Linda sighed. “Forget it, Frank. I should have expected as much.”
“You get the script you write.”
“I already said forget it.” Her voice was hard.
“No, let’s not. I take things as they come. That works for me. It beats the hell out of worrying about what’s next.”
“That’s bullshit, Frank. You’re in a funk about too many people moving into the valley, widening Highway 395 through Independence, development everywhere you look. You hate change. You want tomorrow to be yesterday.”
“That’s different.”
“Oh, I see. Well, that’s not me, Frank. I need to think about how things will work out,” she said in a soft voice.
“Okay, then. What’s next?”
“I’ve had a job offer from the Los Angeles Times.”
“Oh.” It was his turn to speak softly. “Oh. That’s it?”
“I don’t know what the hell to say. I guess the main question is, are you going to take it?”
“You might have asked what kind of a job.” Her expression was somber. “I told them I’d think it over.” Silence settled over them. “You didn’t ask, but it’s an opportunity to do the kind of work I’ve dreamed of, writing in-depth articles, something beyond Mule Days, the Lone Pine Film Festival, and real estate shenanigans, things with a point and a purpose.”
“Oh, I understand now, the purpose-driven life.”
“Cheap shot, Frank.” Her brows knit. “It’s the kind of break that doesn’t happen all that often, maybe once in a lifetime.”
“I guess that means you’ll take it.”
“I don’t know yet,” she said, creasing her forehead. “I do know that I’ve topped out at the Courier running on idle, and tending bar at the Joshua Tree Athletic Club so Dad and his pals can play snooker and goof around in the desert isn’t what you’d call fulfilling.” She rose. “We’d better go. Tomorrow’s a busy day for both of us.”
That had been it. They’d driven home in the silence of small talk and gone to bed without making love.
He was angry because he’d been blindsided. He had never questioned whether Linda found her life in the backwaters of the Mojave Desert satisfying. He did. It was home. She was the one who had opted for change in her life. He hadn’t considered that taking care of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club and reporting for the Courier wouldn’t exactly satisfy a person with Linda’s creative urges.
Damn! What they had seemed just right, close enough but not confining—which meant he could goof around in the desert and play metaphorical snooker. He felt suddenly chagrined. He was thinking about someone else’s problems—for a change. “Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own.” He and Harry Hotspur. He found himself slightly, only slightly, despicable. He smiled in spite of himself. Can’t let the prosecution get the upper hand.
He loved the life they shared. He loved Linda Reyes. Why couldn’t things just stay like they were? She’d called it. He didn’t like change. In his book, things usually changed for the worse, and this was another crappy example. Now what? The rain had begun to beat on the roof of the caboose. He slipped down the rungs that led up to the cupola and pulled the covers over her shoulders against the chill. Damn the Los Angeles Times. For now, it would have to go on hold. He had the Sandman and the FBI to worry about. That was more than enough.
15
•
Linda frowned. “Come on, Frank, you’re antsy, the way you get before you’re about to do something important. Give.” She pinched his arm.
“Hey.” He pulled away. “You see that, Ralph?” Frank gave Ralph a chummy look. “Attacking a uniformed officer. That’s against the law. Now she has to pick up the tab.”
Ralph presided over Ralph’s Special Burritos, a cinder-block affair that used to be a gas station. He didn’t look like a Ralph. He looked like Emiliano Zapata. He turned up the juice on his perpetual glower. “What I seen was a cop trying to shake down a pretty lady into buying him lunch.” He made a grimace in Linda’s direction, which passed for a smile.
“Well, grassy-ass for nothing.” Frank shook his head, looking injured. “Here I am, your biggest supporter for miles around, bring the guys from the station for Ralph’s Special Burritos, and this is the thanks I get.”
Ralph’s scowl darkened. “Yeah, and the gringos speak better Spanish than you do.”
“Okay, okay.” Frank winked at Linda. “Hey, how about some more of the ver-day sauce stuff. Hear that? Ver-day—la lengua de mis padres.”
Ralph’s mustache twitched. He muttered, “Indio ayer. Indio hoy.”
They carried their plates across the cracked pavement to the decaying wooden picnic table that served as Ralph’s patio.
