by Jon Talton
Close to him on the white comforter of the king bed was an AK-47. I couldn’t let even my peripheral vision linger, but the rifle looked lovingly cared-for, its wood stock highly polished. The distinctive curved magazine reminded me of its purpose, which was not to be an objet d’art. Anyway, my view was drawn a little farther. On the other side of the mattress a woman was lying nude as if on a snow bank. She was young and pretty and her lips were dead blue. She was the woman smiling next to Bob Hunter in a photograph in a silver frame on the bedside table.
I moved sideways from the door so I had a clean field of fire in case another bad guy came into the room. Measuring the distance between us, I was careful to make sure Dowd couldn’t reach for my gun.
He said, “I wouldn’t be quick to shoot again, professor. I’m not quite unarmed.”
He slowly raised a hand that clutched a stainless steel cylinder with two small lights, a green one that was dark, and a second burning bright red. It had a button on the top. His thumb was holding down the button.
“You’re shrewder than I thought,” he said. “I didn’t expect you here for some time. I’ve been trying to extract some information while you’re in San Diego protecting your first wife.”
“She’ll be fine.” My tongue felt as if it were covered with sandpaper.
“Well, no plan survives first contact with the enemy.” His eyes narrowed.
I kept my voice steady. Dowd was right about one thing: anger would only get in the way of the training and experience that would give me an edge.
I ordered, “Put your arms out and get on your knees, very slowly.”
He made no move to comply. “Aren’t you going to thank me for my service to our country like every other civilian parasite did?”
“On your knees.”
He shifted his weight, nothing more. “I want to show you something.”
“Don’t move!”
“I’ll do it slowly.”
I kept the gun on him as he stepped back toward a closet door, continuing to face me. Then he reached behind him and opened it slowly.
Inside, Peralta sat handcuffed to a chair. He’d been beaten badly. Blood was caked around his left eye. The last Claymore was strapped around his middle, with the front of the mine pointed inward.
“Kill him, Mapstone.” He sounded groggy.
Dowd held out his other hand, the one with the cylinder. “He’ll be dead in one second. This is a panic room, built for the family to hide in if there was a break-in. The walls are thick.” He closed the door.
“And this,” he indicated the device, “is a detonator for the Claymore. The walls aren’t thick enough to block the signal. Right now, the only thing keeping your friend alive is the pressure my thumb is exerting on this detonator. So if you shoot me, the green light goes on and your friend dies. I told you I’d kill every one you love.”
I kept the gun on him.
He cocked his head. “All I wanted was the list of Scarlett’s clients. You thought you were cute, the expensive case in the motel room, the fake flash drive inside. I should have realized two can play the tracker game. Tonight, when your friend the sheriff showed up to check on her old man, I could have hidden, made daddy pretend everything is fine. But I thought maybe Peralta might have the list. So far, no list. This is really pissing me off. All I want is the list of johns. Why was that so hard for you?”
“I don’t care.” I didn’t recognize my own voice.
His cheek twitched.
“Don’t you get it? We’d been robbing banks, but that was too risky. Eventually the illegal government in Washington would have gotten us before we were ready.”
He seemed eager to be understood.
I said, “You were going to blackmail Grace’s clients.”
“Exactly. I could have raised millions to fund the Brigade. Then the fun would have started. By the time we’re done, this country will be under martial law, and every target we strike will have evidence that it was done by the hajis and the niggers and the spics who shouldn’t be in this country. The Chicano Liberation Army. Al-Qaeda in America. The African Struggle.”
“But the groups don’t exist, right?”
“People will think they do. I’ve already got the Web sites reserved, so we can let these groups take credit when a shopping mall blows up. You don’t know how savage the American can be. We’ll make this a white man’s country again.”
“I think we’re better than that.” I nodded to the dead woman on the bed. “Anyway, she looks white to me.”
“Collateral damage.” He smiled. “Hunter said his slut-nugget daughter didn’t have a computer here. If she had, it might have had the client list. Too bad for him she didn’t. He had to watch while I humped his young wife a few times. She didn’t like it at first, but I won her over. It was awhile since she’d had a real man. Must hurt like a son of a bitch to see another man screw your wife. It’d make me want to kill the motherfucker doing it, but ol’ Bob just cried. ‘Course, I had him handcuffed. Then I strangled her slowly while he watched. At least he didn’t change his story.”
He liked the sound of his own voice. I said, “So you knew who Scarlett was.”
“I checked her out. She didn’t check me out well enough, I guess.”
“You had to kill her.”
“It didn’t start out that way. Look, she was a sweet little lay and I was happy to pay for it. It took me awhile to realize this magnificent piece of ass must have a very affluent group of men she was screwing, and this was going to be our funding source. By that time, she was gone. It took me a long time to find her again.”
“But you did find her.”
“We had a hero who tried to save her,” he said. “It didn’t take long to put him down. After that, we drove her around for a long time. I didn’t want to hurt her, tried to reason with her just like I did with you. I wanted the list.”
