The Watchman

by Robert Crais

  Forty minutes before the man left his hide, Pike knew it was coming. The man shifted and fidgeted with increasing frequency, and made the bush tremble. His lack of discipline was appalling.

  Three hours and twelve minutes after Pike took his position, the man rose to a crouch, peered out from between the branches to make sure no one was looking, then duck-walked out from behind the dumpsters. He brushed himself off, crossed the parking lot, then turned toward the main gate. He took a cell phone from his pocket as he walked, but Pike couldn't tell if he was making a call or receiving one. Maybe he hadn't quit; maybe someone had told him to leave.

  Pike slipped from his cover and hurried back to his car. He drove fast through the rear gate, then circled the complex, pushing hard toward the front entrance. He pulled to the curb two blocks from the main gate just as the man in the green shirt stepped through a pedestrian gate built into the wall. You needed a passkey to enter, but you didn't need anything to leave.

  The man was now wearing sunglasses, but Pike could see he wasn't one of the men he had seen before. He was dark, with hard shoulders and a lean face, and almost certainly Latino. When he moved, his shirt pulled in a way that showed a gun in the waist of his pants. He stopped at a dusty brown Toyota Corolla. A moment later, the Corolla pulled away.

  Pike made the Corolla for an early '90s model. It was dark brown in color with mismatched wheels and rusty acne on the trunk. Pike copied the plate number. He stayed between three and four cars behind, only tightening up when the Corolla beat him through an intersection and traffic began to slow.

  They climbed onto the I-10 at Centinela and dropped off the freeway at Fairfax. The Corolla stopped for gas, then continued north up through the city at the same unhurried pace. When they reached Santa Monica Boulevard, the Corolla turned west, skirting the bottom of West Hollywood, then Hollywood, then into a dingy area of Triple-X video stores, strip malls, and free clinics. The Corolla turned into the parking lot of a two-story motel called the Tropical Shores Motor Hotel. A sign shaped like a palm tree grew from its roof, with arrows pointing down the trunk to a vacancy sign. The palm tree and the arrows were outlined in neon, but the tubes were broken and faded, and probably had been for years. A small sign in the office window read HOURLY RATES AVAILABLE.

  Pike jerked into a red zone, then trotted back to the drive. The motel was shaped like an L, with an open staircase where the legs of the L joined. The motor court was empty except for the Corolla, two other cars, and a green Schwinn bicycle chained to a metal post. Individual air conditioners jutted from the rooms like tumors, but most of the air conditioners were silent.

  Pike reached the office as the man in the green shirt got out of the Corolla. Pike tried to see if anyone was in the office, but the window was opaque with grime. The office door faced the parking lot, but the door was closed and an air conditioner hummed loudly.

  The man in the green shirt didn't bother locking his car. He went to a soft-drink machine against the wall, bought a soda, then walked to a ground-floor room. He stood at the door with his back to the parking lot as he searched for his key.

  Pike approached the man from behind. He shifted left or right just enough to stay in the man's blind spot, moving so quickly that he was outside the office one moment and across the lot in the next, watching the key go in the lock, seeing the door open-Pike hooked his left arm under the man's chin, and lifted. He closed his arm on the man's throat and squeezed as hard as he could, shoving the man into the room as he brought out the Kimber, using the man as a shield.

  Pike expected more men, but the room was empty. A single room and a bath.

  Pike toed the door closed, still holding the man. The drapes were open, so Pike could see no one was in the parking lot and no one had stirred from the office.

  The man kicked and thrashed, but Pike held him up and off balance with a knee. The man punched backwards, clawed at Pike's arm, and made a gurgling sound. He was a strong man in very good shape. His nails cut into Pike's skin.

  Pike slipped his free arm across the back of the man's neck and pushed the man's throat into the crook of his elbow. Pike squeezed and pushed and held it.

  The thrashing slowed.

  The man stopped kicking.

  His body went limp.

