by Sean Lynch
“Shit,” Cole said aloud. He’d forgotten all about the pageant, which Marcia had told him repeatedly to remember. Before she’d left to visit her mother in Sacramento, she’d given him a number of instructions, the most important of which was to remember to take the afternoon off to attend Kirsten’s pageant. Kirsten was singing a duet of Christmas carols in the pageant with a boy from her class. Naturally, he’d forgotten to schedule the time off. He’d also forgotten to charge the battery to the video camera.
“It starts at 2 o’clock, right?” He ushered his daughter out the front door towards the car.
“Yep.”
“I’ll be there honey.” He dug into his pants pocket for the car keys with one hand and shrugged into his jacket with the other. He did this odd dance all the way to his car, a Jeep Cherokee. Marcia had taken the BMW to Sacramento. He fumbled the car door open and tucked Kirsten into her seatbelt. She was singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
Cole started the car and sped from the driveway, late for Kirsten’s school.
In his haste he didn’t notice the car parked across the street.
CHAPTER 38
Kearns marveled at San Francisco. It was a helluva lot warmer than Iowa in December.
They’d taken a cab from the airport to Farrell’s apartment on Lombard Street. To Kearns, whose only experience in California was a field training exercise at Fort Ord several years previously, the City by the Bay was truly a sight to behold. The steep streets, majestic buildings, and Bay Bridge were things he’d only seen in pictures.
Once at the apartment, Farrell gave Kearns a spare key and the address of a health club within walking distance. He said he only knew of the gym because it was near a bar he frequented. He told Kearns to “knock yourself out,” and settled into a hot bath with a tall glass of bourbon and his cigarettes. He also gave Kearns some money.
Kearns felt sheepish about having Farrell pay for everything, and said so. He insisted when he returned to Iowa he’d repay Farrell for his share of the expenses. But the retired San Francisco cop only shrugged and said, “Forget it. The people I took it from will never miss it.” Kearns wasn’t sure how much of that statement was true.
He took the money and stopped at a strip mall on the walk to the gym. He bought some shorts, socks, and a couple of T-shirts. He already had a pair of almost new running shoes, but hadn’t worn them since that fateful day in November; the day he’d met Vernon Slocum.
He noticed the Christmas ornaments on the street lamps and the shops. It was odd to see such things without snow, and to see people dressed in only light clothing in December. Farrell told him it could get pretty frigid at night on the Bay, but that right now it was unseasonably warm. Kearns didn’t care if the weather was seasonable or not. He liked it, and welcomed the change from the blizzard they’d left in the Midwest.
Kearns found the gym with little difficulty. He paid eight dollars to work out as a non-member, and was given a key to a locker.
It felt good to exercise. Over two weeks of intense stress, sitting cramped in cars, living in hotel rooms, eating fast food, and getting his ass kicked by federal agents made him stiff and cranky. He normally lifted weights every other day and ran on the opposite days; a routine he’d been following since leaving the army. He rarely missed his workouts, and subsequently he was in very good shape. But the events of the past few weeks had unavoidably disrupted his routine.
Kearns spent forty-five minutes running on a treadmill, and then lifted free weights for another hour. He did his best to ignore the pain in his ribs, which were still sore. He was relieved to learn they were only bruised, and not broken, as Jennifer had thought. He also knew he’d be sorry tomorrow for overdoing it in the gym today, but didn’t care. He had a lot to sweat out. He finished his routine soaked in perspiration and headed for the locker room.
It wasn’t until he got to the shower he realized he was in trouble. He’d been so focused on his workout he didn’t notice the conspicuous lack of women in the club, or the disproportionately large number of ultra-muscular bodybuilder types using the facility. But once in the shower he felt the eyes of the other club members scrutinizing him.
This made Kearns a little uncomfortable, though not excessively so. He wasn’t homophobic, and had known several covertly gay soldiers in his platoon in the army. Kearns didn’t care if a soldier was straight; only if he could shoot straight. Thus he was a little peeved for not noticing the club’s orientation when he walked in. The other patrons of the club assumed he must be gay, or else he wouldn’t be there. The sexual vibes he was getting were fairly overt.
