by Mark Parragh
They staggered forward and slammed into Harpo, who went windmilling backward over the edge of the dock with a startled cry. That was one down. Groucho tried to get a grip on Crane’s collar to pull him off himself. Crane stamped on his instep, pushed him away, and threw three quick kidney punches that put him down on the dock.
Crane realized he hadn’t heard a splash. He leaned over the side and saw that Harpo hadn’t hit the water. He’d fallen into an empty panga. It looked like he’d hit on the gunwale and was now lying on his back, groaning, with his legs hanging over the side. He could well have broken his back.
Crane kicked Groucho’s baton into the water. They hadn’t pulled guns. Their orders had probably been to just rough him up as payback for humiliating Tate. It was just a job for them. Maybe he could turn this to his advantage.
He knelt beside Groucho and helped him sit up. “Deep breath,” he said. “Deep breath. You’re okay.”
As Groucho came to his senses, he started and threw up a fist. Crane caught it in his free hand and pushed it aside.
“Whoa! Whoa there. Truce. We can always fight more later, all right? Right now we need to make sure your friend’s okay. He landed hard in somebody’s boat. You understand?”
Groucho looked over the side of the dock, saw his friend lying below, and nodded. Crane led the way down the ladder.
“Arturo,” Groucho called out. “Arturo! You okay?”
Harpo—apparently named Arturo—groaned and rolled onto his side.
“Don’t try to move,” said Crane as he stepped off the ladder into the boat. He felt Arturo’s side and didn’t feel any broken ribs. He didn’t think his back was broken. He was probably mostly stunned. He bent Arturo’s leg up and helped him roll into a semi-seated position. The other one looked on in confusion.
“Juan Manuel? What’s happening?” Arturo said in confusion.
“It’s okay,” Juan Manuel said quickly. “Fight’s over. Be cool.”
“Sorry, man,” said Crane. “I thought you were going in the water. Here, look at me.”
He quickly determined that Arturo could move all his limbs and didn’t have a concussion. He’d be sore for a while, but then, so would Crane himself.
“What’s going on?” Arturo asked. “Why are you being this way?”
“That was a bad fall, man,” said Crane. “This could have gotten serious. Nobody was supposed to go home in a box today. Your boss just told you to teach me a lesson, right? So I don’t see where we’ve got any beef. He’s the one’s got a problem with me. Here, sit up. Slow. That’s right. I have to say, he seems like a real pain in the ass to work for.”
They traded a look, and Juan Manuel snorted. That hurt his side, and he winced. “Damn, man, that hurts!”
“You got some licks in too,” Crane said. “That’s what I’m saying. You guys have skills. Seems like you could be doing better, you know? So why him?”
“Pinche idiota,” Arturo spit. “A donkey knows more. We work for a captain. He tells us to keep an eye on this guy, keep him out of trouble, give him what he wants.”
“Well, no disrespect to your captain,” said Crane. “I’m sure he’s got good reasons. You ready to try standing up?”
He got Arturo on his feet and helped him to the ladder. Arturo moved slowly and winced with each rung, but they eventually made it back to the dock.
Crane turned as if to leave, but Arturo said, “We can’t just let you go, man.”
“Yeah,” Juan Manuel added. “You got to give us something. We didn’t beat you up. We’ve got to at least know what you’re doing here.”
Crane nodded. “I get it. Tell him you couldn’t find me. But you found out I’m a private detective. I’ve been asking all over town about a girl named Amy Carpenter. Will that do?”
Juan Manuel nodded, and Crane walked away down the pier.
“Watch yourself,” Arturo shouted after him, “next time, man.”
“I won’t take it personally,” Crane called back.
CHAPTER 9
Marin County, California
Josh’s Mercedes drove down a long approach road that wound between gently rolling hills. Fallon Landing was a spit of land on the north shore of Marin County, overlooking Tomales Bay and the Point Reyes Peninsula beyond it. It had been a ranch once. Now it was a very exclusive private hospital. For the last two years or so, it had been the home of Alexander Tate.
