Pellam said to Hannah, "You killed Barnes but you needed a fall guy, so you picked up the hitchhiker, who would've taken the blame. It was going to be easy. Kill the real estate guy, plant some of his things on Taylor, a little DNA...It probably would've worked. But then--ah, got it now--then came the monkey wrench. Me."
Hannah said, "After Barnes was dead I saw you with that fancy video camera of yours. I was afraid you'd got me on tape."
"And you undid my brake line." He gave a brittle laugh. "Sure, you know cars--the way you talked Rudy down with the brake lights incident. You were going to go through the wreckage and find the camera and tapes."
"Except you got to the switchback faster than I thought you would and rammed into me."
Pellam understood. "Change of plans, sure. You decided to go for cocktails in my camper. You get the tapes when I went to the convenience store?"
"I got 'em." She nodded, presumably at the truck, parked nearby.
"But you still needed the fall guy." Pellam looked toward Ed Billings. "And you showed up to kidnap Taylor, dress up in his clothes and kill the trooper."
"Right."
"And now I kill Taylor and he kills me. End of story."
Hannah had lost interest in the narrative. "Yeah," she said. "Shoot him. I'm bored with all this crap. I want to get home."
Hamlin has a mall...
Just like the end of a Quentin Tarantino film. The filmmaker tended to fall back on the good old Mexican standoff, everybody pointing a gun at each other.
"Only one thing," Pellam said, buying time.
"What's that?" Ed asked.
"When does she shoot you?"
"Me?"
"That's the scenario, situations like this. The girl sets it all up and then shifts the blame to her husband. He takes the fall and she rides off into the sunset with the money."
A brief pause. Ed said, "You know the flaw in that? You can only do it once. And so far we're worth more to each other alive."
He lifted the Glock.
Which was when a series of lights came on and voices started shouting, "Police, police! On the ground, drop the weapons!" and similar assorted cop phrases, all enthusiastically punctuated.
Pellam supposed that Sheriff Werther and the others were charging forward with their assault rifles and executing some nifty arrest procedures.
He couldn't say. At the first flash of spotlight he'd dropped to his belly and ducked. Another aspect of noir stories is that everybody has a gun and is always real eager to use it.
*
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER Pellam was leaning against the side of Sheriff Werther's car. He handed back the tracking device--it looked like a garage door opener--that the man had slipped into his pocket at the sham arrest two hours ago, in front of the Winnebago.
"Worked pretty good," Pellam observed.
Werther, though, winced, looking at it. "Truth be told, seems there was only five minutes or so of battery left."
Meaning, Pellam assumed, that if they hadn't tracked him to the quarry in that time he'd now be dead.
"Ah."
But considering that the sheriff's plan had been thrown together quickly, it was understandable that there'd been a glitch or two.
When Pellam had been patched through to Werther after finding the trooper dead and Rudy injured, the sheriff had explained that the medical examiner had given the opinion that the man had been stabbed by someone who was short--five five or less, given the angle of the knife wounds. "And remember, somebody'd tried to drag the body to a cave? The trooper thought it was that they'd been spotted. Fact is, I decided they just weren't strong enough."
Those facts suggested the killer might be a woman, he explained.
Well, there were two women having something to do with the case, Werther had said: Hannah and Lis. And each of them had a male partner who could be an accomplice. So the sheriff decided to set up a trap to find out if either of them was the killer. But he needed Pellam's help. The location scout was supposed to let both Hannah and Lis know that he was searching for Taylor.
Turning himself into a fall guy.
Whoever showed up at the quarry to kill him would be the guilty party.
Taylor was at the hospital in Redding for observation. Ed Billings had whaled on him pretty bad. When he'd said good-bye to Pellam a half hour before, he'd smiled ruefully and said, "Hey, quite an experience, hm?"
"Good luck with the poems," the location scout had told him as he walked to the ambulance.
"Say," Werther now asked Pellam, "did you get anybody on tape at Devil's Playground?"
