Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  "What have you got on the prick?"

  Whiz looked at his notes. "California driver's license, Visa, one bank card from B of A. Thumbprint checks out, at least according to my pal Gladys at the Coroner's office. The perp was a forty-one year old airline employee from Fort Worth, name of Roger Gordon."

  "Which airline?"

  "He worked as an executive for Euro Blue. No wants, no warrants, no prior record of any kind."

  Lehane rubbed his temples. "Wait a second, where was he born and raised?"

  "Don't know about raised, but he was born in Paris."

  "That accent didn't sound French."

  "That's because it was Paris Texas, not France."

  "Great." The cramped office was packed with computer gear and model airplanes. Lehane looked around, located a small ice box. "You got anything with sugar and caffeine?"

  "Good old coca cola. Help yourself."

  Lehane found two cold cans of soda. He opened them both, gulped one down and belched. "Man, I feel ugly."

  "You are."

  "Thanks. None of this makes any sense, Whiz. The perp had a foreign accent, okay? I know I'm right. It was clumsy and sibilant, definitely not American or French, but I couldn't place it."

  "Like I said, old Roger was born in Texas."

  "Can you find out if he spent any length of time abroad?"

  Whiz let his fingers dance over the keyboard. His computer beeped and began to print. "I've already pulled up everything I can on the dude. According to his passport records, he went to Mexico a couple of times and spent a week in Zurich skiing. Other than that, he was a homebody."

  "Boot?"

  "Huh?"

  "I told you, he said 'boot.' Clear as a bell."

  "Beats me what that meant. The ME report says he was wearing loafers. Must have been gibberish, dude."

  "It means something, Whiz. It was his dying word." Lehane belched again. His head throbbed. He'd already downed three aspirins. "Maybe he was psychotic, speaking in accents instead of tongues. Maybe he had some kind of Multiple Personality Disorder."

  Whiz shrugged. "Okay, but there's nothing in his insurance records to indicate a visit to a psychiatrist."

  "Was there any sound on the video Castle got?"

  Whiz shook his head. "Nope, there was just enough to show the guy shooting at you and then going for his gun one last time and then the paramedic helping him. It was a pretty bad angle."

  "Keep on it. You'll get a break sooner or later."

  "I hope so, because I don't get this," Whiz said. "The guy has a foreign accent but turns out to be from Texas. He's a total stranger, yet he knows Heather was your wife. What's wrong with this picture?"

  Jeff Lehane looked down and away to cover his pain. "What's wrong is that Heather is dead."

  "And that most seriously sucks, man," Whiz said, softly, "but don't start thinking that's your bad."

  "It is."

  Whiz rolled his chair closer. "Listen to me, Boss. Heather knew what she was getting into when she signed up. So did Martinez. They were both well trained and professional. Everybody did their best. It happens."

  "I could almost buy that," Lehane said. "Except for one thing, okay? This bastard knew me."

  "Maybe."

  "He knew me. In fact, he probably didn't come for Enrique at all, he came for me." Lehane looked down. "So whether I knew ahead of time or not, I had something to do with getting Heather killed. And Martinez, too."

  "I sense some self-flagellation coming on."

  "Fuck you, Whiz." When Lehane looked up, his eyes were moist. "Hang in there on this one. Maybe you could just give me a few minutes every once in a while, whenever something crosses your mind."

  "Sure. Why not?"

  "See if you can tell me why she died and what just happened out there."

  "If it's out there, I'll find it." Whiz yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Does this mean you're coming back to work for Charlie?"

  "No, it doesn't. I'm retired, man. You know that."

  Whiz grinned. "What are you willing to trade?"

  "Not a goddamned thing."

  "Okay, okay. I was just curious." He sighed and rolled his wheelchair backwards, then spun around and faced his keyboard again. "You go get some rest, Boss. I'll keep digging."

  Lehane paused in the doorway. He leaned on the jamb to maintain his balance. Down the hall the elevator pinged. Charlie Spinks, Pops Keltner, Sandy Hammer and Guri Meier emerged, whispering amongst themselves.

