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The Room of White Fire

Page 22

by T. Jefferson Parker


  “Not now I can’t.”

  “I have units on the way. Can you hide?”

  “Be right there, Don!” I said. “Did you bring some bad company with you?”

  “Just me with some special treats from Deimos.”

  “Okay, give me a second.”

  “Is someone in the room with you now?”

  Through the curtain opening I saw three more figures bunching up close to the door. Then I heard a thump on the bathroom wall and saw a man looking through the glass at me. I waved at him and called out, “Just a second, Don!”

  “Hurry, Clay!”

  “Can you exit the building?”

  “I’m going to have to let them in. You guys better be fast.”

  “Clay, open up!”

  I did. Joe Bodart barreled into me, grabbed at my coat collar, and tried to take me down. I used his momentum and flung him hard against the wall. Past me plowed three other men, the last of whom shut and latched the door behind him. The four looked late thirties to mid-forties, fit, focused, and itching to act. Their eyes roamed alertly and came quickly back to me. Two had drawn down on me. Bodart was wide-eyed and flushed. He righted himself against the wall and spread his hands, inviting everyone to cool it.

  I knew that CIA officers couldn’t arrest me, but plenty of other feds certainly could and would.

  “Fucking PI,” said Bodart. “Where’s Clay?”

  “Back in the wind,” I said.

  “Sir, can you hear me? Has another party come into the room? What’s going on there?”

  All four of them looked at my phone, sitting on the desk beside the dolls in the weak downcast of lamplight. “You guys look funny,” I said. “She’s my friendly 911 Oceanside PD dispatcher. Hi, I’m back. Yes, there are four of them in here and at least one more outside. Two are armed and brandishing weapons as we speak.”

  Bodart shook his head, went to the desk, clicked off the call, and tossed me my phone.

  “They’re on their way,” I said.

  “We’ve got one minute, men,” he said. “Find it.”

  They spread out and searched the room in a storm of efficiency. Bodart stayed with me, eyeing the swordfighting folk dolls, then the suitcases on their stands. My phone rang and I had to figure Oceanside PD. I let it go to record.

  “What does Clay Hickman think he’s doing?” he asked.

  “You know damn well what Clay’s doing. Same as Spencer knows. You just don’t know for sure what he’s got. Or how much of it.”

  “Video, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Christ, I hate amateurs.” Bodart watched me while his three compatriots banged around the room, rifling the desk and night-table drawers, emptying the suitcases on the floor and tearing through the clothes.

  “Spirited little primates,” I said.

  “Aren’t they.” A siren sounded south of us, coming up the Coast Highway. “Are you armed, Mr. Ford?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Open your coat for me to see. Slowly and all the way. Then empty your pockets on this desk.”

  “No. And if you come at me I’ll knock you cold.”

  “That’s right, you’re the jarhead heavyweight.”

  “And if you pull that gun, be ready to use it.”

  “Take a pill, hero man. Nobody wants to die for some puke like Briggs Spencer.”

  The siren came louder. “We’re outta here!” He turned back to me. “Next time we meet, this will be different.”

  “Maybe I’ll get to knock you out.”

  “Much different.”

  They ebbed from the room as quickly as they had surged in. At the doorway, Bodart the Wrangler and one other man went north and the other two went south. The Coast Highway headlights came slow and bright while the taillights went likewise red the other way. Standing in the doorway I watched the northbound spooks cut left down the first street, heading toward the beach. I figured Clay and Sequoia were probably on I-5 by then, headed god knew where.

  The sirens were closer, a few blocks away. Oceanside PD had my burner number but no GPS to ping me and no reason to think I was anyone but David Wills. I took one last look at the dolls locked in mortal combat on the motel room desk, closed the door on them. Then lit a smoke and strolled up PCH toward my car.

  36

  I’m very disappointed about what happened with Clay yesterday,” said Briggs Spencer. “You had him and you let him go. But I didn’t ask you to my home today to tell you that. Rameesh!”