Josh sat silently in the back of the car, looking out across the hillsides at windblown grass and scattered trees. Tim was quiet in the front, having long since given up on engaging his boss in conversation. Josh had nothing to say today. Even his sarcastic inner voice was uncharacteristically quiet.
Josh didn’t really want to be here. He didn’t know what he would find at the end of this road. He wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do. But if Alexander could still understand and connect to the outside world, and if he had spent the last two years here, not knowing if his son was alive or dead, then perhaps Josh could bring him some measure of peace. He owed Alex that much, anyway.
Eventually, the road emerged from a stand of trees and descended a grassy slope toward the hospital itself. Josh saw carefully manicured grounds, discreet signage, and security personnel in black pants and white polo shirts. The building itself was long and low, all horizontal lines and planes of pale stone.
Tim drove around a grassy circle and parked in a visitor space. Josh let himself out and picked up the leather portfolio he’d brought. Tim followed as he headed inside.
It was all very tasteful, very expensive, very quiet.
Just the place for the super-rich to warehouse their deranged relatives.
Josh smiled briefly. There you are. Good to know that, even under the circumstances, I can still find some way to be a jackass.
Oh, always. Always.
A very efficient woman smiled up at him from the main counter.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“My name’s Joshua Sulenski,” he said. “I’m here to see a patient. Alexander Tate.”
“Yes, sir.” She typed a burst of keystrokes on her computer. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t see you on the list of approved visitors.”
Why would he be on restricted access? Who’s making decisions about his care? Well, when in doubt, try lying.
“I’m on the board of the Thomas Kingsolver Foundation,” he said. “It’s a private charitable trust that funds cancer research. Mr. Tate’s still technically a member of the board. After the accident, no one had the heart to call a vote to remove him.”
That’s actually true.
Mere corroborative detail, intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. Here, here comes a lie.
“But a situation’s arisen that requires action from all members, so that compassion has rather backfired, I’m afraid.” He took a page of legalese from his portfolio and showed it to her. “I need to either secure his proxy or affirm that I saw him personally and agree that he is unable to fulfill his duties to the foundation.”
“That may be, sir, but without authorization, I can’t let you see Mr. Tate.”
Okay, you prepared for this. Who is on the list?
Josh took another piece of paper from his portfolio, an official-looking authorization to see Alexander Tate. On the signature line was an incomprehensible scrawl that could have been anyone’s name. As she showed it to her, a sudden idea struck him.
“I’ve an authorization from his son, Jason Tate.”
Her fingers fired off another burst of keystrokes, and she glanced at the screen. “Very well. I’ll have someone take you to Mr. Tate’s room.”
So Jason's on the approved list. Interesting. Has he ever been here?
She pressed a call button, and a few moments later, an orderly appeared through a side door. He was a large, dark-skinned man, with Polynesian features, wearing neatly pressed scrubs.
“Mr. Tate in seventeen
,” said the woman.
The orderly nodded. “If you’ll come with me, sir.”
Josh followed him down the empty, silent corridor with Tim following a couple steps behind. The place was like a tomb.
No, he corrected himself. A five-star hotel where they bury pharaohs.
Shut up, internal monolog.
Humor is a fundamental coping mechanism.
But that wasn’t funny.
The orderly stopped at a door and used a keycard clipped to his breast pocket to open it. The room was large, furnished minimally but expensively in tile, glass, and Scandinavian woods. Open windows looked out over the water, and the breeze billowed the gauzy white curtains.
In the center of the room was a heavy hospital bed, tilted up so the figure lying in it could look out the windows. Behind it stood gleaming racks of monitoring equipment quietly hissing and beeping. As the orderly left them, Josh forced himself to move forward. The figure in the bed took no notice.
“Alex?” Josh said timidly. “Alex, it’s me. Josh Sulenski.”
