* * *
The Kingman police station was more akin to the workings of a small-town library than a crime-stopping police station—although I couldn't remember ever being in another police station, or library, to make that comparison. Definitely no hustle and bustle here. The front desk officer watched me approach the counter. Tall and lanky, her uniform was overly snug, with sleeves that stopped an inch above her wrists.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a surprisingly deep voice, while inspecting my cuts and bruises much as Doctor Madison had done several days previously.
“Morning,” I said. “I’m looking for Detective Whittier.”
“All right, let me see if he’s available.” She dialed a number and spoke into an ancient-looking telephone. As she listened she nodded her head as if the person on the other end could see her.
“Okay, you can go through the double-doors, up the stairs and turn right at the corridor.”
“Thanks.”
A dozen or so desks were spread out in a large, mostly uninhabited, room. Detective Whittier and Detective Barns had their desks facing each other. While Barn’s desk, with the exception of his computer monitor, was clear of anything else, Whittier’s was the complete opposite, with virtual mountains of file folders and paper stacks covering the entire desktop surface. Whittier stood up as I approached; Barns stayed engrossed in something on his computer screen.
“Rob … How are you doing?” he asked with a condescending smile, as if privy to an inside joke only he was aware of.
“Well, I’m hanging in there … thanks. Listen, I’d like to take you up on your offer to run my prints through your database. Maybe figure out who I am.”
“Sure, come with me and we’ll get you printed and swabbed.”
“Swabbed?” I queried.
“Yeah, it’s painless—a quick Q-tip swab of the inside of your mouth. We’ll run a DNA query along with your prints—it’s pretty much standard procedure these days. No sense doing one without the other.”
I knew what getting swabbed was, I just didn’t know if having my DNA cross-matched was such a good idea. Alarms were going off in my head, and I didn’t know why. There was something in Whittier’s manner that was off-kilter, and I didn't trust him. Unfortunately, I couldn't read his thoughts. How long had it been since I’d tapped in? Twenty-four hours? Twenty-five? My head was throbbing again. In just a few short days I’d come to rely more and more on that extra sense; while losing any of my five senses would seem almost catastrophic, the loss of my new, heightened sixth sense seemed no less important. I followed Whittier back downstairs to Bookings, and he ran me through what must be the same scenario those arrested would go through—even talking me into getting my picture taken.
“Listen, you may want to check out the Cornerstone Mission; it’s a men’s shelter two blocks northeast of here on Sycamore Avenue. It’s not much, but it’s a roof over your head until you get your life back. Give me a day or two to see what comes up on the database.” Whittier handed me a paper towel to wipe the fingerprint ink from my fingers. He then went quiet, as if considering some inner dialogue.
“Come back upstairs for a minute; I want to show you something.”
I followed him back to his desk and sat in an open chair. Barns’ chair was now empty. Looking for something, Whittier rifled through several folders and grunted approval when he found what he was looking for. He took out six 8” x 10” color photographs. He looked at the clutter on his own desk and decided to lay them out on Barns’ clean desktop instead.
“Take a look at these—your accident scene, prior to everything going up in a fireball. What do you see?” He was watching my face, measuring my response. I looked down at the two rows of photographs. Several of them were taken from higher up, perhaps someone standing on the roof of a patrol car. The others were at various angles—showing the car I was in, the overturned truck and its disconnected trailer, and the minivan, now pushed up against my car near the utility pole. I looked at each of the photos, going back and forth, rechecking …
“This was no accident,” I said, no doubt in my voice. Whittier’s condescending smile disappeared for an instant; I’d obviously stolen some of his thunder.
“Tell me why.”
