Right. Good. A real and proper operation. A cabin in the woods. Like the Unabomber and the Evil Dead.
Oh baby, yeah.
With the wind battering his head, Pinkerton calls the Alfonzo guy on the phone. It rings twice before it is answered.
“Plymouth? This is Pinkerton. You’ve been informed of our assistance?”
There is a brief pause, which Pinkerton finds odd. This is a serious mission. What’s this guy doing, thinking about the answer? He expects compliance, attention, focus, and some attitude.
“Ah . . . yup. Howard called Irv. I’m not convinced we need a twenty-five person assault team to apprehend a guy sitting quietly in the woods, but . . . OK.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got one. Iron fist, baby. We’re going to circle him and move right in. What’s your ETA to the rendezvous?”
“Well, with the new boat we’re not making the greatest time, to be honest. I figure twenty to twenty-five minutes to cross the lake and then another twenty or thirty through the brush by foot.”
“According to my map,” says Pinkerton, not looking at one, “this place is right on the water. Why the long walk?”
“Well,” says Alfonzo, “I don’t consider that a long walk. Do you?”
“I think we’re going to get there before you,” says Pinkerton, shaking his head at the wop’s cluelessness and lack of drive. “I’ll bet you’re right, though. My guys are probably enough. In which case, we’ll have to secure the location first. I’ll keep you informed,” he concludes, and pushes the red button on the phone, which really should launch something rather than simply end a call.
Keep him informed, my ass.
Ricky, trying to ignore Pinkerton’s mood, feels his own phone ring in his breast pocket and so he answers it, putting a stiff finger into his left ear to block out the wind.
“Hello?”
“Ricky, it’s Irv.”
“Oh, hey, Sheriff.”
“Ricky, listen. I need you to stay close to Pinkerton on this one. I can’t tell you why, because it would put you in something of a spot, but let’s just say I want a nice, calm approach over there. You’re not soldiers and this isn’t a war zone. You’re police officers hired and sworn to serve and protect. Uphold our laws. Think friendliness. Kitty-cats and trees. Bake sales. Car washes. Teaching kids to wear helmets and use reflectors on their bicycles. Remember that stuff?”
“Vaguely, sir. Though . . . fondly.”
“I know you do, Ricky. Because under all that shit you’re wearing you’re a nice guy, unlike . . . you know who.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep an eye on Pinkerton. Don’t shoot any civilians. Or any women you happen to see. Women who might already be there, for example. Women who might also be civilians. And friends of mine. I guess what I’m saying, Ricky, is this: If things get bad, you just shoot Pinkerton. OK?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll just carve out the slugs, chuck him in the lake, and shrug in boyish wonder when we’re questioned later.”
“I got you, sir.”
Ricky looks at Pinkerton, who looks back at him.
“Who was that?” Pinkerton asks.
“The sheriff. Wishing us luck.”
“He didn’t call me.”
“It was more . . . advice for me, I think.”
“Yeah. I don’t need any.”
The route is smooth and gently curved. The lesser people in their vehicles part the way to make room for the alpha males in their trucks, the way nature intends.
The private driveways for the bankers start coming into view and Pinkerton does have to wonder who this asshole is that they’re about to apprehend and how he could possibly be holed up in a place around here, but it’s just as likely he’s broken into a summer house and made himself comfortable after dissolving the owners in a tub full of acid and lime. Either way, his team is going to slide in like ninjas with a personal grudge and bring this guy back to town the same way the big dogs do it in the cities.
Pinkerton looks at the houses they are passing and indulges in a moment of optimism. He’d like a big house someday. That’s for sure. Maybe start a private security company. Everybody seems to be doing it. Escort the executives to the helicopters, close off roads for the VIPs, clear the rooms, take home the big money, tips in cash, and attract the honeys. Today could be day one in making that dream come true. Just last night he’d found a Maserati on eBay for under $30K.
This is going to be F-U-N, fun.
