Текст книги "The Survivors Club"

Автор книги: J. Black

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

CHAPTER 42

In the desperate moments that followed, Michael didn’t have a chance to think about the hints he’d gotten, gratis, from the universe. He didn’t think about the generic white truck that had tracked him through Tucson traffic until it dwindled far back in his rearview. He didn’t think about the truck that turned onto 386, how he’d tried to draft behind it just for fun, and he certainly didn’t notice that there was a temporary sticker on the rear window. (He remembered now, though.) He didn’t think about the truck cruising along the single-lane blacktop at the Kitt Peak Observatory center. No logo on the door, but it looked like a generic work truck, so he took it as such.

But he knew immediately when, only one curve down from the observatory, the white truck came up behind him.

Fast.

There were no other cars. Not one to see them. He was alone.

Even before it became clear the guy was trying to run him off the road, Michael felt an atavistic shiver run up through his body like a power line. He sensed, even then, what was about to happen. And then the truck’s grille loomed close and Michael was desperately looking for a place to get off the narrow road and away from the truck.

He hugged the edge of the road. Knew there were two or three curves, and each one of them stopped at the edge of space—hundreds of feet down. But he couldn’t think right now how far down he could go if he went over. He was too busy trying to save himself.

Think!

He could feel the heat of the engine behind him. He could hear the diesel rumble. He glanced back and each time thought he saw the menacing grille coming forward.

He would be squashed like a bug.

Michael took off diagonally for the other side. The truck was on him. His tires skittered over rocks and dirt and grass as the truck’s rumble filled his ears. In his panic, he could not see—everything was shaking and moving and the truck was pinned to his ass. He feinted right, he feinted left, aware that there might be a car coming up the mountain, around the next curve.

The truck stayed on him.

He pedaled hard, faster—and got up a head of speed. Arrowed down the middle of the road. The truck seemed to falter, than came back, clinging to his back wheel like it was trying to get a draft.

Another curve. Had to stay away from the edge, had to stay in the road…

They came around the next bend.

Terror wiring through him. Adrenaline spiking. Heart bursting with fear.

The truck relentless.

He was being driven to the right, his tires jittering on the dirt verge. Down below the valley stretched like a sleeping golden lion—beautiful. It might be the last thing he’d ever see. Thinking, couldn’t help the thoughts that crossed through his mind, thinking about his broken body hitting boulder after boulder, smashed flat like a bug on a windshield.

The truck’s rough grumble.

Go faster.He had to pick it up. Out of the saddle, speeding up, even though the veering road scared him as it never had before.

He was terrified.

Around the next curve. The Pinarello held the line but the wheels almost slipped out from under him. He was going so fast. Too fast.

The next curve loomed. This was one of the cliffs. He could go right off. Oh shit—

His bike shimmied. The tires bit into the rocks, the dirt. He almost went over. The truck was on him like a dog on a little animal, ready to savage him. He saw it hit him, saw his broken body flying—

But the tires held. The bike stayed up. Suddenly encouraged, knowing that there would be fewer places to go off—he knew this road so well—he pushed forward.

“I’m gonna beat you, motherfucker!”

Around the next curve.

And right in front of him: the tour bus.

Too late to stop.

Michael was airborne. Cartwheeling. He’d managed to turn at the last moment. His bike rammed into a rock at the edge. He hit and he thought he slid. Grass, dirt, rocks, scrapes.

Came to rest facedown in the dirt. Alive. Whole.

The last thing he’d seen was the back of the tour bus. He’d swerved, headed right for the cliff. And hit the guardrail. He thought he hit the guardrail.

Shaking, he stood up and looked up at the road.

The truck had accelerated past the tour bus and was gone. All there was around him was the wind and emptiness. Blood on his knee, blood on his shin. Road rash from his hip down his thigh, his shorts on that side in tatters.

He staggered up to the guardrail and stepped over gingerly. He could see the next curve in the road below. He saw the bus disappear around the curve as if nothing happened.

Could it be the driver didn’t even seehim?

The white truck was gone.

