The shooting stopped and the fading death sounds echoed across the desert. Weirdly, Ernie was still left standing. The others were broken, bloody and dead. The redhead had been hit multiple times yet didn’t yet fully comprehend that he too was about to join his compadres. He looked at me, his eyes bulging, face contorted in pain. His trigger finger twitched and his gun discharged harmlessly into the rocks. Then he toppled forward, hitting the ground hard.
The loud ringing in my ears compounded the pain in my chest. I couldn’t catch my breath. I looked at the heap of crumpled, bloody bodies and took a couple of steps forward. Although my Kevlar vest had stopped the brace of bullets that had hit me, the blunt force trauma still hurt like a mother. I grimaced and looked over at Bobby. Ashen faced, he was slumped against the wall, clutching his left shoulder. I took a painful breath and made my way over. It was maybe 150 feet but it seemed a lot longer. When I got there I could see his left arm hanging limply, blood dripping steadily out onto the ground. A bullet, Ernie’s, maybe, had hit him in the front of his bicep, coming out the back. Blood was oozing out around the bone that protruded like a shark’s tooth from the wound.
I knelt down. “It’s through and through, Bobby.”
He grimaced, his face grey. “At least they won’t have to dig it out.”
“Can you get up?”
“Yeah.”
But he couldn’t and I had to pull him to his feet. I slung his AK over my shoulder and we staggered over to Ernie. Pink saliva bubbles were pushing their way out of his mouth, as he tried to suck air into lungs that leaked too much. His eyes alternately protruded and spun back in his head, as blood ran out of the several holes in his torso; soaking into the greedy, dry desert. I wanted to feel something for him, but all I felt was contempt. He kind of cocked his head and stared at me with his dying eyes.
“Where’s Clipper?” I asked.
“Fuck you, bitch,” he spat his reply and began his death cough.
Bobby looked at me. “This piece’a shit’s not gonna tell us.”
“I’m gonna check on Halladay.”
Bobby looked at his arm and said through clenched teeth. “Make it quick.”
Here in this land of merciless sun and bone-chilling nights, as I crossed to the bunker, the apprehension returned, pounding in my bruised chest. I stepped into the black maw of the bunker and took the six crumbled stone steps that led down into a cavernous basement. There in the back I could see two motionless figures and as I got closer, I could feel and smell their death. The horror of it caught in my throat. Tom lay on his back, shot through the face and head. For some reason I was reminded of a cat in rictus, the moment after it’s struck by a car. His jaw was elongated, his open mouth displaying pieces of brown tobacco-stained teeth, now covered in red ooze. A few feet away, Halladay, completely naked, lay hogtied on his stomach, just like in Clipper’s picture. His hands were wrenched behind his back, the rope looped around his neck, with his head slung forward, strangled by his own weakness. His tongue, now thick and blue, bulged from his mouth. Even in death, they’d stripped away his dignity; a carrot protruded out of his ass. My head started to spin. I caught myself, turned and walked out.
“Let’s go.”
Bobby nodded and as we retraced our steps toward the boulders, Ernie called out, half-rasp, half child’s shriek, “Help me…please!”
We turned the corner and found ourselves staring down the barrel of a Los Muertos biker. Either he’d played possum during the gun battle, or had escaped right at the beginning and somehow had gotten past me. The look in his eyes told me that he wasn’t interested in dialogue, only death. Ours. For what seemed like an eternity, we just looked at each other, hatred and fear coursing its way between us. The gun in his hand was a revolver, a Colt .45. It could have been mine. He thumbed back the hammer. Savored the moment. He hadn’t seen the large Southwestern Speckled Rattlesnake just above his head, but it had seen him and was clearly unimpressed. The unmistakable sound of imminent death cut through the desert stillness like a chainsaw through a twig. The biker, justifiably horrified, spun around at the sound of the rattle. Not a great idea. The rattlesnake struck with lightning speed, fangs stabbing directly into his jugular. He staggered back, screaming with fear-laced pain. Getting bitten is bad enough, but getting bitten so close to the brain and heart, is a death sentence. The biker sank to his knees, a desperate hand holding the snakebite as if that might help. It didn’t. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed onto his back, writhing in agony, perverse poetic justice.
