“Chief! No!”
Loren smiled again. “Yes. I am the sword and arm of the Lord, and the town is given unto my hand.”
“No! That’s crazy!”
“It’s the Day of Wrath, pachuco. Guess what Rickey preached on this morning.”
Cipriano gave a cry and raised his right arm.
Then time seemed to give a little skip, popping from one point on the t-axis to another, and suddenly Loren’s ears were ringing with the sound of shots and he was staring in shock at Cipriano, who had fallen next to the car with several bullets in him.
The recoil from the Mac-11 had numbed his hand. Loren looked down at it in surprise. He didn’t even remember pulling the trigger.
He hadn’t been ready to shoot Cipriano at all. Earlier, yes, but not now. He didn’t think Cipriano would have . . .
His heart thrashed in his chest, echoed the shots in his ears. He tried to reconstruct what had happened. Cipriano must have made a move, he thought. Lunged at him, with his arm up. The shots were just reflex, defensive.
He knelt down by Cipriano just in time to see light die in the man’s startled eyes. The strength went out of Loren and he sagged against the car.
Atonement, he knew, hadn’t even started yet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Loren rose from his crouch by Cipriano’s corpse and walked to the door of the utility shack. Hard soil crunched under his feet. Red oozed like spreading blood across the western horizon. His ears still rang with the sound of shots.
By his foot was the broken padlock he’d pried open earlier in the day. A gleaming new padlock sat in its place. Loren opened it with his shiny new key and entered the room.
The corrugated roof boomed in the wind. Loren could taste the thick dust that wafted through the air. The light switch didn’t work; the power had long since been turned off.
In the dim light Loren could see the mounded tarps under which lay some of the explosives and incendiaries Loren had moved from the Wahoo Mine. He rearranged the explosives so as to free one of the tarps, then took it outside, spread it out next to Cipriano, rolled the body onto it, and dragged it into the shack. He pulled the body all the way to the dimly lit rear, then partly hid it with the tarpaulin.
The expression of stunned surprise remained fixed on Cipriano’s shadowed face. Loren stared at it for a moment.
He had never pointed his gun at a neighbor. He’d been proud of that. He’d never shot anybody or shot at anybody.
Now who did he start with?
His heart flailed in his chest, trying to find the beat, some rhythm that made sense of everything.
Anger came to his rescue, anger that filled the whole of his being. They had made him do this. They had turned neighbor against neighbor.
He had only wanted his town to be nice.
He made his feet carry him to the door and looked back to make sure that the explosives were still under cover. He closed the door and the hasp and let the padlock hang open from the shackle. Then he picked up the Ingram from where he’d left it, scuffed some dirt over the spilled blood, took the satchel from the car, and walked across the mesa toward town.
Anger beat snare drums in his blood. He marched to its rhythm.
A hundred fifty yards from the shack a narrow arroyo barred his path, one of the dozens of twisting, eroded waterways that wound, in this case north, to the Rio Seco. Loren slid down the steep bank and walked along the tortured, tumbleweed-packed arroyo bottom till he came to an area where the earth wall had eroded and crumbled, forming a little ramp. In this little natural alcove he had stashed his gear wrapped in his camouflage hunter’s jacket. The barrel and hollowed-out stock of the Dragunov stuck out of each end of the bundle. A child’s stocking, purchased at Fernando’s Hi-Lo store along with the padlock and the satchel, protected the muzzle from dust. He looked down at the weapon and felt a savage joy, the clean pure call of righteousness sounding in his veins.
Loren unwrapped the bundle and propped the Dragunov, the stocking still over the muzzle, against the arroyo wall. Loren put on a pair of gloves, his flak jacket, then his camouflage hunting jacket over it. He took a camouflage-pattern watch cap from his jacket pocket and put it on his head, pulling it down over the ears. He hung the field glasses around his neck, set the safety on the Mac-11, and put it in one of the big pockets of the jacket. It fit easily.
He wanted to make himself ready, perfect himself. He envied the Apaches their sweat lodges and their paint, the ability to purge the old self and create a new, angry identity with just streaks of natural pigment. If he’d had paints handy, he would have striped his face.