“You raped and tortured her,” I said. “You waterboarded her in the toilet, right? That’s why there was water on the bathroom floor.”
“Very good. My thumb is getting tired.”
I needed more time. I said, “Then you pushed her off the balcony.”
“Young Zisman fucked up,” he said. “That’s who you shot in the living room. Andrew was supposed to hang her over the edge until she gave it up, but he lost his grip. Every unit has its FUBARs.”
I almost pulled the trigger right then.
“Why that condo?”
“It belongs to Andrew’s dad. Andrew had the fob to the front entry and the keys to the door. We didn’t know his dad would be there, but it didn’t take much persuading to get us some privacy. Old man Zisman knew what would happen if he didn’t play along.” He laughed as if we had shared an arch joke.
“But you eventually killed him, too.”
“Not me. Andrew killed his father. Call it a test of loyalty. The unit always comes first. I couldn’t take the chance his father would keep silent. Enough of your curiosity, professor. Give me your gun.”
“No.”
“Just so you know,” he said, “whatever happens next, you won’t make it out alive. I’ve got a sniper with a night scope positioned outside. He saw you come onto the property and told me. I let you get this far. Otherwise, you’d be dead. My man was trained as a Marine scout-sniper.” He smiled. “I didn’t realize you’d shoot Andrew straight off, but he was careless. So you can kill me, and I frag your friend, but you’ll be dead, too. Just like Grace’s daddy, who thought he could get away. If you do succeed in killing me, another commander will take my place. You can’t stop us.”
“We can make a start. After I kill you, I’ll just call the cops.”
His face flushed with anger. “Then you’re gonna have a bunch of dead cops from my sniper. He’s willing to die to take back his country and he’ll take as many enemy with him as he can…”
>
“So far, all you’ve killed are white people.”
He forced himself to speak in a reasonable tone. “You can give me your gun, I’ll put the detonator on safe. We can do it at the exact same time. Then we’ll take a ride to get that flash drive. The real goddamned flash drive. If it has the information I want, then I’ll let you live…”
Dowd’s cheek ticked in surprise. Ed Cartwright spoke behind me and then he was standing beside me.
“Your sniper is incapacitated,” he said, cradling a pump shotgun on one arm.
“You killed him?” Dowd’s voice shook.
“I just used the Apache Persuasion Hold and handcuffed him. He’ll live. Probably.”
Cartwright held up a black object that looked like a video-game joystick. He said, “I just made your detonator go limp, asshole. So why don’t you slowly get on your knees.”
Dowd stared at each of us, mouthed a profanity, lifted his thumb from the detonator in his hand.
Nothing happened.
He threw it at me and in those quick ticks of confusion, I allowed the distance between us to close. Rookie mistake—I had worried he would make a move for the AK on the bed—but it was too late. He dove at me and ferociously grabbed for my revolver. It quickly cost me my balance. We fell together onto the hard tile of the floor and I struggled to keep my panic from overwhelming my training. There was also the danger that Cartwright would use his shotgun on both of us.
Dowd’s face was that of a feral dog and he was strong. So strong that he was close to gaining control. We sweated, grunted, and cursed. His face turned dark red. My attempt to knee him in the groin failed. So did his try at head-butting me, but he succeeded in rolling me onto my back and getting astride me. Every muscle in my arms and hands screamed as I watched the gun twist toward me.
That’s when I released my left hand and grabbed the last-option knife.
“Ooof.” He expelled bad breath in my face as I drove the sure little blade into his abdomen. Blood trickled onto my fingers. He still fought but his strength left him. The revolver came loose in my hands and I fired one shot point blank into his chest.
After an eternity that was probably five seconds, I pushed him off with difficulty. Cartwright just watched.
Grabbing Dowd’s shoulders, I shook him hard.
“Where’s the baby, you son of a bitch?”
A trickle of blood rolled out the side of his mouth.
“I tried to warn you…”
His eyes flickered and closed. He didn’t deserve to die with his eyes shut. I shook and cursed him, but I was just yelling at a cadaver.
Cartwright waited a long time to speak. I realized that I must have had a wild look on my face. I patted down Dowd’s body out of habit and forced my breathing down.
“Where’d you get that Airlite, kid?”
I told him: at a gun show.
He held out his hand. I gave it to him.
“You got Speedloaders?”
Digging them from my pocket, I put them in his other hand.
“And the knife.”
I rose unsteadily and gave him the knife and sheath.
“Now pay attention,” he said. “I did the shooting here, not you. Right?”
I slowly nodded, feeling my senses return to human. The room smelled of discharged ammunition and vaporized blood.
“The Indian’s here,” he said, “and the cavalry are on the way. So you best be gone.”
“Peralta’s in there.” I indicated the panic room.
“I’ll take care of him. It won’t be the first time. You go.”
His voice stopped me at the door.
“You did okay, kid.”
I nodded, then walked back through the house and slipped out into the darkness.
38
In the ensuing days, the FBI made a dozen more arrests and confiscated more weapons and explosives. It was being called the biggest domestic terror conspiracy in modern American history. Peralta gained major cred with the bureau, which promised it would lead to business for us.
