“No,” Tim said. “Put it back in. Get the UCLA ambulance up here. They’re set up for him already.”
The paramedic looked puzzled. “How?”
“Because he called ahead.” Tim shoved through the door, Bear following him offset to the right so he’d have more room for his Remington. A hidden button beneath the reception booth popped the door into Vector. Propping it open, Bear signaled the second team of paramedics to hold back, and he and Tim pressed forward down the corridor. Freed, Thomas, and Miller shuffled behind them, covering the rear.
Up ahead their dark corridor intersected another, that one lit. Rounding the corner, Tim felt his teeth grind. An office chair lay overturned, dumped forward, Dolan still bound to it. All they could see were his legs and the uprooted base, the wheels still rocking on their mountings. Tim sprinted down the corridor. Dolan’s face and chest were mashed to the floor. His eyes flickered, and he tried to turn his head.
Beside his bruised cheek, six titanium bullets lay on the floor where Walker had let them fall.
Chapter 78
Edwin answered the door, regarded the FBI team soberly, nodded, and withdrew. Behind the cluster of agents, Tim and Bear waited by the koi pond. It had become the Bureau’s case, but Tim had some pull with Jeff Malane, the special agent in charge, who requested Tim and Bear’s presence for the arrest. A few years back with Tim and the Escape Team, Malane had busted up an incipient terrorist group trying to gain a foothold in Los Angeles, and he’d ridden the acclaim up the promotional ladder. Now he wore nicer shoes and a more pronounced scowl.
The 5:00 A.M. sky was a sheet of blued steel. After a few minutes, Bear made an impatient noise, but Malane held up his hand. They’d let Dean get dressed.
The other agents milled around the porch. A lot of rumpled button-ups and bad ties. Melissa Yueh was there, too, with a sized-down team. Tim had tipped her as repayment for her help earlier. She was made up and vibrant, her face flushed with an excitement that bordered on sexual.
The immense door opened with a groan of wood. Dean tugged a cuff free of his jacket sleeve. “The hell is this?” His glare pulled to the team of agents, the rolling TV camera.
Malane said, “I’m placing you under arrest for mail and wire fraud, health-care fraud, securities fraud, failure of corporate officers to certify financial reports, destruction of audit records, and criminal conspiracy to commit involuntary manslaughter. Those are just the Title Fifteens and Eighteens. I have an SEC investigator waiting to pile on charges. The asset-freeze order went through an hour ago—you’ll have a hearing on it in ten days. In the meantime you can relax in the Metropolitan Detention Center.”
Melissa Yueh slid into the scene as if on wheels, now front and center with her crew, offering the play-by-play. Instinctively, Dean raised a hand to hide his face, but Malane grasped his wrist and bent it down to the handcuff.
Dean was too wise and experienced to comment.
Gripping the handcuff chain, Malane steered him down the walk past the cameras, past the agents, past the deputies. Dean slowed when he caught sight of Tim and Bear.
Dean hunched against his cuffs, and Malane rested a hand on his coiffed hair, dipping him into the dark sedan. Malane nodded at Tim, who walked over and leaned in. The interior smelled of new leather and old cigarette smoke.
Tim spoke quietly. “You’re right. We couldn’t link you to Tess’s murder. But she’s responsible for your takedown. Remember that. See her face when you close your eyes.”
Dean cast a vaguely bored gaze forward. “Whatever document you may possess means nothing on its own. You’ve got no evidence. I’ll shake you boys off like fleas.”
Tim lifted his stare to the tinted opposite window. Dean’s brows drew together, and then he turned. Across the wide Bel Air street, Dolan leaned against Tannino’s Bronco, his arms crossed. On one side of him the marshal, Guerrera on the other.
Dean’s shoulders curled in an inadvertent cringe. His chin quivered ever so slightly.
Tim slammed the door and banged the roof, and he and Bear watched the sedan drift up the street, beginning the long drive downtown. It turned the corner.
When Tim looked back, Tannino’s Bronco was gone, Dolan along with it.
“Well,” Bear said, “that’s that. What’s for breakfast?”
