Solomon Creed: The only thriller you need to read this year. Simon Toyne

exactly like this, as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the room and what was left was difficult to breathe.

      ‘Ramon,’ he said, repeating the name Morgan had just given him.

      Morgan nodded. ‘Ramon Alvarado. Tío’s son.’

      ‘But – what was he … I mean, why was he on the plane?’

      Morgan shrugged. ‘Some trouble south of the border. He needed a fast ride out of Mexico. I didn’t ask for the details.’

      Cassidy stared out of the tall window of his study and down the avenue of jacaranda trees that framed the church beyond the wall. Above the roof he could see smoke rising out in the desert. That’s what had been filling his mind until Morgan had told him what had caused the fire. Now it seemed the very least of his worries.

      ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’

      ‘I didn’t think you needed to know.’

      ‘You didn’t think I … but this has … Tío’s son!! Don’t you think you should have run it by me?’

      ‘It was a last-minute thing. I got a call. I made a decision.’

      ‘You made a decision?’

      ‘I didn’t have a choice, all right? When someone like Tío calls and asks for a favour, he’s not really asking. What would you have done different? Said, “Sorry to hear your son’s in trouble, but we’re not going to help you”? Don’t start blaming me for this. I didn’t make the damn plane crash.’

      Cassidy rose from his chair and started pacing. ‘We need to do everything we can to speed up the crash investigation,’ he said. ‘Get proof that it was an accident.’

      ‘What if it wasn’t?’

      Cassidy glared at him like he had suggested the earth was flat. ‘Of course it was an accident.’

      Morgan took his phone from his pocket and stepped into the room. ‘When I went out to the crash site I nearly ran this guy down.’ He held the phone out.

      Cassidy took his reading glasses from the desk and the photo on the screen came into focus as he put them on. It had been taken from inside Morgan’s car, the air outside filled with grit that softened the image, though the figure of the man standing at the centre was clear. He seemed to shine in the sunlight, his face gazing up at something the photograph did not show. ‘Who’s that?’

      ‘Says he can’t remember, but the label in his jacket says he’s called Solomon Creed.’ He swiped the screen and the picture changed. ‘He also got this on his arm.’

      Cassidy looked at the livid red mark upon the man’s skin then at Morgan for an explanation.

      ‘Looks like a kill tag to me,’ Morgan obliged. ‘Cartel hit men get them to show they’ve clipped someone important. Usually they’re tattoos, but sometimes they cut themselves or brand themselves, like this.’

      Cassidy looked back down at the photo as he realized what Morgan was suggesting. ‘You think this guy might have …’

      ‘Shot the plane down? Maybe. Say he knocked it out with some missile, got caught in the blast, banged his head and now can’t remember who he is. Or maybe he knows exactly who he is and just isn’t saying. The cartels use some pretty unusual characters as gunmen south of the border – gives the norteños something to sing about. So I don’t think the notion of an albino being used as a hit man is beyond the realm of possibility. They’re superstitious about albinos down there anyways. Hell, they’re superstitious about everything. They think the white skin shows they got divine power, like they’ve been touched by God or something. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that he might have done it. He was there, he was running away from the crash, he even said the fire was there because of him, and he’s got this mark on his arm. It’s all circumstantial, but we don’t need it to hold up in a court of law, we only need Tío to buy it. Someone is going to have to pay for his son’s death – and I don’t mean offer him cash, say “sorry” and hope everything’s going to go away. Blood will have to pay for blood here, so that’s what we have to give him. We give him this guy. We give him Solomon Creed.’

      Cassidy swiped the screen and stared hard at the picture of the pale man standing on the desert road. Then he shook his head and handed the phone back. ‘I think I should talk to Tío first, try for a diplomatic solution before we start … throwing human sacrifices at him. We don’t even know who this guy is. Have you run an ID check?’

      ‘He’s not on the NCIC.’

      ‘That only proves he’s not a criminal. What about the missing persons channels – DMV, Social Security?’

      ‘What’s the point?’

      ‘The point is we’re talking about a man’s life here.’

      ‘No. The point is we’re talking about several people’s lives, including yours and mine. We’re talking about the survival of this town. I don’t want to know who this guy is. I don’t need to know. But I’ll tell you something else: he had a copy of Jack Cassidy’s memoir in his pocket, personally inscribed to him from Jim Coronado.’

      Cassidy felt the blood drain from him. ‘You think he knew Jim?’

      ‘He says he can’t remember, but when I asked him about the book he said he felt like he was here because of Jim. He said he thought he was here to save him.’

      ‘Jesus. He said that?’

      Morgan nodded. ‘Asked me how he died and whether he could talk to Holly. So, whichever way you chop it up, this guy is a potential problem for us. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s actually a solution. The way I figure it, Tío’s going to find out about him sooner or later, which means he’s a dead man whatever we do or don’t do. So if we give him up, we win ourselves some loyalty points and hopefully cut ourselves some slack. And we no longer have to worry about what his connection to Jim may have been and whether that might turn into another problem for us.’

      Cassidy felt sick about what they were discussing. He gazed back up at the stern portrait of his ancestor. He had always felt like the Reverend Jack was looking down on him, judging him and how he was running the town he had built. He had faced some tough challenges over the last few years, real tough challenges, but nothing like this. This was like Armageddon, apocalyptic – world ending.

      Outside, the wail of a siren rose and he glanced up to see a cruiser come to an abrupt halt on the driveway, its spinning lights painting the panelling red and blue.

      ‘There’s my ride,’ Morgan said, heading to the door.

      ‘Where is this guy?’ Cassidy asked. ‘You taken him in for questioning?’

      ‘No. I thought it best to keep him off the record, in case he has to – disappear. Last I saw, he was heading to the church.’

      Cassidy stared out of the window at the white stone of the church beyond the wall. ‘Let me go talk to him first.’

      ‘Now why would you want to go and do that?’

      ‘Because if I’m going to sacrifice a man’s life to save my town, the least I can do is have the courtesy of looking him in the eye first. And I still think we should establish whether the crash was an accident or not.’

      Morgan shook his head and took in the room. ‘Must be nice, living in your oak-panelled world where everyone plays by rules and any disputes can be resolved with a handshake. Let me tell you how things work out in the real world. Talking to this guy is going to achieve absolutely nothing. If anything, it’s going to complicate things. You don’t strike up a friendship with a man you’re about to execute. And it won’t matter a damn to Tío whether the crash was an accident or not. His son died and someone is going to have to pay for it. Someone – or something. Ever hear of a place called El Rey?’

      ‘Rings a bell.’

      ‘It’s