The Sentinel

by Gerald Petievich

  "What's wrong, funnyman?" Timmons asked.

  "I'm the one with the money. I went through your security games. Now it's my call. I don't know you."

  "Spike does."

  "For all I know, you and he might be planning to rip me off. Maybe you're planning to kill me and bury me in your chicken coop."

  Timmons studied him with a practiced look of disdain. "If we could get away with it we probably would." He laughed, and Vincent joined in. "Where you from, man?"

  "Beverly Hills."

  "Yeah, and I'm from the wonderful land of dog dick."

  "You look like it. So what's it gonna be? Do you want to sell some clay or should I head back over the grapevine

  Timmons coughed richly and turned to Vincent.

  "Okay. You pick the spot to do the deal. Call me in exactly one hour."

  Garrison followed Vincent toward the door.

  "What happened to you, Spike?"

  "Huh?"

  "Your eye."

  "Oh, that-"

  "I punched him because he talked back to me," Garrison said.

  Vincent laughed. "My wife threw something at me."

  Timmons smiled sardonically.

  Garrison followed Vincent outside. They got back in the truck.

  "You got a lot of balls," Vincent said as they drove off.

  On Buck Owens Boulevard Garrison saw a neon sign:

  MARTY'S BAKERSFIELD INN - CABLE TV, FREE ICE. He motioned to Vincent and they drove into the parking lot.

  Garrison stared through the window down at a dimly lit Buck Owens Boulevard. He glanced at his Timex, and had the peculiar sensation that he was trapped in the motel room with its rattling air conditioner and cowboys-on-horseback-chasing-Indian s prints on the wall. Vincent had been pacing the room and it was getting on Garrison's nerves.

  "It's been an hour since you made the call," Garrison said. "Where is he?"

  "He's cagey. But he'll be here. Look, man. What the hell are you going to do when he delivers the C-4?"

  "Arrest him. Then you can leave."

  "Where are the rest of your people?"

  "Nearby."

  "Why haven't you been talking to them, telling them what the hell is going on?"

  "Relax, Spike."

  "Relax? My ass is on the line here."

  Garrison knew he was right. But Timmons was the one who'd sought out the hit man Alexander. Garrison had to find out why and there was no other way. A man like Timmons wasn't going to tell him anything unless he had something to hold over his head. Could Timmons have been the one who sent Alexander to kill the President? What was Timmons's role? Garrison needed a case to hold over Timmons's head if he was going to get him to tell what he knew about Garth Alexander.

  A Ford Thunderbird veered into the parking lot. Garrison leaned close to the glass.

  "It's him."

  Vincent joined him at the window. They watched as Timmons slowly cruised past the motel office and pulled into a parking space. Garrison felt his pulse quicken.

  Timmons got out of the Thunderbird, looked about, then took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck and brow. Then a blue, late-model pickup truck drove into the parking lot and maneuvered into a marked space next to the Thunderbird. Two men with shaved heads climbed out and began talking to Timmons. Garrison leaned close to the venetian blind. He'd wondered whether Timmons would come alone. The men wore loose-fitting shirts, which Garrison assumed meant that they were carrying guns.

  "He didn't say anything about bringing muscle with him."

  "They work for him," Vincent said, looking worried.

  "What's going on, Spike?"

  "This means Timmons didn't like your looks. He'll probably demand to see your money before he delivers anything."

  Garrison knew he was at the reward-risk intersection that comes in every undercover case - that moment when all the maneuvering was over. Outnumbered or not, he'd succeeded in getting Timmons away from his home turf. Now the trick was to get him to show the C-4, establishing a possession case that Garrison could use to make him talk. He had to go through with it as is.

  Timmons opened the driver's door of the Thunderbird and took out a shiny aluminum briefcase.

  "That must be the C-4," Vincent said. "Look. Once he gets here, I'm gonna split-"

  "You're not going anywhere."

  "I done my part-"

  "It'll make him suspicious if you want to leave. I'll do the talking and you will go along with what I say. Get it?"

  "Okay. Okay. But I don't like it. I don't want to be involved."