Chapter 79
The desert scent of sage drifting through his open window, Tim cruised up Pearblossom Highway. Unfiltered by smog or clouds, the sun was a perfect blood-orange disk, hanging low in the western sky. He was due home for dinner, but he’d found himself on a detour after leaving the office.
This morning’s L.A. Times had held no mention of Walker Jameson or Dean Kagan. In the five weeks that had passed since Walker’s shooting, they—and the arrested Vector employees—had slipped farther back in the paper, the headlines moving on to terrorist chatter and earthquakes in India, until they finally fell off the back page. Tim’s colorful career had left him familiar with the wax and wane of public interest. There’d be an upsurge before the trial, scheduled for early next year.
The task force had found no direct evidence linking Pierce to Walker. Morgenstein could’ve acted on his own, though they all knew he hadn’t. His body had been found the morning after he’d been shot, the end of Walker’s blood trail. The city was pressing forward with a suit against Pierce for his creative plumbing, but that would be months, if not years.
Tim threaded through the run-down community and parked in a long shadow across the street.
In his front yard, Sam Jameson crouched over the rebuilt anthill, his younger friend watching apprehensively from a few feet away. Sam lit a match, dropped it into the hole, and stood back. His little friend turned, ready to run. Red ants spilled out, swarming the top of the hill, and Sam giggled.
Kaitlin’s voice sailed through the screen door. “What are you doing out there?”
Sam shoved the matches into his pocket. “Nothing.”
The boys waited to see if she’d emerge, but she didn’t. Sam picked up his Coke and carefully poured a rivulet down the side of the anthill, rewarding his charges.
They watched the ants dine.
A thrumming of bicycle tires over asphalt, and then the bully on the Huffy pedaled into view, approaching. Sam’s head snapped up, his body tensed for fight or flight, but rather than slowing, the burly kid hoisted himself up on the pedals, lowered his head, and pumped harder. He flew past in a blur, his dirt bike curving out of sight into the park at the street’s end. After a moment Sam relaxed.
Tim wondered what the hell that was about.
Kaitlin stepped outside and settled into a wicker chair on the porch, looking sad and tired and fulfilled. After a few minutes, she glanced over. Tim raised a hand in greeting, but she remained expressionless. She called out to Sam, then rose, the screen door knocking behind her. Sam said good-bye to his friend and headed in for dinner. He paused on the porch, his back to Tim. Somehow Tim knew he’d just registered his presence.
Walker Jameson had moved through prison bars and clawed his way from the trash-filled earth to avenge his sister, but in the end what he’d found to offer was a piece of himself. Blood type O, in all its universal glory. He’d balanced a cosmic account, spending his life to grant another.
On the porch Sam turned and looked across the street. He held Tim’s gaze for a moment. His eyes were bright and curious, the sclera white as ivory. His mouth curved in a partial smile.
Then he went inside.
Tim stared at the dusty screen door for a few minutes before starting the drive home.
Chapter 80
The alarm chimed at 2:00 A.M. Dray’s complaint was unintelligible. Tim got dressed quietly. She made a more forgiving moan when he kissed her on her sleep-soft cheek on his way out. The Typhoon had managed to flip upside down so his head was pressed to the footboard. Tim rearranged him, gripping his sweaty torso tightly so he wouldn’t slip free.
Tyler flopped back onto his pillow, chuckled to himself
, remarked, “Elmo wearing diapers,” and resumed sleeping.
Tim enjoyed his first traffic-free drive to Pasadena. When his headlights swept the house, he was oddly relieved to see that the lawn had been cropped, the bushes fastidiously tended. Cleanly shaven and smelling of aftershave, his father opened the door before Tim could ring. He wore a double-breasted charcoal pinstripe that looked new. Tim wondered if he’d bought it for the occasion. They nodded at each other like competing salesmen. Tim’s father stepped out and locked the door, then regarded the keys in his palm for a moment before sliding them under the mat. He followed Tim down the path to the Explorer.
Tim said, “What are you doing with the house?”
“I know a guy.”