The man in the bed turned his head. Alexander Tate was a shell of the man Josh had known. His skin was pale and seemed to sag from his skull. He struggled to focus his deeply sunken eyes. Josh remembered him with a full head of sandy-blond hair, but now it was thin and gray. He could see through it to Alexander’s liver-spotted scalp.
Tate’s eyes widened into an expression of fear, and he moaned softly.
Dear God, does he even know who I am?
“Josh Sulenski, do you remember?”
It was as if he’d aged forty years. Alexander Tate had been one of the princes of Silicon Valley. Now his world was a view of the water, an adjustable bed, and a mahogany side table that held a plastic bedpan and a Styrofoam cup with a straw sticking out of its plastic lid.
With difficulty, Alexander pulled a frail, bony arm from beneath the covers. His forearm was taped up with injection ports and sensor pads. He waved it in Josh’s direction and made an “aaah” sound that stretched and modulated.
Josh realized he was afraid. Of Tate?
No, not of him, of this. This is death staring you in the face, saying your turn’s coming. Just tell him what you came to tell him and get out of here.
“I don’t know if you know this or not, but in case you don’t, I wanted to tell you that Jason’s all right. A friend of mine saw him in Mexico a couple days ago.”
At the mention of his son’s name, Tate grew more agitated. His keening grew louder, more insistent, and he shook his head with an irregular twitch.
All right, you told him. Let’s get the hell out of here.
But Josh couldn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, pinned there by the old man’s eyes. There was something there. Desperation? Some shred of the man he’d once been fighting to break out?
Trauma-induced dementia. He’s probably terrified of you. Just go already!
Josh didn’t move.
“I’m sorry, Alex,” he said softly. “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry I didn’t come see you after the accident.”
“Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah!”
Tate began to thrash in the bed, grimacing and slapping the bedcovers. The consoles behind him beeped more urgently. Josh backed away a step.
This was a mistake.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll go.”
Tate stopped moving. With what appeared to be a supreme effort, he calmed himself and beckoned Josh closer. Josh hesitated, but finally stepped up to the edge of the bed.
Tate took a deep breath. Then he reached out and clutched Josh’s wrist. Josh flinched but didn’t pull away.
Tate made a sound that seemed less like speech than noises leaking from his mouth. His expression sank, and he released Josh’s wrist with a moaning sigh.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I don’t understand.”
Tate pointed to the Styrofoam cup on the side table.
“Gah.”
“You want water?” Josh said in confusion.
Alexander shook his head. He took several deep, wheezing breaths. On the screens behind him, Josh could see the green phosphor trace of his heartbeat trending upward.
“Gah,” he repeated, and then he slapped his chest with his fingertips. “Nahn gah.”
He’s trying to tell you something. He’s desperate to tell you. What’s important to him here?
“Okay, I’m trying, Alex. What is it? What is it about the cup?”
Tate pointed at the cup. “Gah.” Then he made a new sound, a drone from the back of his throat. He varied the pitch, looking at Josh in frustration. The tone went up and down. He stopped to take a breath and then began again.
Come on, you remember that sound. Where have you heard that before?
It hit him suddenly.
Kids playing racecars. Engine noise. Shifting gears.
“A car?”
“Gah! Gah!” Punctuated by jabs at the cup with his bony fingers.
“Okay, the cup is a car?”
“Ahh!” He reached over and, with effort, pulled the straw from the lid with a faint, plastic screech.
He repeated the same sound and clutched the straw to his chest.
If the cup represents a car, what’s the straw?
“The driver?”
“Ahhhh!” Alexander gripped the straw in his fist and pounded his breastbone.
Not just a driver. Him.
Josh heard footsteps hurrying down the hall. The nurse must have checked out his story, and the gig was up. Alexander heard it as well. He moved the straw to his left hand, holding it against his chest and looking intently into Josh’s eyes. Then he turned, and with a guttural cry, he swept the cup from the table. It hit the floor, and the snap-on lid flew off, spraying water and crushed ice across the tile.
“Sir, you need to leave right now!”
