White Tombs

by Christopher Valen

  When he finished Anderson said, “Maybe if you play hardball, you can get Scanlon to drop a dime on Kehoe.”

  “Maybe I could, if he had a conscience.”

  “So now what?”

  “I’m worried Kehoe could walk if Garcia can’t or won’t testify. I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Does Ashford know what you’re planning to do?”

  “No. And we’re not telling him.”

  A flicker of a smile wrinkled the corner of Anderson’s mouth. “Okay, John. You want Kehoe to come for you.”

  “I’m counting on it. This isn’t paintball with some of his militia buddies. This is the real thing. I don’t think Kehoe can resist the opportunity to prove how good he thinks he is.”

  “You’re gonna need backup.”

  “No. I’ll take him myself. Besides, if the plan goes south, you could jeopardize your last opportunity to stay with the department.”

  “Yeah, but it could work the other way, John. If we take down Kehoe, that will play well with Ashford and the chief. Particularly when Kehoe is the mayor’s chief ass kisser. Besides, what else have I got?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m off the sauce. I can handle it.”

  Santana gave Anderson a long look before he said, “All right.”

  Chapter 30

  * * *

  INSIDE HIS HOUSE, SANTANA DISARMED the security system and changed into a black turtleneck pullover, jeans and Nikes. He put his Kevlar vest on the counter and made hot chocolate in a large pan on the stove. The kitchen phone rang as he was drinking a cup of chocolate and loading a clip with .40 caliber cartridges.

  He picked the phone up on the third ring and said, “Hello.”

  Whoever was on the line immediately hung up.

  Santana tried star 69, but the line was blocked.

  He called Rick Anderson’s cell phone. “Where are you?”

  “Just coming up your driveway,” Anderson said, sounding like he was breathing hard.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Just a little out of shape. I parked my car in your neighbor’s driveway. You sure they’re out of town?”

  “I’m sure. Come around back.”

  A minute later Anderson knocked on the back door and Santana let him in.

  Anderson wore a navy blue down jacket with a hood, jeans, leather gloves and ankle-length snow boots.

  “I’m fuckin’ roastin’ to death,” he said, slipping off his hood, gloves and unzipping his jacket.

  “You won’t be once you’re sitting on your ass for a while and not moving. I made us some hot chocolate.” Santana handed Anderson a cup. “You have your two-way?”

  Anderson patted his coat pocket and drank from the cup.

  “What about Kehoe?”

  “He met me for a drink at O’Leary’s.”

  Santana gave Anderson a look.

  “Don’t worry, John. I had a Coke.”

  “You told Kehoe everything?”

  “Just like you said.”

  “What happened?”

  At first, nothin’. Then Kehoe got this weird look. It took me awhile to remember where I’d seen it before, but then it came to me as I was driving out here. Joey Moore.”

  Santana recalled Moore’s unfeeling eyes; the lips pressed together, the barely noticeable lifting of the upper lip on one side of his face. Not disgust or contempt, rather a scorn for everything and everyone.

  Anderson looked as though he wanted to say something else.

  “What is it?” Santana asked.

  “Kehoe asked me if you’d said anything about Luis Garcia.”

  “You didn’t mention Garcia’s name.”

  “Hell, no. But I think Kehoe could tell I knew something.”

  “Shit,” Santana said. He picked up his phone and dialed the cell number Luis Garcia had given him.

  “Hola?” Garcia said.

  “Where are you Luis?”

  “Hey, Santana. How you doin’, man?”

  “Tell me where you are, Luis.”

  “I’m at Latinos in Minnesota.”

  “It’s after seven. What are you doing there?”

  “Talking to a social worker, man. Trying to get my life together. Like you tell me to.”

  “I told you to find yourself a safe place until I talked to the county attorney.”

  “I feel safe here.”

  “Did Kehoe contact you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The county attorney’s willing to deal, Luis.”

  “Why should I trust him?”

  “Because when he tells you something he means it.”

  “Like you, huh, Santana?”

  “Like me, Luis. I want you to get lost for a while.”

  Santana could tell that Garcia had placed his hand over the receiver and was talking with someone.

  “Hey,” Garcia said, coming back on the line. “The social worker wants to talk to you. Name is Angelina Torres.”

  “Detective Santana,” she said. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Angelina.”

  “You heard the charges against me were dropped this afternoon?”

  “I did.”

  “Thank you for believing in me.”

  “You don’t need to thank me. Just do me one favor?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “I want you and Luis to get out of there. Find him a safe place. He has some information that could help me solve the Pérez-Mendoza murders, and he’s agreed to cooperate. But his life may be in danger. And yours, too, if you’re with him.”

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  Santana could hear the fear in her voice. “Just do what I tell you, Angelina. Now.”

  “All right,” she said. “Here’s Luis.”

  “Hey, Santana,” Garcia said, coming back on the line. “Everything is cool.”

  “It will be, Luis, if you find a safe place.”

  “Where is it safe anymore, man?”

  “Use your head.”

  “Maybe I come out and stay with you, huh?”