  Timmons and the skinheads began walking across the lot in their direction, and Garrison had the instinctive urge to pick up a two-way radio and notify other Secret Service units. But there was neither a radio nor any Secret Service units to help him. Garrison drew his SIG-Sauer and checked the clip, then reholstered. He closed the venetian blind.

  There was the sound of knocking on the door.

  Garrison checked the peephole, and then opened it. Chino Timmons was holding the briefcase in his left hand. The skinheads were behind him.

  Garrison opened the door.

  "I thought you got lost."

  "Me pass up a deal? Not on your life, funnyman. Aren't you going to invite us in'?"

  Garrison nodded toward the skinheads. "Who are they?"

  "You didn't think I was going to show up alone, did you?"

  "What are you worried about?"

  "There are two of you and I have the shit. What's the damn problem? What are you afraid of?"

  Garrison reluctantly stepped aside. There was nothing else to do. He had to know for sure that Timmons had the explosives. He had to see the C-4 or he would have no hold on Timmons.

  Timmons walked in, followed by the skinheads. They reeked of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana, the stench of losers who hated the police and the federal government and believed black helicopters filled with FBI agents, an evil White House, and greedy Wall Street bankers were out to destroy them. The skinheads, though trying to look poised, had a flushed appearance that reminded Garrison of paratroopers waiting to jump. That was the way it was in contraband cases: strangers meeting strangers to commit crime. It was a zero-sum game where each side suspected the other of planning to rob them. Garrison knew half such undercover meetings ended in robbery.

  "Let's see your cash," Timmons said.

  Garrison closed the door. "Not before I see the C-4."

  Timmons stared at Garrison and nervously chewed his bottom lip.

  Vincent moved toward the door. Timmons's eyes darted toward the skinheads. They moved in front of the door, blocking Vincent's exit. Garrison could feel the tension in the room.

  "Where are you going?" Timmons asked.

  "I have to get back to work. You guys go ahead and do your thing. Hell, you don't need me."

  "You ain't never let a deal scare you before, Spike," Timmons said.

  "We don't need him," Garrison said. He felt like choking him.

  Timmons's right hand dropped to his side. "What's wrong, my man?"

  "I'm on parole," Vincent said. "I gotta be careful."

  Vincent tried to push past the skinheads. They stopped him.

  "Don't let him screw up a solid deal," Garrison said. "Let him go."

  Timmons's eyes were wide. He pulled a .45 automatic and aimed it at Garrison. The skinheads drew guns.

  Timmons moved to Vincent and slapped him across the face with the .45. Vincent went to his knees.

  "What's up, Spike?"

  "Nothing. I swear."

  "Where's the buy money?"

  "It's close by," Garrison said.

  "Shut up, motherfucker," Timmons said, pressing the barrel of the .45 to Vincent's head.

  "Go get it."

  "Let's go, Spike," Garrison said.

  "Spike is gonna wait right here with us until you get back," Timmons said.

  At that moment Garrison knew that the time for talking was over. Garrison felt suspended in time, as if
he were looking down into the room from afar, waiting for the inevitable violence to explode. There was no talking his way out. Vincent was going to crack. Garrison could see it in his eyes. Now it was a matter of survival.

  "He don't have any buy money," Vincent said. "If he leaves he won't come back. He forced me to introduce him to you."

  Garrison's head throbbed as they stared at him.

  Timmons pulled the slide on the .45.

  "Who is he, Spike?"

  "A fed," Vincent said. "He said he would kill me if I didn't introduce him to you. He has a gun. There was nothing else I could do."

  Timmons moved to Garrison.

  "So you came here to do me, eh, fed? Did you, rotten motherfucker?"

  Garrison snatched the barrel of Timmons's gun with both hands. The gun fired searing Garrison's neck. He yanked Timmons in front of him as a shield, shoving the gun into his back.

  "Tell them to drop the guns," Garrison said.

  The skinheads looked panicky and unsure of themselves as they aimed their guns in Garrison's direction, unable to fire without hitting Timmons.

  "Do as he says," Timmons said.