  THE CHOKE hold cut off blood to a man's brain, putting him to sleep like a laptop when its battery is low. It was an effective way to subdue a person, though sometimes that person did not wake up. Pike sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the man to wake. The man did not sleep for long. His eyelids fluttered and his head came up. He had the vague expression of a boxer with a mild concussion, but he stiffened when he realized he could not move. Pike had duct-taped the man to a chair. His ankles, thighs, trunk, and arms were bound.

  Pike was directly in front of the man, only inches away. He was holding an old Browning 9mm pistol. The man had been carrying the Browning, a cell phone, keys to the car and the room, twelve dollars and sixty cents, a pack of Marlboros, a butane lighter, and a Seiko watch. The man had not been carrying a wallet, credit cards, or any form of identification.

  Pike watched the man's eyes, which were worried but confident. He had a wide, angular face, with small scars laced into his eyebrows and across the bridge of his nose.

  Pike said, You know who I am?

  The man glanced at the door, maybe thinking someone would be there to save him.

  Pike repeated himself.

  Do you know who I am?

  The man answered in Spanish.

  Fuck you.

  The Browning flicked out and rocked his head. Pike moved so quickly the man did not know what was happening until his cheek split and blood dripped to his shirt. Pike had not wanted to knock him out.

  When the man's eyes regained focus, Pike reached out with his left hand. This time he moved slowly, as if he were going to caress the man's cheek. He dug his thumb into the nerve where the jaw hinged with the zygomatic arch. The man tried to twist away, but he was taped to the chair. Pike held the pressure for a long time.

  When Pike let go, the man gulped air as if he had been under water. He worked his jaw, giving Pike the eyes you gave someone when you were telling him you would kill him.

  Pike's expression never changed.

  Pike said, I'm going to do that again.

  Pike tucked the Browning into his pocket, then went to the window. The room was small and dingy, with two double beds facing a built-in dresser and desk, and a ragged club chair by the window. Pike had pulled the drapes, but they were the sheer kind through which you could see. A man with a bulging belly was outside the office, smoking, and the office door was open, probably so he could listen for the phone. Pike had already searched the Corolla, and now he searched the room.

  The dresser and desk drawers were empty, but Pike found four travel bags heaped in the closet: two canvas duffels, a blue nylon gym bag sporting the Nike swoosh, and a black backpack. Each of the four bags contained men's clothing, cigarettes, and toiletry items. Pike found an envelope in the backpack containing twenty-six hundred dollars. Tucked in beside the envelope, he found a page from a spiral notebook with handwritten notes and numbers, and a photograph of Larkin Conner Barkley. It hadn't been clipped from a magazine, but was an actual print, tight on her face, showing her smile.

  Hidden among the clothes in each bag were U. S. passports and round-trip airline tickets between Quito, Ecuador, and Los Angeles. The passports showed four men, one of whom was in the chair. The name on the passport was Rul+|n Mart+!nez, but Pike doubted it was real.

  Pike recognized two of the men in the other passports, but not the third. Two were among the crew that invaded the Barkleys' home. One was the man with the scarred lip who had beaten the Barkleys' housekeeper. The passport showed his name as J+!sus Leone. The other was Walter Bloch. Pike found that odd. A German name. The remaining man, who Pike had never seen, was Ram+|n Alteiri. The passports claimed all four men were residents of Los Angeles and United States citizens. Pike s
tudied the passports. If they were fakes, they were good fakes. The black backpack with the picture of Larkin belonged to the man with the scar.

  Pike shook the clothes and toiletries out of the backpack and put in the passports, the tickets, the Browning, and the other things he wanted to keep, but not the picture of Larkin.

  Pike returned to the bed with the picture and held it so the man could see. Pike didn't say anything; he just made the man look. Then he put it away.

  I can speak Spanish, but English would be better. That good with you?

  The man made a nasty grin like he didn't give a shit one way or the other.

  You better run, muddafokka. You don' know what you messin' with.