Two security men with batons on their belts accompanied the front desk nurse. They moved toward him, but Tim dropped his hand to the butt of his pistol and snapped, “Keep back!”
Tim didn’t draw the gun, but he made sure they knew he had it. For a moment, there was a standoff as Josh felt a wave of horror sweep over him.
The accident. He’s … he’s telling you it wasn’t an accident … that he wasn’t in the car when it happened!
“We’re leaving!” he said. “It’s okay; we’re going.”
If he wasn’t in the car, then … Go! Get the hell out of here now!
“You heard him,” Tim said in a loud, commanding voice. “We’re leaving. Clear a path!”
Tim led the way past the security men and the nurse while Josh backed out behind him. Tate’s eyes were locked on his, pleading.
He mouthed, You weren’t in the car?
Tate shook his head fiercely and repeated, “Nahn gah.” He kept repeating it as the machines monitoring his status grew more frantic. An alarm started to chime, and the nurse took a handset from her pocket and thumbed the mic button. “I need a doctor, room seventeen. Now!”
Josh couldn’t look away from the raw fear and desperation in Tate’s sunken eyes until he’d rounded the corner into the hallway. Then he turned to see Tim hurrying him back toward the lobby with one hand on the butt of his gun and his eyes sweeping the doorways as they passed.
If he wasn’t in the car, how’d he get injured?
Josh had a sudden flash, a roadside at night. Two men holding a third by the shoulders while two more pushed a sleek, Italian sports car off the pavement. One at the rear, one at the open driver’s side door. The car vanished over the bank, and he imagined the sound of it plunging through brush and slamming hard into a tree trunk.
Then the man in the middle, terrified, helpless. The two holding him moved a step away, stretching out his arms and holding him in place, while the others picked up wooden baseball bats. Movement. Screams. The sound of breaking bones.
They stepped out the front doors of the hospital, and Tim hurried him into the back of the Mercedes. Then they sped away.
Oh my God. Oh my God. What do I do?
“You’re okay,” Tim was saying. “It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t. It was very far from all right.
CHAPTER 10
Early the next morning, Crane took one of the Emma’s two tenders across the bay to Punto Dorado. He cut the engine and coasted in to the dock. He didn’t see any movement as he approached and tied up the boat.
As he walked down the pier toward the empty courtyard, he caught a sudden flash of black hair and brown skin. A naked girl ran away across the flagstones, moving silently on the balls of her feet. She disappeared through the breezeway arch. Crane moved quietly to the large outdoor chaise she’d come from and found Orly Wilde fast asleep beneath a rumpled linen sheet. The remains of a serious bender—empty bottles, torn condom wrappers, alligator clips—surrounded the chaise. The scent of marijuana lingered in the air.
He watched Orly for nearly a minute before deciding he was still fast asleep. Crane shrugged and looked around at the doors lining the courtyard. Some clearly led into the restaurant space or its kitchen. One he’d already seen; it was where Tate kept his guns and clay pigeons. He would just have to check the others in order. He took a slim brace of lockpicks from inside his sleeve and got to work.
The rooms were forgotten guest rooms with dusty furniture, storage rooms full of junk, a utility room with a water heater and electrical junction boxes. The fifth room had a different lock on the door, considerably more substantial than the cheap locks on the others. Should have checked this one first, Crane chided himself.
He opened the lock, and the door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges. The room held stacked wooden shipping crates and some kind of machine on a table. He checked the topmost crates and found miscellaneous parts for AR-15 rifles. Now he was getting somewhere. The machine was connected to an old PC, and Crane realized it was a computer-controlled milling machine. Specifically, it was set up to mill AR-15 lower receivers out of metal blanks he found nearby.
In the eyes of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the lower receiver was what made a gun. The barrels, trigger assemblies, stocks, and other components that filled the crates were just parts. Orly could buy those with no more trouble or official interest than he’d draw buying shoes. It was the receiver that was regulated. So Orly was buying AR-15 parts and then milling the receivers himself and building untraceable automatic rifles.