He tasted blood in his mouth where he’d bit his tongue. Tasted dirt and bits of grass. He dropped to all fours and threw up. Could smell himself. He smelled like fear.

The Pinarello’s superior frame geometry had saved his life. He checked the bike, spun the wheels, turned the cranks, and ran it through the gears.

A couple of dings.

He could ride it down.

And he did ride it down. Shaken. Scared. Looking back to see if the truck was coming. Scared of cars. Scared of other cyclists.

Scared.

He rode like a little old man. His neck was torqued. His wrist hurt him. He’d banged it against the guardrail.

Yeah, but you could have broken your neck.

This close to going over.

He rode slowly, a light hold on the brakes, pumping them.

Just get down.

He couldn’t think very well but what he did think was this: Sheppard.

Sheppard, out for revenge.

At one point he reached the bus. He thought about asking the driver to stop. He wanted to ask about the guy in the white truck. What he looked like.

But he guessed that the bus driver might not have even seen it.

Besides, he would settle it himself. He would take care of Sheppard himself. He didn’t want to draw attention to this.

Michael’s cleats clacked over the hardpan ground as he walked his bike to the 4Runner. He put it back on the rack. He got into the SUV and sat there. Now he could absorb it.

Someone tried to kill me.

He was shaking. Couldn’t stop.

He stared bleakly out the windshield—

And saw a sheet of paper stuck under the wipers. Facing him. Written in pencil in block letters.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

CHAPTER 43

Tess didn’t have long to wait before Hanley’s USB flash drive came back from evidence.

It was pretty straightforward. There was only one document on the thumb drive, entitled “Diary.” The opening page looked like a form that had been scanned in. An older form she recognized, even though there were differences: the front page of a homicide detective’s murder book.

The victim in the report was a man named Felix Sosa. He’d died five years ago, the victim of a sniper. Sosa lived in the Phoenix metropolitan area where George Hanley once worked homicide.

Only Hanley had long been retired by the time Sosa was killed.

Tess looked at the graphic photos. Read the stats, and what had been done. A detective named Manuel Alvarado was the primary on the case. Tess wondered if Alvarado was a friend of Hanley’s, and just exactly how Hanley had managed to get a copy of the murder book.

Tess scrolled down the file until she found Hanley’s notes.

Danny picked up on the second ring. Today he and Theresa and their baby girl were going home, but Tess wasn’t sure if they were still at the hospital. He sounded like he was on cloud nine.

“How are things?”

“ ¡Que bonita!Beautiful, to you Anglos.”

“Are you home?”

“Just got in.” She heard him muffle the phone and call out to someone. “My brother just got here. What’s up?”

Tess told him about the Felix Sosa case—a man shot by a sniper at a campground in Payson, Arizona. “What do you think of that?”

“So he made up his own murder book, is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Of a homicide in Payson. The guy was shot by a sniper?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “Then he probably was shot by a sniper before.”

“You know a guy up there, don’t you? Jimmy somebody?”

“Jimmy Tune.”

“Jimmy Tune? Really?”

“Yeah. We met at an interrogation course in Phoenix. I still talk to him—I’ll give him a call and give him a heads-up to talk to you. I’ve got his e-mail somewhere. Wish I could do more, but um, I’m a little busy right now.”

“You only have your first child once,” Tess said.

“You got that right. I’m sending you his e-mail now.”

Tess finished reading Hanley’s makeshift murder book on Felix Sosa. There was no mention of the man having been shot before. But there were more murder books. Tess counted three. One for Quentin DeKoven, the father of Michael DeKoven. One for Peter Farley.

And one for himself.

He knew they were coming for him.

Tess looked at the murder books. There were holes you could drive a truck through in them—his access had been severely limited. He made up for this lack by scanning photos and articles from newspapers or collected from websites.

