Angel City

by Jon Steele

  “Because I can’t remember it happening. By the way, what’s parabellum mean?”

  “Parabellum?”

  “It’s on the box. Latin, isn’t it?”

  Officer Jannsen was wearing yellow-tinted blast goggles. She pulled her ear protection from her ears and let it hang around her neck.

  “Did you have your tea this morning, and after lunch?”

  “You were there, in the kitchen, you saw me make it, remember? So what’s parabellum mean?”

  “It means ‘prepare for war.’ From si vis pacem, para bellum.”

  Katherine continued to load the magazine.

  “Pacem. Now, I know that one from my one year at college. It means peace. So I’m guessing altogether it means ‘you want peace, get ready for war.’” Click. “Fourteen rounds, ready to fire.”

  Katherine lay the loaded magazine on the table, put on her ear and eye protection. She grabbed the magazine, grabbed the Glock. Jannsen’s hand slammed down and pinned Katherine’s firing hand, smashing her knuckles into the wooden table.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Anne?”

  Officer Jannsen spoke calmly but firmly: “You’re not concentrating.”

  “Who says I’m not concentrating?”

  “Me. You put eleven rounds in the magazine, not fourteen. You lost count.”

  “So you smashed my hand on the table because I lost count?”

  “No, because you’re being sloppy with a weapon designed to kill.”

  “It wasn’t loaded.”

  “It would have taken you two seconds to load the magazine into the grip and pull the slide with your left hand.”

  “So fucking what?”

  “The index finger of your right hand is inside the trigger guard, Kat, that’s fucking what. Rule number one: Your finger never goes inside the trigger guard until the moment you’re ready to fire.”

  Katherine looked down at the Glock. Saw her finger wrapped around the trigger, heard Officer Jannsen’s voice.

  “You would have pulled the slide, loaded a round in the chamber. The jolt could’ve caused your finger to override the trigger safety mechanism and misfire. You’re on a live fire range, there’s no room for sloppy. Sloppy means dead.”

  “Can I have my fucking hand back, Officer Jannsen?”

  “Of course, Madame Taylor. As soon as you lay down the magazine.”

  Katherine dropped the loaded clip with a thud. Officer Jannsen let go of Katherine’s hand; the knuckles were bleeding.

  “Step away from the table, Kat.”

  Katherine didn’t move.

  “I said, step away from the table.”

  “Is that a command?”

  “Take it any way you want, but you will step away from the table or I will take you down so hard, you’ll feel it for a week.”

  “Gee, that might fuck up your lockdown drill, won’t it? Won’t look good on your résumé.”

  “Do it!”

  Katherine jumped, backed away. Officer Jannsen pulled a handkerchief from her coat, handed it to Katherine.

  “Here, wrap this around your knuckles. Stop the bleeding.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “ABC, Kat. Airway, breathing, circulation. Learn it, know it, do it. A cut you don’t attend to becomes an infection. An infection means your firing hand is useless.”

  Katherine had heard the ABC’s of survival before. All part of life in Grover’s Mill. The heavy-duty physical workouts with the Swiss Guard boys, battlefield first aid, hostile environment recognition, weapons training. All things she thought she wanted to learn to protect herself. All things she’d been herded toward like a good little girl. She took the handkerchief, wrapped it around her hand.

  “Thanks.”

  Officer Jannsen slid the Glock from Katherine’s reach.

  “Now, do you want to tell me what this is about?”

  “If I looked up this house on Google Earth, would I see it? Would I find it on a map?”

  “What on earth are you thinking?”

  “What I’m thinking is none of this shit is real,” Katherine said. “I mean, I’m here all right, but this place doesn’t exist, does it?”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “I did a little experiment. One of the boys came into the kitchen while I was making lunch. He was adjusting the CCTV camera. I asked to use his iPhone, to play solitaire on it. He did everything right before he gave it to me: disabled the Internet and the phone—but not the GPS. I looked up the coordinates of the house. I jotted them down like I was making a grocery list. He left, and I logged on to my laptop, the one you let me use to keep an eye on me. I logged on to Google Earth. There’s nothing at those coordinates but a forest. How come?”