“What was that last crack?”
“He said something about once an Indian always an Indian. Ralph’s not PC.”
“You get your jollies mispronouncing Spanish to tick him off, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well, he gets his jollies beating me up for it. Besides, I help Ralph use up some of his mean so he’s just normally surly with the rest of his customers.”
“Mmmm.” Linda wiped the sauce from her chin. “He doesn’t have to be nice. These burritos do the job.” She reached into the mini Playmate cooler. “Want a beer?”
“Make it a root beer.” Frank looked mildly regretful.
“Right, on duty and all that.” She smiled up at him. “Which brings me back to the subject,” she said, shifting ground.
“What subject’s that?” Frank raised his eyebrows.
“What’s all this about having to be at the station early in the morning?”
“So who am I talking to? Linda Reyes, my beautiful girlfriend, or Linda Reyes, ace reporter for the InyoKern Courier?”
She smiled with pleasure. “You know how to do it, don’t you, Mr. Smooth. Okay, the reporter’s taking a nap. I’ll let you know when she wakes up.”
Her smile always made him smile. The hazel eyes, framed by soft dark curls, full of mischief. Not much makeup. Her mouth was a little too large, the lips full. With makeup she might look a bit like a tart. She pretty much stuck to slightly unkempt or opted for the professional look, minimum makeup, no-nonsense clothes. The professional Linda never failed to catch him off guard, so businesslike and serious, so different from the private woman he knew, full of laughter and delight with the things around her. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
“What, Frank? What is it?” She laid her hand on the back of his arm.
Frank shook his head. “Nothing, really.”
Her dark eyebrows rose with skepticism.
“It’s just that when things are just right, I want everything to stand still—but it won’t.” He smiled ruefully.
Linda’s eyes drifted toward the decaying billboard on the opposite corner. The old highway had taken this route. Now the street through town was a bypass, strewn with ratty motels and boardedup buildings. Originally the billboard space had been occupied by a figure of Jesus in conventional pose, eyes sad with suffering, arm raised in perpetual benediction, blessing the passing motorists hurrying through the desert going someplace—anyplace—else.
Now the raised arm flapped in tatters, and Christ’s disembodied head floated above strips of paper fluttering aimlessly in the wind. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the words about the figure’s head: . . . OUT OF HIS BELLY SHALL FLOW RIVERS OF LIVING WATER. What was that about? A man with a canvas knapsack climbed the abandoned structure to the catwalk fronting the ravaged sign.
A distant rumble from the storm clouds piling up against the Argus Mountains caught Frank’s attention. The coming law enforcement operation was already cluttered with the vulture watch people. They didn’t need a desert storm to make things worse. Late-season thunderstorms had been sweeping across the desert, bringing scattered showers to parts of the Mojave. Soon there would be flowers—and more rain. The storms were coming in from the southwest, building up earlier each day. Thunderheads of deep gray, ed
ged in white, towered over the land.
“I thought you wanted to know what Zorro and his faithful companions are up to.” Frank said, his face turned toward the gathering storm.
“Yup, what’s up, Zorro?”
“We’re after the shooter, the guy who thinks he’s General Zaroff.”
“I thought that might be it. You think he’ll show?”
“I think he’ll be curious, but if he doesn’t smell a trap, he’s a dim bulb. Hard to say.”
Another of Ralph’s customers headed for the table. “Mind if I join you?” The newcomer stood hesitantly by the picnic table, balancing a steaming plate in one hand and clasping a beer in the other.
“Sure, take a seat.” Frank gestured toward the end of the bench.
“Thanks.” The new arrival sat on the bench opposite Linda and Frank and took a bite of burrito. “Man, these are good.” A trail of sauce clung to reddish blond stubble, streaked with gray. His ears stuck out, and his boyish smile gave him a Huck Finn look. “Better than battalion mess. I can see why you eat here all the time.” Pale blue eyes smiled at them from an oddly youthful face.
Frank felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “How’s that again?”