  A young Afghani man came from the house. He was slight and clean-shaven and wore casual Western clothes. He had two cocktails on the drink tray. Spencer’s home was three stories of white stucco that stood high on a bluff overlooking the Pacific and the city of La Jolla. The window planters overflowed with violet bougainvillea.

  I saw a clay tennis court and a helipad on which the bright copper Sikorsky shined. From where we sat in a shaded backyard pavilion, a thick lawn spread all the way to the bluff’s edge, drawing my eyes down to the black rocks, then across the vast ocean to the horizon. A half-dome of sky rose high and curved back overhead toward us.

  Rameesh set two martinis on the thick glass table, bowed slightly. “Lunch is almost ready, Doctor.”

  “Good,” said Spencer with a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Ford is hungry. I hope you like octopus.”

  “More than it likes me.”

  Rameesh went back inside. Spencer watched him. “What does Clay have?” asked Spencer.

  It was the second time he’d asked the question. So I answered it the same. “He says he has proof of crimes committed at White Fire.”

  “Video, correct?”

  I said nothing.

  “Did you see it?”

  “I know what’s on it.”

  His face hardened and darkened. “Crimes committed at White Fire—by whom?”

  “All of you.”

  Spencer took a while to think about this. “Okay. All right. Then let me ask you this—can you locate Clay for me in the next forty-eight hours?”

  “I believe so.”

  “How much do you believe so?”

  “He’s capable and unpredictable.”

  “I can’t believe he gave five agency men the slip. Or maybe I can. Everyone is impressed by those spook types until they actually work alongside them. Then you realize they’ve been classroom trained. So, forty-eight hours is possible? To tell me exactly where Clay is? So I can take him back to Arcadia, which is my legal and moral obligation to the Hickmans?”

  I sipped the martini. “He won’t go with you quietly, Dr. Spencer.”

  “I know that. Under my contract with the family, I have legal authority to restrain Clay. As necessary for his and the public’s safety. I’ll have professional help and plenty of it.”

  “Nets and tranquilizer guns?”

  He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “At least.”

  “Then what are you going to do with him?”

  “Reevaluate, adjust, and resume his treatment. Which, contrary to your amateur assessment, is probably the best available on the planet. Pharmaceuticals—no more shackles, cold baths, lobotomies, or straitjackets.”

  “You did squeeze in some electroshock.”

  Spencer shook his head slightly, as if shrugging off a bad idea. “Electroconvulsive therapy. Unilateral electrode placement, never bilateral. My first point is that I want Clay back within forty-eight hours.”

  “Noted.”

  “Mr. Ford, is Aaban on the video?”

  “Clearly.”

  “Is his son, Roshaan?”

  “Roshaan, too.”

  Spencer watched me closely as I answered his questions. His gaze seemed opinionless and penetrating at the same time. Like he was an impartial third party—a polygraph examiner or a high-court jud
ge.

  Rameesh brought out two bowls of octopus ceviche. On the side were avocado slices, lemon and lime wedges, tortilla chips, and a tray of salsas and hot sauces. “Ford, I saw a video not long ago of an octopus carrying a coconut shell across the bottom of the ocean. Really something. He held it up over his head, kind of like a construction worker carrying a sheet of plywood. You could see his other six legs conveying him across the sand. Slow motion, under the water. Very graceful. When he got where he wanted he stopped and crawled into one half of the shell, drew his tentacles in, then closed the other half over him. And there he was, safe within his coconut shell at the bottom of the sea. Where he’d wait for some unsuspecting fish to come nose the shell open, then he’d grab and eat it.”

  “I saw that one, too.”

  “Aaban was like that octopus. He’d go inside his coconut shell and you couldn’t get to him.”

  “Which got to you.”