  “Tonight’s not a good night to do that, Luis.”

  “I was kidding. I find some place.”

  “You do that, Luis. Keep your cell phone close. I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

  “Hasta luego, man.”

  “Hasta luego,” Santana said, and hung up the phone.

  Anderson said, “He going to be all right?”

  “If he does what I told him to do.”

  “There’s no guarantee on that.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “How long you think we have to wait?”

  “Not long. Kehoe called just before you arrived.”

  Anderson looked as if a rat were crawling up his leg. “What’d he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then how’d you know it was him?”

  “I know.” Santana finished loading the clip and slammed it into the butt end of the Glock. “You ready?”

  Anderson reached into a coat pocket, removed his Glock and jacked a round into the chamber. “I’m ready now.”

  Santana picked up his Kevlar vest and put it on. “You have your vest?”

  Anderson nodded. He looked a little pale.

  Santana said, “Find a place out front where you can keep an eye on the road but can’t be seen. I’ll watch the back of the house. If Kehoe comes your way, give me a call on your two-way. Don’t try and take him yourself.”

  “The same goes for you.”

  “Remember,” Santana said, “Kehoe doesn’t have anything to lose.”

  “Don’t worry, John. I’ve got your back. Like always.”

  Santana leaned against a birch tree next to the garage where he could see the back of his house and the near end of the driveway. In the distance, he could hear the rush of cars on the freeway bridge over the river and smell the moist scent of moss and birch bark, wet with melting snow. With the temperature climbing
and the wind calm, fog hung over the snow-covered marshes and lowlands along the riverbanks like smoke over a wet fire.

  A lunar eclipse had turned the full moon into a drop of blood lying on a dark sheet. Astrologers were calling the eclipse “The Harmonic Concordance,” an alignment of planets that could have positive or negative consequences. The astrologer’s description reminded Santana of the night Mendoza was killed; how an alignment of circumstances brought Córdova and Mendoza together and caused the deaths of two innocent men. Santana promised himself that Kehoe and Scanlon, the two men responsible, would pay for the consequences of their actions.

  Fifty-seven minutes after they had walked out of the house, Anderson’s voice came over the two-way. “There’s a car coming up the road, John. I can hear it.”

  “Where are you, Rick?”

  “North of the driveway behind the stone wall.”

  Could Kehoe be that stupid? Santana thought.

  Headlights raked the driveway.

  Anderson said, “I can’t make out who it is, but it looks like an older model Ford Escort.”

  The light on the motion detector above the garage door flicked on as the Escort pulled up to the garage and stopped.

  Santana moved behind the birch tree where he could remain out of sight, yet have a clear view of the area in front of the garage door.

  The driver’s side door swung open and Angelina Torres got out.

  “Can you tell who it is, John?”

  “It’s Angelina Torres.”

  “What the fuck is she doin’ here?”

  “Stay put,” Santana said. He walked out from behind the tree and toward the car. “I’ll take care of it. And stay off the two-way. Kehoe could hear you.”

  She said, “Detective Santana,” as he approached her with the Glock along his leg. She wore gloves and a bulky hooded parka that looked a little big for her.

  Her gaze slid downward to the gun in his hand and then rose to his face. “What’s going on?” She closed the car door and looked around her as if the answer to her question could be found somewhere in the darkness.

  “I might ask you the same thing.”

  “It’s about Luis. After your call he told me about the trouble he was in. Then he got a call on his cell from a detective who wanted to meet him, but Luis told him no.”

  “Was it Detective Kehoe?”

  “Yes. Luis argued with him. I got on the phone.” Her cadence had suddenly shifted into overdrive. “The detective asked me who I was and I told him. I must have said where we were because after Luis hung up, he came to my office. He said he was arresting Luis for the Pérez-Mendoza murders. He put Luis in handcuffs. Before he took him away, he told me I better let you know right away what was happening. When you didn’t answer your phone, I drove out here, hoping you were home.”

  “How did you know where I lived?”

  “When you were at my apartment, you told me you lived in St. Croix Beach along the river in a house that is secluded and private. It is not hard to find when you are determined.”

  “I can see that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The first thing is to send you back home.”

  “But what about Luis?”

  “Don’t worry about Luis,” Santana said, suppressing the worry in his own mind. He took her arm and gently directed her to her car.

  “You know,” she said, “when Detective Kehoe told me I should contact you right away, he had this smile on his face. It was very strange.”

  “Strange?”

  “Yes. Like he wanted you to know what he was doing.”

  Santana halted and called Anderson on the two-way. “Rick.”

  There was no answer.

  “Rick, can you hear me?”

  Still, no answer.

  “Change of plans,” Santana said, taking Angelina Torres by the hand. “You need to get inside the house and stay there.”

  A shadow moved out from behind an oak tree twenty yards away, and he knew instinctively they could not make it safely across the open space between the driveway and the back of the house. He pulled Angelina to the ground just as a shot rang out and a bullet thudded into the side of the Escort where they had been standing.