Tess had seen the murder book for Peter Farley—briefly, but due to her memory, thoroughly. This one was similar, but different. It had been written by a different detective, one who did not have the same kind of access. More gaps, and more supposition. Tess was beginning to recognize Hanley’s way of writing—courtly and old-fashioned. Just the facts, but with an occasional reference to literature or an old-fashioned word. He did not have access to the official murder book photos, but had inserted reams of expert articles on mountain lions and the Santa Anas. He had a picture of a smiling Farley with his wife and college-age daughter, taken several years before—Tess thought he’d gotten it from the newspaper.

There were photos of Quentin DeKoven’s plane, scattered across a meadow, and a burned swath through pines and fir trees on the top of a mountain in the Pinaleños. He’d typed in his own theory—something to do with the wrong fuel mixture. He’d included photos of the senior DeKoven, his wife, and his children. He’d found and used the photo Tess herself had seen of the kids and their parents at the water treatment plant opening. And there was an old black-and-white newspaper photo of a similar aviation accident, the one DeKoven had survived. He’d scanned in an article in Outdoor Digestof DeKoven’s survival. A story of a wealthy man who carried his pilot three miles.

His own murder book was equally sketchy. He had scanned in a photo of himself. He’d scanned in a photo of the DVD of The Ultimate Survivorshow. He’d scanned in a photo of himself in the hospital, after being shot six times, and the newspaper articles on the shootout he’d survived.

He’d made his case, once piece at a time. Carefully laid it out.

After the murder book came a diary of sorts. It was hard to read. He’d scanned in pages from a notebook—painstaking work. The handwriting was hard to read, and faint, but Tess got the gist.

George Hanley had been wooed by the DeKoven family—by Jaimie in particular. She wanted him to join SABEL. She’d somehow run into him at the Safeway in Continental, and his well-honed homicide cop instincts had told him she had targeted him. She’d struck up a conversation. Flirted. Jaimie was a beautiful woman and he was flattered, but he also could tell that she desperately wanted to know him. Him, of all people. A sixty-eight-year-old man. He said in the diary that she’d tried too hard. With instincts about people honed over many years as a homicide cop, he could see through the pretense.

He had wondered why.

And so he’d researched her. He’d researched the family.

Tess didn’t know how Hanley had made the link. He didn’t elaborate. Maybe it was the Phoenix connection. He’d lived in Phoenix. He might have known the homicide cop who had investigated Sosa’s death, or he might have looked him up and asked.

She kept reading. The day stretched. And the more she read, the more it dawned on her that there was much more to this story. She could feel it. There was a hint of desperation as he went along, as if he was racing time. How would he know that? Sure, he knew he was targeted, but…

It was palpable. His race against time, his race to get it all down. And on the next to last page—his last entry—Tess found the answer.

His words:

“What the hell was I thinking? I never should have told him about it because now he wants in. I wish I’d never gone out there, I don’t know what got into me. He was always good at getting things out of people, I saw him do it often enough. We called him the snake charmer. He of all people knows I’m not a drinker; one drink and I let out all the state secrets. Now he wants to take over.

“Great homicide det. I was—I shouldn’t have let my emotions color my thinking. He played me and deep down, I knew he was playing me. He played everybody all the time.

“I should have done something if I’d known what to do. I’ll regret that, should have stood up to him, but I had blinders on because he was my best friend, we worked together all those years, we were almost like an old married couple even though he was so much younger, and when he and Karen fell in love it felt natural, he was already like family. Anyone would think it was a homo thing, but it’s not a homo thing, it’s a cop thing. I was closer to him than I was to Amy and closer than I was to God, but I should have seen what that son of a bitch was doing, I should have been the one person she could rely on. I wonder if I could have stopped it if I just used my gray cells, but it went right past me. Amy was right, it was a boys’ club.”

“I was stupid. A stupid fool, not just once, but twice! He charmed me just like I saw him do with people so many interviews over the years. One stupid moment, and it was like the old days, and you know the saying that there’s no fool like an old fool. It was always that way with us, he was my partner and had my back and I had his, and so I just put any doubts I had aside.

“ I’mthe one who’s accountable. It’s up to me to find a way to stop this.”

That was the last line.

George Hanley had written down his suspicions, but he had been cryptic. He had been reluctant to tell all. For self-protection?