The detonator for the explosives sat where he’d left it, a little plastic box, just big enough to hold a battery. There was one wire that he hadn’t connected to the terminal. He reached into another jacket pocket and pulled out the detonator manual. Reading carefully, he twisted the last copper thread around the terminal, took off the cap that grounded the system against any static built up from the wires being rolled by the wind, made sure the switch was set to Off, and propped the detonator on the edge of the arroyo.
He took the sock off the end of the Dragunov and stuck it in another pocket. He climbed the eroded part of the arroyo wall, lay down on the brown soil with his body hidden below ground level, and looked at the landscape through the field glasses.
Huge tumbleweeds bounced across the plain. The shack and the line of chain link behind it glowed red in the setting sun. Yucca and ocotillo waved in the gusting wind. Tailings piles were mounded up on the far side of the invisible copper pit, a new mountain that obscured the real ones beyond.
It looked just like a UFO landing field was supposed to look. What else?
The setting sun was burning the back of his neck. He turned up the collar of the hunting jacket.
Cipriano was a traitor, he reminded himself. He bragged about how he sold out.
And he’d helped them kill Jerry.
Dead men flickered through his mind like images on a reel of film: Jernigan with his scowl, Vlasic dismembered, Randal1 spitting blood, Randal2 calling Loren’s name.
Jerry lying crumpled next to the Taurus, red broken taillight glass scattered over him. Being zipped into the white plastic bag.
Loren’s blood screamed for vengeance. He was doing the Lord’s work.
Shadow covered the mesa, the tailings above glowing red, floating over the darkened land like clouds. A few lonely cars zoomed past on Highway 82, headlights already on. Loren spit dust from his mouth and wished he had thought to bring a canteen.
He heard gears grinding, then the roar of an engine. The sound was somewhere to his left, across the mesa. He looked that way, saw nothing from his little niche in the arroyo wall, then raised his head to get a better view.
Red firelight gleamed on silver farther down the arroyo. Loren narrowed his eyes and finally made out a whip antenna jouncing slowly down the arroyo.
Alarms shrieked in his heart. Patience had brought his own backup: that was one of his Blazers moving down the arroyo, moving toward Loren, only the antenna showing above the level of the ground. There was no way the driver in the Blazer could avoid seeing him as he passed by.
Loren dropped the Dragunov and clawed for the Mac-11 as he slid down the eroded arroyo wall. He yanked the gun out of his pocket, lost his grip on it, saw it fall. A desperate two-handed lunge managed to snatch the gun from the air. He juggled it for a moment, got his fist around the pistol grip, flicked off the safety, yanked the bolt back, and saw gleaming brass wink briefly as an already-chambered live round was pointlessly ejected . . .
The Blazer engine revved for a second, then died away. Loren froze, terror thundering in his veins. A door slammed shut.
Loren pointed the machine pistol down the arroyo and strained to hear footsteps over the fierce percussion of his own heart. He heard nothing but long gusts of wind.
A pair of vehicles passed on the highway, one-two, the hiss of the tires carried to him on the wind
. Loren heard them downshift, one after the other, just after they passed his position, then heard the engines begin to labor. Turning off the highway, Loren figured, driving to the shack.
Loren’s mouth was dry and full of dust. Sweat gathered under his watch cap. He didn’t know how many people had been in that first Blazer, knew only that it had parked just a few yards away and that whoever had been in it was probably on an errand similar to his own.
He slowly lowered the pistol and turned back to the embankment. Little brown rivers of dust cascaded from his feet and knees as he slowly crawled up the crumbled arroyo wall. He cautiously lifted his head above the level of the ground, saw two chocolate-brown Blazers making their way to the equipment shack. The sun was well below the horizon; the mounded tailings were growing dark. Loren edged his eyes to the left and saw, less than ten yards away, the muzzle of a long rifle sticking out from behind the twisted trunk of a dead scrub oak.
Whoever was behind the rifle couldn’t be seen because the oak had captured a dozen or so tumbleweeds that screened the shooter.