If it weren’t a workday, Irv thinks, this gentle cruise on the lake would be really nice. He hasn’t taken a boat ride in . . . man, a while anyway. He’d forgotten how pleasant it is. Back at the office, the idea of riding a boat around a lake with no particular place to go might have once seemed pointless. It was not the sort of activity he would have chosen for himself. He would never have seriously considered a cabin on a lake. That’s real money. These were, however, the kinds of things his ex-wife wanted him to do. Not just do them, but understand the intrinsic value of wanting to. She wanted him to want to take boat rides on lakes and daydream with her about a porch overlooking a body of water at sunset where they could sip champagne for no particular reason and maybe drop strawberries to the bottom and watch those little bubbles form on the dimples.
The entire vision seemed expensive and sappy at the time.
That and the bugs. You never see that on TV. The gorgeous brunette leaping up from her Adirondack chair and running around like a lunatic with thrashing arms trying to keep the mosquitos off. The smell of DEET overpowering the lemon sole and Chardonnay. And of course the asshole across the lake who decides that ten o’clock at night is exactly when he needs to get to work on that downed tree with his chainsaw.
Hopefully a tree, anyway.
But out here, two fingers dipped into the chill water while they chug along—his fingers being a little water-skier that he moves back and forth as they zip along—he feels . . . good. He has a sense that maybe he made a mistake in that relationship. Maybe these irrational and quiet moments she wanted in a place like this are actually what God wants for us by commanding us to keep the Sabbath Day holy. To stop. To rest. To pause from acts of creation and actually admire it and revel in the joy of the thing for one-seventh of a week. Maybe if he’d kept the Sabbath holy he’d still be married.
Maybe. But she was such a monumental pain in the ass and waterfront property is so friggin’ expensive. Honestly. How hard should a guy need to work?
Now, though, there’s this Norwegian woman. A crazy lady with a guitar who has turned out to be a portal to another world. Maybe he can look past her firebombing of upstate New York and qualification as a terrorist. Maybe, together, they can bring this whole thing to a successful landing the way Charlie’s Angels always seemed able to do with giant passenger planes after the pilots had disappeared. He never could quite remember those plots.
Alfonzo, the low-wattage SWAT commander with little to say, sits across from Irv on the boat. Unlike Pinkerton, Alfonzo has no tattoos on his forearms and he wears a wedding band on his left ring finger. His hair is short but not cut to military standards. He has a calming effect on his men and they all seem relaxed on the boat despite their annoying habit of giving the thumbs-up to virtually everything that is said about anything.
“You got a call?” Irv asks.
“Pinkerton.”
“I’m sorry about him,” Irv replies. “He came with the job. Like the hat.”
“It’s OK,” says Alfonzo. “I understand how it works. Are we actually expecting trouble?”
“No. And I want to avoid escalating something that is actually under control at the moment, despite appearances. I know the woman who set us on fire. She’s scared for her brother, whom I suspect is harmless. I want to go in first. You can hang back a bit. You have a radio I can borrow?”
Alfonzo hands Irv a Motorola and tunes it to the proper channel. They perform a radio check and Irv clips it to his belt on the left side,
which counterbalances his .357 rather nicely.
“My thinking,” says Irv, wiping his wet fingers on his pants, “is that I go into the forest and have a chitchat with Marcus. You guys hang back a little. I’m guessing Sigrid will be there too. Once I have a sense of what’s what I’ll call you and give you all a sitrep. My idea is for Sigrid to come out first so you’ll see her and know things are OK, then Marcus will come out—and you won’t shoot him—and I’ll take up the rear. If there’s no trouble we can probably avoid the cuffs, but it’s your call, Al. The thing is, if we cuff him we have to arrest him, and I’m not sure I want to do that, because we’re trying to avoid the catch-and-release scenario here.”
“That all sounds fine to me,” says Alfonzo. “But I’m a little worried about Pinkerton and your team. If he gets there first everything’ll be out of our control.”
“No. I sorted that out. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t see your meaning, Sheriff,” says Alfonzo. “He’s almost there and we’re not.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Alfonzo. Pinkerton is almost somewhere. But it isn’t where we’re going.”
