Текст книги "Solitude Creek"

Автор книги: Jeffery Daeaver

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

CHAPTER 85

‘I was in my early teens. There was an accident. It was Route Thirty-five and Mockingbird Road. Minnesota countryside. I called the incident the Intersection. Upper case. It was that significant to me.

‘I was driving with my parents, home from a family funeral.’ He smiled. ‘That was ironic. A funeral. Well, we were driving along and turned this corner in a hilly area and there was a truck in the Intersection right in front of us. My father hit the brakes …’ He shrugged.

‘An accident. Your family was killed?’

‘What? Oh, no. They were fine. They’re living in Florida now. Dad’s still a salesman. Mom manages a bakery. I see them some.’ A pallid chuckle. ‘They’re proud of the humanitarian work I do.’

‘The Intersection,’ Dance prompted.

‘What happened was a pickup truck had run a stop sign and slammed into a sports car, a convertible. The car had been knocked off the road and down the hill a little ways. The driver of the BMW was dead, that was obvious. My parents told me to stay in the car and they ran to the man in the truck – he was the only one alive – to see what they could do.

‘I stayed where I was, for a minute, but I’d seen something that intrigued me. I got out and walked down the hill, past the sports car and into the brush. There was a girl, about sixteen, seventeen, lying on her back. She’d been thrown free from the car and had tumbled down the hill.

‘She – I found out later her name was Jessica – was bleeding real badly. Her neck had been cut, deep, her chest too – her blouse was open and there was a huge gash across her left breast. Her arm was shattered. She was so pretty. Green eyes. Intense green eyes.

‘She kept saying, “Help me. Call the police, call somebody. Stop the bleeding, please.”’ He looked at Dance levelly. ‘But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I pulled out my cell phone and I took pictures of her for the next five minutes. While she died.’

‘You needed to take the next step. To a real death. Seeing it in real time. Not a game or a movie.’

‘That’s right. That’s what I needed. When I did, with Jessica, the Get went away for a long time.’

‘But then you took another step, didn’t you? You had to. Because how often could you happen to stumble on a scene like Jessica’s death?’

‘Todd,’ he said.

‘Todd?’

‘It was about four, five years ago. I wasn’t doing well. The college failures, the boring job … And, no, the video games and movies weren’t doing it for me any longer. I needed more. I was in upstate New York. Took a walk in the woods. I saw this bungee-jumping thing. It was illegal, not like it was a tourist attraction or anything. These people, kids mostly, just put on helmets and Go Pro cameras and jumped.’

‘What you mentioned earlier? The tape you sold to Chris Jenkins.’

He nodded. ‘I got talking to this one kid. His name was Todd.’ March fell silent for a moment. ‘Todd. Anyway, I just couldn’t stop myself. He’d hooked his rope to the top of the rock and walked away to the edge to look over the jump. There was nobody around.’

‘You detached it?’

‘No. That would’ve been suspicious. I just lengthened it by about five feet. Then I went down to the ground. He jumped and hit the rocks below. I got it all on tape.’ March shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you … the feeling.’

‘The Get went away?’

‘Uh-huh. From there, I knew where my life was going. I met Chris and I was the luckiest person in the world. I could make a living doing what I had to do. We started small. A single death here or there. A homeless man – poisoning him. A girl on a scooter, no helmet. I’d pour oil on a curve. But soon one or two deaths weren’t enough. I needed more. The customers wanted more too. They were addicts, just like me.’

‘So, you came up with the idea of stampedes.’

‘The blood of all.’

He told her about a poem from ancient Rome, praising a gladiator for not retiring even though the emperor had granted him his freedom and the right to leave the games.

March’s eyes actually sparkled as he recited:

‘O Verus, you have fought forty contests and have

Been offered the wooden Rudis of freedom

Three times and yet declined the chance to retire.

Soon we will gather to see the sword

In your hand pierce the heart of your foes.

