Bear felt the bore of his Remington grind against the soft flesh at the back of Henderson’s throat, and he thought about seven well-knotted garbage bags, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Henderson’s eyes bulged until his lids disappeared, blood drooling from his split lips.
Bear stood poised over him, sweat hammering through his pores. His left ear rang—the ricochet had screamed right past his head.
Somewhere Precious was yelping.
He withdrew the shotgun from Henderson’s mouth.
Palton flipped Henderson like a pancake, cinching flex-cuffs around his wrists.
The other deputies were fanning out, kicking doors, two cells peeling back to help Guerrera sweep the warehouse. A shard of the blacked-out window had fallen away beneath the bullet hole. Outside, Precious lay bowed on her side, hind legs scrabbling on asphalt; she’d taken the ricochet. Miller crouched over her, his eyes wet.
From a dark doorway, Thomas cried out, “Bear. Bear!”
Head buzzing, Bear trudged over. It was like walking through syrup.
He braced himself, forearm against the jamb.
In the center of the maintenance closet, a bloody face intercepted the dim plane of light from the open door.
His lower lip had come loose; a flap lay across his cradling palm like a cut of meat. He peered out from a black eye swollen to the size of an orange and rasped in a halting, just-audible voice, “Master Sergeant Tim Rackley, date of birth 10/4/69, service number five-four-eight-seven-nine-zero-five-three-three.”
FORTY-SEVEN
The sterile light felt like pins sticking in his eyes. He squeezed his lids shut and tried to roll over, but his body did not respond.
The clatter of gurney wheels, the sickly-sweet smell of antiseptic, the throb of a needle in his arm—he was in a hospital. He heard some commotion at his bedside; his brain fought to make sense of it.
The bed creaked as someone leaned over him, and he inhaled her blissful scent—jasmine, lotion, gunpowder.
“County was closed to trauma, so we medevacked you to UCLA Med Center. It’s Thursday, April twenty-ninth. Five thirty-two P.M. ” Thursday night. Jesus, he’d lost two days.
“You’re going to be okay. Henderson shot you full of Versed. The ART squad pulled you out of that warehouse. Do you remember?”
He shook his head. His memory held nothing between killing Randall and waking up drugged in his cold concrete box, squinting against the round shimmer of Dr. Henderson’s lenses. Henderson had proceeded to beat him senseless.
“We’ve got to get Leah out.” His voice, hoarse with dehydration, was unrecognizable. He managed a few sentences to fill her in, the effort leaving him exhausted.
He heard a scratching of pen on paper; God love her, she was taking notes. “Were there more than five kidnappers?”
Eyes still closed, Tim counted sluggishly, then shook his head.
“We found seven garbage bags sharing what was left of Randall Kane and Stanley John Mitchell.” Her voice wavered; Tim could tell she was overcome, sticking to shop talk to hold herself together. “We hooked and booked the other three.”
A cranky female voice—”Officer, you’ll need to ask him questions later.”
“I’m his wife.”
“Oh.”
When Tim smiled, something poked into his lower lip. He heard her make a soft noise—she was grinning back—then he felt her cool hand on his forehead, and she said shakily, “Boy, oh, boy.”
He reached for her, and she took his hand and pressed it to her chest. After a moment he moved his palm down. She unbuttoned her uniform, and he slid his hand through, resting it on her stomach.
Some forty-five minutes later, a harried doctor blew through the room, eyes glued to a chart. He addressed Tim as Mrs. Gonzalez and told him his baby was safe in the nursery and his hysterectomy had gone smoothly. Only Tim’s pained chuckle had made the doc glance up, then he’d checked Tim’s vitals, mumbling about idiot nurses, and scurried out.
Dray went to raise hell.
Soon after she got back, two physicians sounded the doctor-patented knock-and-open at the door. “Mr. Rackley?”
“Uh-huh.”
“We worked on you Tuesday night. Your wife said Dr. L. didn’t discuss your condition with you?”
“He said I can resume breast-feeding immediately, as soon as I’m off Percocet.”