“Great burrito.” The man smiled and nodded. “Even Esquival—you remember, the first cook who did Mexican food—couldn’t make a burrito like this.” He frowned; then his face brightened as if in sudden recall. “Oh, that’s right; you took a discharge. By the time Esquival showed up, you were back in the States. Too bad. You missed some good army chow.”
Frank studied the bearded man, trying to remember his face. “You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t believe I know you.”
The stranger chuckled. “Oh, you know me, Sergeant. You just don’t recognize me. It was you who picked me for sniper school. You said I was the best damn shot in the outfit, next to you, of course. Three points off your score was the best I ever did.” He nodded to himself. “But I got better. On my second tour in Iraq, I had a confirmed kill at twelve hundred and forty-seven yards.” He waited. “Not bad, huh?”
“Parker,” Frank said.
“Right, Parker. The candy-ass kid you turned into a soldier. When Stuller and them were making my life a hell, you kept me from going AWOL. It was you recommended me for the Tenth Mountain at Fort Drum, your old outfit. Remember that? And the cow? The cow’s the main reason I left the presents.”
“Presents?”
“You don’t get it yet, do you? The dead poachers in the desert. They were from me. Ready on the left. Ready on the right. Ready on the firing line. I figured you’d find the empty brass because you’d know where to look.”
“You’re the Sandman.”
“You got it. Now, before we go on, Sergeant, I remember you were always duty first, carry out the mission. I understand and respect that. Bringing me in is your job. So, knowing you’d have to try, I took some precautions.” He reached up and turned the bill of his cap sideways.
“Frank!” Linda looked down at a spot of red light that had blossomed on her jacket.
“Get that off her, Parker. Put it on me.”
“Can’t do that, Sergeant. You might take a dive and try for your weapon. Then my spotter would have to pull the trigger. I really don’t want that. This way we can have a talk, and there’s no reflection on you. This way everyone stays safe.” He nodded. The red spot shifted to Linda’s forehead. She squinted and looked away.
“God damn it, Parker. Get it off her face.”
Parker extended his arm, palm downward, and slowly lowered his hand. The red spot drifted back down to Linda’s windbreaker.
“What do you want with me, Parker? All of that was a long time ago.”
“I know that, Sergeant, but you’re the same man. I read the papers. You still hate the bastards who kill things just for the fun of it. So taking out those poachers was a sign of good faith.”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t kill people, Parker. I arrest them.”
Parker stared into Frank’s eyes. “You mean you don’t kill people anymore. It used to be ‘One shot, one kill.’ ” Both remained silent.
The boyish smile returned. “I’m here because I need something from both of you, you and Ms. Reyes.” The smile faded. “The media people keep missing the point, speculating about whether I’m crazy or not. They’ve got it completely wrong. It’s not about me. It’s about the sick bastards who kill for pleasure.” Parker’s voice hardened. “See, I want you to explain why I’m doing what I do, Ms. Reyes. You can get it right. I’m not some deranged psychopath.” He smiled. “That’s redundant, deranged psychopath is redundant.” He breathed deeply, as if to summon concentration. “You ever notice the news readers are dumber than dirt?”
He shifted his attention to the stunned Frank. “You know me, Sergeant. I’m as sane as you are. I cried that day when they killed the cow. That’s why the guys in Stuller’s squad started on me about being a crybaby. You remember. You tried to stop them. You know what’s in here.” He pointed at the center of his chest.
His face tightened. “I want you to tell people what’s really happening, Ms. Reyes. Maybe you could present a log of their atrocities. Let the public know that the people who harm the helpless and innocent won’t get away with it.” He let out a long breath. “That’s what it’s about.” He smiled. “The Humane Society—only with teeth.”
Linda squinted over Parker’s shoulder at the abandoned billboard across the highway. She looked for the man with the knapsack, but there were only the sad, empty eyes of the paper Jesus staring out at the swirls of dust and bits of paper blowing across the windswept asphalt. She caught a flash of red light and turned away.
“That’s not my job, Mr. Parker. I’m a reporter.” She spoke with deliberate calm. “I try to keep my opinions out of it and stick with the facts.”