He finished his shower quickly. And he cursed Bob Farrell.
He could only guess at the laugh Farrell was having, sitting in his tub, knocking down bourbons and thinking of the naive Midwestern deputy working out in a gay gym in downtown San Francisco. The old bastard must be having quite a chuckle.
When Kearns finished shaving and returned to his locker, he found a huge man standing not very nonchalantly near it. The man stood at least a full head taller than Kearns’ five foot ten, and outweighed him by at least sixty pounds. He’d obviously done some successful experimenting with growth hormones, and his neck was roughly the size of Kearns’ waist. His eyes, jaundiced by steroid use, were fixed on the Iowa deputy. The towel wrapped around his hips looked like a handkerchief on his gigantic torso.
Kearns gulped, and headed to his locker. He would have to pass by the giant blocking his path. The man was not inconspicuous. Kearns nodded, muttered the obligatory “excuse me,” and squeezed past.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” It was a demand.
“Uh, no, I’m not,” Kearns stammered nervously. He wanted to get his locker opened, get dressed, and be on his way. “I’m only visiting.”
“Well, it’s a wild city. It can get pretty frisky around here. Are you feeling frisky?” Another demand.
Kearns finally got his locker opened and reached into his gym bag. Inside, under his shorts, was the .357 he’d taken from the FBI man in Omaha. He was glad it was there. The man speaking to him could undoubtedly bend him into a pretzel without breaking a sweat. He didn’t want to show the gun, but he suffered no delusions about his ability to fend off the giant in a physical confrontation. He began to dress, ignoring the mammoth homosexual standing near him.
“Hey,” said the muscleman, stepping closer, “I asked you a question. Are you feeling frisky?”
“Look,” said Kearns uneasily, “I’d better tell you up front; I’m not gay. I didn’t know this was a gay club when I came in. I told you I was new to San Francisco, and I am. It’s nothing personal. You can save your breath.”
The man’s face got red. Kearns slipped his hand into his gym bag on the reassuring grip of the revolver. It was a tense moment.
The moment passed. The man tossed his head and looked down at Kearns, puffing out his chest even more.
“So you say,” the giant said disdainfully. “I’ve seen your type before. Straight guys who like to tease; stroke their egos. You’re an ego-fucker. Well, fuck you.” With that, the muscleman was gone.
Kearns let out a sigh of relief and finished dressing. In less than five minutes he was out the door and walking back to Farrell’s, cursing the older cop.
He passed a small novelty shop on one of the street corners. Getting an idea, he went in.
Sure enough, amidst the joy buzzers, whoopee cushions, and plastic turds was a package of cigarette loads. These tiny firecrackers could be inserted into a cigarette. When the smoker lit up they got a noisy surprise and a carbon-blackened face.
Kearns paid the sales clerk and went back to Farrell’s apartment. When he arrived he found Farrell still in the tub and speaking on the telephone. There was a notepad and pen on the edge of the tub, along with an empty glass and an ashtray.
“…gotta go, Tom. Thanks. I owe you one.” He hung up the phone. Kearns stared at him, a scowl on his face.
“How was the workout, Rocky?” Farrell
asked, bursting into a raucous laughter.
“Very funny,” he said. “You’re a regular Rodney Dangerfield. I almost had a date with a guy that made Arnold Schwarzenegger look like a munchkin.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Farrell said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Did you get pumped up?” Another bout of laughter resulted.
Kearns waited for Farrell’s laughter to pass. “I thought you weren’t supposed to play with electrical appliances in the bathtub. I guess if the phone fell in the tub you’d be OK, on account of your electrifying personality.”
“Weak, but not bad. I see you’re finally developing a sense of humor.”
Farrell stood up and dried himself off with a towel. When he turned to put on his robe, Kearns discreetly swiped his pack of Camels from the edge of the tub.
