The Room of White Fire

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “We are not killers,” said Bodart. “But we have a mission to complete. We’re not torturers, but we get the intelligence we need. If you are in our way, you are a threat to national security. Do comprehend this.”

  Again I pictured Bodart and his Wranglers loitering in Aaban’s smokehouse torture chamber. Remembered Clay’s description of him: Crazy monster would do anything.

  I said nothing. Was going to ask him how a badass such as himself ended up in plastic ties carried by a small golfer.

  He walked to the bed, stopped, and looked into the little casita bathroom, then turned to me again. “Who’s the girl he’s abducted?”

  I told him her age and first name, and that she had paired up with Clay willingly. Bodart shook his head and exhaled with disgust, though I wasn’t sure if it was for Clay or Sequoia or me. “One more time. What does Clay have? Video, right? Made by him and John Vazquez.”

  “He claims he has evidence of a crime at White Fire.”

  “And you claim not to know what it is?”

  “He wasn’t ready to trust me,” I lied again. “He was still vetting me when you blitzed the motel.”

  A long and skeptical stare. He looked at the window again. I saw Wesley peering in up close, and Burt lingering behind him on the walkway to the pond. “If that little guy is a tenant, you must have done a background check.”

  I had actually done no background on him at all. Ditto the others. “Nothing came up.”

  “I’ve never seen a man move that fast. He had my gun before I realized what he was doing.”

  I led Bodart outside and toward the barn. The Irregulars fell in around us and we made our way across the sparse barnyard grass. On a workbench I found a pair of tin snips and cut through the heavy plastic ties. I asked Burt where he’d found the ties.

  “Golf bag. I use them when I travel by air. You know, keep my sticks safe from those apes in baggage.” Burt handed Bodart his handgun and phone. “Sorry I had to get physical. Being called an asshole dwarf set me off because I know three dwarves personally. Good people.”

  Bodart looked baffled, then tempted to attack Burt, then baffled again. He pocketed the phone, holstered the weapon, and rubbed his wrists while walking toward the barn door. At the threshold he stopped and turned and looked at us. He started to say something, then must have thought better of it.

  “Next time, pay attention to those no-trespassing signs,” said Grandpa Dick. “We don’t want to have to go through all this again.”

  “Oh, come on Dick,” said Liz. “You loved every minute of it.”

  40

  Later that afternoon I hiked the Rancho de los Robles with Wesley. The day was cooling and the clouds tumbled in, heavy and gray from the Pacific. Wesley led the way, stopping often to scan with his binoculars, but I was the one who saw most of the birds first. His vision was fading and his pace was slower. My thoughts were troubled, filled with Clay Hickman and what would happen. I knew it was only a matter of time before Bodart or Spencer and their men caught up with him. And that if I could do anything on earth to help Clay, I would have to do it soon.

  “You’re quiet today, Mr. Ford. That CIA man got into your head?”

  “He’s some of it.”

  “Some of what?”

  Where to start? I knew I could talk to Wesley as the bright young man he was without having to avoid the truth or change it or even lie. He wasn’t a part of this. I was growing irate with deceptions, my own and everybody else’s. They are intriguing, then tiring.

  So I told him about Clay, and some of who Clay was and what he had done and how he’d escaped. How some people he worked with in the war did some bad things.

  We ambled on. A kestrel circling high. A pair of band-tailed pigeons barreling along together.

  “Clay has those bad things on video,” I said. “Highly classified. They—the people he worked for—will go to great lengths to keep him from showing it.”

  “They? Like that CIA guy?”

  “He’s one. Others are military. Others are private contractors. None of them know where Clay is. But I do.”

  “What if they find out, too?”

  “They’ll lock him up somewhere, keep him drugged and quiet. To the government, Clay is expendable. We might never hear of him again. But the most important thing for them is to destroy the video.”

  Wesley stopped and turned around. “They would really do that to him?”

  “They see it as their duty. They’d say if they didn’t, national security would be threatened.”

  “Would it be?” asked Wesley.

  I thought that question through again, for probably the thousandth time since I’d seen Clay’s video. Same answer every time.

  “No,” I said. “But if the public saw the video, the national conscience would get roughed up. Badly.”

  “National conscience? Like, how America looks at itself?”

  “Exactly that.”

  “Then these people must have done some pretty bad things,” said Wesley.

  “Very bad, Wes. Ugly and unnecessary. The country should know, because America is better than that.”

  “But if Clay shows the video before they get to him, what happens then?”

  “They’ll probably charge him with treason,” I said. “That’s prison time.”

  “Even though he’s crazy?”

  “That would be part of any trial.”

  We continued up the path in silence. Wesley, a couple of steps ahead of me, stopped and lifted his field glass to a very large sycamore tree growing in a low swale. Through my binoculars I saw the goldfinches flitting black and yellow amid the big green leaves. Behind the green the clouds piled in, blue-gray and fast.