I found a Sharpie on Whittier’s desk and held it up, questioning. He nodded his approval. On the widest-angle shot, I drew three oblong spheres—one around the truck, one around my car, and one around the minivan. I numbered these 1A, 2A, and 3A. Then I drew three more circles approximately the same size—these were positioned in the best-guess locations of where the vehicles had been just prior to the accident. I numbered these 1B, 2B, and 3B. Then I drew an interconnecting line between the A and B spheres. “This shows the beginning and ending locations of each of the vehicles, all starting with my car here. This here is the dip in the highway.” Whittier’s brow furrowed. Based on these lines, it would have been virtually impossible for the disconnected trailer-rig to strike the minivan and have it end up next to my car at the utility pole. “The geometry doesn’t work. I assume you do see that.” I said, glancing over at Whittier. I continued by drawing one more sphere indicating a new beginning location for the minivan—this one having the van parked on the wrong side of the road, pointing towards oncoming traffic.
Whittier’s condescending smile was back. Before he could say anything, I changed the orientation of the original minivan sphere. “The minivan wasn’t only on the wrong side of the road, it was parked perpendicularly, blocking the road entirely. And because of the dip in the highway, here, it should be a forgone conclusion a driver would have to swerve off the road to avoid it. To the left you’ve got this solid rock wall, to the right the utility pole. It’s really quite ingenious.”
“I’m glad you have such an appreciation for what could only be described as an attempted murder. Yours. Whoever they were, they knew you would be on that highway at that particular time. And if that’s right, this was a well-thought-out, even strategic, bit of planning.” I agreed with him. It was a hit—someone wanted me dead—which made figuring out my identity even more important.
I moved to head on out, but Whittier put a hand on my arm. “Just hang on. Although I have no intention of holding you right now, I’m uneasy—this whole thing stinks. Until I have more information, you’re free to go. Don’t leave the greater Kingman area. Is that understood?” Whittier walked around Barns’ desk and crossed the room to one of the open desks by the far wall and small grimy windows. After rifling through several drawers, he returned with something in his hand.
“Normally, we’d simply call you. But you don’t have a phone. So take this and keep it with you at all times.” Whittier placed a small black pager on the desk. “If you get paged, I expect you to call me right back within several minutes. As soon as I have anything, I’ll page you.”
I picked up the pager and looked at it. “I assure you, Detective, I have no idea who I am or what I’m involved with. I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me with that,” I said, looking up from the pager and returning his stare.
His blue eyes didn’t blink for some time. “Something about you makes me nervous. I want to trust you, take you at your word. For the time being I will.” Whittier sat down at his desk. “Answer the page when it comes. Don’t leave town,” he repeated.
“Thanks, I look forward to your continued assistance.” I headed for the exit.
Chapter 7
Harland was sitting up in bed. A plastic bedpan lay on his lap. He looked down at the remnants of his lunch—bits of peas and carrots floated in a pool of vomit. He retched again, producing several waves of dry heaves.
Earlier he’d tried to leave, looking for his clothes after he’d seen Chandler. The effects of the snakebite, or perhaps the anti-venom stuff, had made him dizzy. He’d awakened on the floor of his room, his cheek against the cold linoleum. As they lifted him back into bed, he’d noticed the same nurse, Chandler’s nurse. Then he’d lost consciousness.
K
illing Chandler would have to wait. In his current state, he would be in no condition to go up against him, or anyone for that matter. Best to give it a few more hours. Maybe learn what he could from that nurse. Even in that brief moment he’d seen them together, it was obvious they had something between them. Where the hell was she? Harland looked out the window. It was nighttime. How long had he been out? In the distance he saw a highway. Red taillights of evening commuters moved in a procession, eventually disappearing into the city. His mind wandered to where it always wandered: that last night with Veronica. Chandler was turning. His gun raised and then the gunshots. But what had stayed with him the longest was the smell. The GSR, or gunshot residue. A mixture of burnt and unburnt particles from the explosive primer, the actual propellant, as well as the various components from the bullet, the cartridge case and even the firearm used. In this case, a Beretta 92.
Harland noticed her reflection in the window as she entered his room. Always so fucking happy.
