Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  “… Josh? Why can’t we just give ourselves up and tell them?”

  “Leon must’ve driven you crazy.”

  “No, I mean it. Leon didn’t do anything. All I did was help you bury a body. You didn’t do anything, not really. Anna’s dead. And Gordon—”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Seems simple to me.”

  “You don’t know the background on the guy they dug up. It’s not a simple case of him assaulting Anna. But I think I’m getting an idea that’ll get everybody but T.J. off the hook.”

  “You’re forgetting about his detective.”

  “I can take care of her.”

  “That’s what you said before. How?”

  “Just leave it to me.”

  “You’re not talking about—”

  “Brenda, get your supplies and go back to wherever you’re camped out. Call me in a couple of days. Once I take care of McCone, I’ll go to the cops and make a painful confession about my employer.”

  “Josh, you can’t—”

  “Call me in a couple of days. Everything’ll be under control by then.”

  I stopped the tape to think over what I’d heard so far. Josh had assumed he’d be on his way to having everything “under control” by now. Meaning I would be dead and he would be prepared to go to the authorities and confess that Suits had killed Ed Bodine and buried him in his desert grave.

  Only things were not under control—not for Josh, not for Suits, and certainly not for me. Instead, they were veering out of control very badly, and there wasn’t much left of this tape.

  I pressed the play button again. My voice, asking for Gerry Butler’s number in Garberville. Fast forward. Dottie Collier, letting Josh know about Romanchek’s death.

  And Suits’s voice, saying hello.

  “Hey boss, where you been?”

  “Around and about. Josh, I need you to pick me up in the bird.”

  “Sure thing. But did you hear—”

  “No time to talk now. Listen carefully. Is the bird ready to go?”

  “It’ll need some servicing, might take a while.”

  “Call the airport, get them started on it. I’ll phone you there at eleven, give you exact instructions on where to meet me. Don’t tell anybody you’ve heard from me, okay?”

  “Boss, I think you better tell me where you are now.”

  “Can’t. This is too important. Remember that, Josh. This might be the most important flight of our lives. Are you with me?”

  “… Roger.”

  “I’ll call you at eleven sharp.”

  One final segment on the tape—Josh calling the airport, asking that the JetRanger be serviced. Then nothing but a faint hiss as the cassette spun out. When it stopped, I removed it from the machine, held it tightly in my hand.

  I had my evidence. And I could foresee the tragedy that was about to happen.

  I turned on the dome light and looked at my watch. Ten-forty. In twenty minutes Suits would call Josh at Oakland’s North Field. He’d give him a destination, probably in some rural area where he was camping out. And Josh would board the JetRanger—the bird, as Suits was fond of calling it.

  I couldn’t get to the airport in twenty minutes. No way.

  Josh would contact Ground Control, request clearance to hover-taxi to the helipad for takeoff. If air traffic was light tonight, he’d be on his way in three to five minutes.

  Dammit, I couldn’t get there on time.

  The JetRanger would cut through the airspace between Oakland and its destination. Josh would be thinking about a final confrontation with Suits. He’d plan how he’d help his boss aboard the copter … and then what? Kill him? Fake a suicide? It didn’t matter.

  Suits wouldn’t board the helicopter. He wouldn’t even let it land. Instead, as he’d told Howie Tso, he’d go bird hunting.

  He’d take the AR-15 he’d bought and blow the copter out of the sky.

  Twenty-four

  I snatched up the car phone, called hangar 2C at Oakland Airport. Josh wasn’t there, although the JetRanger was being serviced. I left a message: “Do not go to pick up Suits; call me immediately.”

  I doubted Josh would respond. He’d be afraid it was a trap.

  There might be something else I could do, though. If I could locate Suits. If I could convince someone at the law-enforcement agency there that I wasn’t playing a prank or suffering from a substance-induced hallucination. There just might be a way. …

  * * *

  Church Street was peaceful and dark. In my working-class neighborhood people go to bed early on weeknights. Even we baby boomers who are gradually gentrifying it don’t go in for the wild life on Mondays.