Pinkerton’s driver turns them off the main road onto a private drive that snakes through the woods. They slow and cut the flashing blue lights on their approach to the gate.
The house looks to Pinkerton like a set of a James Bond movie—one that is going to get the shit blown out of it by the time everyone’s done. It is a surprisingly modest affair given the impressive piece of land that supports it. They are on a small peninsula, as shown on the map, so unless this guy has a Miami Vice cigarette out back with a thousand horsepower, there is no way he is getting out of this.
The house is a natural trap.
What kind of asshole, what kind of moron, would hole up in a place with no exit?
The kind of guy who pushes women out of windows, that’s the kind.
The thin steel gate is set between two stone pillars. To either side of those pillars is a hedge for privacy, though it offers little actual protection. There’s no broken glass on the top, no barbed wire, no spikes.
The gate is wired with an alarm system and a camera.
“Out, everyone out,” Pinkerton yell-whispers. They all stand to the side of their vehicles, weapons readied.
“We’re going to rip off the gate with the winch, flow inside, break into three teams. Tommy has A team and you’re going left around the house. Franco has B team and you’re going right. I’m taking point with Charlie Team and we’re going in the front door. Now let’s take out those cameras and get this gate open. I want the lead vehicle in there in case we need cover. Go, go, go!”
Tommy and his silenced nine-millimeter sub-machine gun shoot out the camera by the gate as Gary Simkins pulls the winch line from the front of the pickup, wraps it around the gate, and signals the driver to back it up, which he does, snapping the lock and pulling the gate open as ordered. They disconnect the winch line and the F-150 rolls in with A-team staying close and low beside it until they are almost at the front door.
This is how Pinkerton wants it: Quantico quick and deep-space silent. Urban warfare by the numbers.
It’s a stylish house but it isn’t garish. The frame is a three-story custom timber peg with an inviting entrance, but it isn’t extravagant. The car out front is a Ford Mondeo in dark blue, not a Porsche or Land Rover. Someone is keeping a low profile, Pinkerton figures. Drug dealer? Mafia boss? Terrorist financier?
“After me, after me,” says Pinkerton, crouching down and moving slowly to the front door. Gun up, knees bent, he turns the knob on the front door and is confused to find it open. Pushing it gently inward, he releases the knob and presses his gloved finger to his lips.
Not a sound, boys, not a single goddamned sound.
When the door is a quarter ajar and all his men are behind him, he gives the countdown—five . . . four . . . three . . . two —and on the final beat, he rams the door with his shoulder and careens into the front hall with his rifle raised. Seven other men flood the room, weapons up, shoulders low, ready to take down the devil and his minions if that’s what they are called on to do.
With the skill of former military personnel, they proceed to the living room, dining room, kitchen, the rest of the lower floor and the bedrooms on the upper.
No one’s there.
When Pinkerton descends the staircase after declaring the second floor “secure,” he finds Ricky standing with his rifle shouldered, hands in his pocket, looking at a wall of framed photographs.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Pinkerton asks.
Ricky is leaning close to one as if at a museum. “I think that’s Ang Lee.”
“Who’s Ang Lee?”
“You kidding?” Ricky starts counting off on his fingers: “The Hulk. Brokeback Mountain. The Crouching Tiger thing. Sense and Sensibility, obviously . . .”
“Have you lost your mind?” Pinkerton asks.
At that moment, and before Ricky can answer the question, a woman walks through the front door. The police officers are pressed aside by the force of her gaze as she steps into the living room that—apparently—belongs to her. The woman is tall and in her late fifties, with enormous and stunning brown eyes, a somewhat severe jawline, thin lips, and an expression that puts her in command.
“Well, well,” the woman says, “I just lost a bet. Do you realize yet that you’re in deep trouble or are you still processing?”
“On the floor, down!” yells Pinkerton, raising his weapon.
Instead of following his directions, though, she cocks her weight to the side, striking an architectural pose. “Put that down right now, you imbecile,” she says.