Praise to you, who has chosen not to walk through

The Gates of Life but to give us

What we desire most, what we live for:

The blood of all.

‘That was two thousand years ago, Kathryn. And we’re no different. Not a bit. Car races, downhill skiing, rugby, boxing, bungee-jumping, football, hockey, air shows – we’re all secretly, or not so secretly, hoping for death or destruction. NASCAR? Hours of cars making left turns? Would anybody watch if there wasn’t the chance of a spectacular fiery death? The Colosseum back then, Madison Square Garden last week. Not a lick of difference.’

She noted something else. ‘The poem, the line about hand and heart … The name of your website. Sword in the hand piercing the heart. Little different from humanitarian aid.’

A shrug, and his eyes sparkled again.

‘I’d like to know more about your clients. Are they mostly in the US?’

‘No, overseas. Asia a lot. Russia too. And South America, though the clientele there isn’t as rich. They couldn’t pay for the big set-pieces.’

It would be a tricky case against many of these people – men, nearly all of them, Dance supposed. (She guessed the sexual component of the Get was high.) Intent would be an issue.

‘The man who hired you for this job, in Monterey?’

‘Japanese. He’s been a good customer for some years.’

‘Any particular grudge with this area?’

She was thinking of Nashima and the relocation center at Solitude Creek.

‘No. He said pick anywhere. Chris Jenkins liked the inn in Carmel. So he sent me there. It has a good wine list. And comfortable beds. Nice TV too.’

She began to ask another question. But he was shaking his head.

‘I’m tired now,’ he said. ‘Can we resume tomorrow? Or the next day?’

‘Yes.’

She rose.

March said to her, ‘Oh, Kathryn?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s so good to have a kindred soul to spend some time with.’

She didn’t understand for a moment. Then realized he was speaking about her. The chill pinched once more.

He looked her up and down. ‘Your Get and mine … So very similar. I’m glad we’re in each other’s lives now.’ March whispered, ‘Good night, Kathryn. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night.’

THE LAST DARE

TUESDAY, APRIL 11

CHAPTER 86

‘Real, dude.’

Donnie and Nathan bumped fists. Wes nodded, looking around.

They were in the school yard, just hanging, on one of the picnic benches. There was Tiff; she looked his way and lifted an eyebrow. But that was it. No other reaction.

Some of the brothers, and there weren’t many of them here, were hanging not far away. One gave him a thumbs-up. Probably for track. Donnie’d just led the T and F team to victory over Seaside Middle School, winning the 200 and 400 dash (though, fuck, he’d gotten the branch once he’d gotten back home because he was one second off his personal best on the 400).

That was Leon Williams doing the thumbing. Solid kid. Donnie nodded back. The funny thing was that Donnie didn’t hate the blacks in the school at all, or any other blacks, for that matter. Which was one of the reasons that tagging black churches in the game was pretty fucked up. He disliked Jews a lot – or thought he did. That, too, was mostly from his dad, though. Donnie didn’t know that he’d ever actually met somebody who was Jewish, aside from Goldshit.

Donnie looked at his phone. Nothing.

He said to Nathan and Wes, ‘You heard from him? Vulcan?’

Vince had left right after class, saying he’d be back. It had seemed suspicious.

Nathan said, ‘He texted.’

Donnie said, ‘You, not me. Didn’t have the balls to text me.’

‘Yeah. Well. He said he’d be here. Just had something to do first and Mary might be coming by – you know her, the one with tits – and kept going on, all this shit. Which I think means he’s not coming.’

‘Fucker’s out if he doesn’t show.’ There was a waiting list to get in the DARES crew. But then Donnie reflected: of course, for what was going down today, maybe better Vince the Pussy wasn’t here. Because, yeah, this wasn’t the Defend game at all. It was way past that. This was serious and he couldn’t afford somebody to go, ‘Yeah, I’m watching your back,’ and then take off.

