Exactly two and a half hours after leaving the motel, I arrive in front of a structure I would generously refer to as a teepee. Comprised of a half-dozen uneven metal poles jabbed an inch or two into the earth, a pair of mismatched tarps has been stretched across the outside. Held together by generous amounts of duct tape, a gap has been left open along the front. A wedge no larger than eighteen inches formed by two corner flaps both pulled back to form an opening.
The last domicile along the lane, out ahead of me is nothing but desert. Wind-beaten earth stretched for miles.
Making no effort to pull off to the side, my brake pads squeal slightly as I come to a final stop. My heart rate picks up as I flick my gaze from the structure to the rearview mirror.
The air conditioner still blasts cooled air on me, though my features are bathed in sweat.
The reaction is one that has no basis in fear. Despite what I just drove past, this place is nothing compared to some of the shit I have been sent to on behalf of the United States Navy. A veritable Scottsdale retirement community for hippies that just want to be left alone.
The trepidation I feel is something much, much different.
The heat of the desert envelops me the instant I crack open the door. Well into the triple digits, the dry air pulls all moisture from my mouth and throat. It swirls through the car, superheating the interior.
Climbing out, I close the door behind me and turn to find a man easily in his sixties staring my way. Gray hair hangs in lank waves to his shoulders. He wears a maroon t-shirt with the sleeves ripped away, a dark crescent of sweat hanging like an elongated bib from his neck.
Much like the Ogos and Inina, he looks to be of Polynesian ancestry, his tan skin stained even darker by the sun.
Making no effort to come forward, he watches as I approach, waiting until mere feet separate us before thrusting out his hand. “Kyle Clady?”
I meet his grip, his palm damp with sweat. “Daniel Lucero?”
He jerks the top of his head, motioning us toward the teepee. “Please, come inside.”
Chapter Ten
“I’m very sorry about your wife.”
No preamble. No pleasantries. No asking how my drive out was or if I had trouble finding the place. Merely a simple and somber opening, cutting right to the matter of why I am here.
As much as being reminded of what happened to my Mira hurts, I appreciate the approach more than he can possibly know. Right now, I just don’t have it in me to skirt around the topic, no matter how much social norms might dictate it.
“As I am about yours,” I reply.
The interior of the teepee is directly in line with what someone might expect from seeing the outside. A Spartan existence just large enough for one, void of any traditional niceties to be found elsewhere.
The floor of the space is covered with remainder carpet squares, shag material that at one point was probably thick and soft. Now long past their prime, the hunter green loops have been matted flat by time and sweat. Overlapping on the corners, they stretch beyond the edges of the support poles placed every three feet or so, keeping the underlying sand at bay.
Against the far side from the entrance are a pair of plastic coolers. The one on the right is faded red and held together by the same duct tape securing the tarp as an outer wall. Top propped open, a pile of clothes spills out onto the ground.
Beside it is a blue cooler serving its intended purpose, filled with a case of lukewarm water.
Stacked against the two side walls are small heaps of pillows and blankets. Much like everything else I have seen since arriving, they seem to have been collected without any thought to style.
A mismatch of items culled together on the fly.
He raises a hand, motioning at me. “So young. So much to live for.”
Pressing my lips together, I nod my head slowly. Same as has happened untold times in the past week, a sheen of moisture comes to my eyes. My blinking increases, a natural physiological attempt to try and keep it from becoming outright tears.
He is right. Of the myriad things I keep returning to as I try to wrestle what happened into place, that one is certainly high on the list.
Not only how much she had left to live for, but by extension how much less I now have to look forward to.
“I think the only thing that might be worse is what you went through,” I counter. “Forced to watch, helpless, for so long.”
This time it is his turn to cry, the added months since his wife’s passing doing nothing to diminish the pain.
Much the way I doubt they will for mine.
Opening volley complete, we both retreat into silence for a moment. Each look away, focusing on nothing in particular, before slowly bringing our gaze back to face forward.
Light filters through the twin tarps covering the structure, the interior cast in shades of blue and orange. Together they fall across his body in an almost-even split, illuminating the deep lines and wrinkles of his features.
Even through that prism, the sclera of his eyes stand out, seeming to be stained pink.
Yet another thing I suspect we may come to share at some point.
“Thank you for making the trip,” he begins anew. “I know you had to wonder why we couldn’t just speak on the phone, much like you’re probably wondering why we’re sitting inside here instead of going outside or to your car.”
Both questions had crossed my mind. Neither did I feel the need to voice.
What matters most is that I’m here. And that – hopefully - he will have something I can use.
“Last night, after we spoke, I lay awake for a long time and thought about what you shared. Needless to say, I have tons of questions. About your wife and Dr. Hoke. About Inina and St. Mary’s.
“But right now, I have a feeling there are more urgent things to get to, so let me jump straight to what I know.”