“If you can find someone to breast-feed you, have at it.”
The other doctor with him, an attractive blonde with faint but pervasive facial scarring, laughed. She passed him a clipboard, and he squeezed her wrist to thank her. Tim’s eyes went to their matching platinum wedding bands.
“You sustained multiple rib contusions and a hairline fracture on the right sixth. Not much you can do about the break, but be careful. I reset your nose. No septal hematoma, so you’ll just have to tough it out for a while.” His fingers fluttered gently around Tim’s right eye. “No orbital fracture, no internal injuries, but you’re beat up all over. Your right knee is probably in the worst shape—you have multiple torn ligaments and extensive bruising and swelling. We had to shave part of your goatee—”
“No problem,” Dray said.
“—so we could get that lip stitched up. I had plastics come down, and they did a fine job, nearly twenty-five sutures. We don’t want to disappoint the paparazzi, right?”
He extended a hand, and they shook, Tim’s IV tube pulling tight. Tim recognized him and started to say something, but the doctors’ pagers went off simultaneously. Like mirror images, they tilted the units, scanning the text screens. They filed out before Tim could thank them.
Just before the door closed, Tim heard the male doctor’s voice once more, directed at his wife. “Nice to meet a fellow tabloid star.”
The ICU attending finally cleared Tim to a private room with a phone. He was dialing before the nurse withdrew. He reached the marshal at home and recounted his experience, beginning to end. The fading buzz of his painkillers and Tannino’s palpable relief had made the conversation take a few demonstrative turns, but they’d both steered back to the case each time. Dray sat bedside, holding his hand.
“Leah’s being held under duress,” Tim said. “And I’d say my face removes all doubt as to what TD’s henchmen are capable of. We need to move.”
“Let me get on it right away,” Tannino said. “I’ll touch base first thing.”
Tim received a flood of visitors for the rest of the night. Bear dropped in first, but he kept getting misty-eyed and stepping out into the hall to make calls on his cell. Palton, married fifteen years, brought flowers for Dray. For the first time Tim could remember, Denley didn’t crack any jokes. Smelling of aftershave, Freed left his date in the lobby so he could run up. Guerrera gave Tim the St. Michael medallion from around his own neck and said Tim could wear it even though he wasn’t Catholic.
Tim took it, figuring he needed all the help he could get.
Before leaving, Guerrera hooked Tim’s head with his wrist and tugged him in for a brief, awkward hug that hurt Tim’s ribs.
By eight o’clock most of the ART members had called or stopped by. Nothing like saving someone’s life to make you feel indebted to him. Tim’s mind moved again to Leah clinging to him in the icy current, teeth chattering.
Once Bear reappeared with a pizza and a six-pack, Dray left to get Tim some clothes and toiletries. Tim couldn’t drink because of the Percocet, but Bear didn’t need much help with the six-pack. Or with the pizza, for that matter.
Tim asked after Precious; the ricochet had shattered her femur, and Denley had mentioned she was going to be put down. Like grounded spy planes, tactically trained dogs have too much intel embedded in them to be released from government control.
Bear wiped red sauce from his chin. “Actually, I’m gonna take her. I figure Boston needs a friend.” He mistook Tim’s distracted silence for amused disapproval, and his tone gained a slightly defensive edge. “You know Miller calculated
she’s saved seventeen lives. The boys are gonna pitch in for her surgery.”
“Count me in. I owe her for that shotgun-rigged garage door in Tarzana.”
Bear finished up and crammed the pizza box diagonally in the tiny trash can. He bent his head as if lost in thought, wrinkles gathering beneath his chin, his eyes going a little shiny. He cleared his throat as if he were going to say something, but he just squeezed Tim’s arm and left.
Tim used the control on the nightstand to click off the lights. The blinds were still open, the city casting a pale blue glow across the blankets. He elevated the mattress so it pushed him into a sitting position, then stared blank-eyed at the empty room for a while.
Being alone made him uncomfortable.