  “Everything got to everyone at White Fire. It was war. I don’t have to tell you that. You know from first Fallujah—when they hung those Blackwater men from the bridge. You must have felt the chaos in the air. Cruelty unleashed. A perfect storm of evil and opportunity. Evil and opportunity often go together.”

  I agreed with Briggs Spencer on that and told him so.

  “How did you do in the war, Roland? Personally?”

  I shrugged. “I followed the rules and accomplished my mission.”

  “Did you take out any innocents?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “The kids would have been the toughest. Because a boy is a boy, but he can handle a gun or a bomb or carry a bomb pack.”

  I thought again of those door-to-doors—terrified Iraqis in their homes, hands up, eyes wild. I used to imagine what they saw in us. Murderous infidels? Liberators? Another plague to be endured?

  After lunch Rameesh took away our dishes and Dawn Spencer brought out a plate of small bundt cakes that someone had spent some time on. She was pretty, plump, and blond, and carried herself apologetically. I remembered that she had been his high school sweetheart and they’d married young, which made her, like Briggs, just under sixty years old.

  She sat beside her husband and offered the cakes around. I took raspberry. “I hear you almost got Clay back.”

  “Almost, Mrs. Spencer.”

  “Just Dawn. Look. I’ve talked to Clay over the years, here and there. Nicest kid you could imagine. The feeling I got was the war took his mind but left his soul. With other people the war did just the opposite. Tim Tritt used to talk about those two types. Sound about right, Briggs?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “So, I hope you can help him come back safely.” She eyed me, then the cakes appraisingly, chose a lemon one. “I can tell you that my husband has had to climb back from those wars. Many times. And now that Hard Truth is coming out, he’ll be able to answer the critics and set the record straight. Personally, I never thought Briggs owed the world an explanation for anything. He was saving American lives. Period. But now that I’ve heard his full story I’m even more proud of him than I ever was.” Dawn ate the bundt cake daintily but steadily. “Honey, how did that sound?”

  “Dawn and I have been training with a media coach,” said Briggs. “For the tour. She’s showing us the best way to say what we want to say. We need to be honest, first and foremost. But we need to be careful, too. If the liberal media can find a way to crucify us, they will.”

  “Did I sound believable just now?” she asked me.

  “I believed you,” I said. “But it sounded rehearsed.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise,” she said. She squinted out at the bright blue day. Without looking at the plate she took another cake and brought it to her mouth. “Every day I read my lines over and over but they never sound right.”

  “You’re overpressuring yourself, hon,” said Spencer.

  “I know, but I just hate it when other people reach inside my head. Even our coach. Hate it.”

  “Well, the coach is just trying to make us feel relaxed with our story. Feel comfortable.”

  “All our story makes me feel is sick to my stomach.” Staring out at the water, she finished the second cake. She stood, and we men did, too. “There. Nice to just say what I feel. And nice to meet you finally, Mr. Ford.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She offered me her hand, which was warm and soft, and a look, which suggested both anger and nausea. Her fair face was deeply flushed. “I can do it, Briggs. I can bring it.”

  “I know you can. Thank you, Dawn.”

  She headed back inside, walking past Rameesh, who held open the sliding screen door for her.

  “She’s a private person,” said Briggs. “I’ve offered to do the tour without her, but she knows she’s a selling point. Team player all the way.”

  “You might want to keep her away from that liberal media.”

  “I have a plan for that. It’s why I asked you here today.”

  “I hope it’s not about all those treasures you told me could be mine.”

  “Take a walk down to the cove with me. Hear me out.”

  37

  Spencer swung open a tall metal gate that clanged shut behind us before we’d started down the stairs. The stairs were steep but wide enough for two, with a stout iron railing running down the middle. I saw the ocean boiling on the black rocks below.