“Finish him off,” said Bobby.
I shook my head. “He’s already finished.”
Like the song says, we walked on, or rather we staggered on, but we got to the van and rumbled back toward the Airfield entrance, past the gathering RVs and the squatters who looked as lost and forlorn as any group of Skid Row denizens.
Most of the traffic was flowing into the Airfield, and the road heading west was clear. There was no obvious clinic in Holtville so instead of wasting time, I gunned it down Evan Hewes Highway to El Centro. Bobby was in too much pain to talk. Once there, I found the hospital and pulled to the curb.
“Bobby, listen, bro, if I take you in there, they’ll probably detain me and that can’t happen.”
“I’ll get out and walk myself into Emergency.”
“Call me after they’ve seen you.”
“Will do, bro.” Bobby’s lips were a weird mix of blue and grey and I had to swallow hard to beat back my emotion.
A police car cruised past us and pulled into the emergency entrance. We waited ‘til the cops entered the hospital. He looked at me, kind’a smiled, which was more of a grimace and choked me up, then saluted me. I held in the emotion, set my jaw hard, nodded shortly and drove away.
I was heading toward the freeway when my phone buzzed.
“Brad, what’s--”
“--Jade’s gone.”
“What?”
“I went to the store with Cassady and when we got back, she’d split.”
“Shit.”
“She left a note. Says Lake Forest Exxon Mobil Station, Lake Forest Drive.”
“Did she write it?”
“I dunno her handwriting, bro.”
“Get on Bobby’s computer.”
I waited as he ran into Bobby’s room and fired it up.
“I’m in.”
“Okay, now log onto Merlin and search out Arnold Clipper.”
“There’s only one, on Beachwood Canyon.”
“That’s his old residence, so look for his parents, his dad, same name, around 60.”
“Not there. No other Arnold Clippers in California.”
“Shit. Son-of-a-bitch must have figured out a way to have it deleted.”
Brad was silent.
“Bobby keeps an extra set of keys to my office on the wallboard next to the refrigerator.”
“Hold on.”
I waited. “Got ‘em.”
“Go to my office and dial 8350 to get in the building.”
“On my way.”
I could hear him exiting the house at top speed and getting into his car. “Remember when I was writing stuff on the whiteboard?”
“Yeah.”
“I wrote old man Clipper’s address down on a sheet of typing paper and attached it.”
“I’ll call you soon as I get there.”
I headed west toward San Diego. It was at least a three-hour drive to Lake Forest, which meant I wouldn’t get there until mid-afternoon. I still had an almost full tank and held the tachometer at a steady 3500 RPM. Interstate 8 rises out of the valley up a long grade into the mountains. The temperature drops and you pass through the southern California badlands, a jumble of lunar rocks, sunken mesas and mud hills. The landscape matched my mood and I tried to empty my mind of everything except for the highway. But it was eating at me. We’d seen and done too much and for all my bravado, I knew there would surely be a terrible price to pay.
My phone buzzed. “Yeah?�
��
“21347 Sterling Silver Drive. Lake Forest.”
“Okay. Text it to me, please.”
“Sure.”
“My guess is that Jade’s there.”
“How you gonna spring her?”
“Not sure.”
“I can meet you there.”
“No. Stay where you are.”
“But…wha…if…”
The mountains cut off reception. Alone with my thoughts, I knew that if I brought in the cops, Clipper would go down fighting, but he’d take Jade and Richie with him. If I went in alone they still might die and I might go with them. Clipper had outsmarted all of us. The death images of Cicero and Halladay, the dark paintings in Clipper’s subterranean labyrinth, and Bobby, his expressive face blanched grey staggering toward ER, seared my mind. I rolled down the window and screamed into the on-rushing air, but the wind swallowed my voice like a toad trapping a fly. I shut the window and shut my mouth. I drove on.