It was clear he suspected Michael DeKoven and Jaimie Wolfe of the killings. He knew that Jaimie Wolfe had gone out of her way to meet him. To woo him.

George Hanley knew it was a game. And he knew that sooner or later they would be coming for him.

He was going to try to beat them at their game.

But he hadn’t figured on one thing.

He hadn’t figured on Wade Poole—until it was too late.

Tess reached Jimmy Tune and took notes over the phone. He sent her a summary of the case and suggested she come up. Tess wasn’t sure if this case had any relation to the others, but Hanley’d thought so, so she hit the road and hours later parked in the lot of the Payson Police Department. Jimmy Tune met her in the lobby and led her to the detective room. He introduced her to Manuel Alvarado, the detective who’d worked Sosa.

Thin with a receding hairline, Alvarado had hypnotic eyes. When he talked, you listened. He was in his midforties, a natty dresser. He flipped through his filing cabinet and placed a file on his desk. “We’re converting to electronic,” he said, “but it’s taking a while. And this is an older case.” He pushed it across the desk, those dark eyes like shiny beetles. “I can’t let you photocopy it.”

“That’s okay,” Tess said. She could look at each page and it would be as good as any photocopy.

He remained standing, watching her, as if he didn’t trust her not to take off with it. His eyes never left her.

Tess compared what she had here with what Hanley had put together on his own. He’d done a pretty good job. Once a homicide cop always a homicide cop.

“So the case remains unsolved?”

“That’s the status. It’s headed to our cold case division.”

“But you worked it.”

“Yes, I did.”

“One thing I don’t see here,” Tess said. “The autopsy report says he had a previous wound. Did you look into that?”

He straightened a little. “He was in the service. He was shot in the chest in the opening days of the Iraq War. Fortunately, he survived, although it was touch and go for a while. He recovered, but had PTSD and some related mental health problems.”

“What kind?”

“He took drugs, was arrested twice for domestic situations with his wife and once for being under the influence. That led to a divorce, and he was out of work—threatened his boss, got into bar fights.

“He was on a family camping trip with his family when he was shot. They went to the same place every year.”

“What do you think happened?”

“We were never able to clear the case—there just was no evidence. The trail went cold—all we he had was the bullet.”

He showed her on Google Earth where the campground was. He couldn’t go with her. He gave her distinct instructions as to where the table was, and of course she saw not only the autopsy photos but photos of the picnic area, the blood spatter, and diagrams. Tess didn’t think she needed to drive out there, but she did, anyway. There had been a rain up here recently, and the small creek near the picnic table had plenty of runoff. It was churning. Tess had the place to herself—it was a weekday—and she looked at the spot where she believed he had been shot.

Just out with his family, celebrating his life. A man who had survived a sniper attack once.

That someone could do this for fun.

That they could do this to this soldier. Who, by all accounts, was troubled and suffered deeply from what he’d experienced in Iraq.

Tess thought about Michael DeKoven.

She wondered if he had a sniper rifle. She wondered where he practiced. She wondered who she could talk to who would tell her.

Finally she got back into her Tahoe and drove south.

Next stop: Phoenix.

By the time Michael got back home, he had gone through several stages: fear, despair, and now anger. He parked the 4Runner in the garage and walked to the house. He went to the bathroom off the kitchen, not wanting to create a mess in the master bathroom. Since it was right near the back door it would be easier for cleanup.

Gingerly, he stripped off his jersey and shorts, wincing with pain and ready for a hot shower where he could just stand there and let the water pour over him and he could just…think.

He did. But the water pounded him like needles, and he couldn’t stand to remain under the spray very long. Just get the dirt and dried blood off, pick out a little of the gravel and twigs.

He’d been unable to think too well up to now. But now he was at DeKoven Central, his power base. A man’s home was his castle, and this place wasa castle.

He patted himself dry and thought about what he could wear—a silk robe would probably be the best. As he walked into the bedroom he glanced in the large mirror and saw two things. How pale and scared his face looked—

And Martin, on his stomach, sprawled on the bed behind him. Tanned and beautiful.