“While you were out worshiping the temple of your body, I was on the hunt. I phoned a buddy who owes me one at the Potrero Station. He hooked me up with Ballantine’s physical description, his driving record, and the make, model, and license numbers of the vehicles registered to him. His wife’s information too.”
“His wife? How do you know he’s married?”
“Why wouldn’t he be married?”
“I don’t know. I assumed he’d be screwed up. Having met his father and his brother Vernon, I figured he’d probably be a creep, too.”
“What about Elizabeth?” Farrell asked. “She’s no creep. She got it together.”
“Yeah, she’s a remarkable woman. But she doesn’t live what I’d call a normal life. She’s devoted to her orphanage and her kids. She didn’t opt for the typical family scene.”
“I see your point,” Farrell said. “But the cars registered to Cole Ballantine are jointly registered to a woman named Marcia Marie Ballantine. Her date of birth puts her six years younger than him, and at the same address.”
“That means wife,” Kearns agreed. “Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”
Farrell grinned, walking out of the bathroom. “Help yourself. What’s the matter, didn’t you want to piss at the gym? Afraid to whip it out? Think somebody was going to grab it and start jumping rope?”
Kearns said, “Hilarious,” and closed the bathroom door. Once alone, he opened the package of cigarette loads and inserted several into the ends of Farrell’s cigarettes. He flushed the toilet and walked out of the bathroom, returning the cigarettes to the edge of the tub.
Farrell was in the bedroom getting dressed. Kearns sat on the edge of a dog-eared sofa and looked around the retired cop’s apartment.
Farrell’s home was musty and needed a good cleaning. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke. A lot of the furniture looked second-hand. On the walls were various diplomas and citations from the San Francisco Police Department. The only photograph drew Kearns’ attention immediately. It was of Jennifer.
He was staring at the picture when Farrell emerged from the bedroom. He knotted his tie, an unlit cigarette stuck between his lips.
“You like, gringo? I sell you cheap.”
Kearns’ face flushed, embarrassed to have been caught gaping at Jennifer’s picture. Farrell grinned broadly around his cigarette.
“You’ve got the hubba-hubbas for Jen pretty bad, huh?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I was just noticing the picture.”
“If you notice it any closer, you’ll drool on it. You Iowa farm boys ought to give up lying. You’re no good at it.”
“I’m grateful to her, that’s all. She pulled my ass out of the grease. She’s a damned nice lady. She has a lot of guts.”
“She has a pretty good set of hooters, too,” Farrell said. Kearns’ face reddened even more.
“Holy hot-flashes, Batman; the deputy’s blushing! He must be in love.”
“Cut it out. Haven’t you had enough fun at my expense today?”
Farrell headed toward the kitchenette. He withdrew a bottle of Jim Beam from under the sink and refilled his flask.
“OK, let’s talk business. Cole lives in Alameda, on Bay Farm Island. His neighborhood is exclusive. It even has its own private security force. It’s not going to be easy staking the place out.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’d prefer to use two cars and have each of us take a shift watching Cole’s house. But in that area two cars stand about the same chance of being spotted as one, and I don’t want us split up when Slocum arrives. We’ll stick together. I don’t think Vernon will get caught unaware again. When he comes, he’ll be ready. We’ve got to be prepared for that.”
“Christ, Bob, he may never come. After what happened in Omaha, we can’t be sure he’s even going to show. And we know he’s injured. I don’t know how badly you hurt him, but he left a lot of blood in the snow. Maybe he’s somewhere licking his wounds, or hiding out. Hell, maybe he’s already dead.”
Farrell shook his head. “No chance. Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. Slocum ain’t out of action. He’s a Marine. He’s going to accomplish his mission, however fucked-up that mission may be. The only way we’re going to stop him is to bury him.”
“I know. I was only playing devil’s advocate. Maybe I needed some assurance we’re doing the right thing.”
Farrell pulled two glasses from a cupboard and added ice to each. He poured bourbon into the glasses and handed one to Kearns, who accepted it hesitantly.
“Of course we’re doing the right thing.”
“If you’re so sure, how come we’re the ones being hunted? Why are we the bad guys, even though all we’re doing is trying to end this Slocum guy’s reign of terror?”