  “That’s easy. Google Earth isn’t up-to-date in this area.”

  “No?”

  Officer Jannsen moved close to her, looked into her eyes.

  “You didn’t drink your tea this morning, did you?”

  “I dumped it down the drain. Same way I dumped the midday tea, and the same way I’ll dump the rest of it. I’m fucking tired of being a zombie for the cause.”

  “What cause?”

  “Whatever fucking cause it is you and the rest of you are pretending is worth keeping me and my son as your prisoners. That’s what we are, isn’t it?”

  “Listen to me, you’re not yourself right now.”

  “No. This is me, and I feel fine.”

  “All right. Tell me what set this off.”

  “I told you, I dumped your fucking teas down the drain. Good-bye, Swiss mindfuck.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I remembered something looking at Max.”

  “What is it you remember?”

  “The color of Marc Rochat’s eyes. Something happened to me at the cathedral, didn’t it? Something that affected me while I was pregnant. Not that I give a fuck, but it means something happened to Max, too. Something you’re hiding from me.”

  “What am I hiding from you?”

  “It isn’t me the bad guys want, it’s Max.”

  Officer Jannsen stared at Katherine for ten silent seconds, then she whipped around in a blur, pulled her own Glock from her hip, and let off fourteen rounds downrange. Rapid-fire, spent casings flying. The slide popped, and in one quick move she dropped the empty magazine from the grip, slammed in a fresh one, ripped off fourteen more rounds in double taps till blamblam, blamblam, click. The gun was dry. Katherine looked at the screen display of the target. Twenty-eight shots in less than nine seconds, every one of them dead center. Officer Jannsen slowly pulled another clip from her belt, eased it into the Glock, reset the slide, and holstered her weapon.

  “It’s time you learn to speed reload, Kat.”

  III

  AFTER THE VILLAGE OF VILLENEUVE-D’OLMES, THE TAXI WAS THE only car on the narrow road. At Montferrier, the taxi took a left and started to climb through a series of switchback turns. The headlights panned across trees and farms like searchlights. Coming around one turn onto a straightaway, the taxi was speeding up when a gray-faced deer jumped across the road. The driver hit the brakes, but it was too late. There was a sickening thud, and the taxi shuddered and skidded off the road. The driver turned right and left avoiding trees and stopped the taxi at the edge of a ditch. He shut off the engine, looked over his shoulder.

  “Êtes-vous blessé, monsieur?”

  Harper peeled himself from the back of the front seat.

  “Ça va,” he said.

  The taxi had done a three-sixty turn, and beyond the windshield, in the glare of the headlights, Harper saw the deer in the middle of the road. It was clawing at the asphalt with its front legs, trying to pull itself into the cover of the trees.

  “It’s still alive,” Harper said.

  The driver look
ed ahead.

  “Merde.”

  They got out of the taxi. The driver rushed to the front end to check the damage. The left headlight was out and the fender smashed.

  “How bad is it?” Harper said.

  “Merde, oh merde. The undercarriage and wheels are all right. I will get you to Montségur. We must see to the animal.”

  They walked toward the deer. They saw blood on the left hindquarters where the animal had been hit. Sensing them coming, the deer panicked, tried to climb to all four legs, but its rear legs would not stand, and the animal collapsed on the road. It struggled for a few seconds, then settled.

  “Its back is broken,” Harper said.

  “Or its legs. Either way, there is nothing to do but put it out of its misery. I’ll get something from the taxi.”

  The driver walked off.

  Harper stared at the deer. Saw its wide, dark-colored eyes staring at him. He stepped ahead, slowly. The deer fidgeted but didn’t panic this time. Harper knelt next to it, listened to the sound of its breathing. Quick, shallow. Harper sensed the deer was bewildered, unable to comprehend why its legs had given way, why it could not dash away into the woods. Harper lay his hand on the deer’s chest, felt the warmth of its body, felt its racing heart.