  Santana’s Glock boomed as he fired four quick rounds in the direction of the muzzle flash, each shot exploding like small cannons in the still night. Then he aimed the Glock at the motion detector light above and behind him and took it out with one shot, severing the cord of light around the garage door.

  Angelina had her hands cupped over her ears. She did not scream, but appeared to be expending great effort to hold herself together.

  Santana fired three more rounds at where he thought the shooter might still be and yanked her to her feet. “Follow me.”

  They scrambled to the front of the Escort where he squatted and she crouched down close to him. He could feel the heat radiating from the engine block.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Santana’s ears were ringing from the gunshots, and he could barely hear her voice.

  “Who are you shooting at?” she asked.

  “It’s Kehoe.”

  The bright light from the motion detector had dilated his pupils, and he had trouble seeing much beyond the car until his eyes adjusted to the darkness again.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re not going to panic, Angelina. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.” His tone was firm but calm.

  With another full clip, plus the seven rounds remaining in the Glock, Santana was more concerned about his partner than his ammunition. Unless Anderson was severely wounded or dead, he would have opened up with his Glock the moment Santana did, trapping Kehoe in a crossfire. Santana had been reluctant to use Anderson as backup, and now the decision to do so may have cost his partner his life.

  Squinting into the darkness beyond the car, he looked for movement but could see nothing except shadows. He hoped that one of his rounds had found its target, but he couldn’t count on it. He had to assume Kehoe was still out there behind the oak tree, waiting to finish what he had started.

  “Rick,” Santana said quietly into his two-way. “Rick, can you hear me?”

  Maybe it was the wind and maybe it was just the echo from the gunshots still ringing in his ears, but Santana thought he heard Anderson’s voice. He tried again, but this time he was certain Anderson had not responded.

  The pine trees that grew along the southern edge of his property were twenty-five yards to his left. It was a long way to run in the open if Kehoe had a night scope, a distinct possibly given his penchant for hunting.

  Santana slipped out of his jacket and then his Kevlar vest.

  “Put the vest on,” he said, handing it to Angelina Torres.

  “What about you?”

  “I need to move quickly. Just do as I tell you, por favor. And put your coat on over it.”

  She did as she was instructed.

  “I’m going to try and get behind him. If you hear shots, stay low and run to the house. The back door’s open. Get inside, lock the door and call 911.”

  “I will.”

  He detected no fear in her voice, no trace of doubt. He wondered if this was the courage she had displayed as a young girl years ago, crossing the border.

  “Be careful, señor.”

  “You, too,” he said, giving her a smile for reassurance.

  Santana stayed in a crouch as he ran across the flat, lifeless ground with its patchwork of snow and multi-layered shadows toward the tree line at the southern edge of his property. He was thankful that the eclipse had deadened the light from the hunter’s moon, left it looking as if it were bleeding from a wound. Still, he kept waiting for a bullet to rip into him as he moved low and fast, holding the Glock firmly, hoping he could surprise Kehoe by coming up behind him.

  He made it safely to the trees and turned west, running hard to the stone wall and the shadow-draped evergreens
that were silhouetted against it. A sudden gust blew through the branches giving him cover as he crossed the driveway and squatted behind a thick evergreen to catch his breath. White plumes of exhaled carbon dioxide condensed in the air, and the wind whispered in the tall trees.

  He parted the branches and stared into the blackness looking for Kehoe. Though his vision had adapted to the dark, he knew shadows could play tricks with his sight. Still, he saw no furtive movement in the ebony pool beneath the oak about fifteen yards in front of him, only what his eyes perceived as a dark shape.

  He raised the Glock to chest level. Gripped the barrel with both hands and moved quickly in a crouch away from the evergreen and toward the oak dead ahead.

  It took him less than three seconds to cover the distance between the evergreen and the oak and even less time to realize that the dark shape he had seen beneath the tree was Anderson, not Kehoe.

  His partner lay on his stomach, one hand underneath him, the fingers of his other outstretched hand still wrapped around the butt of his Glock.

  “Rick,” Santana whispered, kneeling beside him. “You all right?”

  Santana rolled him on his back and knew immediately by the low moan that Anderson gave that he was badly hurt. He took a small flashlight from a coat pocket and flicked on the switch.

  Anderson’s pale hand was pressed against his abdomen just below the vest, like a leaking damn trying to contain dark streams of blood oozing between his fingers.

  “Fuck,” Santana said softly.

  He moved the beam of light up to his partner’s face.

  “It hurts like hell, John.” Anderson tried to make a smile behind gritted teeth. “He caught me by surprise. Used his knife.”

  “Hang on, partner.”

  “I will. You get the bastard, yet?”

  “Soon.”

  “Listen, John, if I don’t make it, I want you to promise me you won’t blame yourself.”

  “You’re going to make it.”

  “It was my idea to cover your back. Not yours. Promise me, John.”

  “All right.”

  “What about the girl?” Anderson asked.

  As if in reply, Santana heard Angelina cry out his name.

  He looked to his right down the long driveway at the dark outline of the Escort where she waited.