“Yes, you do. You control everything.”
“If I was powerful, I wouldn’t be walking around in this freezing prison in nothing but peels and slip-ons.”
“With reservations for the SHU.”
“Right.”
“You should have worn a Halloween mask. Scared the shit out of her. Or maybe turned her on.”
“Right.”
“My kid went as a werewolf, got sick on the candy, and wouldn’t eat his dinner.”
Tavarez led the familiar way through the back side of the east wing. The walkway was off-limits to anyone but COs, administrative prison personnel, and escorted suppliers, who could bring their vehicles in only through the double sally ports of the main supply entrance.
When Tavarez stepped outside, the chill hit him like a bucket of ice water down the back. It was a typical poststorm October night in Del Norte County—low forties and damp enough to find your bones. The only good thing was the smell of the great Northern California forest that surrounded them, the aroma of millions of conifers and the square miles of mulch and moss and ferns that made up the forest floor.
They stayed tight to the buildings, stopping midway for Lunce to get the signal from the east perimeter tower—just a flicker of the searchlight—which meant that the electricity to the fence was now turned off and the searchlight would not intrude on Lunce or Tavarez for thirty minutes.
The light winked in conspiracy. Lunce grunted and they struck off as usual across the broad no-man’s-land parched by herbicides, headed for the twenty feet of electrified chain-link fence topped by twin rolls of razor ribbon still shiny through the years of rain and sun and dust. The tower searchlights had found their usual points of focus about fifty yards to his left and right, which put Tavarez and Lunce in an uncertain light augmented only slightly by the glow of the waning moon.
Plenty of light, thought Tavarez.
He saw Jimmy’s flashlight flick on and off twice in the forest, and approached the fence as usual.
As usual, Lunce came up and stood beside him. As usual, he took his spare handcuffs from his duty belt and tossed them against the fence to make sure the electricity was off.
The cuffs clinked to the ground and Lunce bent to get them without taking his eyes off of Tavarez.
Tavarez stared into the forest. Help me, Mother of Jesus.
Lunce took his usual two small steps backward then turned to walk to his place in the near dark from which he always watched Tavarez and the women.
Tavarez listened to Lunce’s footsteps while he worked his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He dislodged the new utility razor blade from its hiding place and clamped it between his teeth, off to the right side, blade out.
Strong and light, Tavarez covered the ground quickly. He gathered himself and leaped high.
Lunce had just begun to turn when Tavarez landed on his back and locked his legs around the big man’s waist. Tavarez squeezed hard and pressed his face into the back of Lunce’s neck. Lunce staggered forward but stayed up, turning his head back to see his attacker, exposing his throat and its pulsing network of life. Tavarez slashed up and fast and deep, then flung his head back the other direction to cut down and across.
The blood blinded him, so he went by feel: up and away again, down and across again, up and away again as Lunce groped back blindly, so he slashed the hands, felt the blade hiss through the flat meat of the palm then ride up when it hit bone.
Lunce went to his knees with a terrified whimper. Tavarez let go with his legs and rolled off, then sprang from in front of the man, burrowing his face in Lunce’s throat, his stainless-steel fang cutting deep and across and again and again. Lunce sprawled backward on the grassless earth, head wobbling loosely, a great wet flapping sound coming faster and faster from the ruins of his neck. Tavarez stood up, eyes wide and bright in a mask of blood, blade still clenched, his breath whistling in and out of his teeth. He threw out his feet and landed butt-first on the guard’s stomach. With the fingers of his cuffed hands he searched patiently for the handcuff keys on Lunce’s belt.
Tavarez saw little but blood, smelled nothing but blood, felt nothing but blood everywhere he touched. Blood was life. He surrendered to it.
He looked over to see Jimmy and a friend, each working at the chain link with a long-handled bolt cutter. The pop of the steel was better than music. Lunce’s breathing was slower now. Tavarez could feel the man’s body under his own, laboring for oxygen through the extra weight and the cut supply lines.