  “Animus facit nobilem,” he whispered.

  Harper felt the deer’s heart calm a little.

  The driver returned with a folded tarp and a tire iron.

  “What the hell is that for?” Harper said.

  The driver waved the tire iron like a hammer. “To put it out of its misery.”

  “By beating it to death?”

  “You think it better if I drive over it a few times? A few blows to the head and it will be unconscious. A few more blows, it will be dead.”

  The driver dropped the tarp on the road.

  “And what’s that for?”

  “To wrap it up and put it in the trunk of my taxi.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I have a cousin not far from Montségur, in Auzat. He’s been out of work for a year. This deer will get him and his family through half the winter. You might have to help me lift it into the trunk, though.”

  The driver stood over the deer’s head, raised the tire iron.

  “Stop,” Harper said.

  “Quoi?”

  Harper opened his coat, pulled his SIG from its holster. He pulled the slide, loaded a round into the chamber. The driver gasped.

  “You’re carrying a gun? In my taxi? A foreigner? What is this?”

  “Yes, I’m carrying a gun in your taxi. And you’re getting triple the meter for the ride because it was the only way I could bribe you to move your arse off the taxi rank. Now step aside. Let’s get this over with.”

  The driver eased out of the way.

  Harper walked to the deer, leaned down, pressed the muzzle to the deer’s head. He put his finger inside the trigger guard. He let out a slow breath. He looked at the deer’s gray face, saw a wounded piece of life begging to be comforted. Not yet, not now. Harper’s hand began to shake; he felt something wet burn in his eyes. He pulled away the gun, stood up.

  “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” the driver said.

  Harper looked at him. “Do you know how to shoot?”

  “I was in the army.”

  Harper held out the SIG. “Here, you do it.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Pourquoi pas?”

  “Does it bloody matter?”

  The driver stepped forward, traded his tire iron for the SIG. Harper bent down, gently laid the tire iron on the tarp. He knelt near the deer’s head. The driver knelt next to Harper.

  “I’m going to distract it,” Harper said. “When I tell you, set the muzzle to the back of its head, fire away from us. Do it quick. Understand?”

  “Oui.”

  Harper knelt near the deer, looked in its eyes. He touched the beast’s chest, waited to feel its heart calm again.

  “Fire.”

  The shot echoed off the road and into the forest. There was a fluttering of birds and scattering of animals hiding in the nearby trees. The driver stood up. Harper waited with his hand on the deer, feeling its heartbeat fade.

  “C’est le guet. Il a sonné l’heure.”

  He stood up, took the gun from the driver. He pulled the slide, ejected the next round. The round fell and rang out as it hit the asphalt. Harper picked it up, dropped it in the pocket of his coat.

  “What did you say to the animal, monsieur?” the driver said.

  “I told it I was the watcher, and that this was the hour of its death.”

  “You said that? To a dead deer?”

  “It wasn’t dead when I said it.”

  The driver shook his head.

  “Well, that’s a very strange business. A foreigner pays me a fortune to take him to the least populated region of France and he’s carrying a gun. I should call the gendarmerie.”

  Harper held the palm of his right hand before the driver’s eyes.

  “Et memento hoc solum.”

  The driver stared blankly as Harper spoke.

  “Listen to the sound of my voice. Tonight, you were asked by the chief of police in Toulouse to drive me to Montségur in relation to a case involving national security. You were told nothing about me and instructed to ask no questions. You were told not to discuss this trip, or me, with anyone. It was made very clear to you that if you did, you’d be paid a visit by the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence. Twenty minutes ago, coming around the last turn, you hit a deer and broke its back. I shot it, finished it off. You said you wanted to take the carcass to your cousin so he’d have some meat for the winter. Just now you’re a little shaken because of the accident, and the gunshot startled you. If you think about it, I’m very sure you’ll realize this is what happened.”

