Bobby said, “I wonder if there’s a recording of Cicero’s torture.”
I clicked onto a folder entitled, Retribution. It contained about 20 clips. I clicked on one and it opened, showing Cicero, still very much alive, begging and screaming. It was hard to watch. In the background, I could just make out Reggie and behind him, in shadow, I knew it had to be Clipper. I felt sick, disgusted and wanted nothing more than to rain justice down on that sick son-of-a-bitch.
“We’ll take the mainframe.”
He looked around and found the alarm system control panel by the back door. “It’s on, but if we’re quick, we can make it to the van before the rent-a-cops get here.”
I unplugged the computer, leaving the monitor on the desk. “Ready.”
“I’ll bolt and get the van. Hustle down as fast as you can. Just be careful and don’t trip.”
I nodded and Bobby reached for the handle. That’s when the headlights blasted across the front door, as a car pulled up in front of the house.
“Shit.” I hustled back into the office, replacing the computer on the desk.
Bobby, standing behind me, pulled out his gun. “Kill ‘em?”
“Not unless we have to. Hide.”
Before he could respond, the front door opened and the lights flipped on. Arnold Clipper, in all his malevolent glory, accompanied by two guys wearing Los Muertos patches, ambled in. They hadn’t seen us, so I motioned Bobby to melt back into the shadows, which he did. I did the same and tried as best I could to slow my breathing.
“Reggie?” No response. I could hear Clipper move closer to the office. “Reggie!”
“Must be out,” said a second voice.
“No, he’ll be in his office, writing,” declared Clipper. “Thinks he’s Dostoevski.”
Before I could move, he leaned in, the light from the hallway framing him, creating a grey silhouette. I held my breath, sweat running down my face, trigger finger twitching against the cold steel in my hand. Clipper turned around and went back into the hallway.
“He has to be downstairs,” he said.
“Loco tio,” said one of the bikers.
I could hear the three of them push through the door, then the creaking of the stairs as they descended into the labyrinth.
Bobby moved closer, his face, too, dripping with sweat. “Now,” he said hoarsely.
I grabbed the computer and we hotfooted it out the back door. Outside, the air was crisp and cool, it felt like heaven as our sweat dried quickly. In the distance, halfway down the hill, I could see Bobby’s blue van; a comforting bulk. I carefully placed the computer inside one of the cabinets. Quickly, we changed back into our civilian clothes, as if that would somehow erase the memory of what had transpired.
Nobody followed us. I tried to imagine the look on Arnold’s face when he discovered his uncle lying there on the cold stone floor, his skull cracked open. We drove back to Beachwood and descended back toward Franklin. I was reassured by the sound of Bobby’s engine, the gears changing, the throttle first loud then soft.
“Make the left on Franklin and keep straight for a couple’a miles.”
Bobby nodded and we cruised on in silence. Somehow the nighttime foot traffic seemed completely fascinating. It was so good to be off that infernal hillside. After a while, Bobby spoke, “I’m starving.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“We gotta get a big breakfast. I want the blueberry pancakes.”
“Make the left on Melrose.”
I guided Bobby through the same residential neighborhood I’d driven with Brad the night Ron told me his story; it was a bitter, hollow feeling. I looked at the charming bungalows, small yards with glowing porch lights, the unattached garages and palm trees that floated upward like sentinels.
Finally, Bobby rumbled onto the 101 and headed south, turning off on 4th Street. We drove past my office and continued on through the warehouses and the new condos until we came to Traction Street. We parked and went into Abel’s Market Diner. It was just past 3:00 a.m. As always, Bobby was true to his word and ordered a complete heart attack breakfast. So did I. He plied the jukebox with an endless stream of quarters; each song sounded better than the one before: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Creedence, the Chi-Lites and Stevie Wonder.
Bobby nodded slowly. “I don’t remember cracking his skull.”
I didn’t say anything. It was necessary.