The top of my head dips slightly in appreciation. The same feeling I’ve had since Salvation Mountain grows more pronounced as sweat drips from the tip of my nose.
For eleven days now, I have searched for the reason behind what happened. Some explanation for why a social worker, one of the most unassailably kind people I’ve ever known, had this happen to her.
Seated here now, I can’t help but hope that I might actually be making a tiny bit of headway. That for the first time, someone isn’t just asking me unending questions, but offering me some sort of answers.
No matter how small they might be, I am all too glad to receive.
“Tell me,” he says, “do the names Korab and Fink mean anything to you?”
For an instant, I try to place them. The former brings up absolutely nothing. The latter surfaces as a derogatory term, but not a proper name.
“No,” I reply. “Who are they?”
“They are the parties in Korab v. Fink,” he replies. “A court case that probably doesn’t mean much to most people, but to COFA migrants like myself, is a very big deal.
“And, I believe, is at least part of the reason behind what happened to your wife and Dr. Hoke.”
Chapter Eleven
For eight solid hours after leaving the house in Chula Vista, Byrdie had been working on how to proceed. Back and forth, he’d vacillated between trying to capitalize on the new status quo and just being done with things entirely.
Accepting that his time in the vest was over.
Or stepping into the resulting void and seizing what was rightfully his.
Untold times, he batted around the best way to proceed. How to convince the remaining Wolves that he’d not had anything to do with what happened. The optimal approach for getting them to accept him back into the fold.
There was no way to change what happened the day before at The Wolf Den. Not the result of the fight with Ringer or the fact that every remaining member of The Wolves had witnessed it.
But based on what Snapper proposed a short time before, he no longer needs to.
Every question, concern, that existed i
s answered. All he has to do is finish what he set out to the night before.
Something made that much easier by what he took from the blonde man at the house a day earlier.
Seated behind the wheel of the same decrepit sedan he nabbed yesterday, Byrdie can see the effects of the encounter with Ringer still splashed across his face. Another day in, the bruises have darkened. A heavy shadow lines the entire left side, swinging from his temple to his jaw.
Just thirty hours removed, he can still recall most of it with vivid detail. Using quick jabs and lightning feet, he’d worked circles around the lumbering oaf. Far too comfortable in his spot at the top of the pecking order, Ringer had let his skills erode.
A fact that was painfully obvious until Byrdie had gotten cocky. He’d taken his eye off the objective, milking a few moments. Dancing in front of his cohorts, he’d spread his arms wide, basking in their adulation.
Never even saw the overhand right coming.
After that is nothing but a gaping void. A black maw in the middle of his memory before waking up face down in the desert hours later. Vest gone, ribs and face beat to shit.
Again flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror, Byrdie can see his features twisted up in hatred. To beat a man is one thing. Especially one riding under the same brand for so many years.
To do him while he’s on the deck is quite another.
Even if, in the end, Byrdie was the one that came out the victor.
Had Ringer not been at the house the night before, there is no way to know how things would have played out. If Byrdie would have still been able to get what he needed. If he’d been the one to end up facing off with the blonde guy that was there.
Not that any of it matters now. What does is that he has a clear opening. A direct path not only back into good standing, but to the top seat.
The pitch that Snapper was there to make was pretty simple. With numbers and morale both dropping fast, the organization needs all the manpower it can muster. Not new recruits plucked off the street, but trusted people to finish what Ringer should have a week ago.
At the same time, Snapper can’t have the very first thing he does in the top seat – even if only temporarily – be to undo one of Ringer’s last acts.
He needs it to appear more organic. He needs Byrdie to return with a peace offering. Some form of penance for what he did, with the promise of making amends moving forward.
At first listen, Byrdie hadn’t been a huge fan of the idea. After decades of riding with the organization, there should be no question of his loyalty. His actions the last week might not have always been the best, but they were never meant as a sign of disrespect to the organization.
More as a final straw for the humiliation that Ringer always made a point of tossing his way.
As the two had sat on the picnic table though, his stance had shifted. While he might hate the notion of returning like a dog with his tail between his legs, it made sense.
The very first thing Snapper asked upon seeing him was if he did it. It isn’t hard to imagine every other man in the organization thinking the same thing.
If he shows up, angry and defiant, expecting to retake his seat at the table, there are going to be a lot of whispers and sideways glances. Most of them from guys he’d rather not be looking over his shoulder at for the next couple years.
If he plays the part though, he can get back in without suspicion. Even better, he can help craft the narrative the way he wants. Keep the focus anywhere else.
Clady. The blonde guy. A third shooter on the grassy knoll.
Who it is doesn’t really matter, just so long as nobody is looking his way.
Shifting his gaze away from the rearview mirror, Byrdie glances to the screen of the phone perched on his thigh. Once more he checks the position of the red marker on screen, ensuring he is in the right place.
Not that there is really much doubt, the lone Conoco station being the sole thing for more than a mile in either direction.