“Facts? Okay, you want facts.” His features settled into a hard mask. “In March of this year, a man threw four kittens into a barbecue because he was angry with his ex-wife. The story made the local paper, but when he went up in smoke it made national news. They kept talking about how terrible it was to burn to death. He should’ve thought of that.” The blue eyes blazed. “A man in El Monte put his wife’s puppy in the oven. He told the judge his wife paid more attention to the dog than to him, and it was to teach her a lesson. So the judge made him take the dog to the vet. Its feet were so damaged it couldn’t walk. Now his feet are damaged.” He gave a tight smile. “Hopalong Husband. Put one in each ankle.
“Another piece of talking excrement smashed a puppy’s head in with a hammer because it kept him awake with its crying. He’d shut it outside. It was six weeks old. He’s unfinished business. Same with the people who duct-taped a firecracker into a cat’s mouth and blew its head off. I think my chances of finding them—it would take two to carry out that little piece of poetry—are better than the cops, who aren’t taking a lot of interest in the case. Other things more pressing. One cop called it a prank gone bad. He needs some reeducation, don’t you think?
“You want more facts, Ms. Reyes? If I had access to my computer, I’d give you a printout. Making my list, checking it twice.” He laughed silently. “Then there’s the thrill killing. Horses in Nevada. Burros in the Mojave. Sometimes people seem to care about the horses. Romance of the West and all that cowboy stuff. Nobody gives a shit about the burros, though.” He looked at Frank. “Except thee and me, Sarge, and your responses are limited. Mine aren’t.” He was breathing hard. “So I do what you can’t.”
He unfolded the newspaper he had been carrying and laid it out in front of them. MIKE TRAVIS MURDERED IN HOME, the headline proclaimed.
“Read it, Sarge. Oh, never mind, I’ll tell you what it says. It says that terrible people invaded the football hero’s home and murdered him. That he was eviscerated and fed to his dogs. True enough, as far as it goes. What it doesn’t say is that Travis and his buddies staged regular dogfights for the pleasure of friends and family. That they cut the
throats of the losing dogs on the spot. Part of the show. They skipped the part about kids watching the fights and the training sessions. How they suspend puppies in socks above the dogs’ heads to teach them to kill.
“So what the hell. Me and my faithful companion across the street put on a show of our own. We woke old Travis up and staked him out in the dog pit. He figured nothing could happen to him because he was Mike Travis. Kept a real smart mouth going right up until we opened him up a bit, not enough to kill him. With the right medical attention he’d have probably made it, but some someone carelessly left the kennel gates open. Guess some of those dogs weren’t man’s best friend, or at least not Travis’s.”
There was stunned silence. Parker grinned boyishly. “What I wonder is, did he plead with the dogs? You know, come on, Rover, jeez, Lassie, gimme a break here. Stuff like that. What do you think?”
“I think you might be crazy,” Linda said.
“That’s another thing to consider before doing something cruel.” The boyish smile returned. “Some crazy person might just hunt you down.”
“You’ve turned it loose,” Frank said.
“Not me, Sarge, them. They let it out of the cage when they harm the innocent. You really want to live on the same planet with the spiritually deformed? Not me! They gotta go.”
“Stop now, Parker.”
“Too late, Sarge. Too late for me.” His young-old face sagged in despair. “Maybe it’s too late for you, too. You’ll have to wait and see, huh? How many targets did you neutralize in Mogadishu?”
“We went in to get them out.” Frank’s voice was barely audible.
“First time I ever heard you hedge, Sarge. Well, hell yes. I try not to think about it either. I try not to think about the man I watched for three days chat with his kids and smoke cigarettes in his patio. On the fourth I took off the top of his head. Bad guy neutralized. ‘Neutralized,’ what a handy word. Just part of the mission, right? I took no pleasure in it—then.” Parker’s breath was increasingly shallow and rapid. “To tell you the truth, now I enjoy my work. Every little bit of it. The scum I remove denigrates the human race.” He paused to breathe. “Who balances it out? Who watches out for the helpless?” He gave a lopsided grin. “Me, Saint Seth, the Avenger. I figured you’d like that, Sarge, being raised with all the Catholic bullshit.”
Shadows of Death Page 10