It is Ricky who immediately places himself between the woman and Pinkerton’s line of fire and says, “Sir, you need to put that down right this second.”
“Why?” Pinkerton says, still training his weapon on the defiant woman through Ricky’s chest, which he uses as a shield.
“That’s Sigourney Weaver, sir.”
“Who?”
“Sigourney Weaver, sir. Ghostbusters? Aliens? Galaxy Quest?” Ricky turns to Ms. Weaver and addresses her over his shoulder. “You were wonderful in The Ice Storm, ma’am. I’m married too. I know what it can be like.”
“Thank you,” she says to Ricky. “Now tell your monkey that I’m going to call the lieutenant governor now and have him fired. You should take the gun away too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Ricky, “and we—the police—will leave right now, and we look forward to getting the bill for the gate and the camera.”
Pinkerton lowers his weapon but he doesn’t look convinced.
He doesn’t look entirely present, either. It seems as though he has withdrawn into a dream that is, before Ricky’s eyes, floating away with Pinkerton in it. And as it rises higher into the atmosphere, it pops.
“Sir?” Ricky says to Pinkerton. “Can you hear me? Sir?”
Dead Women
“Marcus,” Sigrid says, trying to place the person she is looking at into a frame of reference she can comprehend.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he says to his sister in Norwegian.
“You’ve said that three times. Throw that gun in the water.”
“I need it.”
“Marcus,” she says, stepping into the clearing by the lake’s edge. “Do you have any idea the hell you’ve put us through? You can’t be seen with a gun. There are police coming.”
Marcus does not move.
“I’m here to make sure that you don’t get shot. You’re making that more difficult right now.”
“I want you to know what happened,” Marcus says. “I’m tired of you not knowing. I think that’s why I haven’t . . .”
“First the gun. And then we can talk all you want.”
“You look tired, Sigrid. And also changed. Killing someone can do that to you, can’t it?” Marcus turns from her and looks at the lake. “I look tired too.”
“Gu
n in the water.”
Marcus considers his .38 revolver. He moves it up and down. The weight and balance are a revelation, the product of centuries of refinement.
“Do you remember when I broke my arm? We were kids and Mom was still alive.”
Sigrid glances back to the woods at birds and bugs, shadows and breeze. There is no one there. She probably has a few minutes before she has to charge him and wrestle the gun away, which she wants to avoid because when Marcus retrenches into an oppositional mood he can stiffen up and there’s no telling how well he might—or might not—handle a loaded weapon. She has no reason to believe he has any experience with them.
“Yes, I guess I do. I remember the color blue. Why?”
“Maybe you didn’t know this, because you weren’t old enough or tall enough, but if you were in the downstairs bathroom, like I often was, you could hear Mom and Dad talking in the bedroom through the vent above the toilet.”
“Why are we talking about this in upstate New York in 2008?”
“Because your life—the entire world as you know it, Sigrid—is a lie.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You grew up strong and self-confident, and determined, and you became a success. I didn’t.”
“You teach at a—”
“Please don’t. Don’t. Just don’t,” he says, waving the gun carelessly, his voice agitated. She can see he has no real consciousness of the weapon. No sense of its power or the immediacy of its consequences. There is no stepping forward to take it. The gun could go off at any time. The bullet could go anywhere.
“I never had a serious relationship,” he says. “I’ve been in love but only from a distance. I didn’t gain the confidence to let someone in until I met Lydia. In my midforties. Can you believe it? She was different enough from me to let me feel like she wasn’t intruding. She was a foreigner, but she spoke the same language, and she laughed at the same jokes and I couldn’t figure out why. She also had this . . . glow. The way nice people make you feel at ease when you’re around them. You know how you can pass someone on the street and—unlike the hundreds of other people you passed that same day—that one person looks at you and you feel a connection? Like you could be friends? Like in another life you were friends. There’s some . . . recognition. Because that feeling is clearly mutual. She was like that. And it calmed me. We could sit in a room and read and sip wine and not talk and it felt good. And the sex . . .”
American by Day Page 27