Chapter III – Never Ask Anything Stupid
We drove back to my office, parked around the corner and went in the front door. The building was deserted but, just in case, we avoided the elevator and took the stairs. The janitors never leave the air on and it was stuffy, smelling of cleaning products. We all but stumbled into my office, extreme fatigue now wrapping its arms around us as our adrenaline took a temporary holiday. In my line of work, it was always temporary. I flipped on the lights and checked my email -- spam advertising narcotic pain pills and penile enhancers. Neither of which I needed.
Bobby made some more coffee and I washed my face with cold water. Sleep was calling and I was having trouble ignoring it. I sat down on the sofa and Bobby handed me a cup of tar.
He grinned. “If that don’t keep you awake, nothing will.” I nodded, looked at it and put it down. That’s the last thing I remember until Bobby shook me awake. “Nick. Nick. Wake up, bro.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him, dragging a hand across my tired face. “What time is it?”
“7 a.m.”
“Shit!” I sat up with a start.
“We both passed out. Sorry, Boss.”
“Not your fault. We needed it.”
“Heard that.”
“Is there any coffee?”
“Yeah. Just made a fresh pot.”
He handed me a cup that looked much less like tar. “Thanks, bro.”
“So what now?”
“Gimme a few to collect my thoughts.”
“Sure.”
He sat down at my desk and flipped on the flat screen TV against the back wall. CNN. Trust Bobby. Any time, any place. Dude’s gotta have his news.
Maybe it was the stress, maybe it was the fatigue I couldn’t shake, but I felt a certain satisfaction with everything that had transpired. Dominique had, in fact, committed suicide and Cicero was dead, although his death was way disturbing. Tom and Ernie had kidnapped James Halladay. I didn’t know where he was, but I did know that this game was far from over, especially as Clipper had, by now, discovered Reggie’s body and the missing computer. He would be in a rage, I assumed, as we’d transgressed his inner sanctum, were responsible for the death of his beloved uncle, and had proof that he was a psychotic killer. Richie was still missing, although presumably not far from Clipper. I imagined him hiding out in some Skid Row hotel, wired and paranoid, staring out from behind the curtains, waiting for his boyfriend to return. Jade was in danger as were all of us, including my steadfast wife.
“Let’s head to your place. Brad can set up the computer and transfer the surveillance footage onto a flash drive.”
“Just make sure he doesn’t show it to Jade.”
“Yeah.”
We grabbed our things and headed out the door. I turned to lock it and that’s when I saw the corner of a manila envelope, tucked under the mat. I picked it up and looked at my name that was written across the front in beautiful flowing letters. I didn’t need to look inside to know that it was from Clipper. My heart raced and instinctively I reached for my gun. Bobby pulled his, and we both listened intently, but we were alone. I put my .45 away and examined the envelope.
“Careful, bro. It could have Anthrax or something in it.”
Taking out a small knife, I carefully opened it. There was no powder, just several sheets of paper that I unfolded. The first page bore the following inscription written in Clipper’s stylized flowing script:
He That Troubleth his Own House Shall Inherit the Wind
And the Fool Shall Be Servant to the Wise of Heart
Bobby was reading over m
y shoulder. “It’s from the Bible. Inherit the Wind.”
“Yeah. He’s given to drama, that’s for sure.”
I unlocked the door and we went back inside. For good measure, I closed and locked it.
The second page bore an acronym, NAAS, written in large block letters, arranged diagonally from the upper left to the lower right hand corner of the second page.
N~ever
A~sk
A~nything
S~tupid
“Sage advice.”
Bobby nodded. “Yeah, but creepy, bro.”
The third page was an elaborate pen and ink drawing of what appeared to be an abandoned airfield. The four cardinal points of the compass were sketched in. A runway in the form of two triangles, the smaller a mile or so beyond the larger, occupied the top half of the page. Crumbling buildings drawn with Arnold’s typical care and attention to realistic detail suggested a once thriving installation. Sand dunes trailed off to the right and mountains loomed in the distance.