He located the universal handcuff key with his fingertips and pulled it out. He stood and tried to look down into Lunce’s eyes but couldn’t find them through the blood and poor light. He spit the blade to the ground. It took him seconds to get the cuffs off. He dropped them to Lunce’s slowing chest, kept the key for a rainy day, then trotted over to the fence and ducked through the hole.
37
Monday morning John and Marianna Cedros were packing for the movers. The little house smelled like coffee and pasteboard boxes and Cedros had to remind himself several times that this was not a dream.
Marianna worked with determined speed. Tony sat in his nearly empty bedroom watching a Power Rangers video for probably the thirtieth time.
Cedros, carrying a special box of personal things to his car, angled through the propped-open kitchen door that led to the small garage. The garage smelled of clean laundry and the door was open to let in the good morning light.
Ampostela’s gunman from the restaurant, Ricky, was leaning against Marianna’s aging sedan.
“What happened to Marcus?” he asked.
“I remember you.”
“You ought to.”
“Ampostela? Somebody shot him is what the paper said.”
Cedros set the box on the dryer. The load was done, so he swung out the front door. His instincts told him to act unworried, maybe even offended.
He got a better look at the gunman now than in the darkened back room of El Matador. The man was pale-skinned and slender, bald, with a big drooping mustache and tan eyes. He hadn’t brought his dog, which Cedros found important.
“Who did it?” asked Ricky.
“How would I know?”
“You went outside and got in his car at El Matador. Nobody saw him again.”
“I sure as hell did not get into his car. I stood out there like an idiot for half an hour, then I walked home. I didn’t see you anywhere out there, you stayed in with the girls. So don’t tell me I got in his car.”
Ricky looked at him but said nothing. His expression was placid but the tan eyes bored into Cedros. He was wearing a baggy black T-shirt over a pair of sharply creased blue trousers but the shirt wasn’t baggy enough to hide the bulge at his belt line.
“Sounds like you practiced all that,” he said.
Cedros put on a disgusted expression, shook his head slowly, and looked out at Ricky’s lowered red Accord parked across the mouth of his driveway as if to keep anyone from getting away.
“Moving?”
“Just a vacation.”
“Where to?”
“Vegas.”
“With the kid?”
Ricky was looking past Cedros now, through the open door that led to the kitchen.
Cedros turned to see Tony standing in the doorway, brandishing a bright green VHS cassette with yards of tape billowing out.
“Got a problem, Daddy.”
“Go back inside. I’ll be there in a minute. Now.”
Tony turned and walked back in just as Marianna appeared in the same doorway, her face darkly curious.
Cedros held her eye, trying to let his alarm show. Then he looked at Ricky and his fear doubled because he saw not lust in Ricky like he’d seen in Ampostela, but anger. Ricky looked like he wanted to hurt her. He stared at her then smiled, skin wrinkling at the sides of his tan eyes.
“Lena saw you get in Marcus’s car,” said Ricky. “The Magnum.”
“Lena needs glasses.”
“El Jefe needs answers,” said Ricky.
“El Jefe made two hundred and twenty-five grand without doing what he said he’d do.”
“Maybe,” said Ricky. “The word is Marcus had twenty-five grand on him.”
“I gave Marcus twenty-five grand that night. You think I’d go to all the trouble to kill him but not take the money back? How dumb do you think I am?”
For one second Cedros assured himself that Marianna was about to reappear in the doorway with a sawed-off twelve-gauge and either blow or terrify Ricky away. But they had no shotgun and the idea was ridiculous anyway. It was possible she had called 911. All he could think to do was to prolong this conversation, keep Ricky guessing.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s right. You don’t. Look, man, I’m going on a family vacation. I don’t know what happened to Marcus. I thought he was actually kind of a cool guy until he left me sitting there. What was that supposed to be—a joke?”
