by G. M. Ford
“How we gonna do that?” she asked.
He unlocked the door and stepped out into the courtyard. “The slider’s open and the screens don’t lock.” When he saw her hesitation, he started across the space and climbed the stairs about two-thirds of the way up, at which point he climbed up onto the wrought-iron handrail and balanced for a moment before reaching out, grabbing the railing on the balcony, and pulling himself up.
Carolyn watched as he climbed onto the balcony, slid the screen door aside, and stepped into the apartment. She hurried up the stairs. By the time she reached the landing, Kevin had the door open. She stepped inside.
He woke up in a hurry when she pulled her gun from her hip.
“Why don’t you step outside while I check the place,” she said.
“You a cop?”
“Outside,” she said again. “Please.”
He stepped onto the landing. She closed the door and went through the apartment room by room. Nothing seemed amiss. Both beds were made. No keys or phones or anything that somebody would have left behind had they been abducted.
She returned the gun to her hip and stepped outside. Kevin was assuming the position against the wall of the neighbor’s apartment. A cop had Kevin’s face pressed against the wall. Another was aiming his weapon directly at Carolyn’s forehead. “Hands on your head,” he yelled. “Now.”
When she complied, he jammed her hard against the wall right next to Kevin and began to pat her down. She could feel his gun grind against the back of her head as he relieved her of her weapon. “My name is—” she began.
He lifted a knee and jammed her harder into the wall. She felt him slip a cuff on to one of her wrists and then pull it down behind her, just like they taught you at the academy.
She told him who she was.
“Where’s your shield?” he asked.
“Well . . . at the moment I’m on leave,” she started, “so I—”
“She’s a cop,” his partner threw in. “I’ve seen her at the West Precinct. I think she partners with Reynolds.”
“We’ll sort this out down at the station,” the other cop said.
“En inglés, por favor,” Garrett said.
“Un momento, señor.”
It was more like four momentos before a new voice came on the line.
“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to arrange a wire transfer.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll need your account number and a routing number for whatever account you’d like the money transferred to.”
Garrett read her both numbers.
“Just a moment, sir.”
This time un momento morphed into five or six before she clicked back into his ear. “Sir?” she asked. “Are you still there, sir?”
“Yes,” Garrett said.
“Sorry for the delay,” she said. “Sir, we don’t seem to have any record of that account number. Could you give it to me again? Perhaps I transcribed it wrong.”
He did and added, “I checked the account yesterday morning and was assured the money had been deposited.”
“Yes, sir. Just a minute, sir.”
He waited.
“Sorry, sir. We have no record for such an account or any such confirmation number. Would you like me to connect you with security?”
“Yes. Please,” Garret said.
The line clicked several times.
“Security . . . Romero,” the gruff voice said.
Towns like Baker don’t have outskirts. One minute you’re out in the desert, next minute you’re in the middle of town. The green-and-white sign at the edge of town claimed a residency of 736 parched souls.
By that time we couldn’t have been doing more than thirty miles an hour. The truck engine was sputtering and backfiring, sounding like it was gonna blow to pieces any second. The paint on the hood had been blistered by the fire in the engine compartment. Heat waves and smoke rose from under the hood like ghostly dancers. Looked like you could fry a pork chop on the damn thing.
Bobby was sitting up now, his snake-bitten hand as far out in front of himself as he could manage, as if he thought keeping it at a distance were maybe therapeutic. He used the other to point to the left. Gabe swung the wheel in that direction. He started yelling out the window, wanting to know how Carlos was doing. I went into another fit of head nodding, trying to tell him the boy was hanging in there.
We arrived at Desert Medical Services in a cloud of smoke and dust. Must have been a slow day for the local doc in the box. We’d barely stopped rolling when three people in blue scrubs were out the front door, hurrying in our direction. Two women and a man.
Over the top of the cab I shouted, “Got two snakebites here.”
“What kind of snake?” the taller of the two women shouted back.
“Rattler,” I said.
“You sure?” she wanted to know.
“Absolutely.”
She said something to the guy, who turned and sprinted back toward the building.
I hustled to the back of the truck, opened the tailgate, then leaned in and grabbed Carlos by the feet. His eyes popped open when I picked him up.
“We’re at the clinic,” I told him. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
Bobby had managed to climb out of the truck. He took two steps in our direction and then collapsed in sections. The second woman ran to his side. Gabe slid out of the driver’s seat and limped around the front to help.
With a violent shudder and a single cannon shot from the tailpipe, the truck engine shook, rattled, and died. It was hissing like a nuclear teakettle. Steam was rising into the sky. Next thing I heard was the rattle of the gurney as the guy rolled it toward the truck. Gabe and the male nurse hoisted Bobby aboard. I followed along, Carlos in my arms, staggering a bit under the load but willing myself forward.
The woman in charge pointed at me. “In there,” she said, indicating the room on the right. I lumbered in and laid Carlos on the examination table. I stood by his side, trying to catch my breath, willing my vision to stay still and my legs to keep moving. Mostly it was the other way around.
“How long ago did this happen?” she asked. “What time?”