It seemed like the longest three hours of my life but I finally came down out of the mountains, and headed into the chaparral country east of San Diego. Here, the road cuts through the wooded canyons in great sweeping curves. Just north of San Diego, I turned north onto I-805 which merges with I-5. The traffic moved steadily, passing beautiful seaside towns west of the Interstate. From there it was a straight shot past the Camp Pendleton Marine Base, and on to San Juan Capistrano.
In Mission Viejo I gassed up and got cleaned up. There was hot water in the restroom and I washed up, carefully combing my hair, refusing to stare at my bruised and swollen face. I bought some liquid makeup in the station convenience store along with a large hot dog and some coffee. I chewed slowly and sipped the mud. When I was done, I got into the van and, using the rearview mirror, applied some of the makeup to try and cover the disaster area that dominated my face. It worked pretty well. Then I pulled out of the parking lot. 10 minutes later, I turned onto Lake Forest Drive.
Chapter V – Last Dance
Lake Forest is one of the newer, post-modern, Orange County cities. There’s no traditional downtown area and no discernible city center. The Exxon Mobil Station in Jade’s note was the first thing I came to after turning off the Interstate. I parked, suddenly aware that Jade could not have known about the station had Arnold not informed her. Which meant that Arnold wanted me to track him down. I suppressed a shudder and went inside.
A middle-aged Hispanic woman eyed me from behind the counter. I grabbed a water bottle from the cooler, smiled and handed her five bucks.
As she retrieved my change, I asked, “Senora, I’m looking for a muy bonita dark-haired young woman, early twenties, coffee-colored skin, well dressed. She may have been here earlier this morning.”
She looked at me, smiled and replied in perfect English, “Is she your girlfriend?”
Good thing I was wearing makeup so she couldn’t see my reddening face. “No, just a friend, but she’s missing.”
“Lemme see your badge.”
“Not a cop. I’m a PI.” I flipped her my license.
She looked at it and sadness came over. “We hear about so many missing persons all the time.”
“It’s the interstate, I guess. Easy access.”
She nodded. “And most are never found or end up dead. It’s awful.”
“I know what you mean. Nobody’s safe.”
“Sometimes they end up in trunks. It’s gotten so bad I’m almost scared to go outside.”
“So you haven’t seen her?”
“I wish I had but, sorry, no.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“Good luck. Hope you find her.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Back in the van, I punched in the address on my phone’s Google map; it was two miles east and a few blocks off the main drag. Lake Forest is long and narrow. I passed a small shopping center, a gated lake community and a number of residential sections. The houses were attractive tile-roofed, two story numbers with small, manicured yards. They had all been built in the last 20 years and the streets were virtually empty. I passed a mother pushing a baby carriage, and some older couples taking walks. Nearly everyone was Caucasian, middle class and no one seemed happy. I was struck by the odd thought that this community could use someone like Halladay dressed in his jogging clothes -- sweaty, hairy, armed with a stop-watch and an insatiable desire to better his last time.
I turned right onto Rimgate Park Drive, which skirted a canyon and fed onto Sterling Silver Drive. Welcome to Clipperville. Their residence was halfway down the block on the right, a blue, two-story home set back from the street on a gentle slope. It boasted a three-car garage and a circular driveway. There were no cars parked in front, and if Clipper was there, he would probably park in the garage. Plantation shutters and window boxes gave the house a welcoming feel. I drove around the block and parked.
Obviously, I needed to legitimize the events of the last few days, particularly today’s shootout, so I called Tony. Over the last 20 years, although he and I had spent a lot of time together, we’d never worked directly on a case jointly. He’d always been very generous when it came to dispensing information, and I reciprocated whenever I could, but that was as far as it went.