Pellam gave a sour laugh. "Not a soul."
"Hm, too bad. Though I don't suspect we need the evidence."
"You've got property around there, too, don't you, Sheriff?" Pellam asked wryly.
"Oh, what Rita was saying? Yeah, I do. Vacation house that I rent out. Helps for some of the expenses my son has."
For his autistic grandchild, Pellam recalled.
"You suspect me?" Werther asked.
"No, sir, never occurred to me."
It had.
"Okay...Now, about that little matter you and I horse-traded on? It's all taken care of," the sheriff said.
"Thanks."
"You earned it."
Pellam then asked for his brother-in-law's phone number.
"Rudy? He can't get your camper in shape until tomorrow."
"This is about something else."
Motion in the corner of his eye. Hannah Billings was being led across the parking area in front of the quarry to a squad car. She glanced his way.
A phrase came to Pellam's mind:
If looks could kill...
*
HERE'S RITA AT THE DINER, her name proudly stitched on her impressive bosom.
She's doing what she does best with diligence and polite mien, and with no tolerance for nonsense from former movie directors turned location scouts, from flirtatious poets, from killers noir at heart, from saints. Anybody. She takes waitressing seriously.
Pellam wasn't in the mood for frozen so he'd arranged a private vehicle rental from Rudy (yes, the bile-green Gremlin, which was, he knew, a very underrated vehicle--it could beat the Pinto and VW Beetle hands down, at least with the optional four-speed BorgWarner).
He's finished a meatloaf dinner and orders pie with cheese. He didn't used to like this combo but, really, who shouldn't? It doesn't get any better than sweet apples and savory Kraft. He'd go for a whiskey, but that's not an option at the Overlook, so it's coffee, which is exemplary.
He gets a call on his cell. The director of Paradice is ecstatic that Pellam has secured a permit to shoot in Devil's Playground after all.
"How'd you do it?"
Put my life on the line to catch a femme fatale, he thinks, earning Sheriff Werther's friendship and assistance in all things governmental here.
"Just pulled some strings."
"Ah, I love string pullers," the director says breathily.
Pellam thinks about suggesting a new name for the film: Devil's Playground. But he knows in his heart that the director will never buy it--he just loves his misspelled title.
Fine. It's his movie, not mine.
As he ends the call Pellam feels eyes aimed his way. He looks up and believes that Rita is casting him a flirt, which is not by any means a bad thing.
Then he glances at her with a smile and sees she is, in fact, looking a few degrees past him. It's toward a young man standing beside a revolving dessert display, featuring cakes that seem three feet high. He's looking back at her. The nervous boy is handsome if pimply. He sits down at the end of the counter, isolated so he can gab a bit with her in private. He also will, Pellam knows, leave a five-dollar tip, though he can't really afford it, on a ten-dollar tab, which will both embarrass and enthrall her.
Ain't love grand?
The pie comes in for a landing and Pellam indulges. It's good, no question.
His thoughts wander. He's considering his time in P
aradice, wait, no in Gurney, and he decides that, just like State Route 14, life sometimes is a switchback. You never know what's going to happen around the next hairpin, or who's who and what's what.
But other times the road doesn't curve at all. It's straight as a ruler for miles and miles. What you see ahead is exactly what you're going to get, no twists, no surprises. And the people you meet are just what they seem to be. The environmentalist is simply passionate about saving the earth. The hitchhiking poet is nothing more or less than a self-styled soul mate of Jack Kerouac, rambling around the country in search of who knows what. The sheriff is a hardworking pro with a conscience and a grandkid who needs particular looking after.
And the sexy cowgirl with red nails and a feather in her Stetson is exactly the bitch you pretty much knew in your heart she'd turn out to be.
THE COMPETITORS
OLYMPIC STADIUMS are unlike any other structures on earth.
From the 1936 sports complex in Berlin to the 1976 Montreal games' soaring edifice, taller than the Washington Monument...all such stadiums exude true magnificence, each a testament to a pivotal moment in human history.