  “Once you’ve reunited Clay and me, I want to hire you as security on my book tour. Starting next week. Mr. Ford, as you might have noticed, there are a lot of volatile people in this world. There are people who hate me and hate America. I could transfer DeMaris from Arcadia for a month, let him protect me and Dawn. He’s a good man. But I can’t tolerate him close by for more than about ten minutes. You, Dawn, and I would travel by charter jet, then fly in as close as we can get to the actual events in one of my helos. Make an entrance in my Sikorsky, for instance. People are going to love me arriving at the helm of my own helicopter. Twelve cities, fifteen days, so far. That means talks, media, signings, media, parties, media, dinners. First-class hotels. All chop-chop. We’ll be in and out the same day whenever we can. No downtime, no waste. I can get you temporary concealed-carry permits in every state. You’d need to stick close to me and Dawn when we’re in public, keep an eye out for the crazies. My agency and NSA people have their ears to the ground. So far, okay, they’re hearing light chatter. Maybe Portland. Maybe L.A. But you know how it is—you listen hard enough to SIGINT, you always pick up something.”

  “Why not just hire one of them to go with you?”

  “I’d prefer a human being.”

  “You don’t like or trust me.”

  Spencer stopped so I did, too. The ocean breeze blew his gray hair askew and he gave me his big-chinned smile. I’d seen it before, but it surprised me now, after his ice-blue interrogator’s gaze over lunch. “I like you very much! And I know you’re good. You found Clay’s trail quickly. You kept Clay and the girl away from Rex Hickman’s jackboots up in Ojai. You came damned close to tripping up whoever shot Vazz to pieces in his own home in Mendocino. My home. And you managed to get Clay past five agency men in Oceanside yesterday like they had their butts glued to the floor. So, my first draft pick is you.”

  “I like the work I have.”

  His smile gradually ebbed. The surf smacked into the rocks below. “How is Clay?”

  “I saw a disturbed young man in a motel room.”

  “And video of Aaban and Roshaan.”

  I said nothing.

  “What did you think?”

  “I thought they should have had bigger parts in Hard Truth. I got an early copy. You mentioned Aaban, but nothing about his . . . son.”

  “Good strong stuff, though, isn’t it—my book?”

  “Not as strong as Clay’s.”

  “That’s why you have to bring him t
o me. Or me to him. Whatever works, Ford.”

  “You really don’t feel guilt, do you?”

  “I can’t afford to. Truth is hard.”

  Again came the strong but weirdly detached pry of Spencer’s blue eyes. He tried to work them into me, then turned and continued down the stairs toward the beach.

  When we came to the sand Spencer led the way south, picking his way across slick black rocks and around shimmering tide pools. “I’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars bonus if you can bring me to Clay in the next forty-eight hours. Cash if you like. Then, with that bit of business successfully concluded, I’ll salary you as security for the next three weeks—for fifteen days of tour, and for whatever might open up the week after. I think ten thousand a week is fair. Food, lodging, and ammunition on me. That was a joke about the ammo.” Spencer stopped and looked at me. “What do you think?”

  It was a tempting pitch and I hadn’t seen it coming. But I wasn’t going to work for a torturer again after this, our first and only engagement. Thanks to the video, I’d seen Spencer in action. I’d seen him descend into his heart of darkness and scamper away with his fortune. And there was nothing he’d done since White Fire to convince me that he couldn’t go up that river again. Had he atoned? Had he even confessed? Soon, he’d be even richer, cashing in big on his fifteen minutes, years after Roshaan’s young bones had been finally picked to nothing by the Dambovita. Was a hundred grand enough to help Briggs Spencer cover up his failed conscience and turn yet another profit on it?

  “No, thank you.”

  “Think about what I’ve offered.”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “You are not morally above me.”

  So many ways to answer that, but I kept them all to myself.

  “You think you are but you’re not. You know nothing of what we did and why we did it.”

  “Your conscience is hoarse.”

  Spencer took a deep breath and sighed loudly. He looked west across the ocean, squinting into the sunlight and sea breeze. “Do you realize how important it is that I get Clay back under control?”

 

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