  He didn't want to talk. Lehane stepped back into the computer room to hide. He glanced back over his shoulder. Whiz was too involved with the search engine to notice. Lehane waited until the hallway was empty and then returned to his room.

  He slept four more hours, called room service and ordered up a plain steak, vegetables and a tall scotch. Lehane eventually ate on the patio with CNN droning quietly in the background. Planes took off and landed in the distance, their Christmas-tree lights dotting the desert sky. The air was dry and hot. The party/riot down on the Sunset Strip continued until close to dawn. Lehane went back inside, pulled the thick drapes closed and got another three hours sleep.

  Like all of the Spinks agents, Heather and Martinez had both filled out papers arranging for the payment of life insurance monies and the disposal of their bodies should they be killed in the line of duty. Martinez had a sister in Phoenix, but she didn't give a damn where he was buried, so Charlie Spinks chose Vegas because Martinez liked to gamble.

  Lehane's ex was another story. She'd requested that her remains be shipped back to her family in Los Angeles. The family, in turn, wanted nothing to do with the company they believed had gotten her killed. There would be no official funeral service back in South Central.

  Charlie Spinks didn't want to leave everyone hanging, so he arranged for a private memorial service in a chapel at the Gunslinger Hotel, just off the strip. They could say goodbye to Heather and Martinez both in the same, efficient hour.

  Lehane drove around in circles most of that brutally hot morning. He was unable to sit still but completely at a loss for what to do. He had avoided his old team whenever possible, and steadfastly refused to discuss the murders with Charlie or any of the others. Part of him wanted to drive back up north and vanish into the cactus without attending the memorial service, but he knew he would regret that later. Martinez had been a good soldier, although not a close friend. Somehow his loss seemed reasonable.

  But not Heather. In fact, the sight of her body haunted Lehane, and the loose ends around her death continued to torment.

  He circled the Vegas strip then drove back into the residential area, up and down suburban streets listening to the hissing of lawn sprinklers. He checked his watch and headed for the Gunslinger. The service was about to begin.

  Lehane had tried to remain patient, but Whiz hadn't come up with anything to suggest why a lanky Texan named Roger Gordon had gone off the deep end. Hell, he was quiet, unmarried and didn't even own a firearm. There was also absolutely nothing in the airline employee's background to suggest he'd ever met or had any contact with Lehane, Spinks Security, Heather or Martinez.

  That voice, saying: "Will you do nothing to save her?"

  Lehane drove the rental car into the Gunslinger parking lot and parked three rows down from the chapel entrance. He watched as Sandy, Charlie, Pops, Guri, Whiz and even Mike Castle arrived and entered.

  No sense putting this off any longer…He was about to exit the vehicle when a limo pulled up.

  Lehane was surprised to see that Enrique had sent his manager. Levinson had brought a large bouquet of flowers. He went inside.

  When he could stand his isolation no longer, Lehane got out of the car and walked briskly toward the chapel. Charlie Spinks greeted him quietly at the doorway. The other members of the team approached to shake his hand, most without speaking.

  "Sorry, Boss."

  "If there's anything I can do…"

  "Hang in there."

  The service itself wa
s short and to the point. Martinez was a betting man, and although a relatively new member of the team, remembered fondly. No one seemed to know what else to say.

  Charlie Spinks had brought a bottle of Heather's favorite champagne and some plastic glasses. Pops told a story about Heather's first gig, when she'd gotten so nervous she'd forgotten her assignment. By the end of the night she had driven the client, a Columbian politician, through a hail of bullets, and planted him in a safe house. Charlie reminded everyone of her smart mouth, and that she'd talked back to him during their first interview.

  Sandy tried to get Lehane alone to talk. As an ex-lover, she signaled him by running the tips of her fingers down his arm, looking up with wide eyes, but he was having none of it. She eventually got the message and quit trying.

  The conversation sputtered into an awkward silence. Lehane raised his glass. "To Martinez." Everyone toasted. Pops said: "Let's all go lose some roulette money in his honor." People laughed.