  At least not usually.

  I shattered the silence by slamming the car door and running up my front steps. Cursed as I fumbled with my keys. The bulb in the hallway fixture had burned out over a week ago, and both Mick and I had been too lazy to replace it. I groped along to the sitting room, tripping over a pair of shoes that I’d left there and cursing some more. Snapped on the lamp next to the archway.

  Mick’s radio setup still sat on the card table by the window. I squatted down in front of it, flipped it on. Turned the MHz transceiver’s tuning knob to 121.9, Oakland Ground Control. Looked at my watch.

  Eleven-oh-four.

  At first there was nothing but buzzing and crackling. I tuned more finely. Then the rhythms of the nighttime airwaves became words, as clear as if I were in the cockpit of the Citabria. I listened as Ground Control directed a corporate jet to runway two-seven right, told a Piper Cub it was cleared for takeoff on two-seven left.

  “Ground Control, this is Cessna three-three-five-two-Delta. I’m VFR northbound for Santa Rosa with Bravo …”

  “… Five-two-Delta, squawk is four-four-three-four, taxi to runway thirty-four left …”

  “… Say again, Ground Control …”

  I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, waiting for the familiar voice and aircraft identification number. My fingernails dug into my palms.

  “… Roger, one-six-Yankee …”

  “… Go ahead, three-four-niner …”

  “… Stand by, Oakland Ground …”

  Nine minutes after eleven.

  “Come on,” I whispered, pounding my fists on my thighs. “Come on!”

  “… One-six-Yankee, acknowledge …”

  “… Four-one-Romeo, proceed to executive terminal …”

  “… Ground Control, read back, please …”

  Eleven-fourteen now.

  How much longer?

  “Come on, Josh, get into the copter and on the radio!”

  “… Correction, Ground Control …”

  “… VFR southbound to San Jose with Bravo …”

  “… Oakland Ground, this is JetRanger Echo-six-two-two-Tango …”

  I leaned forward, intent on the radio’s controls, as if they could bring Josh’s face into focus.

  “… VFR westbound for Hunters Point with Bravo. Request permission to proceed to helipad B.”

  “Two-two-Tango, squawk is …”

  Hunters Point!

  All the time I’d been thinking rural encampment, and Suits was practically in my backyard. Down Church to Army Street, a straight shot east under the freeways, Third Street to—

  Too far, too little time. And then there was the problem of getting past Security or over the fence.

  The police. Call 911.

  Sure, 911—you might as well send a letter through the Postal Service.

  Take a chance, go yourself. You’re the only person Suits might listen to.

  I jumped up, ran downstairs to the garage. On the cluttered workbench—somewhere on the damned bench—was a pair of bolt cutters left over from the house renovations. I switched on the dim overhead, batted aside spiderwebs, pawed around until I found them. Rushed back upstairs.

  “… Oakland Ground, do you hear me …”
/>   I adjusted the tuning to 118.3, Oakland Control Tower.

  “… this is one-six-Yankee …”

  “… One-six-Yankee, clear for takeoff …”

  “… this is two-two-Tango. What’s the holdup?”

  “Two-two-Tango, hold for incoming medevac helicopter. I say again, hold for incoming medevac. Acknowledge.”

  “Roger, Oakland Tower.”

  Somebody’s medical emergency was buying me time. I wished the person well, flipped off the radio, and ran out to the car.

  * * *

  Church Street to Army. East on Army.

  Signal out at Mission. Yield to a Muni bus, then shoot through the uncontrolled intersection.

  Past Bernal Heights. Under the freeways. Right on Third, tires squealing.

  Over Islais Creek Channel to Evans. Iron-barred storefronts, deep shadows where drug deals were likely going down.

  Industrial park, security lights blazing. Quick jog down Innes. Something going on at the leased arts-and-crafts buildings: lights, voices, hammering—probably setting up for an exhibit. But beyond them, mostly darkness.

  I drove along the potholed street, past the buildings. A new extra-high chain-link fence topped with coils of barbed wire blocked access to the dry docks and the acreage where Suits envisioned his container freight station. Trust his paranoia to prompt him to replace the old fence with a state-of-the-art model; it had probably gone up the instant he signed the final papers.