Wes asked, ‘Just the three of us?’

‘Looks like it, dude.’

Donnie glanced at his watch. It was a Casio and it had a nick in the corner, which he’d spent an hour trying to cover up with paint, so his dad wouldn’t see it. The time was three thirty. They were only twenty minutes away from Goldshit’s house.

‘Plan? First, we get the bikes. Get into the garage. That’s where they are,’ he explained to Nathan. ‘Here.’

‘What’s that?’

Donnie was shoving wads of blue latex into their hands.

‘Gloves,’ Wes said, understanding. ‘For fingerprints.’

Nathan: ‘So we get fingerprints on the bikes? We’re taking ’em, aren’t we?’

Donnie twisted his head, exasperated, studying Nathan. ‘Dude, we gotta open the door or the window and get in, right?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Nathan pulled the gloves on. ‘They’re tight.’

‘Not now, bitch. Jesus.’ Donnie was looking around. ‘Somebody could see you.’

Fast, Nathan peeled them off. Shoved them into the pouch of his hoodie.

Wes was saying, ‘We gotta be careful. I saw this show on TV once. A crime show, and my mom’s friend Michael was over. And he’s a deputy with the county. We were watching it together. And he was saying the killer was stupid because he threw his gloves away and the cops found them and his fingerprints were inside the gloves. We’ll keep ’em and throw ’em out later, someplace nowhere near here.’

‘Or burn them,’ Nathan said. He seemed proud he’d thought of this. Then he was frowning. ‘Anything else this guy would know, we should know? Your mom’s friend? I mean, this is like breaking and entering. We gotta be serious.’

‘Totally,’ Wes said.

Nathan squinted. ‘Maybe it’s legal, doing this, you know. Like we’re just retrieving stolen property.’

Wes laughed. ‘Seriously? Dude, are you real? The bikes got perped during the commission of a crime, so don’t count on that one.’

‘What’s “perped”?’ Nathan asked.

‘Bitch,’ Donnie said. ‘Stolen.’

‘Oh.’

Donnie persisted, ‘So? That cop, the friend of your mom’s? What else’d he look for?’

Wes thought for a minute. ‘Footprints. They can get our footprints with this machine. They can match them.’

‘Fuck,’ Nathan said. ‘You mean the government has this big-ass file on everybody’s footprint?’

But Wes explained that, no, they take the footprint, and if they catch you and it matches yours, it’s evidence.

‘CSI,’ Donnie said. ‘We’ll walk on the driveway. Not the dirt.’

‘They can still pick them up from concrete and asphalt.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Church.’

‘Fuck. Okay. We leave our shoes in the bushes when we get there.’

Nathan was frowning, ‘Can they take, like, sock prints?’

Wes told him he didn’t think they could do that.

Nathan asked, ‘That cop. Is he the guy I saw at your house, Jon?’

‘No, he’s into computers. He’s my mom’s friend.’

‘She’s got two boyfriends?’

Wes shrugged and didn’t seem to want to talk about it.

Donnie said, ‘So, I was saying: first, we get into the garage and get the bikes.’

Nathan said, ‘Dude, I heard you say that before. “First”. That means there’s a second or something. After we get the bikes.’

Donnie smiled. He tapped his combat jacket. ‘I brought a can.’

‘Fuck,’ Nathan said. ‘This isn’t the game. We’re just helping you out, him and me.’

Wes was: ‘Yeah! Dude, come on. Let’s just get the bikes and get the hell out of here. That’s what I’m on for. Tag him again? What’s the point?’

‘I’m tagging the inside of his house. Just to show the asshole.’

‘Not me,’ Wes said.

‘You don’t have to do anything, either of you bitches. Am I asking you to do anything? Either of you?’

‘I’m just saying,’ Nathan grumbled.

There was silence. They looked around the school yard, kids walking home, kids being picked up by parents, moms mostly, in a long line of cars in the driveway. Tiff looked their way again. Donnie brushed his hair out of his eyes, and when he smiled back, she’d turned away.