“How you feeling, Mr. Shinn?” Jill asked, taking his bedpan into the bathroom. He’d used the alias Peter Shinn when they’d filled out the basics on his chart. They’d come back several times for more information, but he’d been able to put that off.
“It’s good to see you’re sitting up. Back amongst the living.”
“I’m feeling a little better.”
“Well, give yourself a few more days. One bite is enough to kill you. Two? I’m surprised you’re alive. You’ve got quite the constitution … Strong like bull,” she said jokingly, in a Russian accent.
Harland simply smiled and shrugged. He watched her move around his bed and check his I.V. Pretty little thing, he thought, feeling movement between his legs. His face flushed. Irritated at himself, his weakness, he cleared his mind of stray thoughts.
Chapter 8
Cornerstone Mission was a large, one-story, corrugated steel-sided building in the industrial section of town. As I approached, I could see a group of men huddled up and waiting at the entrance. Whittier had mentioned something about it being open only in the evenings.
I sat down in the shade, with my back against the building. As usual, my eyes were drawn to the high-power lines overhead. I needed to tap in, and I had no idea where I’d be able to do so.
My head was throbbing; the headaches were back in full force. I let my eyes track the cables, from down the street to directly above my head. These power cables were connected to a utility pole at the back of the building. They carried high-voltage power, anywhere from 2,400 to 35,000 volts of electricity, and I could see they were connected to a large transformer, which, in turn, split off to a smaller feeder cable that swayed down to the roof of the mission. I’d come to know that higher voltages were what I needed—I also knew that most small businesses and homes were fed stepped-down power of only 220 volts. Maybe I had been an electrician.
A middle-aged Hispanic man, in a plaid shirt and dirty jeans, sat down next to me. He put a small backpack down and started rifling through it. He eventually came up with a couple of granola bars. He offered me one.
“Thanks,” I said, surprised by the offering.
He smiled and pointed to himself. “Me llamo Marco—¿habla usted español?”
I nodded, “Buenas tardes … Sí, me llamo Rob.” I didn’t know I could speak Spanish, and apparently I was fairly fluent. “¿Habla usted inglés?”
“Sólo un poco, sí,” he said with a smile. We ate in silence for a while until I tested his English.
“You’ve stayed here before?”
“Yes, three days now. I leave for San Joaquin Valley in several days. My wife and child wait for me.” He gathered up his pack and stood up. “It will be a while before the mission opens.” He smiled, gestured toward the park across the street and headed off in that direction.
I didn’t like the idea of just sitting around here for another hour or more. I got to my feet and followed after Marco. My guess was many of the same men who spent their evenings at the mission spent their days in the park among others with similar reasons for living at a mission.
At the entrance I passed a large wood-carved sign that read Firefighter’s Park of Kingman. Like a lone oasis, lush trees and open grassy areas made this a welcoming respite from the miles and miles of bleached concrete, and from the intense Arizona desert sun. Street vendors sold snow cones and churros, while families huddled in shady areas to picnic. A mariachi band played somewhere in the park, adding a light-hearted carnival atmosphere to the place. I followed the sidewalk to a line of tables where men and women played chess. I stopped and watched with several other onlookers. Then I realized that lone chess players sat at each table—contemplating their own in-process match. A scruffy, bearded man, wearing contrasting plaid shirt and shorts, moved from table to table. He would sit for a few moments, make a quick, decisive move, then move on to the next seated opponent. I knew this game.
Marco stood alongside the other onlookers. “That is Drako; he’s here some Saturdays. He never loses,” said Marco, admiration in his voice. “I’ve tried several times—he shows no mercy.” Marco smiled and pointed to one of the players getting up from a quick defeat. “You play?”