The lower half of the page was divided into four sections, depicting facsimiles of World War II single prop fighter planes. Each drawing was captioned with the name of the aircraft. Two American planes, a P-51A Mustang and a Lockheed P-38 Lightning. The British Submarine Spitfire and the notorious German Messerschmitt Bf 109. As an adjunct to the planes themselves, Clipper included cross-sections of the engines, fuselages and cockpits.
“He loves to break things down, huh?” said Bobby.
“At least they’re not human body parts this time.”
CICERO (106 BC – 43 BC) was written across the top of the fourth page. Below it were three quotations apparently attributed to the Roman statesman:
Art is Born of the Observation and Investigation of Nature
He Only Employs his Passion Who Can Make No Use of his Reason
In Men of the Highest Character and Noblest Genius There Is to Be
Found an Insatiable Desire for Honor, Command, Power, and Glory
“What’s this for?” asked Bobby.
“My guess is that Clipper’s referring to himself. A kind of self-portrait.”
“Fucking narcissist.”
The fifth page was best viewed by turning it on its side. There was a wall of boulders in the shape of a soft hyperbola shielding what appeared to be a storage bunker constructed of brick or masonry. The roof, which inclined upward to a V, was crumbling at its peak and the entrance, which was large and open to the elements, rose to an arch. There was nothing visible on the inside.
The sixth page was disturbing. Skillfully drawn, naked, middle-aged James Halladay lay hog-tied on his stomach, hands and feet strained up into the air. The rope was looped around his throat, forcefully arching his head up and back. The realism was striking -- his broad hairy back, fleshy buttocks, deltoids straining. Halladay’s only visible eye, round and birdlike, protruded from the side of his head.
“Torture position,” said Bobby. “If you don’t keep your head back, you strangle and it doesn’t take long.”
I fanned through the remaining pages. The seventh page was bizarrely comical. The inscription read, Soul of the Neanderthal. Beneath it, Tom and Ernie, both eyeless, complete with prominent brow ridges and dressed in loin cloths, crouched on their haunches around a small fire. Tom held a stick with which he stirred the embers, and Ernie’s large chest and belly were tattooed. Tom had an erection, which angled upward against his loincloth. The drawing, while largely realistic, had an element of caricature and it was hard not to laugh.
“Jesus, bro,” chuckled Bobby.
The eighth page read:
Carrot Capital of the World. Sunshine 365 Days a Year.
The ninth page was equally brief:
Great Place to Raise the Kids
“I’ve heard of this place.”
“Use that one and Google it,” I gestured.
Bobby sat down at Audrey’s computer and typed in, “Carrot Capital of the World.” Holtville, California came up immediately and he printed out directions.
Meanwhile, I woke my machine up and typed in, “Abandoned World War II Airfields, California.” A few clicks more and I found “Abandoned & Little-Known Airfields; California: El Centro Area.”
“Check this out.”
He came over and watched as I scrolled through the website that told the story, complete with black-and-white photographs, of a series of abandoned airstrips which had been built in the Imperial Valley during World War II. Scrolling down, I came to a section describing the Holtville Naval Auxiliary Air Station.
“N.A.A.S,” said Bobby.
“Never ask anything stupid.”
After the war, the Navy had relinquished its interest. Over the years, it had served as a civilian airport, a tuberculosis sanitarium, and a staging area for crop dusting. Now it was completely abandoned except for periodic drag races and occasional war games. Most of the buildings were torn down but the ammunition bunker, depicted by Clipper, was still standing. His drawing was a close replica of the website’s photograph. The airfield was approximately eight miles east of Holtville, which was near El Centro, a few miles north of the Mexican border.
It was 8:16 when we climbed back into Bobby’s van. “You mind driving, Boss?”
“Sure.”
“I wanna get some zees before we get there.”
“Okay and I’m gonna stop by your place to check on everyone.”
“We’re also gonna need some heavy firepower.”
“Yeah, I guess we will.”