Tim nodded and pulled out. Corcoran State Prison was up the 5, between Bakersfield and Fresno. The trip would take the better part of three hours. They coasted wordlessly along the freeway, his father sitting still as a mannequin, watching the scenery roll by. As they headed over the Grapevine Pass, Tim realized he hadn’t had time to check to make sure his father’s prison sentence was real, that Tim wasn’t being deployed on leg one of a scam. All through the flat wasteland of Kern County, Tim kept alert, waiting for his father to redirect him, for a car-jacking, some new twist, but they just drove straight and silent. A glow came over the big squares of farmland flying past on either side, the first half hour looking more dusk than dawn. It wasn’t until the sally-port gate came into view that Tim fully believed it was going to happen.
Corcoran caged six thousand inmates, Ginny’s murderer among them.
And soon Tim’s father.
Navigating through the two perimeter fences, in the shadow of the gray modules, Tim flashed his creds. Eyes lingered each time, the second correctional officer offering him a respectful nod. Tim’s identity, duly noted, would be whispered into the right ears. Tim parked by the pedestrian entrance that led back to Inmate Processing. A prison bus dropping off cargo from Men’s Central rattled in, and he and his father sat and watched the inmates unload. Many had to stoop to pass through the door.
Tim glanced at the man in his passenger seat. Fifteen years inside, even cut down by various sentence reductions, was too long for someone his age to be among men like this. It seemed improbable that he’d pass back out through these gates under his own power.
Tim checked the clock: 6:52. His father was due to report by 7:00.
“Well,” Tim said.
“Well.” His father did not move.
Though the sun was barely free of the horizon, heat was already radiating off the black dash. A road-worn Oldsmobile eased up beside them, forcing them to be privy to a weepy parting scene between a young couple. The tattooed kid ambled inside, wiping his face. Tim’s father watched, lip curled with disapproval.
“Why would you do this?” Tim asked. “Submit to this indignity? You despise me. Why have me take you in?”
The clock changed, another precious minute gone. Tim’s father’s skin was dry, white dust by the mouth. His Adam’s apple jerked with a swallow. “Mugsy’s doing a dime. Frank got waxed last year. Mickey and Goose were rolled up. There’s no one else.”
6:57. 6:58.
Tim’s father climbed out. He’d sweated through his dress shirt, something Tim had never seen him do. He pulled on his jacket, fastening the inner button with an expert tweak of his fingers. Erect and dignified, his father took a few steps. He paused, turned his face to the sun, closed his eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe sometime I could meet my grandson.”
“We’ll see.”
“Maybe he should see the world’s ugly parts. Give him a shot to turn out better than me or you.”
“I’d say that’s a statistical inevitability, wouldn’t you?”
With perfect posture his father started for the door. A correctional officer emerged.
“Move it along, pal. Door locks on the hour.” The CO’s face shifted with recognition when he looked at Tim, and he lessened the aggressiveness of his stance.
Tim stayed by his father’s side. They reached the CO, the door.
Tim’s father turned to face him. “I could count on you, Timmy. Despite everything, I could always count on you.”
He offered his hand, and Tim shook it, and then the CO took him into custody with a respectful nod at Tim and led him away. He did not look back.
Dazed, Tim walked back and sat in his Explorer. He stared at the barbed wire, the chain link, the sally-port gate. Ten minutes passed. Then another ten.
He turned over the engine, but rather than heading for the gates, he drove around to the other side of the facility to the visiting area. He got out of the Explorer and started toward the building. The inmates were in the yard, pumping iron, bullshitting, gathering in protective clusters. In the wedge of shadow against the wall, there he was. Tim wasn’t certain at first, but then Kindell stepped out to pick a rock from the dirt, and in the sunlight there was no question.
A pedophile and a child murderer—he wasn’t supposed to last a month in there, let alone four years. For those four years, Tim had wanted him dead. He wanted him dead as much as ever. But even if Kindell were dead, he wouldn’t be gone. He’d still be there. Always there.
His skin looked gray and hung on loose flesh. He’d put on weight—a lot of weight—his face blown wide around the familiar inexpressive eyes.