  “So Clay can’t win, Mr. Ford. If he shows the video, they put him in prison, and if he doesn’t they take it and put him back in the mental hospital. Or worse, even. Can you prevent any of that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ve got a plan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. Incredible.” We walked on, Wesley a step ahead of me, scanning the trees. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “There is. Friday, day after tomorrow, I’ll need you to shoot some very important video with that nice camera of yours. We’ll edit it in with some existing footage, taken by Clay.”

  “I’m slow with the video editing, Mr. Ford. Just learning.”

  “You’ll have help.”

  Wesley stopped and looked back, smiling. “Okay, then. You got it. Will Clay actually be there?”

  “With luck.”

  We forged ahead, moving slowly and quietly. Saw a female oriole in an old oak and a mockingbird jeering at us from a toyon. I looked up at a yellow Piper Cub descending toward Fallbrook Airpark. “How are your black eyes healing up, Wes?”

  “Good. Kinda green now instead of black.” He stopped and turned and took off his dark glasses. The sockets were the soft green of bread mold but the eyeballs were clearing of blood. Hard to believe that one of those strong young eyes would have to be taken. And maybe another. So that Wesley Gunn’s life could continue. Just like it was hard to believe that Clay Hickman could either tell the truth and be considered a traitor, or conceal the truth and be considered insane.

  “What a dumb thing to do down in Mexico,” said Wesley, slipping his sunglasses back on. “I think those margaritas messed up my head.”

  —

  Back home I started moving my other players toward the stage where they would perform on Friday. Good Friday.

  The stage would be here, Rancho de los Robles—Ranch of the Oaks. Hide in plain sight. For one hour. One hour was what I thought I needed.

  Burt Short agreed to help keep a possibly armed and very unpredictable Clay Hickman under control. If my ruse worked properly, we would have an hour without either Joe Bodart’s Special Activi
ties Division or Briggs Spencer’s thugs, led by Alec DeMaris, bent on silencing Clay Hickman by whatever means necessary.

  Lindsey Rakes would do some driving for me, then edit Wesley’s video. She knew her way around video and audio from her Creech sensor ball days. Easy, she said. Her laptop was up to the task. And she was willing to help Burt handle Clay, if he needed help.

  Dick and Liz would get out of Dodge in my truck, only so that I could sneak back into Dodge undetected. They would have to get along with each other for enough time to complete their tasks. They groused, then agreed.

  —

  Sitting in the eternal twilight of my heavily draped office, I called the Hickmans on a new burner phone. As they had said earlier, Rex and Patricia wanted a shot at convincing their son to come back home. Wanted it badly. They had said nothing yet to Briggs Spencer, but had talked at length with Paige Hulet, whom they trusted more than her boss. The Hickmans would fly down in their private propjet tomorrow. At my suggestion, they would bring two licensed security men with them the following day, Friday, when they would meet with their son.

  Still on the burner, I talked again with Paige Hulet. She strongly wanted her star patient to try living at home with his mother and father, under the care of a psychiatrist—possibly herself. I could hear the excitement in her voice. She had already talked to the Hickmans about this, and she had agreed to handle the medical aspects of the transfer.

  “I’d like you to be here when Clay arrives,” I said. “He trusts you. If he doesn’t like what he sees, you might be able to calm him down.”

  “Thank you” was all she said.

  The only missing part was Clay Hickman.

  I made the call on David Wills’s phone at eight thirty-five that night and left a message:

  “Clay? This is David, from Nell Flanagan’s office. I have some very good news for you. Nell wants to do the segment. She is very excited about it. She wants to tape the day after tomorrow at noon, Friday, on location in north San Diego County. It will be you, Nell, Briggs Spencer, and Dr. Paige Hulet. Nell thought having your psychiatrist present would be important and fascinating. And, of course, I’ll be there. When you call back I can tell you where to meet us, and what clothing you should wear, and give you some basic dos and don’ts about TV, okay? If you need a haircut, be a good time to get one. Absolutely no guns—that’s a deal breaker and she’ll have a bodyguard, who will search you. So be cool. Okay to bring the girl. Call me soon.”

  I was guilty of duplicity. Which felt close to betrayal. But betrayal for a good cause, right? Was it worth noting that betrayal for a good cause is the first small step on so many catastrophic journeys?

  But this was my choice, assigned by fate or God or chance. I wasn’t sure that it mattered which. The real question was: Could we do the right thing for Clay? Would he let us?

  Wills’s phone buzzed.

  Clay’s voice wavered with excitement. “This is excellent. And Dr. Spencer has agreed to be there?”

  “He’s very eager to promote Hard Truth.”

  “What proof can you give me that he’ll show?”

  “His greed and eagerness to wash his hands.”

  A long pause. “Imagine when he sees himself on video torturing Aaban while his son watches.”

  “It’s dramatic stuff, Clay. It’s true. Your hard truth.”

  “I never hated Dr. Spencer. Or even disrespected him.”

  “The best part of telling your story will be sharing your secret with other people. The world can help you carry it.”

  “You sound like Dr. Hulet.”

  Neither of us spoke. I searched for something to say that might prepare him to accept the offer I would make to him two days from now, an offer very different from what he was expecting. I tried to imagine his surprise and shock. “I have a favorable impression of Dr. Hulet from our correspondence. I know she’s very concerned for you. She and Nell are somewhat alike, I think.”