I shrugged. “Two, three hours ago—something like that.”
She looked at me as if to say, “Come on, man.”
“We’ve got no phones or watches,” I explained. “No nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow as she snapped on the overhead lights.
“It’s a real long story,” I tried.
I watched her unlock the cabinet over the double sink and find the bottle she was looking for. She walked over and put a hand on Carlos’s heaving chest.
“It’s gonna be fine,” she told him.
“It really hurts,” Carlos whined.
She looked over at me and whistled. “You got any idea how burnt up you are?”
“Been afraid to look,” I admitted.
“Carlos . . . do you know how much you weigh?” she asked the boy.
“Eighty-four pounds,” the kid said.
I leaned against the wall and watched as she carefully prepared a syringe and then injected Carlos with the antivenom. The kid was brave. He flinched at the needle but otherwise gritted through it.
“Am I gonna die?” he wanted to know when she’d finished putting a Band-Aid over the injection site and another gauze bandage over the bite marks on his leg.
She patted his head. “Nope,” she said, smiling. “You’re going to be with us for a good long time, son.”
“How’s my dad?” he asked.
“He’s gonna be all right too,” she told him.
When I wandered out into the reception area, Bobby had been wheeled off to another room. Gabe was sitting in one of the plastic chairs, hooked up to an IV. Looked like saline solution in the bag. Two minutes later I was sitting in the chair beside Gabe, likewise hooked up to an overhead bag. Sometime during the second bag, I could feel my cells coming back to
life. It felt warm—like crawling under the covers on a cold night. I closed my eyes. I was just about asleep when Gabe spoke.
“You know, I’ve been going over this in my head,” Gabe said. “Those motherfuckers just left us out there to die. Like we were a couple of stray dogs or something. That’s a real no-class move, man.”
“That fucking Reeves,” I said.
“Yeah . . . I saw him.”
The drip drip drip of saline solution.
“This ain’t over,” Gabe growled. “I don’t know about you, man, but I’m taking this shit seriously. I’m handing somebody his ass over this. I mean . . . yeah, we were poking our noses into their business. We weren’t exactly keeping a low profile. But, man, we don’t know shit. We’re no threat to these guys, and they decide to off us anyway. Cold.”
I looked over at Gabe. They’d slathered zinc oxide all over our sunburned parts. We looked like a pair of greasy, oversize mimes.
“We’re probably gonna need to shower first,” I said, trying to lighten things a tad.
Gabe wasn’t going for the levity. “Like we were a pair of kitties stuffed into a bag of rocks and thrown into the river,” Gabe said. “That’s cold, man—cold.”
I closed my eyes. They felt like they were full of sand. I rubbed at them and leaned my head back against the wall. Tears began to roll down my chapped cheeks. If Gabe said anything after that, I wasn’t awake to hear it.
Marshall had been expecting unwanted visitors and thus had planned to be gone by the time they showed up. The rumor mill had been chirping for weeks. Insurrection was in the air. Paulie K. wasn’t in his beloved Fresno right now. He was in Oregon, looking for Marshall. Marshall knew it wouldn’t be long before he showed up. The Brotherhood had more leaks and cliques than a woven basket, and all of them said that Marshall was about to either offer up a scapegoat or become one. No middle ground.
Marshall had just loaded the last of his gear into his car and then returned to the office for a final check. He was about to leave the storefront he’d been using for an office since he’d been forced to flee the Conway mess, when they arrived like a thunderstorm. A low roar in the distance at first, then the unmistakable crack of chain lightning. The rumble of Harleys still hung heavy in the air when the door banged open.
Paulie K. burst into the room wearing a World War II German helmet and a full-length leather duster, right out of the friggin’ movies, followed by a couple of morons replete with long goatish chin whiskers and enough German insignia to rattle when they moved. Not exactly keeping it low-key, as Marshall’s directive had demanded.
“Goin’ someplace?” Paulie sneered. “That why you ain’t been taking my calls?”
Marshall thought about lecturing Paulie on the need to maintain a low profile but decided against it. These were not reasonable men.
“I’m taking your suggestion,” Marshall said evenly. “I’m going to take care of Waterman myself.”
“Where?”
“San Diego.”
Paulie K. laughed out loud. “You think you still got it in you?” he scoffed.
“Sometimes one must lead from the front.”
“Do your leading real quick, Marshall.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder, toward the pair of Aryan assholes plugging up the doorway. “At this point, lotta these boys just as soon take it out on you personally.”
“I’ll handle it,” Marshall assured him.
“You better,” Paulie said.
Marshall pushed his way past Paulie’s minions, walked out to the car, got in, and drove off. It had started to rain. He watched in the bleary mirror as they turned and disappeared back into the storefront.
Marshall had the wipers on high and had nearly reached the paved road when he came upon a blue Ford Focus sitting unoccupied in the middle of the driveway. Facing out toward the street. Blocking his way. He tapped the horn. Waited. Nothing. Tapped it again. Still nothing. He got out of the car and walked over to the other vehicle. The rain hammered the surrounding forest. The sharp snap of a twig jerked Marshall’s head around. His lungs turned to stone.