By now Clipper would have tried to contact Tom and Ernie, and would know something had gone wrong. He’d set me up like a bowling pin knowing that no matter what happened at the airfield, I would be MIA for most of the day and he’d have a clear playing field to get to Jade. I was here with little choice but to walk into the lion’s den. Normally, staking out the joint would have been the way to go, but here, with each passing moment, Jade was in ever-increasing danger of being tortured or killed. The one thing I knew for sure was that I needed back up.
Tony picked up on the second ring. “You okay?”
“Yeah, Tony. Thanks.”
“Cassady called me. What the fuck’s going on?”
I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what had happened.
“Bobby got shot?”
“Yeah, it was a through and through in his arm. He’ll be alright.”
“How many dead?”
“Including Cicero and Reggie Mount, 9. Of those, Bobby and I are personally responsible for seven. Four Los Muertos bikers, the two fake cops and some psycho called Reggie Mount. All self-defense. Mount and Clipper, along with persons unknown, murdered Cicero Lamont and the lawyer, Halladay.”
“Jesus Christ, dude. This is bad.”
“What was I supposed to do? Let ‘em shoot Bobby and me? As it is we’re lucky to be alive.”
“Nick, I can’t cover that many bodies.”
“I’m not asking you to. Anyway, let’s not worry about that now. Where are you?”
“In my cruiser on I-5. Should be there in 45 minutes.”
“I’ll text you the address when we hang up.”
“Don’t John Wayne it. Wait for me.”
“Just get here as fast as you can. I’ve parked Bobby’s blue van right down the street from the Clipper house. If it’s still there when you arrive, that means I’m inside the house and you need to do what you do best.”
“Okay. I’ll be there a.s.a.p.”
I grabbed an extra clip for my Walther, which I placed in the concealed inside pocket of my cargo pants, locked up the van and strolled down the block to the Clipper house. Stepping onto the porch, I rang the doorbell and waited. 30 seconds passed so I rang it again. Finally, a woman I assumed was Mrs. Clipper swung open the door. She was about 60, tall and well-preserved but with a pinched, bird-like face. Her tired grey eyes peered at me from under her carefully coiffed hair.
“Yes? What can I do for you?”
“My name is Peter Gustafson. I’ve been commissioned by the art firm of Black, Fleur & Olive to locate your son, Arnold. Mr. Olive would like to represent him.” I handed her my card, which she examined carefully.
“Don’t you think you could have phoned?”
“My apologies. Perhaps that would have been more appropriat
e.”
“Yes, it would.”
“The problem is I didn’t have your number. I spoke to Mr. Mount a few days ago and he gave me your address and told me to just come on over. Told me you were good people.” I smiled pleasantly.
“How is Reggie?”
I shrugged. “You know Reggie. Everyday is a brand new challenge.”
“What type of artists do you represent?”
“Not me, the agency.”
“Where did they see his paintings?”
“Arnold’s drawings are well-known among select Los Angeles art circles. Mr. Olive places great faith in your son.”
“That’s nice to hear. I’ve long thought that Arnold’s work is under-appreciated. He’s never tried to sell it, though. What does Mr. Olive propose?”
“If I could come inside, we could go over everything?”
“What happened to your face? It looks swollen.”
“It is. I had an accident up by Mammoth Lake. It’s beautiful this time of year, but I slipped on some rocks.”
“Looks like you took a nasty fall.”
I nodded ruefully. “I did, but I’ll live.”
Mrs. Clipper considered. “I guess you can come in, but only for a few minutes. My husband, Arnold Sr., doesn’t like visitors.”
“Thank you.”
She motioned for me to enter and I stepped inside. Mrs. Clipper stopped me and whispered, “My husband’s in a wheel chair, you know. He’s very sensitive. I don’t know if Reggie told you that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I lied. “He said something about an accident. I’m very sorry.”
Mrs. Clipper turned and I followed her down the hallway. We passed by a formal parlor and came to the dining room.
Cicero's Dead Page 22