The power, though, derives less from architecture than from the spirit of competitions past and competitions to come, an energy filling the massive spaces like the cries of spectators. An Olympic stadium is where you test yourself against your fellow man. For that defines human nature.
This philosophical thought was going through the mind of Yuri Umarov as he gazed at the world's most recent Olympic stadium, brilliantly conceived to resemble a bird's nest, its image rippling in the heat.
Yuri, sitting, coated in sweat, beside the cinder track of a Beijing high school, where, along with dozens of other people--local and international--he'd been working out all morning.
Competition. Winning. Bringing glory to your countrymen.
He felt this spirit now, this energy.
Though he also felt exhausted. And the glory he sought seemed extremely elusive. His legs and side hurt from pounding along the track the hundredth time since 5 a.m. His lungs hurt from inhaling the thick air. The government here had supposedly been working to cleanse the atmosphere but to Yuri, a country boy from the mountains, it was like training in a roomful of smokers.
He looked up and saw his mentor approach.
Gregor Dallayev, white haired, twice his age, walked briskly. Still athletic himself, the man, who sported a massive mustache, was wearing white slacks and a dark shirt with a collar. Sweat stains blossomed under his arms, but he appeared otherwise unmoved by the fierce summer heat.
He was also unmoved by Yuri's performance.
"You are sitting down," Gregor said impatiently in Russian.
Yuri stood immediately. He took the water the man held and drank half down, then poured the rest on his head and shoulders. He was breathing harder than he needed to, trying to convince the older man that he was truly exhausted. Gregor's sharp eye studied the athlete with a look that said, "Don't try to fool me. I've seen that before."
"That last run was not acceptable." He held up a stopwatch. "Look at that time."
Sweat clouded Yuri's eyes and he could hardly see the watch itself, much less the digital numbers.
"I was..." Yuri was going to come up with an excuse, a cramp, a slippery patch of cinders. But Gregor would not accept excuses from anyone. And in fact they tasted bad in Yuri's mouth, too. Such was his upbringing and training, during his nineteen years of life. "I'm sorry."
Gregor, though, relented, smiling. "Beastly sun. Not like home."
"No, sir. It's not like home at all."
Then, as they walked back to the starting line, Gregor was once again the taskmaster. "Do you know what your problem is?"
There were undoubtedly many of them. Yuri found it easier to say, "No, sir."
His mentor said softly, "You are not seeing the second ribbon."
"The second ribbon?"
Gregor nodded. "In there," he said, nodding at the stadium sitting in the hazy sun, "in there, the best runners will not be running to break the tape with their chests at the finish line."
"They won't?"
"No!" the mentor scoffed. "They will not even see the tape. They won't even see the finish line. They will be concentrating on the second ribbon."
"Where is the second ribbon, sir?"
"It is beyond the finish line. Maybe ten feet, maybe twenty. Maybe one."
"I don't think I've ever seen it."
"You don't see it, not with your eyes. You see it in here." He touched his chest. "In your heart."
Yuri waited for him to finish, as he knew the older man would.
"That is the ribbon you must reach. It's the goal beyond the goal. See, inferior runners will slow as they approach the end of the race. But you won't. You will continue on faster and faster, even though you can go no faster. You must pass through the finish line as if it's not there and fly straight to the second ribbon."
"I think I understand, sir."
Gregor looked at him closely. "Yes, I think you do. Tomorrow, any time over thirty seconds is failure. Your whole journey here will have been wasted. You don't wish to disgrace yourself and your country, do you?"
"Of course not, sir."
"Good. Let's try it again. Your last run was thirty-one point two seconds. That's not enough. Now, take your mark. And this time, run for the second ribbon."
*
BILLY SAVITCH was the youngest on the American team.