He realized that was because he was trying so hard not to think about what had just happened to him. It was only in the quiet that emotion reattached itself to what he’d endured. He’d been trying to hold off sensation since he’d first come to in the concrete room, but now the details came floating back in a dirty tangle, like a drain-dredged snarl of hair.
His breathing grew ragged. In seconds he was drenched with sweat, his heart double-thumping—a problem he’d encountered now and again since Croatia.
He stared at the call button but couldn’t bring himself to push it.
When the doorknob turned, he tried to call out Dray’s name, but his throat felt like a tightening fist.
Thomas stepped through the doorway, squinting at Tim’s shadow. “Hey, Rack, you up?”
Tim managed a nod.
“Look, I just wanted to say”—Thomas studied the floor, shifting his weight uncomfortably—”all that shit... between us before...” He took note of Tim’s expression for the first time. “You all right?”
Tim nodded, his chest hammering up and down.
“You want me to call a nurse?”
Tim shook his head.
Thomas stood staring at him for a bit. Then he walked forward cautiously and sat beside Tim on the mattress. Tim’s breathing evened out, the faint, asthmatic rasp slowly fading from his inhalations.
Thomas sat at his side for about an hour in perfect silence, hand resting on his shoulder as he breathed away a panic attack. Eventually the walls ceased pressing in on him, and Tim drifted off into exhaustion. When he awakened a few fitful hours later, Thomas was gone and Dray was back sleeping in her chair.
The marshal came by first thing the next morning, wielding an oversize basket of muffins and looking none too pleased about it.
He set the muffins on the floor and said, “The wife.”
“She bake them herself?”
“I’m afraid so.” He approached Tim and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, yellow cuffs peeking out of a brown sport coat. “You look like the friggin’ bride of Frankenstein, Rackley.”
“You look like Erik Estrada’s ginzo uncle.”
Tannino laughed, and then his smile faded back into his game face. “We couldn’t get Squeaky Fromme or the other two mutts in custody to flip on Betters. They said the kidnapping was their idea. Inspiration struck when they saw you on the road.”
“Of course. Betters works like that. Whatever you do, it’s always your idea.”
“Now they’re lawyered up, want to plead guilty, jump on the grenade for Betters.” Tannino ran a hand through his resilient salt-and-pepper bouffant. “You’re sure you never overheard them mention reporting to Betters?”
“Never even spoke his name.”
“The perfect cutout crew. They land in shit, Betters has total deniability. He doesn’t give a damn about cutting them loose, and they’re happy to brave the clink for him.”
“Is Winston worried about making his case?”
“Stanley John’s murder we can’t really hang on anyone, since Randall Kane was the trigger man, and he’s currently tied up in Hefty bags. But the three kidnappers we’ve got by the nuts. You’ll need to testify, of course. But for Betters the kidnapping’s pretty thin.”
“We can get him on the mail charges, right? Marshal?”
“I’m sorry, son, but Win says we can’t use the burned mail for a warrant.”
“What?” Tim shoved himself up in bed, the sharp pain in his ribs making him groan.
Tannino was at his side, easing him back down. “You couldn’t identify the mail from outside the shed. You had to open the door to make a positive ID, and that mires us in ‘reasonable expectation of privacy’ again.” Tannino raised a hand before Tim could protest. “However. Win is supporting a warrant based on your kidnapping. Conspiracy charges should grant us the right to search the ranch for communications from Betters, maybe an evidence trail for the bleach, lye, hatchet, and garbage bags. Once we’re up there, we accidentally stumble on additional evidence and move from there. Thomas and Freed get their mitts in those filing cabinets, who knows what they’ll turn up.”
“We’ve got to get the girl out.”
“We will.”
“What kind of time frame are we talking?”
“I can’t make any promises, but soon. Listen, Rackley, you’ve done your job, now let us take it from here.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Have a muffin and relax.” Tannino shot Tim a conspiratorial look, picked up the basket, and dumped it in the trash on his way out.
Dray came back after her shift and made Tim walk a bit. Unsteady on his feet, he had to lean on her heavily. His knee was pretty torn up; he walked in short, wincing steps.