  Harper lowered his hand.

  “You all right?” Harper said.

  The driver blinked, looked at his taxi, the deer, his taxi again. He watched Harper holster the SIG.

  “Oui, ça va. The gunshot. It startled me, I think.”

  “It happens.”

  The driver nodded, took a deep breath.

  “Allors, I must get the animal into the trunk. I am sorry for the delay, monsieur.”

  “No worries.”

  The driver spread open the tarp. He grabbed the deer’s front legs and tugged. He couldn’t move it. He looked at Harper.

  “Could you help me, monsieur?”

  “Sure.”

  Harper grabbed the back legs, and they dragged the deer onto the tarp. The driver wiped his brow.

  “My cousin will eat for half the winter with this animal. You know, I feel terrible about the accident, but some good has come of it, non? Life is strange sometimes. I will bring my taxi closer. It will be difficult getting it into the trunk.”

  The driver walked away.

  Harper knelt down, covered the deer’s haunches with the tarp. Before covering its head, he looked into its eyes again. All light was gone.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, THE TAXI ENTERED THE VILLAGE OF Montségur. Harper looked at his watch: straight up on the witching hour. The driver pulled over, shut down the motor. There was a narrow lane ahead with oddly shaped houses on either side. Like a collection of mismatched stone boxes. No lights in the windows, no streetlamps along the lane.

  “We are here, monsieur.”

  Harper looked out his window. There were two stone basins below an iron spout. A trickle of water poured from the spout into the basins. Looked the sort of place women came to do their laundry in the Middle Ages. Given the look of the buildings on the lane, maybe they still did, Harper thought.

  “You sure?�
� Harper said.

  The driver nodded to the fountain.

  “That is la fontaine d’Orgeat. That means we are at the entrance of the village.”

  “Is there a hotel around?”

  “There are rooms in people’s homes that are rented. Where they are, I do not know, or if they are even open this time of year. I’m afraid you must see for yourself. I must get the deer to my cousin before it begins to rot.”

  “Right.”

  Harper opened his door. The driver turned quickly back to him.

  “One thing, monsieur.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Seeing as the chief of police in Toulouse told me to say nothing about you, how do I explain to my cousin about the bullet in the deer’s head?”

  Harper replayed the night. Left the bus in the back of La Dynamo after nine. The building was vibrating with a droning sound. Nobody in the neighborhood seemed to notice. He walked back to the train station. Ticket clerk got a right laugh when Harper asked for a ticket to Montségur. There was a bigger laugh when Harper asked about any trains in the morning. Seems there were no trains to Montségur, any time of the day. But there was a train to Foix. Seven and a half hours, then a thirty-three kilometer walk.

  He went outside to the taxi rank. Presented himself to the driver on point as a British tourist who wanted to see the fortress atop Montségur by dawn’s early light. The driver was as excited about driving anywhere as the one Harper had met that afternoon. Thus, three times the meter. Driver said, “D’accord.” Harper got in. Driver went twenty meters and stopped. Went into a tabac for an espresso and a smoke. Harper waited in the taxi twenty minutes. Finally, as his watch flipped to ten fifteen, they were on their way. No worries. Then the deer. Harper didn’t want to think about it. He blinked himself back to nowtimes, looked at the driver.

  “You’ll come up with something.”

  “But, monsieur, I don’t want a visit from the Central Directorate of Internal Intelligence. I haven’t filed my taxes properly for fifteen years.”

  Harper shrugged. “Use your imagination.”

  Harper alighted from the taxi. The driver turned over the motor, made a three-point turn, drove away. Harper closed his coat and reached for his cigarette case. Easier now without the bandages on his hands, but the scar tissue on his palms was sore as hell. May take a day or two for the healing potion to fill in the cracks of the proximal phalanges, Krinkle told him. Suggested Harper try to avoid hitting any stone walls, or tough jaws for that matter.