By the time we pulled onto the 10, he was asleep, snoring quietly. Relaxed now, he looked even sadder than when he was awake. I hadn’t stopped to think about the psychological toll this could be taking on him, and wondered if his PTSD would be aggravated because of everything that had gone down. He was still snoring when I pulled up in front of his place.
“Bobby.” He didn’t stir. “Bobby, we’re here.”
Again, no response so I shook him. He exploded to life, his left arm pinned me to the seat, his Bowie knife in his right. This time he was all the way gone, his 1000 yard stare drilled into me. His breath, hard, jittery. I knew better then to struggle and remained calm.
“Dude, relax, it’s me.”
The strength is his arm was incredible. I couldn’t move. He brought the knife up to my throat and that was when I really started to worry. He face, drenched in sweat. His jaw, clenched tight. His eyes looked at me, but saw nothing. He was back in Nam, facing down the NVA. Suddenly the passenger door was yanked open and Cassady’s Beretta pressed hard into the back of his neck.
“Freeze, soldier,” she hissed.
It was either her voice or the familiarity of cold gunmetal pressing into him that brought him around, but his eyelids twitched and the 1000 yard stare slowly dissipated.
“Put the knife down, and I mean now.”
The venom in her words was clear and unmistakable, assisted by her jacking back the hammer. The sound cut through the tension, and he let me go. She kept the gun pressed into his neck, moving with him as he put the knife on the dash.
“Please, put the gun away,” he said as meekly as he could.
Cassady looked at me and I nodded. She removed it, but didn’t release the hammer.
I said to him, “You okay?”
He nodded and looked ashen as he clambered out of the van. He glanced at Cassady, but didn’t say anything and went inside the house.
I got out and grinned at her. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
She nodded, eased the hammer off, clicked on the safety and put the gun into her waistband. “What the hell happened?”
“Can I get a kiss first?”
She smiled and leaned toward me. Tough as things were, she tasted delicious.
“Let’s go in.”
“I’ve gotta get something out of the back.”
She held the doors open for me as I pulled out Reggie’s computer. “Who’s is that?”
“Clipper’s.”
“But why do you have i
t?”
“I’ll tell you when we get inside.”
I grabbed it and we went into the house.
Brad and Jade were cooking in the kitchen. I put the computer in his room and came back out to find breakfast for the five of us ready on the kitchen table. Jade looked forlorn, her eyes as downturned as her beautiful mouth. She sighed heavily and sat down, staring at the bacon and scrambled eggs.
“Hey.”
She threw a glance at me, then returned to her untouched plate. “Hi.”
“What’s going on?”
Cassady looked at me and shook her head, ‘no.’
I let it go and sat down as Brad brought out the coffee. “Let’s eat.”
I asked, “Where’s Bobby?”
“In the shower.”
“We should wait for him.”
“He said to go ahead and eat,” assured Brad, taking a bite of toast.
Although I’d eaten breakfast earlier, I was hungry again and ate the eggs, but left the bacon.
Cassady smiled at Jade and said, “You need to eat.”
“Did you find my brother?” she replied as she looked at me.
“No, but I’ve got a good idea where he is.”
Bobby came back in, dressed in clean shorts and tee-shirt. He sat down, mumbled something and ate his food. The tension in the room rose and all conversation ceased.
I pushed my chair back and stood up. “Brad, I need to talk to you.”
“Sure.”
He followed me into his room. “Hook that computer up and transfer all the files onto that hard drive please.”
“Consider it done.”
“I snatched it from Reggie Mount’s place. On it are a series of clips from surveillance cams inside his place. It shows Cicero dying. Whatever you do, don’t let Jade see it.”
“Christ, man.”
“Yeah, it was something, bro.”
“Don’t show me what?” said Jade.
We turned to find her in the doorway.
“Nothing.”
“What can’t I see, Nick?”
“You hired me to find Richie, which I’m about to do.”
“I hired you to help me, including finding out who murdered Cicero.”
Cicero's Dead Page 20