  Pike dug his index finger into the soft tissue beneath the man's collarbone where twenty-six individual nerves joined into the brachial plexus. The supraclavicular nerve, which carried information into the spinal cord, ran close to the skin at that point, following a groove in the bone. When Pike crushed the nerve bundle hard into the bone, the entire brachial plexus fired a pain signal not unlike that from a root canal without novocaine.

  The man made a high-pitched buzzing moan. He tried to tear free of the tape and throw over the chair, but Pike pinned his foot with a toe. Veins jumped in the man's neck like writhing snakes, and tears streamed over his face, streaking the blood on his cheek. He begged Pike to stop, going back to the Spanish, but Pike didn't stop.

  When Pike finally released the pressure, he knew the pain would burn on with the ferocity of ant poison, so he touched another spot, this one in the man's neck, which reduced the pain. The man sagged, and his face paled to the color of meat left in water.

  Pike said, This is dim mak. That's Chinese. It means death touch.

  Dim mak was the dark side of acupuncture; in one, pressure points used to heal; in the other, to damage.

  Pike said, I want Alex Meesh.

  I don' know.

  Pike raised his finger. The man jerked back so violently the chair rocked, but Pike kept him in place with the toe.

  I don' know what you want! I don' know!

  Alex Meesh.

  I don' know!

  You don't know Alex Meesh?

  The man shook his head so violently blood flew from his cheek.

  No no no! I don' know!

  The man seemed too scared to be lying, but Pike wanted to see. He held up the man's passport.

  What's your real name?

  The man answered without hesitation.

  Jorge Petrada.

  Why were you watching my house?

  For de girl.

  He didn't even blink, saying it. Pike decided he was telling the truth. Jorge didn't know Alex Meesh.

  Did Meesh tell you to find her?

  I don' know dis Meesh, I dunno.

  Who told you to find her?

  Luis. Luis say.

  Who's Luis?

  Jorge glanced at the passports, so Pike held up the man with the scarred lip. The one with the picture.

  Si. Luis.

  Luis is your boss?

  Si.

  Luis didn't look like a boss. Bosses didn't attempt kidnappings in Beverly Hills or get into gunfights. Bosses told other people to take all the chances.

  Pike checked his watch, then went back to the window-time was passing, and one or more of the other men would likely return soon. The manager was still smoking, but now he was on a cell, laughing about something. Pike went back to the bed.

  How did you know where to find the girl?

  Luis. He say your address.

  How did you know our location in Eagle Rock and Malibu?

  I dunno thees Eagle Rock. I dunno.

  You tried to kill her in Eagle Rock and Malibu. You tried up north in the Bay. Who told you where to find her?

  No no no. I just got here, man. I been here only two days. I don' know nutheen' about dat.

  Pike took the airline tickets from the bag and checked the flight dates. Jorge was telling the truth again. He had flown in with Alteiri only two days ago. Bloch arrived twelve days ago. Luis had been here for sixteen days. Luis would be the man with information.

  Pike was returning the tickets to the bag when his cell phone vibrated. It was Cole. Pike stared at Jorge as he answered the call.

  Yes?

  Cole said, Just left her. She's doing fine.

  Good.

  I dropped off some food and magazines, stuff like that. I brought a coffeemaker so she doesn't have to drink that stuff you make.

  She wanted strawberries. Strawberries and bananas.

  Yeah.

  Okay.

  What's wrong? Everything good on your end?

  Good.

  Okay. You need anything, call.

  Pike closed his phone. He was staring at Jorge, and Jorge was scared.

  Pike said, Who is Donald Pitman?

  I dunno.

  Have you heard that name?

  No. I dunno know who dat is.

  Bud Flynn?

  No.

  Who does Luis work for?

  The man looked surprised that Pike didn't know, and straightened against the tape. He seemed to grow stronger for the first time since he wet his pants.

  Esteban Barone. We all of us work for Barone. This is why you have made a mistake, my friend. You will know fear if you know Barone.

  What is he? A gangster? A businessman? You understand what I'm asking?

  You know dis word, cartel?

  Si.

  A coarse smile split the man's face, as if he took pride in being part of this thing.

  Barone, he have many soldiers. How many you have?