Asleep.

When he first came into the room it had scared him to see someone here. The first thing he’d felt was fear.

As if fear had been sown into him. He could almost smell it on himself. He looked at Martin, felt the usual appreciation for his lover’s beauty.

He felt it despite the stinging road rash, the bruises. He was raw to the air. Knew that he’d be stiff and in terrible pain tomorrow, his muscles torqued around in all sorts of ways.

If he was going to do anything of a sexual nature, it had to be now.

And there lay Martin. So perfect.

Just what the doctor ordered.

He padded quietly to the walk-in closet. The birchwood dowel, four feet long and a quarter inch in diameter, stood in the corner of the closet, the price sticker still affixed. On the floor beneath was a nylon cord in a loop. Already cut.

He’d stashed it all here for a moment just like this.

The fucker in the truck ran him off the road.

He left that note. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

“The fuck you don’t,” Michael muttered. “You don’t know the halfI did.” He grabbed the rope. Martin still sleeping.Jet lag? Michael had always been quick as a snake, and he had rehearsed it so many times and done it more than a few, it went fast. Knee into Martin’s back. Wrap the rope tight around his two wrists, then secure the two ends to the headboard posts.

Martin squeaked.

Bucked.

Cried out.

“It’s okay, Martin,” Michael said, gently running his hand down Martin’s gleaming flank as if quieting a horse. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay, not yet.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

“Michael, please!”

“I’m feeling my dark side,” Michael said in way of explanation.

“Please!”

“You have a choice.”

“No!”

“A choice, Martin.” He reached under the bed and groped around for the book. He’d marked the pages with Post-it Notes.

He held up the first page. The Chelsea grin.

“Oh, God, Michael, don’t even joke about that—”

Michael felt the dark tide rising in his chest. It all but obliterated the terror he’d felt as the truck bore down on him. But the dread remained.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

That fueled his anger. His anger was always silent, but effective. He said, “You don’t like the Chelsea grin? I admit, it would ruin you for acting jobs. Or modeling. Look at the picture.”

Obediently, Martin craned his neck to look again. He’d seen it before. The Chelsea grin was what happened when someone took a knife to the corners of a man’s mouth and cut to make the grin wider.

“Michael, you wouldn’t—”

“Martin, you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Martin stared at him.

“You have a choice. Like last time.” Michael reached out and touched a black curl of Martin’s hair, hooked it behind his lover’s ear. “You know you’ll be all right. A little bit of pain, and then pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. You just have to choose. The Chelsea grin or—”

“Please! Please!”

“Shhhhhhhh.” Michael put his finger to his lover’s lips. Martin was shaking uncontrollably. It reminded him of his wife’s worthless Chihuahua, always trembling. “You don’t want that, it’s okay,” Michael crooned. “There’s always another option.”

“What? What?”

“The bastinado. Some pain, but on the good side, no marks. No marks, Martin. Nothing to mar your beauty. Easy peasy. Just something for you to get through, to prove how much you love me.”

“Michael, I loveyou. Let’s make love and—”

“Shhhhhhh. A couple of whacks, that’s all. No more than two to each foot.”

“No! Please, Michael! Let’s make love! Please, I want you so much—”

“The Chelsea grin or the bastinado? You have to choose.”

Martin was crying now. Sobbing. His fear kited up out of his soul and Michael felt that if he opened his mouth right now he could swallow it whole. “You have to say it, Martin.”

Martin whimpered, “The bas—the bastinado.”

“Legs in the air. Soles of the feet facing me.”

Martin raised them slowly.

“Keep them up. No fair cheating. I want my two whacks. I won’t be cheated.”

Martin’s legs were trembling. His beautiful, muscular, tanned legs. He would keep them up. He was completely in submission mode.

Michael took a couple of practice swings. The dowel whipped back and forth, making a satisfying whooshingsound as it cleaved the air.

“You know something, Martin?” Michael said as he stood at the foot of the bed and assumed the stance of a Samurai.

Thwack!

“I’m feeling better already.”