Loren slid his eyes back to the two Blazers in front of him. He slowly put the Mac-11 onto the ground, then reached for the Dragunov. His hands were sweating inside the gloves.
The two ATL vehicles came to a stop, one behind the other, a good twenty yards from the equipment shack. Doors opened and people stepped out onto the ground. Loren shouldered his rifle and put his eye to the soft rubber eyepiece of the 4x Fujinon telescopic sight.
It was too dark to distinguish one figure from another through the scope. Ironic regret passed through Loren that he’d bought more precise Japanese optics for hunting instead of keeping the Russian military sight that came standard with the gun and that featured infrared night capability.
Never mind. It would get light enough in a minute.
He took his eye away from the scope and stared through the increasing gloom at the ATL people. There were four of them: two had taken positions, lounging elaborately, behind the open doors of the rearmost vehicle, and another pair— dark, indistinguishable silhouettes against the bright tailings piles— were advancing toward the shack. There weren’t any weapons in sight but Loren felt confident they were there. Probably the other two UZIs taken from the safe in his office, plus some Tanfoglios carefully fitted with new .41-caliber barrels.
Four of them, Loren thought. Patience, Nazzarett, McLerie, Denardis.
Who was the guy to his left? At least one other person was a part of this. And everyone’s identity was hidden in a cloud of uncertainty.
Targets, he thought. And the rifle was like the LINAC, accelerating its bullets to terminal velocity.
One of the first pair waited by the door of the shack while another disappeared around behind, presumably to look at Cipriano’s car. Loren hoped that darkness would hide the blood on the ground. If they were calling out or knocking on the door, Loren couldn’t hear it over the sound of the wind.
Neither of them was in a position to see the detonator wire.
If only, he thought, Patience hadn’t been so fucking arrogant. If he’d just told him the truth, that they’d arrested an unknown man, that the man had made a run for it in a stolen car, and that they’d shot him— if he’d only met Loren that far, Loren would have written his report and stuck it in a file cabinet, and the D.A. would have declined to file charges, and that would have been the end of it.
Damn him, Loren thought. Damn him for making me do this.
He reached his left hand for the detonator and flipped the switch to On. A red LED shone. His hands were trembling with anger. He took a firmer grip on the rifle with his right hand, pressed it against his shoulder to steady it, and held his left thumb over the detonator button.
The goon by the door opened it and gave the interior a careful look, most of his body covered by the door frame. His friend rejoined him, and the two slipped inside.
Find the body, Loren thought. Find the body and call to your buddies.
Instead there was a shout that Loren heard even over the blustering wind. The man standing by the driver’s door of the second Blazer straightened, waving, obviously urging his comrades to run to the vehicles and get out of there.
Choirs of angels sang in Loren’s brain. Day of Wrath, he thought, and pressed the button.
The explosion was immense and the shock wave tore the breath from Loren’s lungs. He’d had no idea of the power of the plastique he’d used, and hadn’t understood the complex math in the manuals; he’d just stuck a couple of the blocks together around a detonator. Sheets of blackened galvanized metal tumbled into the air like twisted pieces of cardboard. The incendiaries Loren had placed around the plastique scattered liquid fire in high streaming arcs. The two men by the rear Blazer were blown off their feet. The windows of the vehicles shattered into crystal shards.
It was bright as day. Loren brought the Dragunov to the firing position and put his eye to the sight. Lowering the conditions of uncertainty.
The man struggling to his feet in front of his vehicle was Vincent Nazzarett. Hatred boiled in Loren’s veins. One of Randal’s killers, probably one of Jerry’s. Nazzarett was dragging at the pistol under his arm. His white shirt glowed in the light of the fire.
Loren centered the cross hairs on Nazzarett’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The rifle punched Loren’s shoulder; concussion bruised his ears. Through the scope he saw the impact clearly, the puff of dust or blood or whatever it was blown off the man by the force of the bullet, by the accelerated particle impacting its target . . . and then Loren was startled by the way the man fell, his limbs suddenly liquid as if the bones had been torn clean out of his body. The man wasn’t knocked back like dead men were in movies; he just fell straight down like a sack of rocks.