  The skinheads looked at one another, just for a split second. The man on the left began lowering his weapon slowly. The man on the right edged slowly toward Garrison's right, and there was no doubt in Garrison's mind that he was trying to line up Garrison for a head shot.

  Garrison pulled Timmons tightly in front of him and shot the skinhead. The room erupted in rapid, deafening gunshots, muzzle-flashes, shouts, and breaking glass. Timmons dropped like a puppet with severed strings and Garrison went down with him, instinctively firing the .45 at the skinhead still standing. As the windows and the mirror shattered, what flashed through Garrison's mind wasn't his life, as those who'd never experienced such terror imagined, but his death - the final destination a cheap room at Marty's Bakersfield Inn. Garrison, Peter would be written on his toe-tag and a bored attendant would roll his corpse into the back of a coroner's wagon parked under the blinking neon downstairs.

  Then, suddenly, everything was quiet. A haze of acrid gunsmoke hung in the air. Timmons was lying in the middle of the room, holding his side and moaning. Vincent was on his back next to the bed. The skinheads were in a jumble next to the door, unmoving. Garrison held his gun in the two-handed combat position as he moved forward to check the skinheads. They were dead, as was Vincent. Garrison touched his own neck. His skin was creased, burned. A bullet had missed killing him by millimeters.

  "Get up," Garrison said to Timmons.

  "My side ... I've been shot."

  Garrison grabbed Timmons by his shirt collar and pulled him to his feet.

  "Give me your car keys."

  "What?"

  Garrison reached into his trouser pocket and took out car keys. He picked up the briefcase and dragged Timmons out of the room and down the stairs. Forcing him across the lot to the Thunderbird, Garrison opened the passenger door and shoved him inside and across the seat to behind the wheel. Keeping the gun on him, Garrison climbed in and pulled the door closed. Motel occupants began streaming out of their rooms to see what was going on.

  "Drive."

  "I'm bleeding, man."

  Garrison shoved the gun against his neck.

  "Okay. Okay."

  Timmons shoved the key into the ignition and started the engine. He backed out of the parking space and drove onto Buck Owens Boulevard.

  "Head for the river."

  Minutes later, Timmons pulled off the road and drove to a spot near the boathouse, where Garrison had been earlier.

  "I need a doctor."

  "Turn off the lights."

  Timmons complied.

  "Now get out."

  Timmons opened the door and climbed out, holding the right side of his abdomen. Garrison got out on the passenger side, walked around the car, and aimed the gun at him. Keeping his eyes on Timmons, Garrison opened the briefcase, took out the C-4.

  "What are you gonna do, man?"

  "Give me a match."

  Timmons looked at him strangely as he searched his pockets. He handed him a book of matches. Garrison struck a match and lit the C-4. It began burning, slowly.

  "What the hell?"

  "Don't worry. It won't blow without a blasting cap. We used to light campfires with it in the Army." He dropped it in a metal trashcan. He moved close to Timmons. "Now listen closely. A couple of weeks ago you asked Vincent to find you a hit man. Why?"

  "I ain't no rat."

  Garrison pointed the SIG-Sauer at Timmons's right leg.

  "Don't shoot!"

  "Talk."

  "I went to Vincent as a favor. A guy I know offered me ten grand to find him a hit man. Supposedly there was some paper out on some guy who'd ripped someone off for a lot of money. The contract was for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He wanted a shooter from outside the country - someone reliable, a professional. All I did was make a few calls. I knew Spike Vincent had connections across the pond, so I asked him if he knew anyone who fit the bill. He told me about this Alexander; some dude he'd served time with. Vincent gave me his E-mail address and I passed the information on. I'm not guilty of any crime. I'm bleeding, man. You got to get me to a hospital or I'm gonna die."

  "The guy who was looking for the hit man. I didn't hear a name."

  "You ain't no cop. Who the fuck are you?"

  Garrison slapped him across the face with the gun, knocking him down. As he tried to get up, Garrison kicked him. Timmons fell backward, into the shallow river.

  "Eddie Richardson," Timmons said after spitting water.

  "Where can I find him?"