  "To Heather," Lehane said. "She loved and respected you guys." His voice broke. "Thanks for being here."

  Everyone drank. A silence descended.

  Jeff Lehane spun on his heel and went back out into the blistering heat alone, before the others could see him breaking down.

  FIVE

  Empty yourself of everything so that the mind becomes still.

  The ten thousand things live and die while the Self observes.

  All life grows and blossoms before returning to the source.

  Returning to the source is stillness, the way of nature.

  The Way of nature is unchanging.

  Knowing the Way requires great insight.

  Refusing to see or accept leads to chaos.

  Jeff Lehane turned the page and adjusted his spine. He had already crossed his legs and assumed the lotus position. He squinted in the bright morning sunlight.

  Knowing the Way, the mind is open.

  An open mind is openhearted.

  The open heart will act with intelligence and generosity.

  Become this and you attain the divine.

  If divine you will be one with the Tao.

  The Way is being at one with the Tao and thus eternal.

  Eternal because the body will die but the Tao shall never pass away.

  Lehane closed the book and set it down in the dirt. He half-shut his eyes, breathed deeply and followed the air as it coursed through his body. The heat stroked his bare chest and arms. He set his inner clock for twenty minutes. A sharp rapping came as one determined woodpecker assaulted the trunk of a nearby pine.

  He assigned himself a meditation: 'Know that all things are one thing, and self is an illusion.'

  Twenty minutes later, Lehane got to his feet. He tucked the small, worn copy of the Tao into his fanny pack, slipped it around to the back of his jeans, shrugged on his ragged white tee shirt and put on sneakers with no socks. He hopped sideways down the rock face, moved briskly through the small pasture, slipped under the fence and got into his battered, flatbed truck. He unhooked the fanny pack and slipped it under the passenger seat. It contained a small, unregistered 9mm he didn't want to have to explain to the Highway Patrol.

  The white Ford started on the second try. The air conditioner didn't work, so Lehane kept the windows down and the vents open. He peeled out of his driveway in a cloud of dust and started back towards Salt Lick. The horizon was clear of cars. Where the valley sloped up into pines, a small clot of buzzards circled slowly above some tenderized road kill then came down to peck at the mess and squabble. The scowling birds went grudgingly aloft again as the Ford passed by.

  Lehane chased the omnipresent, silvery mirage several miles south and then went east, toward the small town of Salt Lick. The road there was cracking in the blistering heat; time had worn it down to bumpy clumps of black asphalt. The old Ford moaned and trembled from dozens of small impacts. Lehane reminded himself it was time to change the shocks.

  'Connie's' was a diner that had become a favorite of the truck drivers who relentlessly prowled the interstate, bringing produce and products to and from the major cities. It was not at all uncommon to see several big rigs parked at the end of the lot, their windshields packed with reflecting screens, some with the engine running and the air conditioners blasting. The boys would grab a couple of hours sleep, tank up, grab some thermos full of black coffee and be on their way again. But this particular morning the lot was empty, except for a beat-up VW bus and one Lincoln town car.

  The relative lack of witnesses made Lehane uncomfortable, but wasn't much he could do about that. It was way too late in the game. He pulled the flatbed Ford into a space, reached down for the fanny pack and buckled it around his waist. Then he sat up, turned the engine off and got out of the vehicle. He kept the hood between himself and Connie's diner.

  The tinted windows kept him from scanning the entire area, although he did notice the man in the back booth, right where he was supposed to be. Lehane kept his right hand on the fanny pack and the firearm within easy reach. He crossed the scorching hot pavement and went into the diner. Since the crack-of-dawn breakfast shift was over, the second-shift cook was on duty. He was a surly ex-con whose name Lehane had never bothered to learn. Two bearded, aging stoners were nursing beers near the broken-down jukebox on the far side of the room. Lehane figured them for the VW bus. He let his eyes roam the room. After a long moment, he walked to the back and slid into the booth. The young man occupying it wore loose brown slacks and a white shirt with no collar. The gold chain around his neck was worth more than the diner.

