card. “Have you done any further research into your condition?”
I slammed the water glass a little too hard on the table. “No . . . why?”
“I’ve read some papers. Your condition isn’t an easy one to treat.”
“I don’t want treatment.”
“Yeah, I read about that, too. Guys like you don’t want to recover their original identity. Why is that, do you think?”
“Other than the fact we’d be exchanging one set of memories for another? How about our previous selves were assholes?”
The waitress returned with the final tab. Thomas signed the check and tucked away his credit card. “James was a better man than me.”
“Still doesn’t change the fact I prefer the man I am now over him.”
“Is your life really that much better?”
“You tell me. I have nothing to compare it to.”
Thomas inhaled, nostrils expanding. “I thought it was at one time. I helped set you up so you had the life James aspired to have, but now . . .” He moved his hand up and down, measuring me. “You’re scared.”
“Cautious.”
“Weak.”
My hands curled into fists. “Untrusting. Are we through here?”
Thomas leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I came across some interesting cases during my research. You know there aren’t any meds available to help you.”
“I don’t need help. I’m fine the way I am.”
“Have you tried hypnosis?”
“We’re done here.” I stood.
Thomas expelled a long sigh. He looked across the room, his gaze not focused on anything in particular. He knocked on the tabletop and stood. “I’ll take you to your hotel.”
On the way out, Thomas’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then at me. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” He answered the call as we walked to the car. “You’re ready?” He paused, listening. “I’ll be right over.”