In his thin nylon running suit, emblazoned with the tricolor U.S. flag, he was wandering around the American compound, nodding hello to the athletes he knew, pausing to chat with the staff. And ignoring the flirts from the girls. Billy had no interest in them but you could understand why they'd smile his way. He was rugged and handsome and charming. With his crew cut and sharp eyes and chiseled face he looked like a cowboy--which they still had a fair amount of in his home state of Texas.
This was the second time he'd been out of the country and the first time to the Olympics, though, of course, he watched the games every four years--in the past on the big screen TV at his parents' house and, the last one, on his very small screen TV, in the house that he shared with his wife and baby daughter.
And, my God, just think about it. Here he was in China, part of the most famous sporting event of the world. It was the best thing that had happened to him ever, short of being a husband and father.
Though there was a bit of a taint on the experience.
His junior status. He was just a green kid. And, as an all-star running back on his team at home, it was hard for him to be relegated to the bottom of the barrel. Not that his colleagues didn't treat him politely. It's just that they rarely even noticed him.
Tomorrow was the start of the games and he knew he'd be virtually ignored.
He shouldn't complain. But he was ambitious and had a restless streak about him--that's what had driven him here in the first place. Doing what he believed he was meant to do.
He lifted the bottle of water to his lips and drank a huge amount. He looked at his watch. In a half hour he could get into the gym and work out. He was looking forward to it. He'd worked out for two hours yesterday and he'd work out for two hours again today. His arms were solid as steel, his legs, too.
"Savitch!"
He turned immediately, hearing the voice of the man who was responsible for his being here.
Muscular and with a narrow, etched face, Frederick Alston strode quickly over the grass. That was one thing about him. He never made you come to him. He had that kind of confidence. He could walk right up to you and you'd still feel you'd been summoned. Despite the heat, he wore a suit and tie--which he always did. Whatever the weather, whatever the occasion.
Alston stopped and looked him over. The young man didn't expect a long conversation; that wasn't Alston's way. While some directors here would micromanage and look over the shoulder of their teams, Alston didn't. If you couldn't pull your share, you were out. Just like tha
t.
And in fact this encounter was brief.
What did surprise--no, shock--Billy, though, was the content of the short exchange.
"I think you're ready to go on the field. Are you?"
"Ready to what?"
"Are you ready to go on the field?" Alston repeated, seemingly irritated that he had to.
"Yessir."
"Good. Tomorrow. Nine a.m."
"Opening day?" Billy blurted.
Alston's mouth tightened. "When is opening day?"
"Tomorrow."
"Then I guess that's what I mean." He started away. Then stopped. "One thing, Savitch?"
"Yessir?"
"Don't screw up."
"No, sir."
And with that his only advice, Alston turned, walking away briskly, leaving the young man standing beside a practice track, sweating in sunlight as strong and hot as anything Texas had ever produced.
*
CH'AO YUAN was in his forties, a solid man with lotioned hair, cut short. He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt. He was a government bureaucrat, former Communist Party official, and presently the head of security at the stadium. He was one of a half-dozen such security officers--as with all Olympics, there were dozens of venues around the city--but he knew that his was the most prestigious of the assignments. And the most stressful. The big bird nest would be the target for enemies, of which his country had more than a few.
Not to mention the Israelis and Americans and Iranians.
And the Iraqis...Oh, please.
Now, late afternoon before the first day of games, he was sitting in a modest room in one of the many temporary office buildings constructed for the Olympics. (The games, Ch'ao had learned, were partly athletic, but mostly business, which meant paperwork.)
He was sitting forward, looking over his computer on which was a decrypted email, which had been sent to him from an internal intelligence contact. He'd read it once. And now he was reading it again.
Trying to figure out where this fell on the scale of dangers.
Security for the event was, of course, intense.
There were a number of systems in place. A security fence perimeter around the stadium. Passes with computer chips embedded in them. Fingerprint detectors, iris scanners. Metal detectors, of course, as well as bomb sniffers--dogs and machines at entryways. Alarms on all the service doors. Automatic backup generators that took only thirty seconds to kick in and could support the entire power requirements of the stadium. And there were backups on those.
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