  "Thank you for coming, Mr. Lehane," Enrique said. "I wasn't sure you would."

  "Hell of a long drive for nothing."

  "Yes, especially while all alone. I have become quite used to companionship when I travel, a host of people around me. I seldom listen to music when I am not working. I dislike cell phones. So being alone in the car for such an extended period of time was, shall we say…uncomfortable."

  Lehane didn't respond. He waited for the bored waitress to notice him. She was an anorexic blonde whose name tag read NANCI. She had a Camel between her lips. The cigarette was now mostly gone. Lehane found himself oddly distracted, wondering when the lengthy ash would fall off and plop into her coffee or onto someone's stack of pancakes. Finally, she looked up and raised an eyebrow.

  "Iced tea."

  Nanci yawned. The ash scattered down onto her stained apron. She didn't seem to care. Lehane turned back to face Enrique.

  "You asked for half an hour of my time."

  The young singer nodded vigorously. He slid an envelope across the table. It spun and came to rest at Lehane's fingertips. "Five hundred dollars cash for the consultation."

  Lehane folded the envelope. He opened the fanny pack a couple of inches and stuffed the money inside. "What do you want to know?"

  "First, let me say in person how sorry I am about your friends. If I had not had a press conference scheduled, I would have attended services myself. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for their families."

  "Thank you." Lehane fidgeted. He let his body language told the singer he was uncomfortable and wanted to change the subject. Enrique sat back in the booth. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Would you mind giving me some of your background, Mr. Lehane?"

  "Such as?"

  "You were born here in Nevada, correct?"

  "Yes, up around Wells. I went to school in Elko and then Reno. I played my football at Arizona."

  "Do you have any family still living?"

  "My parents are both dead. I lost a sister to drugs and an older brother in the first Gulf war back in the early 90's."

  "You were in Special Ops, yes?"

  "When I was young and brain damaged from testosterone, yeah. I stayed in for six years. After that I was recruited for some government work that took me to, shall we say, the middle-east."

  "May I ask what kind of government work?"

  "You can ask."

  "I see. And how
long have you worked for Mr. Spinks?"

  "A long time."

  Enrique grinned. "You are giving some vague answers. May I assume that this is nothing personal?"

  "You may. It is the nature of my contract work. Discretion is required."

  "Spinks Security has a quite remarkable reputation, Mr. Lehane. It is said that they can do anything, anywhere, anytime with impunity. That must require connections in very high places."

  "You could say that."

  They stopped talking when Nanci shuffled over like something out of a zombie film. She absently mopped the table with a dirty rag and placed a tall glass of iced tea on a coaster. She already had another cigarette going. When she was back behind the counter, Enrique sighed.

  "My problem is that I need to assure myself of both your ruthlessness and professional discretion. Ironically, it appears that you are not at liberty to tell me the kinds of things which would put my mind at ease."

  "Wow, I guess that proves I'm discreet."

  Enrique laughed. "I suppose it does." He sat forward. "Charlie Spinks told me some things in confidence. I assume you saw his email?"

  "Yes," Lehane said, quietly. "He told me to trust you."

  "He filled me in a bit on the assignment in Iraq, but I would like to hear about it first hand."

  "Why?"

  "I will explain in a few minutes. I promise."

  "You know that I've retired, right?"

  "I am here to consult with you, Mr. Lehane. That's all." Enrique unconsciously looked around the room before lowering his voice again. "Please tell me the story in your own words."

  "Hold on a second. Enrique, I need two things. First, your personal assurance that this talk remains confidential, because trust me, I will cheerfully deny under oath that I ever meant a word. Second, I have to know why you're asking."

  "You have my promise to be silent," Enrique said. "As for why, I would rather explain later. For now, just let me say that I may have been targeted by some terrorists, some violent religious fanatics from the region. Will that suffice?"

  "For now." Lehane cleared his throat. He hunched forward, moved to the right, a bit closer to Enrique. He sipped some iced tea, crunched some ice. "Okay, I'll talk and you listen."