  "I met him in a bar called the Corral Club. He seemed like a together guy. I know he's done some time. That's about it. All I did was give him some information. A pass-off kind of thing. What happened after that, I had no control over. I'm an innocent bystander. Why should I get screwed behind something like this? I'm going to bleed out, man."

  "I'll take you to the hospital just as soon as you tell me what you know about Richardson."

  "Medium build, brown hair. He weighs more than you.

  "Where can I find him?"

  "Look, dude. I can't tell you something I don't know. This Richardson is a secretive-type person. That was one of the reasons he and I didn't hit it off after a couple of weeks. He was a damn liar. I don't know where he is staying. And I just didn't trust him."

  Garrison raised his gun and took careful aim.

  "What the hell are you doing? I told you everything I know. I swear I'm telling you the-"

  Aiming the SIG-Sauer slightly to the right of Timmons, Garrison fired. Timmons shrieked and fell into the shallow water as the fire flash momentarily lit the river. Timmons struggled to his knees and patted his chest to see if he had been hit. Garrison aimed at his head.

  "Richardson is staying in a motel-at the Viking Ship Residence Inn in Vienna, Virginia. That's near Washington, D.C. I talked to him day before yesterday. He said he wouldn't be coming back for about a week. But if you tell him I ratted him out, he'll kill me."

  "If I get back there and I find out that you called him and told him I was looking for him, then all bets are off. I'll be back to finish you."

  "I won't. I swear."

  Garrison drove Timmons's car to Bakersfield Mercy Hospital and left him at the emergency entrance.

  Garrison cruised south to Highway 99, ascending from the Central Valley flatland up the Grapevine, a steep grade leading through the mountainous Tejon Pass toward Los Angeles. His mind was filled with what he had learned. It was a jumble of facts that barely fit together, leading to someone named Eddie Richardson. The case reminded Garrison of other investigations where the facts were disparate, like blackbirds that swooped down now and then, wings fluttering, only to fly away again. Some of the cases remained unsolved to this day. But something about this investigation was different and, for the life of him, he couldn't put his finger on it.

  About forty minutes
later, he reached the bottom of the grapevine, where two main L.A. freeway arteries led into the smoggy Los Angeles basin. He took Highway 210, leading south and east to Interstate 10, leading toward Ontario Airport, east of Los Angeles. He would depart from Ontario rather than the Bakersfield or Los Angeles International Airport, where he assumed agents might be monitoring outgoing flights, looking for him.

  At the Ontario Airport he parked his car in a pay lot and used his cell phone to make a reservation under the name Joachim Porzig on a flight from L.A. Airport to Mexico City. He believed that the Porzig passport that he'd used to fly from D.C. had probably been reported stolen by now, and the reservation would create a false trail for his pursuers that would give him more time.

  In the departure terminal, Garrison roamed about a ticket counter until he spotted a man similar to him in age and description. He got in line behind him. The line moved to the ticket counter, where the man purchased a ticket. The clerk asked for his driver's license and the man took a wallet from his inside jacket pocket, displayed the license, and paid for the ticket. Garrison departed the line. The man left the counter and walked to a departure area, where he shrugged off his jacket and hung it over the back of a lounge seat. He sat down and began reading a magazine. Garrison sat next to him. When the man rose to make a call from a pay telephone a few feet away, Garrison looked about quickly to see if anyone was watching, then reached into the jacket and pulled out the wallet. He walked to an American Airlines ticket counter, hoping that no one had seen him.

  Garrison asked a harried young female clerk for a one-way ticket to Washington, D.C. She filled out a ticket. She asked for his identification. He handed her the driver's license that was in the wallet.

  During the flight back to D.C, Garrison gazed across the wing at a wide ledge of rain clouds far in the distance: shimmering gray cotton painted in the sky. He wondered about Martha Breckinridge - what she'd thought after hearing that he'd escaped from custody - and about Eleanor. Was she working to clear him? Or had someone in the White House convinced her he was an assassin? Garrison felt alone and abandoned. Experience had taught him that the answer to most cases - the key that opened the lock - was invariably found not just in assimilating the relevant facts, but in the way one looked at them. He had to find that way. There was no turning back. He knew that he had crossed the point of no return.