Cedros thought he saw some kind of uncertainty in the tan eyes. Ricky still hadn’t touched his gun, hadn’t even gotten a hand close to it.
Just then the cop car drove up and parked along the curb. His heart sped up—he’d never been so happy to see the cops in his life. When he saw who was inside he couldn’t believe his astonishing good fortune. It wasn’t even the local cops. It was a detective’s plainwrap and Cedros recognized the San Diego Sheriff ’s investigators. He heard them shut the doors and start toward him but he never took his eyes off of Ricky’s gun because he figured it was now or never.
“Your lucky day,” said Ricky. “I’ll be back for this.”
He slipped the gun from his waistband and tossed it to Cedros, who caught and dropped it into the dryer with the clean clothes.
“I don’t know anything about Ampostela,” said Cedros. “I swear it to you and El Jefe.”
“Be cool for these guys. You and me are just road dogs.”
“You got it.”
The investigators were Hodge and Morales, the same two who had questioned him about his visit to Mike Tavarez and his knowledge of a gunman named Ariel Lejas.
They came into the garage and their cops’ antennae alerted them to Ricky. They eyed him and both seemed to solve the same equation: 1 gangbanger + 1 relative of El Jefe = 2 gangbangers.
“We have some more questions for you,” said Hodge.
“Me and Mike talked family up in Pelican Bay. That was it. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”
Marianna appeared again in the doorway with a big smile and two cups of coffee. She walked right up to the detectives and delivered the cups, ignoring Ricky. Then she marched over to the dryer, grabbed a load, and went back inside.
“Later, homes,” said Ricky.
“Okay, man,” said Cedros.
The red Honda roared to life, backed up, and low-rode down the street toward Azusa Avenue, the stinger exhaust bragging more horsepower than the car really had.
“La Eme?” asked Morales.
“Just a friend.”
“You being related to El Jefe, that puts you right in the middle of things, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know nothing about no La Eme. I’m not so sure it’s even real. I think maybe you guys make up gang stuff to keep people afraid and make your budgets fat.”
“Let’s talk about Ariel Lejas,” said Morales.
“Fine. Let’s talk. I’ve never seen him or heard of him until you guys came along.”
Marianna appeared in the doorway with a falsely pleasant look on her face, looking for Ricky. When she saw his car was gone her smile became genuine and she got another load of clothes from the dryer.
“You guys might as well come in,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Hodge.
“More coffee in the pot if you want it. Excuse the mess. We’re moving. We’re getting out of this gang-infested rat hole and we’re never coming back.”
“What do you know about La Eme, ma’am?” asked Hodge.
“Not much,” said Marianna, the load of clothes clutched loosely over bulging belly. “I know they murder and steal. But we can’t help it if we have a distant relative who’s mixed up with them.”
“Well, at least one of you has a grip on reality,” said Hodge. “You might need it, because Mike Tavarez escaped from Pelican Bay last night. He sawed a guard’s head half off with a one-sided razor blade. Some friends cut a hole in the fence and off he went.”
Cedros looked to his wife, then out at the street. It was the same information that Stromsoe had given him two hours ago by phone but it wasn’t hard to look unpleasantly surprised.
“Haven’t seen him, have you?” asked Morales.
“Why would he come here?” asked Cedros.
“You’re blood. You saw him just a few weeks ago up in Pelican Bay.”
“We talked family. Nothing else.”
The cops shrugged. Cedros followed Marianna back inside, the two detectives close behind.
38
At first light Stromsoe was sitting in Frankie Hatfield’s living room, the sun splintering through the avocado trees and the coffeemaker gurgling in the kitchen. Frankie and Ace had slept through the ringing cell phone that woke him half an hour ago. Stromsoe had rolled out of bed and talked to Ken McCann from the dark breakfast nook. Lunce had had a wife and two young children.