I shrugged, “I think so.” But I was curious to see how I’d stand up against this guy. Maybe the game would unlock more of my past. I sat down at the small table and quickly set up the pieces. Drako was two tables down, making quick work of his latest opponent. He was breathtakingly fast, dispatching one player after another without any hesitation. Oh, what the hell. I couldn’t resist looking into his mind. Drako was now seated at the next table down. They had opened with a standard Sicilian move: white pawn to e4, and pawn to c5, which led to white pawn d2 to d4. Drako glanced up and caught my eye. He was evaluating me even before our match started.
He made quick work of his opponent; after each move, Drako commented with explicatory comments such as “What, are you stupid?” or “You embarrass yourself, you disgust me.” I detected an eastern-bloc accent, maybe Czech, or perhaps Slovakian … how did I know that? Drako’s opponent was getting frustrated. His black hair was wet with perspiration from the hot afternoon sun. He wore a red T-shirt and dirty jeans. I also took a quick peek into his thoughts and immediately read, and felt, his annoyance at Drako’s bad manners and intolerable arrogance. The man in the red T-shirt was soon defeated and left the table without a word. Another conquest for Drako. If nothing else, this guy needed to be taught a lesson, I thought to myself. Truth is, I had no idea if I was the one who could give it to him. I definitely had an advantage over his previous opponents—I could read Drako’s thoughts. The other six tables were now empty; apparently, no more combatants were willing to face humiliation.
As Drako moved over to my table and sat down, I pointed down the line. “I’ll play all those tables as well, if you’re still up to it?” Drako looked surprised and somewhat amused. We stood and reconfigured the pieces on all the boards. Marco and several others from the mission were among the growing crowd of onlookers. I had the white pieces at table one, so I would move first. I peered into Drako’s mind. He not only was deciding his opening move for this game, but for each of the others as well. I found it interesting that he was giving himself additional mental challenges—not similar opening moves. Each game its own strategic challenge. He expected to finish me off quickly and looked forward to my inevitable embarrassment.
“We play five moves at each table before moving on to next, yes? We start now,” he said. His guttural, eastern-bloc accent had a menacing tone to it.
Play started out fast, never a hesitation from either side. One table started a play from Drako with a standard Sicilian Defense move; the next, a Zukertort Opening; Symmetrical Variation from me, followed by Drako with a Trompowsky Attack … The irony wasn’t lost on me: how I knew, in ridiculous detail, what each of these chess maneuvers were, and how to implement each one precisely, yet remained clueless in remembering my own last name.
We made several runs up and down the
line of tables. I wondered if I could play at this level without the advantage of reading his thoughts. Probably not. Drako was nothing short of genius-level‚ a savant. The crowd had grown too. Over a hundred onlookers, virtually all cheering for the new guy: me … someone who could avenge their lost honor.
As each of the matches came to a close, fewer and fewer chess pieces were left on each board. The level of concentration became almost overwhelming. It seemed the amount of time between Drako selecting his next move, and then implementing that move, was in mere fractions of a second. In the end, Drako won two games to my five. I tipped over his last standing king; checkmated. The crowd rushed in with a chorus of hoots, cheers and pats on the back and men wanting to shake my hand. Drako, his face expressionless, picked up his chess pieces and chessboard and placed them in a canvas satchel. As the crowd dissipated, he walked back over to me.
“My name is Drako Cervenka.” He put his hand out to shake, which I accepted. He continued, “I can’t remember the last time I was defeated. Thousands and thousands of matches. Then, I lose five matches in one day. So, I wonder, who is this man—one who can beat me like no one else ever has?”
“My name’s Rob,” I said, “and I think luck played a big part in that … you play extraordinarily well.”
“No, Rob, luck had nothing to do with it. Do not act stupid. I do not need to be coddled. You must acknowledge this win with pride. As I would have done,” he said with conviction. “This is great day. We must play again, very soon.” Drako hesitated, as if considering something—then continued: “You come again tomorrow and we play here at park,” his broken English becoming more pronounced.
Mad Powers (Tapped In) Page 4