  That was as good as I could do without giving anything away. Maybe his mother and father could convince him to come home. Maybe his doctor could. Maybe Sequoia. Maybe he was just flat worn-out and ready.

  “When will the story be shown on TV?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “I want it to be before Dr. Spencer’s book.”

  “Nell’s show will make his book sell even more,” I said.

  “That’s okay. This is about truth, not sales. What if you’re one of Bodart’s guys? Or Spencer’s? Or the PI that Dr. Spencer hired and you’re leading me into a trap?”

  “Well, sure, lots of what-ifs. But I’m not.”

  “What proof can you give me?” he asked.

  “None. Do you want Nell to tell your story or not?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Noon Friday. Where?”

  I gave him the address and directions off both north and south interstates.

  “Why there?”

  “Nell likes the peaceful setting. Clay? No gun.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ll be searched.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Do you plan to bring the young lady?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t she be? We love and take care of each other.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I can’t tell you until then,” he said.

  “Where are you going to go when this is over, Clay?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either. Why do you care?”

  “I’ve gained a lot of respect for you since we met. I want the best for you. And the girl. After you two got away from the motel in Oceanside, I had to stay behind and talk to Bodart and watch his guys search the room. I saw what a threat you are to them. I weighed them against what you had been through at White Fire. And I found myself on your side. I want you safe and I want your story told.”

  “Make it happen.”

  He hung up.

  41

  Good Friday morning, gray and still. Showers in the forecast. The kind of April day that can change quickly. Clay had been on the run for eleven days now and I was ready to bring him in.

  Dick and I got into my truck. Liz was waiting for us in the backseat. I held up my Bodart-monitored smartphone to both of them, set it in the center console. Then I lifted out the DeMaris-planted transmitter and turned it on. The little black unit disappeared into the console’s depths and the blue light vanished when I shut the lid. I explained to Dick and Liz how the bugs worked. “Looks like the pricks have you covered,” Dick said.

  “Roland knows what he’s doing,” said Liz. “Although the back of your truck is very small. Lucky I brought the pillow for staying low.”

  Dick turned to look at his wife. “Then why don’t you use it and get low?”

  Liz wriggled down onto the seat, stretched out as best she could, worked her head into the pillow. “Like camping when I was little. I always hated tents.”

  I guided the truck down the gravel drive and past the pond, toward the paved road. “This little trick won’t fool them for long,” I told them once again. “Remember, after you drop me off at Mercy Road, go south to the Eight, then east toward Yuma. Once they suspect you’re not me, they might pull you over. If they do, call me immediately. Tell them you borrowed my truck to go see friends. Be as dumb as you can be. If you make it as far as Yuma before hearing from me, get a motel room and wait for my call.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Liz. “And, I’ll need a room of my own if we make Yuma.”

  “You can have the whole motel,” said Dick. “Good luck, Rollie.”

  “That’s what this is for.” I tipped Justine’s lucky shantung fedora.

  Half an hour later I pulled off Interstate 15 at Mercy Road. Sped down the ramp and gunned it into the gas s
tation. Parked nose-out by the air and water area. Dick came around to take the driver’s seat and Liz upgraded to the front passenger seat. I set my lucky hat on Grandpa Dick’s head. He angled the brim to his satisfaction, using the rearview mirror.

  I said, “If they make you, call me. If you think they’ve made you, call me.”

  “Got it.”

  “You look cute in that hat,” said Liz.

  “Keep your wits and stay calm,” I said. “Chances are, when they see it’s you and not me, they’ll fall back.”

  I stepped away from the truck and Grandpa Dick gunned it away from the station toward the on-ramp. Liz waved. One thing I didn’t have to worry about was Dick driving too slow. He’d always been a lead foot, like his son, like me.

  I climbed into Lindsey Rakes’s spotless black Mustang with the child seat strapped in back. She was dressed cowgirl chic again. “Hello, hotcakes,” I said.

  “Hello, handsome. Where y’all headed?”

  —

  When Lindsey pulled to a stop outside her casita, Burt Short pulled open her door and bowed. He was dressed from head to toe in black nylon-heavy “tactical” clothing of some kind. It was sized to show off his muscles, which looked comically dangerous on such a short man. His duty boots were old but well polished.

  The three of us walked toward the palapa. “Don’t worry about anything,” Burt said. “After the pat-down, I’ll be around, just in case Clay gets froggy. I am unarmed, as you ordered. Though I’d prefer a reliable sidearm.”

  “Keep an eye on Sequoia, too,” I said. “She’s under Clay’s spell.”

  “I’ll go with the flow, Roland,” said Burt. “This is their show. And yours.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Lindsey.

  “Why does everybody think I’m worried?” I rubbed the Y-shaped scar on my forehead, scratching the itch. Which led me to remind myself that neither I nor the beloved people around me were invincible.

  “It’s just pre-operation jitters,” she said.

  “We called it pucker time,” said Burt.

  “‘We’?” demanded Lindsey. “Who was we? And when? When did you do all this stuff you refer to?”