And she’d be interested why? he thought, sad.

Wes said, ‘Hey, come on, Darth. We’re with you. Whatever you want, tag or trash. We’re there. I’ll help you get the bikes but I’m not going inside.’

‘All I’m asking. You two. Lookouts.’

‘Fuck, amen,’ the big kid said.

Nods all around.

‘Roll?’ Donnie asked.

A nod. They headed for the gate in the chain-link that led to the street.

Donnie and his crew. He didn’t share with them what was really going down.

What he’d tapped inside his jacket wasn’t a can of Krylon. It was his father’s .38 Smith & Wesson pistol.

He’d made the decision last night – after the son of a bitch, his father, had pulled out the branch, tugged Donnie’s pants down and wailed on him maybe because of the bike or maybe for some other reason or maybe for no fucking reason at all.

And when it was over, Donnie had staggered to his feet, avoided his mother’s eyes and walked stiffly to his room, where he had stood for a while at his computer – his keyboard was on a high table ’cause there were plenty of times he couldn’t sit down – playing Assassin’s Creed, then Call of Duty, GTA 5, though he didn’t shoot or jump good. You can’t when your eyes are fucked up by tears. In Call of Duty, Federation soldiers kept him and the other Ghost elite special-ops unit pinned down and his guys had got fucked up because of him.

That was when he’d made the decision.

Donnie realized this life wasn’t going to work any more. He had two ways to go. One was to go into his father’s dresser, get the little gun and put a bullet in the man’s head while he slept. And as good as that would feel – so good – it meant his brother and his mother’s life’d be fucked for ever because Dad didn’t treat them quite as bad as Donnie got treated, and he might’ve been a prick but at least he paid the rent and put food on the table.

So, it was number two.

He’d take his father’s gun, go back to the Jew’s house, with his crew. After they’d got the bikes – evidence – he’d have the others keep an eye out for cops and he’d go inside, tie the asshole up and get every penny the prick had in the house, watches, the wife’s jewelry. He had to be rich. His dad said all Jews were.

He could get thousands, he was sure. Tens of thousands.

With the money, he’d leave. Head to San Francisco or LA. Maybe Hollister, where they made all the clothes. He’d get something on – and not selling ice or grass. Something real. He could sell the DARES game to somebody in Silicon Valley. It wasn’t that far away; maybe Tiff would visit.

Life would be good. At last. Life would be good. Donnie could almost taste it.

CHAPTER 87

Charles Overby, a man who loved the sun, who just felt good with a ruddy complexion, now walked toward the Guzman Connection task-force room, deer-eye level in CBI headquarters, and wasn’t pleased at what he saw.

It was late afternoon and the shade outside turned the glass to a dim mirror. He looked vampiric, which if it wasn’t a word should be. Too stressed, too busy, too much shit. From Sacramento all the way to Mexico with their smarmy, law-breaking ally Commissioner Santos.

He stepped inside the room. Fisher and Lu, Steve and Steve Two were at one table, both on phones. DEA agent Carol Allerton sat at another, engrossed in her laptop. She seemed to prefer to play alone, Overby had noticed. She didn’t even see him, so lost was she in the emails scrolling past on her Samsung.

‘Greetings, all.’

Allerton glanced at him. ‘Getting reports on that truck left Compton a day ago, the warehouse near the Four-oh-five. The Nazim brothers. May have twenty ki’s. Meth.’ This truck, Allerton explained, had been spotted on Highway One.

Lu asked, ‘A semi? There? Jesus.’

The highway, between Santa Barbara and Half Moon, could be tricky to drive, even in a sports car. Narrow and winding.

‘That’s right. I want to follow it. No reason for ’em to be taking that route, unless they’re going someplace connected with Pipeline.’ Allerton said to Lu, ‘You free?’