  Pike took the pictures of the five dead men from his pocket. He held them up one by one, watching the man's face darken.

  Pike said, I'm evening the odds.

  The man muttered something in Spanish, but Pike did not understand.

  Pike went to the window again. The manager was gone, but the office door was still open. Pike wanted the door closed. He planned to drive away in the Corolla with Jorge, but for now he returned to the bed.

  How many of you are left?

  The man spit.

  This time Pike did not move slowly. He dug his thumb into a dim mak point between the man's ribs, beneath his pectoral muscle.

  Siete!

  Pike released the pressure.

  Four of you sleep here. Where do the other three sleep?

  I don' know nutheen' about dat.

  Pike dug his finger into the dim mak point again, and this time the man shrieked. Pike dug harder and held it until the man sobbed. Then he released the pressure.

  Where do they sleep?

  I don' know where dey stay. Carlos, he put us here from de LAX. He don' say where dey are. He bring us to Luis, an' Luis say dis where we stay. I not even see dem!

  Pike sat back. Carlos. A new player had entered the game.

  Who's Carlos?

  Norte Americano. He meet us at de airport. He bring us here an' take care of us.

  What's his last name?

  The man glanced at the window, and Pike looked with him. The thin, airy drape showed the roofline and the sun glinting off the cars, but nothing else.

  All I know, Carlos. He give us things. De phone, de guns.

  All right. Where are the others right now?

  I don' know. I have my job, dey have dere's.

  The man wet his lips. He was growing more nervous and glanced at the window again. Pike wondered if he had seen something.

  They coming back now, Jorge?

  No. No, dey not comin' back.

  Pike drew his pistol as he watched the window.

  Jorge said, Tonight dey come. Dey come tonight.

  A shadow crossed the drapes, then three fast explosions shattered the glass. The drapes billowed in like a sail catching air, but Pike was already on the floor; the door crashed open, Luis with a gun, shooting even as Pike fired back, his shots punching Luis into the wall. Then the room was silent. Luis slid down the
wall, leaving a red smear.

  Pike stayed on the floor, but no more men appeared. He glanced at Jorge, but Jorge's head now sagged, and most of his forehead was missing. Pike went to the door, irritated that he had failed to control the situation. Luis had probably heard Jorge shrieking or was tipped off by the drapes, but either way the man who was likely his best source of information was dead. Now, the overweight man had come out of his office and a housekeeper stood at the far end of the motel. Pike pulled Luis out of the way and closed the shattered door.

  Pike holstered his gun, then went through Luis's pockets. He found a cell phone, keys, twenty-four dollars, and a torn scrap of newspaper with a phone number in the margin. Pike put all of it into the backpack, then went back to the drapes. The overweight man had returned to his office. He would be calling the police. The housekeeper was inside with him, peeking out the open door.

  Pike hurried into the bathroom. It was a cramped space right out of the fifties, with cheesy tile, crumbly grout, and a small opaque window over the tub. The housekeeper had left two glasses wrapped in plastic on the lavatory. Pike took them to the bodies. He removed a glass from its plastic, folded Jorge's fingers onto the glass, then placed the glass back in its wrapper. He did the same with Luis, and that's when he saw the watch. Luis was wearing a platinum Patek Philippe that was as out of place on this man as a diamond on a pile of dung. Pike took off the watch and turned it over. The back of the watch was engraved: For my lovely George.

  Pike put the watch and the glasses into the backpack, wiped the surfaces he had touched, and trotted into the bathroom as he heard the approaching sirens. Pike broke the bathroom window with his pistol, hoisted himself through, and dropped into an alley. He hooked the backpack over his shoulder and trotted around the side of the building. He slowed when he reached the street, and walked past the motel office as the first patrol car arrived. People on both sides of the street were hiding behind cars and in doorways as if they might be shot, and others ran into stores. Pike watched like everyone else for a moment, then continued to his car. He drove away as the second police car arrived.

  It occurred to him then as it had in the past that policemen were people who ran toward danger. Everyone else ran away.