  My headlights picked out the rusted Southern Pacific trunk line where it branched off to the west. A new guard shack sat outside a gate, light glowing in its windows. I cut my own lights, peered at the shack. No one inside.

  No guard at night? Even if one was making rounds, another should man the shack.

  Electrified fence? Didn’t look like it.

  Dogs? No, their presence would be posted. The same for any kind of alarm system.

  So why …?

  Of course. Suits had sent the guards away. He wouldn’t want witnesses who might interfere with his plan.

  I pulled onto the shoulder and stopped the car. Looked at my watch. Thirteen minutes since I’d left my house.

  I got out, stuck the bolt cutters in the back pocket of my jeans, reached into my purse for my .38. Locked the purse in the car and stood on the shoulder, listening.

  Distant traffic sounds. Voices drifting from the arts-and-crafts buildings. Sirens, also distant.

  No drone of a jet engine, no flap of a rotor. And no lights in the sky overhead.

  I ran across the pavement to the fence. Touched it gingerly. Not electrified. The coils of barbed wire at the top made it nearly impossible to climb. I squatted down and attacked the chain links with the bolt cutters.

  Snap-snap-snap.

  How long before Josh gets here?

  Snap-snap.

  A quick trip across the Bay, even though the copter will be diverted up around the Bay Bridge to avoid the most sensitive part of the terminal control area.

  Snap.

  So he’s still holding for the medevac copter. Or he’s changed his mind about coming. Or …

  Snap-snap-snap.

  Suits—where? He’s not totally crazy, is he? He doesn’t want to kill himself, endanger other people, set the base on fire. Does he? No. He’ll try to down the copter over vacant land or the water.

  Snap.

  So not over here. Not at the dry docks or India Basin. But over by South Basin … The contaminated area.

  Snap.

  Done!

  I pushed the free section of fence inward. Stuffed the bolt cutters back in my pocket, wriggled through the hole, got to my feet.

  Still nothing to hear. Just the same background noises and the wind whistling around the deserted buildings, gusting up the empty streets.

  I began to run parallel to the fence, on unpaved ground that was illuminated only by dim security lights on the surrounding buildings. Ahead was a street that branched off toward the contaminated sector. I veered down it, heart pounding, muscles straining.

  And then I heard the faint sound of a helicopter, far out over the Bay. When I glanced toward India Basin I could see its winking beacons as it approached; it was coming from the northeast, would fly along the dry docks.

  Hurry, McCone!

  I stuffed my .38 into the rear waistband of my jeans so I could pump more freely with both arms. Ran harder than I’d ever run in my life.

  The street ended. A flat plain dotted with heaps of debris and half-collapsed buildings stretched between there and the slick black water. I could smell chemical odors mixed with the salt tang of the Bay.

  Toxic waste. Untold horrors—

  The copter flew lower now, angling along the ends of the northern dry docks. A flare went off by the shore of South Basin. Another, then a third and a fourth. Glowing red signals showing Josh where he should set down the JetRanger.

  I sprinted toward the flares, dodging around the noxious trash heaps and ruined buildings. Off to my left a figure was slipping away into shadow. Suits, moving in his peculiar furtive gait.

  The copter was passing the southern docks now, turning into the basin.

  Suits had stopped, shielded from the copter by the tilted remains of a shed. He waited, then stepped out. Stood with legs apart. I saw the shape of the AR-15, braced against his shoulder and trained on the approaching copter.

  Without slowing, I called out to him.

  He slewed around. The rifle was now aimed at me. His black clothing blended into the darkness, but his pale face stood out. His face and his wild, wild eyes.

  “Suits, don’t! It’s … Sherry-O!”

  Hesitation, as if he couldn’t quite place me. Then he lowered the rifle, glanced over his shoulder at the copter.

  I made myself slow to a fast walk, closing on him.

  He looked back at me, brought the rifle up again. “What the hell’re you doing here?”