Lu nodded. ‘Sure. Could use a hit of field.’ The slim man rose and stretched.

Foster was lost in his phone conversation. ‘Really?’ Impatient, sarcastic, moving his hand in a circle. Get to the point. ‘Let me be transparent. That’s not going to work.’ Foster hung up. A gesture to the phone. ‘CIs. Jesus. There’s gotta be a union.’ He turned to Allerton and Lu. His moustache drooped asymmetrically. ‘Where’re you going?’

Allerton explained about the mysterious truck on Highway One.

‘Contraband on One? Is there a transfer hub along that way we don’t know about?’ Foster seemed interested in this.

‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’

‘Hope that one pans out.’

Overby said to Foster, ‘Can you and Al Stemple check out Pedro Escalanza?’

‘Who?’

‘The lead to Serrano. Tia Alonzo mentioned him, remember?’

Foster’s frown said, no, he didn’t. ‘Where is this Escalanza?’

‘Sandy Crest Motel.’ Overby explained it was a cheap tourist spot, about five miles north of Monterey.

‘I guess.’

‘TJ ran Escalanza’s sheet. Minor stuff but he’s facing a couple in Lompac. We’ll work with him on that if he gives up any info that gets us to Serrano.’

Foster muttered, ‘A lead to a lead to a lead.’

‘What’s that?’ Overby asked.

Foster didn’t answer. He strode out of the door.

Outside CBI, Steve Foster looked over his new partner.

‘Just for the record, I’m playing along with you because …’ a slight pause ‘… the rest of the task force wanted it. I didn’t.’

Kathryn Dance said pleasantly, ‘It’s your case, Steve. I’m still Civ Div. I just want the chance to interview Escalanza, that’s all.’

He muttered, repeating, ‘The rest of the task force.’ Then looked her over as if he were about to tell her something important. Reveal a secret. But he said nothing.

She waved at Albert Stemple, plodding toward his pickup truck. His cowboy boots made gritty sounds on the asphalt. Stone-faced, he nodded back.

Stemple grumbled, ‘So. That lead to Serrano?’

‘That’s it,’ Foster said.

‘I’ll follow you. Brought the truck. Was supposed to be my day off.’ Got inside, started the engine. It growled.

Dance and Foster got into the CBI cruiser. She was behind the wheel.

She punched the motel’s address into her iPhone GPS and started the engine. They hit the highway, headed west. Soon the silence in the car seemed louder than the slipstream.

Foster, lost in his phone, read and sent some text messages. He didn’t seem to mind that she was driving – some men would have made an issue of piloting. And he might have, given that Dance really wasn’t a great driver. She didn’t enjoy vehicles, didn’t blend with the road the way Michael O’Neil did.

Thinking of him now, his arms around her at the stampede in Global Adventure World. And their fight after they’d returned.

Tapped that thought away fast. Concentrate.

She turned music on. Foster didn’t seem to enjoy it but neither did the sound seem to bother him. She’d reflected that while everyone else in the task force had congratulated her on nailing the Solitude Creek unsub Foster had said nothing. It was as if he hadn’t even been aware of the other case.

Twenty minutes later, she turned off the highway and made her way down a long, winding road, Stemple’s truck bouncing along behind. From time to time they could see north and south – along the coast, misting away to Santa Cruz, the sky split by the incongruous power-plant smokestacks. A shame, those. The vista was one that Ansel Adams might have recorded, using his trademark small aperture to bring the whole scene into crystal detail.

Foster’s hand slipped out and he turned down the volume.

So maybe he was a music-hater.

But that wasn’t it at all. While the big man’s eyes were on the vista, Foster said, ‘I have a son.’

‘Do you?’ Dance asked.

‘He’s thirteen.’ The man’s tone was different now. A flipped switch.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Embry.’

‘Unusual. Nice.’

‘Family name. My grandmother’s maiden name. A few years ago I was with our LA office. We were living in the Valley.’