“Doing the right thing is always hard. Doesn’t make it less right.”
“You make it sound so simple.” Kearns looked into his glass.
“It is simple. I’ve come to believe that most of the really important things in life are. Vernon Slocum is evil. He needs to be stopped. He’s killing children, cops, hookers, and God knows who else. But the system says we can only stop him if we play by the rules. Read him his Miranda rights, and provide him an attorney. And in the meantime, the Tiffany Meades of the world get chopped up for bait. It’s simple as hell,” Farrell said. “Slocum is a bad guy. We’re good guys. He’s the dragon, and we’re Saint George.”
Kearns looked up from his glass. He wished he shared Farrell’s conviction.
“Sometimes I wonder why it’s you and me who have to slay the dragon. Why not somebody else? I look at the picture of your daughter, and all I want is to settle down and come home every night to a girl like her. Forget this whole shitty mess. But now I’m in so deep I’ll never get out. It’s getting me down, that’s all. I guess I’m feeling sorry for myself again. I don’t see why it has to be me.”
“That’s easy: because you can. Because you have what others don’t: the guts to get the job done. That’s just how it is.”
“I think there might be another reason.”
“And that would be?”
Kearns looked up at his partner. “Because it’s ours to do. We own it. Slocum, I mean. We both failed to take him down when we had the chance; you in Vietnam, me in Iowa, and both of us together in Omaha. We failed. Now there’s blood on our hands, and we’ve got to make it right. Maybe this is our penance.”
“Don’t even go there, kid,” Farrell said, not unkindly. “Sure, if things had turned out differently when we each first met Slocum, we wouldn’t be here today. But we are, and the past is over and done. We’ve got to stay focused if we’re going to take Slocum down. Dwelling on what’s already happened does no good; it only distracts us. And you should know by now, maybe more than anyone, that distraction when you’re stalking a guy like Vernon Slocum can be fatal.”
Farrell put his hand on Kearns’ shoulder. “You ask me how I know we’re doing the right thing? I just know. And I know it with more certainty than I’ve known anything in my entire life. We’re doing the right thing; count on it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
<
br /> “I don’t have to hope; I know.”
“Thanks, Bob. I needed that.”
“Don’t mention it,” Farrell said. He raised his glass, inviting Kearns to follow suit. “Here’s to Saint George the dragon slayer.”
CHAPTER 39
Vernon Slocum waited.
He wasn’t going to walk into the same ambush twice. Buddy was killed in action because he had made tactical errors. He didn’t reconnoiter, or pay attention to his flanks and rear. He failed to prepare. But that wouldn’t happen twice.
This time he was ready.
Vernon examined Cole’s house with the trained eye of an infantry scout. The house sat on a corner with a view overlooking an expanse of lawn called Shoreline Park. Beyond that was the San Francisco Bay. The house’s front door faced the street and had a nicely landscaped rear yard, complete with a redwood deck and barbecue pit. He saw no indication of security lighting or an alarm. There were no dogs in the backyard, or in the yards adjoining Cole’s house.
There was very little vehicle or pedestrian traffic in the area. There was also no sign of the men who hunted him, and who almost got him in Omaha. So far things looked good. This time, Vernon was careful. And patient.
He waited.
He’d arrived yesterday, and spent the better part of a day and a half driving past the house at irregular intervals, watching. This morning he saw Cole get into a Jeep with a little girl. She had long, auburn hair tied in a bow. Vernon wondered if Cole was a good father. A father like theirs was; one who knew how to discipline children.
Vernon acquired a red Camaro. It was a newer model, with a plush interior and fancy stereo cassette player. He found it near the bus terminal in Oakland, in a convenience store parking lot. He shattered the driver’s window with his elbow and was getting in when a thin African-American man ran from the convenience store, yelling at him. Vernon only smiled and pointed the sawed-off shotgun at him. The man backed away.
When Vernon went to punch the Camaro’s ignition, he found it punched. The red Camaro was already stolen.