Sadie now sat at his feet as Stromsoe loaded Frankie’s double-barreled twenty-gauge. It was a heavy Savage Arms side-by with a blond stock and two triggers that could be simultaneously pulled for a double discharge that at close range would blow a hole the size of a softball in a man. Sadie followed him to the foyer, where he stood the gun upright in the right-hand corner, then set four extra shells behind the butt. He looked out the window. She followed him to the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee.
“Don’t worry,” he said to the dog, but the dog looked worried anyway.
Stromsoe walked quietly back to the living room with the coffee, sat on the couch that gave him an easy view of both the front door and the back of Frankie’s sprawling farm.
He thought that if he’d been this ready on behalf of Hallie and Billy, he might have prevented what happened, though he wasn’t sure exactly how. He could have requested a bomb-sniffing dog and the department would have given him one. He could have requested a wheeled mirror with a long handle to slide under his vehicles each morning and the department would have given him one of those too. But the fact was that La Eme didn’t use explosives. It would have been as logical to hire food tasters. The compelling fact was that Stromsoe hadn’t believed Mike would try to kill him at all. He’d believed that Mike would see the accident of Ofelia for what it was and that their bond, forged in the friendship of adolescence and finished by the enmity of manhood, would prevent such blunt, mortal action. It seemed almost silly now, because he understood their differences in a way that he hadn’t when he was young. Mike’s blood was heavier than his own. Mike was Spaniard and Aztec, the conquistador and the warrior. He was the serpent and the eagle. He was Montezuma, who had ruled Tenochtitlán, who offered gold to Cortés and was murdered for his generosity. Mike was the pyramids where thousands of human hearts were cut out and held up beating to the sun; he was the young women thrown into sacrificial cenotes loaded with gold and jewels that took them straight to the green depths, where they were reduced to bones and soon to not even that.
Stromsoe remembered something that Mike had told him years ago, just after Hallie had brought her bruised and broken body back to him.
Keep her. You’re the romantic, not me.
Frankie came out in her blue terry robe and sat next to Stromsoe on the couch. He told her about McCann’s call.
“How fast could he get here?” she asked quietly.
“Late morning, if he flies.”
“But he wouldn’t fly, would he? They’ll watch the airports up there.”
“He probably won’t fly. I put your shotgun in the foyer, Frankie. It’s loaded an
d on safe. Either trigger and it fires.”
“What if he drives?”
“Early afternoon.”
“Is he going to come after me, Matt?”
“He will.”
“He won’t just hire it out like before?”
“I doubt it.”
She nodded and bit her lip, dark hair dangling down.
“Can you take a week off?” he asked.
She shook her hair back behind her shoulder and looked at him. “I will not take a week off. I don’t budge.”
“He could come today, Frankie. Or it could be a year from today.”
“Which is more likely?”
Stromsoe thought about it. “A year. He’d want us to be afraid.”
“Can he stay lost for a year?”
“If he makes it past the first eight hours. All he had on them was about an hour head start.”
“But they haven’t caught up with him yet, have they?” she asked. “He’s been gone since eleven last night? That’s eight hours ago, exactly.”
“If he makes it past the Mexican border, he can stay lost forever.”
“And it’s easy to get back in,” said Frankie.
“Children do it.”
“Oh, man.”
“Frankie, you’re going to have to stay alert to stay alive. Every second, every minute. You can do it if you stay patient and relaxed. Don’t let it hurry you. Eyes open. Mind open. Always thinking. It isn’t a bad way to live once you get used to it. I did it for years undercover. You have to understand it’s a long run. You have to slow everything down.”
“I’m getting my own carry permit.”
“You should.”
“We’ll practice every day at the range, then come home and make loud, explosive, ballistic love.”
He smiled.
“I need a cup of coffee,” she said. “Hopefully Tavarez isn’t waiting for me in the kitchen.”
“I checked it out. You’re good.”
“You’re good.”
Ace arrived on scene, yawned, then stretched out in a bed of sunlight coming through an east window.
Storm Runners Page 26