  “Trying to help.”

  “I don’t need your help, Sherry-O. Go away.”

  The copter was moving along the basin, within the AR-15’s range. Descending slowly, carefully. This was a hazardous landing; Josh would concentrate on the flares, on what he could see of the ground. If Suits fired, he’d never know what happened. …

  Suits still held the AR-15 on me. “Back off, Sherry-O.”

  “No.”

  The copter was just offshore now.

  “Back off! Quit trying to save me from myself!” He jabbed the rifle’s muzzle at my chest.

  The gesture shattered the lid I’d been keeping on my anger. I warned myself not to do anything stupid.

  The copter was directly over the flares now. As it began its clumsy descent, its landing light washed over us, momentarily blinding me. When my vision cleared, I saw that Suits had swung around, was aiming the AR-15 at the part of the fuselage where the fuel tanks were.

  I rushed him, putting my hands out to deflect the rifle’s barrel. They connected solidly, knocked it sideways. Suits staggered but maintained his grip. I grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around, dragged him down.

  He fell across my legs, still clinging to that damned rifle. I pushed him off, managed to yank the .38 free of my waistband. Suits was struggling to get up, his right hand clutching the rifle’s stock. I brought the butt end of the .38 down on it, broke his hold, then shoved him onto his back and straddled him.

  He was still fighting me, clawing for the rifle. I reversed my hold on the .38 and jammed its muzzle into his left ear. Hard.

  “Don’t move,” I said.

  His jumpy gaze focused on my gun hand, calculating.

  I pulled back the hammer. Leaned forward until my face was close to his.

  “Listen, asshole,” I said, “I don’t give a damn about saving you. I’m doing this for Anna.”

  He stopped struggling, stared into my eyes. The wildness was beginning to fade from his.

  “Anna is the biggest and best part of you. If you kill Josh, you’ll destroy that part, a
nd then there’ll be nothing left of her.”

  A shudder passed through his slight frame, and suddenly he went limp. Behind me the copter noise had altered, grown louder; when I looked back, I saw that it was ascending, fast. Josh had seen us, realized what had been about to happen.

  I took my gun from Suits’s ear and stuck it back into my waistband, at the same time reaching for the AR-15. I removed the cartridge from the rifle and tossed it away into darkness. Then I got up, hesitated, and extended a hand to Suits.

  He pushed up to a sitting position, staring at my hand. But then he took it, and I pulled him upright. He stood panting, shoulders slumped, as if he’d run a long race and lost it.

  The copter was swinging out over South Basin.

  In a low voice Suits said, “He was responsible for it all.”

  “I know.”

  “And now he’s going to get away.”

  Josh turned east toward the Bay.

  “No, he’s not,” I said. “He’s flying back to Oakland. We can have him picked up at North Field.”

  The JetRanger slowed, abruptly turned back. I watched its winking beacon as it glided over the middle of the basin.

  “Even if he tries to escape, he won’t get far,” I added. “Given the range of that copter, where can he hide?”

  My words echoed between us. I looked at Suits, saw my sudden thought mirrored in his expression.

  He said, “Maybe he just realized that, too.”

  The copter had begun a steep ascent. Briefly it stopped, seemed to dance in the air. Then the engine cut out, the rotor slowed, and it plunged toward the water.

  Seconds later a fireball blossomed and lit up the night sky.

  Twenty-five

  The narrow road climbed high into the Mendocino coast range, shadowed by giant redwoods, running in switchbacks. I drove at no more than thirty-five, slower on the curves; it had been nearly fifteen minutes since I’d encountered another vehicle, but that had been a logging truck traveling much too fast.

  A week had passed since Josh Haddon destroyed himself and the JetRanger. Within twelve hours of the crash, Suits was back to his old self: downplaying the episode to the press, covering his ass with his moneymen, assembling a new organization from the remains of the old one. He acted like a man with a mission; perhaps he thought that purposeful activity would redeem him, make him worthy of the part of him where Anna still lived. To me he seemed somewhat frantic, hiding from the central issue—namely, that his life had to change.