Loren’s nerves twisted at the sight, and then joyous heat flashed through his body, and he wanted to scream in triumph, a ululating Apache yell. He turned the gun on the other man, the one on the other side of the Blazer. He could feel his hands trembling with anticipation and he struggled to control them.
Sheets of galvanized metal were raining from the sky, scattering bursts of flame when they struck. The other target ran out around the front of his vehicle to look at Nazzarett’s crumpled form. Loren could see an UZI in his hand.
Screaming hatred flashed through Loren’s mind as he realized he was looking at Patience. He fired, pure reflex, and the bullet exploded a rearview mirror near Patience’s hand. Patience ducked and began running around the front of the Blazer again. Loren pursued him with bullets. He didn’t think he hit anything.
Earth fountained by Loren’s position— once, twice, concussion heavy on Loren’s ears— and then Loren ducked as terror flooded his veins. He’d forgotten about the man on his left.
He backed, sliding down into the arroyo as he reached for the Mac-11. He fumbled with the safety and flipped it off. The other man continued to fire, showering Loren with flying dust. Apparently he couldn’t see Loren’s position from behind the oak’s twisted trunk and the screen of tumbleweed; he was just firing blindly toward the sound of Loren’s own shots.
Loren flung off the little gun’s safety and, out of pure nervous energy, worked the bolt again and dropped another gleaming bullet uselessly onto the sand. His heart thundered in his throat. Sweat was running down his face, pouring down his body. He stuck the gun out in front of him and started moving down the arroyo.
The gun blasts ceased. The clumps of brown grass at the rim of the arroyo were rimmed with reflected red and silver— the incendiaries had set the whole mesa ablaze. All the gunshots had set up a wailing in Loren’s ears that wouldn’t go away; he couldn’t hear his own footsteps. He couldn’t tell where anything was: everyone, all the particle-players, had vanished into an uncertainty relation.
The arroyo came to a turn and Loren pressed his back to the crumbling arroyo wall. Patience’s sniper had to be right on the other side, maybe waiting for him.
Loren jumped at the blast of another shot. Somet
hing glittering dropped at his feet. Another pair of shots cracked out, and two more objects dropped to the ground. Loren recognized them as brass rifle casings, then felt panic skidder through him as he realized the sniper was standing right over his head, firing suppressive shots into Loren’s old position.
Loren jumped out into the arroyo, spinning, raising the little gun, and found himself staring into the widened eyes of a total stranger crouched on the edge of the arroyo. There was a startled moment of mutual recognition while Loren froze, perceiving a humanity he had not expected, and then the man narrowed his eyes and started swinging the rifle in Loren’s direction and Loren squeezed the trigger and turned the man into an object, a disgusting piece of hammered meat lying on his gun with one hand dangling over the brink of the arroyo . . . Loren held the trigger down till the bolt locked back and the magazine was empty, and then had to restrain himself from rushing forward and beating at the corpse with the empty gun.
Son of a bitch, Loren thought. He had read the look in his enemy’s eyes. The man had tried to use Loren’s moment of paralysis, the sudden wave of empathy, to kill him. Son of a bitch
Loren remembered Patience, dropped the Mac-11, and ran for where he’d left the Dragunov. He grabbed the rifle, clambered back up the little slope, flopped on his belly.
There was an explosion as the gas tank of Cipriano’s Fury went up. The wind tore at scudding flames, drew gray smoke out into a long flat plume. Loren had succeeded in starting a fair-sized range fire.
Loren blinked sweat from his eyes. Taillights flashed on the second Blazer, and then it was in motion. Patience was running. Loren shouldered the Dragunov, aimed at the passenger compartment, fired. The Blazer swerved off the road, passed behind the other vehicle. Loren fired three more times into the rear of his target and saw sparks fly as his fast-moving particles impacted their target. The rifle bolt locked back on an empty magazine and the Blazer didn’t slow down.
Days of Atonement Page 46