Locking his focus on the front door of the establishment, he shoves aside the events of a day before. The fight with Ringer and the final showdown that rid him of his nemesis.
Next up goes the conversation with Snapper and even his plans for his future with the Wolves.
In their stead, he merely sits and waits, watching, until a full ten minutes after arriving, the doors part. Through them walks a young woman in her mid-to-late twenties with dark hair. A plastic sack of groceries dangles from either hand.
A ribbon of palpitations rises through Byrdie’s chest. The corner of his mouth flickers, the closest he can come to a smile.
If a peace offering is what The Wolves need, then a peace offering they shall have.
Chapter Twelve
Sven knows that the burning in his side is nothing more than psychosomatic. The wound has been cleaned and sealed shut with a thick layer of Dermibond. Surgical glue that is completely impenetrable, bonding the skin together.
Still, it feels like the beads of sweat streaming over his bare torso are managing to needle their way in. Force past the adhesive and touch on the raw flesh underneath, setting his nerves ablaze.
A fact that only adds to the animosity permeating his system.
Standing on a slight ridge, he is stripped bare to the waist. On his feet are hiking boots. Crew socks extend above them to mid-calf. Both are coated in a thin film of red dust, each step over the sandy trail he’s been on for the last half hour contributing to the look.
Mixing with the sweat striping his skin, the dust forms a paste, tinting his skin a shade of russet.
On the ground alongside him is a backpack. One of those new yuppie designs with plastic tubing extended from the sides, meant to allow people to rehydrate with as little effort as possible. Designed to carry more than a gallon of water, today its only cargo are a cellphone and the pair of binoculars currently pressed to his face.
More than once over the years, prospective clients have bemoaned his steadfast refusal to adopt what they consider basic modern luxuries. They ask why he doesn’t have a dedicated email server. A full-time location.
A set phone number where he can always be reached.
The answer to all of those questions rests in what he is doing here now. Each and every one of those items fastens someone in place.
An eventuality Sven – nor the profession he’s in – can allow.
As far as the traditional definition of being tied down goes, Sven has no concerns. Years of scrupulous maintenance have ensured there is not a single thing in his life he can’t walk away from in under a minute.
A stance that includes Maile, no matter how helpful she might have been as a scrub nurse this morning.
In this particular context, the worry with all of those things is that they link someone to a set spot. They make it possible for others to seek him out. Find him on their terms, rather than the other way around.
If he has a permanent address, someone can set up surveillance. They can be patient and wait for him to eventually make a mistake.
If he uses an email server, some pimpled kid that is good with a computer will find a way to trace it. They’ll use IP addresses or cloud logins or whatever else to pinpoint his location.
Even more worrisome would be a cellphone. A device so omnipresent for most people today, it is basically a fifth appendage.
Replete with GPS location, accessible through any of a hundred different websites.
It is that very reason he is standing in the desert sand now. Still feeling the effects of at least a mild concussion, the sun penetrates the sunglasses he wears, magnifying his headache. The fresh wound along his ribs burns with every drop of sweat that streams across it.
Ignoring both, Sven raises the binoculars to his face. He stares at the low-slung structure in the distance with only a single vehicle in the parking lot. At the complete lack of movement that has arisen in the twenty minutes he’s been standing here.
There were two distinct reasons why he went
to the house in Chula Vista the night before.
The most obvious was to lure out the Wolves. The original group contracted for this job, he knew they were still around. Regardless what they might have told Elsa Teller, they weren’t going anywhere.
Misguided pride. Loyalty. Self-importance. Whatever the reason didn’t much matter to Sven. Knowing they would eventually either get in his way or turn their attention on him, he had decided to get out ahead of things.
Draw them in to a situation he could control.
The second reason was to actually continue on the job. Scour the home of his newest target. Get some bearing on where she might be.
A bearing that turned out to be as simple as a name and phone number written on a sticky note and affixed to the front of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
The file Teller first sent to him stated that the target was a recent immigrant. A woman just past seventy years old named Fran Ogo. In the country no more than a few months, she was living with her granddaughter, the two having procured the home not long before.
The very same granddaughter whose name and number were written on that slip of paper.
A number belonging to a cellphone resting less than a half mile from where he now stands.
For the purposes of surveillance, Sven would have preferred that the women were holed up at one of the chain motels in Mission Valley. Or the swanky high-rises downtown. Or damn near anywhere else but this.
Though he can see the wisdom in their decision.
Knowing that the Wolves were already onto them, they had chosen the most isolated location they could find and still maintain access to the city. A spot where anybody new would instantly stand out.
Where even someone like him driving by a few times would have been obvious if they were paying attention.
Choosing to come in on foot was not ideal. Considering the state of his body, it is a move Sven could have done without. Already, he can feel his energy waning just slightly, the dry air and midday heat both sapping much of the moisture from him.
Battle Cry Page 5