The house on Cypress was back to something resembling normal. Did I dare trust it? Lindsey was reclaiming the gardens, fighting against the rising heat. I was cooking and reading. At the moment, we were both naked in the bedroom and sipping martinis. Coleman Hawkins was on the stereo with perfect synchronicity, Cocktails for Two. Among the things Lindsey had purchased on her shopping trip were two sets of garter belts and sheer stockings: bad-girl black and virginal white. She was wearing the black and draping one leg over me.
“Are you going to stay?” I asked the question that had been metastasizing inside me, fearful of the answer.
She held out her glass. “If you’ll take me back, History Shamus.”
I clinked my glass against hers. “Gladly.”
Oscar Peterson came on. The Maharajah of the Keyboard, as Duke Ellington called him, sealed the deal.
“You’re crying.” She held my face close and wiped my wet cheeks. “Are they good tears?”
I nodded. But they were, in fact, a mixed bag.
“Happy that you’re back,” I said. “I want to do everything I can to put us back together…”
“Me, too.”
“And I’m sad for all the ones we lost. At least some could have been saved if we’d been faster or smarter. I can’t say we covered ourselves in glory on our first case. Grace, Felix, Tim, Larry Zip, Bob Hunter, his wife, all dead. We might have stopped some of it.”
“Dave, you can’t take all that on yourself.”
“The only one who got away was Addison.”
Lindsey cocked her head.
“Grace’s friend,” I explained. “Aside from Tim’s parent’s, she was the only one Grace and Tim had contact with while they were hiding out in O.B. She left school and went home to Oklahoma they tell me. A good thing. But I can’t forget holding that baby after I changed him. Now he’s in some hole out in the desert. What a shitty thing.”
And I cried.
Lindsey held me close for a long time.
Finally, she said, “Addison is a really bad name.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Mind if I try a hunch?”
39
We drove east from San Diego through Poway and Ramona on the old Julian Road. Suburbia slipped away and the hills and mountains surrounded us. Ahead were the Anza-Borrego Desert and the little town of Borrego Springs. We climbed around Grapevine Mountain, huge rocks leaning in on us, and then the desert valley emptied beneath.
Patty and I had been here many times. We made a ritual of staying one weekend a year at a little inn at Borrego Springs. It was a single-story speck in the desert surrounded by rocky, bare mountains. I remembered that it had a traffic circle. And I remembered a photo that Patty had taken of me on a hot day, surrounded by barrel cactuses in bloom.
But our trip to the badlands today was not for pleasure. The temperature was over one-fifteen and the town was emptied out of all but the hardiest year-round residents. A room would be cheap this time of year.
The traffic circle was still there: Christmas Circle, and a little beyond was a simple little motel with statues of desert bighorn sheep out front. Patty and I had stayed at the tonier Borrego Valley Inn, with its Southwest architecture and private patios. But I had seen this motel many times, never giving it a second look.
“There,” Lindsey said.
She pointed to an older Toyota sedan parked in front of the ranch-style block of rooms. It was the only car in the lot. Peralta parked fifty feet away and we all piled out of the pickup truck.
“Let us go first.” By this, Lindsey meant Sharon and her.
Peralta and I were well-armed, but I didn’t think we would need firepower today. He nodded, and we watched the two women walk to the door directly in front of the Toyota and knock.
They talked to the person who opened it, and after a couple minutes they went inside.
Peralta and I found some shade and waited, saying nothing.
Lindsey had followed her hunch and it pointed true.
Addison Conway’s car was not in Oklahoma. It was sitting a few paces from us under the mid-day California sun. Thanks to Lindsey’s black magic, the Chinese had hacked the phone company again and tracked Addison’s cell phone. Last Friday, it had been in Ocean Beach, at Tim’s apartment, an hour after I had left. Then it had taken the same route we had just driven and stayed here.
Sharon stepped out and smiled at us: come on in.
Lindsey sat on one of two double beds cradling little David Lewis in her lap. A young woman sat on the other bed. She turned her face to greet us. She was attractive in a girl-next-door way, no Southern California glamour, none of Grace Hunter’s looks hot enough to warm your hands by. She was crying. Lindsey was crying.
“This is Sheriff Peralta,” Sharon said, her voice so soothing. “And his partner David Mapstone. You’re going to be safe now, Addison.” She put an arm on the girl, who leaned into her as if she were a surrogate mother.
Sharon looked at us. “She’s been out here with nothing but her fears.”
I thought my insides were going to drop out on the floor. I tightened my diaphragm just to make sure it was still there. Lindsey’s hunch had been more than rewarded.
Addison Conway spoke with a slight twang and no one would mistake her for a Rhodes Scholar. She had been operating on primal fear these past days, not logic or reason.
“I went to see Tim and Grace,” she said. “I hadn’t heard a word from Grace and I was worried. I knew about her… You know. I was always afraid it would get her killed. When I got to the apartment, Tim was packing up to leave. He was very scared. He told me what had happened to Grace and I just…”