For a nanosecond he didn’t recognize the man. Looked like a monk or something. Marshall thought the man standing at the edge of the forest wearing a hooded plastic poncho was pointing a green plastic pop bottle at him. Wasn’t until the figure spoke that it all snapped into place, and Marshall’s insides caught fire.
“That’s the trouble with fanatics like you, Mr. Marshall. Somewhere inside, you really believe that everybody feels like you do but is too scared to say it out loud.”
“Garrett,” leaked from Marshall’s lips as the shrouded figure began to move his way. “Is there—”
“You just can’t help thinking everyone else is as incompetent and dishonest as you are. It’s what gets you out of bed in the morning. That feeling that you’re somehow better than other people. That somehow you’ve been cheated by fate.”
“I don’t understand,” Marshall muttered.
“Yes you do,” Garrett said. “It’s all tied up in that stupid master-race shit of yours.”
Marshall began to blubber. “I’ve got money,” he said.
“Show me,” Garrett said.
Marshall put his hand on the door handle. Garrett stepped closer. Using only his fingers, Marshall pulled his briefcase from behind the seat and set it on the roof of the car. He slipped the latch, reached inside, and pulled out the blue bank bag containing the Brotherhood’s last sixty-three thousand bucks.
“You can have it.”
“You shouldn’t have tried to cheat me,” Garrett said.
“We’ve got a holy mission here. Sometimes one must—” was as far as he got before the first bullet hit him about an inch and a half below his navel. With the pop bottle taped over the muzzle, the little automatic was nearly silent. Both the report and Marshall’s frantic scream were swallowed by the relentless drumming of the Northwest rain. Marshall dropped to his knees, holding his belly like a child, rocking it as if to put the burning pain to sleep.
Garrett walked over and stood directly over him. When Marshall turned his rain-beaded face upward, Garrett shot him in the forehead. Marshall flopped over onto his side, still holding his belly. His glasses were covered with raindrops, but his sightless blue eyes still seemed to be searching the horizon for relief.
Garrett dropped the gun onto Marshall’s lifeless body, picked up the bank bag, turned, walked back to the rental Focus, and got in.
He used his final disposable phone to call the Oregon State Police and report the body. After a quick stop at a FedEx outlet, he was back in the car.
He stopped at the first rest area he came to on the interstate, found the public pay phone, and called his wife.
“It’s me,” he said as soon as she picked up.
“Hi, honey,” she cooed.
“I’ll be home in the morning.”
“Ooooh, great,” she said. “Don’t forget. We’ve got Robert’s middle school parent-teacher conference tomorrow night. He’d be so disappointed if you missed it.”
“I’ll Uber it from the airport.”
“Oooooh . . . what about the carpenters? Aren’t they coming tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he said. “But it’s all been planned out. By this time tomorrow we’ll have a new toolshed just like you wanted. We’ll finally be able to put all that stuff in the garage someplace else.”
“Can’t wait. Wish you were here already,” she said.
“Bye, baby,” she said.
Fifty minutes later he was reminded how much he disliked the carpet in the Portland International Airport.
“Come in,” the voice boomed from behind the door.
San Diego PD Captain Charles Nailor always wore his full dress uniform. Along with every medal and citation he’d ever won over thirty-five years on the force. Carolyn had always figured he was going for a military look. Problem was, he had so overdone it, he looked more like a fancy hotel doorman.
Carolyn stepped
into the room and closed the door behind herself.
Nailor was behind his desk with his hands clasped behind his back, pacing up and down in front of the flag stand.
The two people sitting at the conference table—they had to be Internal Affairs. White man. African American woman. They had that look. That withering of the soul that comes with trading in human misery on a day-to-day basis.
Nailor wasted no time. “Sergeant Saunders, would you prefer to have your union representative present?” he asked.
First off, Carolyn had met with Helen Buffington, her union rep, the day before and thus knew that Helen and her husband had driven up to Big Bear last evening in order to attend some sort of family outing. Secondly, Carolyn had no intention of telling IA anything more newsworthy than the current weather, so it didn’t much matter.
“No,” she said as she took a seat across from the IA contingent.
He handled the introduction. Sergeants George Dovel and Lauren Edlund. Saunders made it a point not to acknowledge either of them. Instead, she simply rested her elbows on the table.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
From the look of the squirming, they’d expected quite a bit more rigmarole before actually getting started. Sergeant Edlund picked up a handful of paperwork and began tapping it on the table, as if to get it nice and square. Her partner clicked his pen a couple of times.
“You were detained by patrol officers earlier today.” Dovel made it a statement rather than a question.
“Yes I was,” Carolyn said.
“You were apprehended illegally entering an apartment on Del Monte Ave, in Ocean Beach. Is that so?”
“If you say so,” Carolyn said.
“Your failure to cooperate with our—”
Carolyn cut her off. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I? I’m answering your questions. You want me to dance for you or what?”
“I want you to tell us what you were doing in that apartment,” she snapped.
“Did you have a warrant?” her partner added before Carolyn could answer.