Whatever Tim had hoped to feel, he did not. Standing in the beating sun of the parking lot, he sensed a hollowness, not inside him but all around, as if he lay on the brink of a void too vast to comprehend. He grasped his own unimportance and, by extension, the insignificance of the man opposite the fence. It left him feeling dwarfed, though by what, precisely, he was not certain. There was a great horror in it, to be sure, but also a faint ray of a greater freedom he’d yet to encounter.
Kindell claimed his rock in a fist and withdrew back into shadow.
Tim looked at the visitor entrance, but, suddenly and clearly, he knew that he wouldn’t go in, wouldn’t confront Kindell through a mesh screen.
Tim thought of the vulnerability of his living child. He pictured the familiar scenarios—the kidnapping, the act of God, the proverbial bus. In every moment a hundred things can go wrong. But moment after moment they don’t.
Right now Dray would be packing a picnic for the park. Tyler on the kitchen floor, wearing Evel Knievel and applying a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid to a knee scrape that had healed three days ago. Bear and Michelle Westin, D.D.S., on their morning walk, Boston running laps around them, an endless loop of Rhodesian Ridgeback.
Tim turned and headed back to the Explorer.
Ninety Days After Walker’s Death
Kaiyer walk hisself.”
“Okay, bub.” Tim still guided Tyler through the penitentiary’s outermost door. On its backswing the glass caught a reflection of the stern razor wire capping the double chain links. Tim paused, taking in the grounds. The place was removed from time, somehow. It seemed not a speck of dirt had shifted in the months since Tim had delivered the boy’s grandfather.
Ahead the sally-port gate, the guard tower, COs with rifles.
And Dray leaning against the grille of her Blazer, arms crossed, face tilted to the sun. She took note of their accelerating progress back across the empty visitor lot. Tyler’s steps grew shorter and choppier.
Halfway there he said, “Daddy up.”
Tim held out his thumbs until the tiny hands grasped them, then lifted his son, seating him against his side.
They reached the Blazer and stopped. Tim took a breath and exhaled hard.
Dray said, “I bet.”
Tyler squirmed a bit, so Tim set him down. Ty picked at the Scooby-Doo Band-Aid across the toe of his sneaker. Dray studied them, her face proud and tender, the sun shining straight through her ice green eyes.
“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s get you boys home.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank a number of experts who lent me their time in
order to make me appear smarter than I am. I’m hopeful that their efforts paid off. If they did not, then I’m dim and accountable.
As a former marine and Terminal Island correctional officer, and current deputy U.S. marshal, Mike Pennington proved to be my utility infielder, his knowledge second only to his affability. Christopher Murphy, a brilliant biochemist, exhibited endless patience while introducing me to the ins and outs of viral vectors.
I should also like to thank Kristin Baird, M.D.; Terel Beppu, my guns ’n’ bullets guy; Ali Binazir, M.D., of Elite Communications; Jason Elliott, former Navy SEAL; Jimell Griffin of the U.S. Marshals Service; Bob Levy; Thomas Sendlenski; Pegeen Rhyne and Michael Winlin of the U.S. Attorney’s Office; Cheryl Van Buskirk of Caltech; and Mason Wnyocker for his business acumen.
As always, I owe much gratitude to the efforts of Stephen F. Breimer; Marc H. Glick; Rich Green of CAA; Melissa Hurwitz, M.D.; Inkwell Management; Jess Nelson Taylor; and, of course, my entire team at William Morrow. Thanks additionally to the booksellers and librarians, who continue to show me much support.
And Delinah, Rosie, and Natalie. My family.
About the Author
GREGG HURWITZ is the critically acclaimed author of The Tower, Minutes to Burn, Do No Harm, The Kill Clause, The Program and Troubleshooter. He holds a B.A. in English and psychology from Harvard University and a master’s degree from Trinity College, Oxford University. He lives in Los Angeles, where he is currently writing his next novel and adapting The Kill Clause for Paramount Pictures. For more information, go to www.gregghurwitz.net.
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Last Shot Page 42