The nic for San Fernando. That complex, diverse region north of the Los Angeles Basin – everything from hovels to mansions.

‘There was a drive-by. Pacoima Flats Boyz had pissed off the Cedros Bloods, who knows why?’

Dance could see what was coming. Oh, no. She asked, ‘What happened, Steve?’

‘He was hanging with some kids after school. There was crossfire.’ Foster cleared his throat. ‘Hit in the temple. Vegetative state.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I know I’m a prick,’ Foster said, his eyes on the road. ‘Something like that happens …’ He sighed.

‘I can’t even imagine.’

‘No, you can’t. And I don’t mean that half as shitty as it sounds. I know I’ve been riding you. And I shouldn’t. I just keep thinking, Serrano got away, and what if he takes out somebody else? He can fucking waste all of his own crew if he wants. But it’s the kid in between the muzzle and the target that bothers me, keeps me up all night. And it’s my fault as much as yours. I was there too, at the interview. I could’ve done something, could’ve asked some questions.’

‘We’ll get him,’ Dance said sincerely. ‘We’ll get Serrano.’

Foster nodded. ‘You should’ve told me I’m a dick.’

‘I thought it.’

His silver mustache rose as he gave the first smile she’d seen since the task force had been put together.

Soon they arrived at the motel, which was in the hills about three miles east of the ocean. It was on the eastern side, so there was no view of the water. Now the place was shrouded in shade, surrounded by brush and scrub oak. The first thing that Dance thought of was the Solitude Creek roadhouse, a similar setting – some human-built structure surrounded by quiet, persistent California flora.

The inn had a main office and about two dozen separate cabins. She found the one they sought and parked two buildings away. Stemple drove his truck into a space nearby. There was one car, an old Mazda sedan, faded blue, in front of the cabin. Dance consulted her phone, scrolled down the screen. ‘That’s his, Escalanza’s.’

Stemple climbed out of his truck and, hand on his big gun, walked around the motel. He returned and nodded.

‘Let’s go talk to Señor Escalanza,’ Foster said.

The two agents started forward, the wind tossing her hair. She heard a snap beside her. She saw a weapon in Foster’s hand. He pulled the slide back and checked to see if a round was chambered. He eased the slide forward and holstered the gun. He nodded. They continued along the sand-swept sidewalk past yellowing grass and squatting succulents to the cabin registered in the name of Pedro Escalanza. Bugs flew and Dance wiped sweat. You didn’t have to get far from the ocean for the heat to soar, even in springtime.

At the door they looked back at Al Stemple – a hundred feet away. He glanced at them. Gave a thumbs-up.

Dance and Foster looked at each other. She nodded. They stepped to either side of the door – procedure, not to mention common sense – and Foster knocked. ‘Pedro Escalanza? Bureau of Investigation. We’d like to talk to you.’

No answer.

Another rap.

‘Please open the door. We just want to talk. It’ll be to your advantage.’

Nothing.

‘Shit. Waste of time.’

Dance gripped the door. Locked. ‘Try the back.’

The cottages had small decks, which were accessed by sliding doors. Lawn chairs and tables sat on the uneven brick. No barbecue grills, of course: one careless, smoldering briquette, and these hills would vanish in ten breaths. They walked around to the unit’s deck and noted that the door was open, a frosty beer, half full, on the table. Foster, his hand on his weapon’s grip, walked closer. ‘Pedro.’

‘Yeah?’ a man’s voice called. ‘I was in the john. Come on in.’

They walked inside. And froze.

On the bathroom floor they could see two legs stretched out. Streak of blood on them. Puddling on the floor too.

Foster drew his gun and started to turn but the young man behind the curtain next to the sliding door quickly touched the agent’s skull with his own gun.

He pulled Foster’s Glock from his hand and shoved him forward, then closed the door.

They both turned to the lean Latino gazing at them with fierce eyes.

‘Serrano,’ Dance whispered.