“She probably thinks I abandoned her. Leah.”
“She probably thinks you’re dead or you’re doing what you are doing—trying to figure out a way to get to her.”
They passed a cheery bald woman pulling an IV pole.
“Was she aware that you found any evidence on the mails?”
“No. I just grabbed her and ran.”
“Then she probably still thinks you don’t have enough to justify a raid.”
“You know they already grilled her about the time she spent with me off the ranch. If she survives that, they’re watching her every move. If TD sees a ghost of a suggestion she’s in on anything, she’ll get her own Dead Link folder.” He set down too hard on his right foot and stifled a grunt. “Will was right. She would have been better off in his custody.” Dray’s mouth firmed. She shot him a disappointed look but didn’t elaborate.
Finally he said, “What?”
“Valiant of you to beat yourself up further, but you know damn well that wasn’t your call to make. It was Leah’s. Kids become adults, Timothy. That’s what happens.”
The aching intensified beneath Tim’s ribs. “I guess that’s something we never had to deal with.”
Dray’s neck tensed beneath his arm. “Yet.”
They limped along at his pathetic pace. His legs wobbled, and Dray tightened her grip across his back.
“Come on. If you make it to the gift shop, I’ll buy you a Mars Bar.” It hurt like hell, but it felt liberating to be vertical. His gown was drenched by the time they arrived. Waiting in line, Dray spun the rack, then plucked a greeting card from its perch. “Remember this one? ‘A sad, sad day has come, e’er full of many mourners, But your beloved keeps the watch, in heaven’s fairest corner.’ Ca-rist.”
The woman ahead of them shot Dray a glare and scurried off, purchases clutched to her chest.
Walking back took nearly twice as long. Tim had to pause three times to rest.
They sat together watching the blind-split sun creep in wavering lines across the floor. The attending finally dropped in and cleared Tim to go. As Dray helped Tim switch out his knee immobilizer for the brace, the door creaked open.
When Tim saw Winston Smith at Tannino’s side, he knew something was wrong.
Winston’s face was pale. “The judge didn’t find sufficient evidence for a warrant.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell do I have to bring you? Video footage of Betters sawing off someone’s head?”
“It’s a tough situation—”
Tim gestured at his battered body. “No shit.”
Dray shifted angrily in her chair, but she restrained herself from saying anything.
Winston eased forward. “I’m with you on this one, Rackley, but the magistrate judge didn’t see a nexus between the kidnapping and the ranch. We found a receipt for the bleach, lye, bags, and hatchet in the trunk of the Lexus—they bought all the stuff after they left home base. We’ve got three suspects and three matching confessions. All the evidence was at the scene. There’s nothing we need up at the ranch to make the case. We’ve got zip to tie Betters in, and, given the politics, no judge is gonna be eager to climb out on a limb.”
Dray calmly asked, “You wouldn’t call that warehouse full of Betters propaganda a nexus? It’s a twenty-five-fucking-thousand-square-foot nexus.”
“It’s rented storage space. Stanley John’s the one who picked out the site, signed the agreement, oversaw the operation. It was his gig.”
“Thomas and Freed are looking into it further,” Tannino said. “The good news is, we froze the warehouse as a crime scene. Which means the video sessions don’t ship.”
“Peachy.” The back of Tim’s throat was bitter from the meds. “Maybe you could ding Betters with some late fees at the library, too.”
“It’s something, Rackley.”
“He’ll make more tapes.”
Tannino scowled, no doubt recalling his niece’s credit-card transaction. “It buys us a few days, at least.”
“A few days for what?”
Tannino averted his eyes.
Leah was at risk of being reindoctrinated or just killed. TD was roaming his grounds with immunity. Stanley John’s absence would put a bump in Program operations for about five minutes before a horde of eager Pros scrabbled forward to compete for the position, and the cottages were full of human fodder to replace Chad, Winona, and Henderson. TD doubtless had hired muscle to replace Randall already.
The Program Page 39
