by Barry Eisler
“I hope so. What?”
“For the six matches we have. Could your guy cross-check and see which members of Boomer’s unit were also deployed to Fort Campbell on October 10, 2007, when Kaila Jones disappeared from Guthrie? And also on leave for Charleston, San Antonio, and Minneapolis? And who also went with Boomer to train with Camarillo in San Jose and Dreifuss in New York?”
“You think Boomer had an accomplice?”
“I know he did. If I’m lucky, there will be only one other guy who matches the time on base when Kaila Jones disappeared, and those three block-leave periods, and the training.”
“Give me a half hour. Let me see if I can reach my guy.”
Twenty minutes later, Fallon called her back.
“His name is Stephen Spencer,” he said. “People call him Snake.”
21
Boomer and Snake sat at the edge of Ratkay Point, passing a bottle back and forth, listening to the waves break on the rocks below them, watching the moonlight rippling across the endless dark Pacific. It was Snake’s bottle, and Boomer knew he shouldn’t because he’d driven, and especially with the campaign and everything else going on he couldn’t risk a DUI. But damn, it was so good to relax this way, like old times, when it was nothing but upside and without all the fucking pressure and problems.
Snake took a swig of the whiskey, then let out a long sigh. “It’s up to you,” he said, handing back the bottle to Boomer. “But the way I see it, it’s all going according to plan. You’re winning. So why would you want to stop before you’ve won?”
So I can quit while I’m ahead, Boomer thought. But that wasn’t a concept Snake had ever understood.
Boomer took a pull from the bottle. His fourth? Fifth? He’d lost count, and shit, they’d been here, what, fifteen minutes? He really should stop. But he was feeling so good. The ocean breeze on his face. The moonlight. And that . . . fuzz the whiskey was bringing down at the edges of his vision and hearing was just what he needed, leveling everything out, putting it all in perspective. He wished they were on leave somewhere, and that he didn’t have to worry about driving and maybe getting pulled over, and that they could just keep drinking and bullshitting until everything went away and he didn’t have to remember any of it.
“Look,” he said, handing back the bottle before he could take another swig, “what you did with Noreen . . . brother, that was epic. And Hope, too. But that reporter spooked me, you know? Asking if I wanted to comment on the ‘coincidence.’”
“Shit. Barely a coincidence, if you ask me.”
“Come on, man. Two girls from my high-school class, a week apart—one accuses me of rape and disappears, and the other gets raped and killed?”
“But we knew that was going to happen. You can prove you’ve been in California campaigning the whole time.”
“Yeah, but that’s not going to stop people from speculating.”
“How’d the reporter even know what high school Hope went to?”
“She didn’t say. But I know there’s a private Facebook page for people from my class. I’m not on it because who has time anyway, but a few people from back in the day reached out when Noreen went public. Just telling me they remembered her, she was crazy, stay strong, that kind of stuff. So I figure, when you did Hope, someone she’s still in touch with must have heard the news, and told some other people, and the next thing is, the whole class is talking about it and maybe someone contacted a reporter. Christ, it’s like in high school again, the fucking gossip.”
He reached for the bottle. Snake handed it over and Boomer took a swig. Oh man, it tasted good. And felt even better. He hesitated, then handed it back.
Snake took a swallow. “The reporter print anything?”
Boomer shook his head. “No.”
“See? They know they don’t have shit. And if they step out of line, your old man will sue them so hard for defamation he’ll bankrupt their asses.”
Boomer shrugged. “Still not good to have people talking.” His voice sounded odd in his ears. A little slurred and far off. “Far off and far out,” he said aloud, and laughed.
“Who gives a fuck what people talk about? It’s what you do that matters.”
Boomer looked at him. “Politics isn’t like that, brother,” he said, the laughter dying away. “What people talk about is half the game.”
Snake took another swallow and handed back the bottle. “Okay, fine. But you said it yourself—since Noreen, your campaign contributions are through the roof, and your supporters are so fired up they’re going to swarm down from the bleachers and storm the fucking field over the conspiracy against you. What happened to Hope Jordan hasn’t put a dent in that. Why would it? If anything, it’ll help.”
Boomer took another swallow. He meant for it to be a small one, but then it wasn’t.
“Tell you what,” Snake said, the words a little slurred. “I’ll take care of the third one the way we took care of Noreen. What was her name again? Sherrie something, that’s right. Yeah, Sherrie. Disappear her ass into thin air. Then if anyone wants to speculate, it’ll look like some kind of . . . opportunistic move. Like something . . . maybe coordinated with Noreen’s vanishing act, and taking advantage of, you know, politicizing Hope Jordan, trying to turn a family’s tragedy into a weapon to use against you. Right?”
Boomer took another swallow. Smaller than the last one. That was good. He was still in control.
“Or look at it this way,” Snake said, emphasizing the point with a finger jabbed toward Boomer. “Say I don’t do Sherrie. And she goes public, like you’re worried she will. Well, then you’ll have lost your chance. A second woman comes forward and then disappears, and a third one overall . . . the speculation, the talk, it’ll boil over. And it’ll be hard to get it to simmer down. You’ll look back and think, ‘Ah, shit, my old buddy Snake, he was right. Told me I should get out ahead of this thing, take the small risk for the big gain instead of the big risk for the small gain. God, I only wished I’d listened. Not much of an education in that one, true, but I gotta admit, he’s no dummy, either.’”
Boomer laughed. Was there anyone on Earth who understood him the way Snake did?
Snake stood, moved closer to the edge, unzipped, and pissed over the cliff. The rocks were too far below to hear the piss hitting, and besides, the surf was too loud.
Boomer looked at Snake’s back, faintly visible in the glow of the far-off streetlights. He realized all he’d have to do was stand, take a step forward, and give a hard shove. People sometimes fell here. There were signs to warn visitors—Danger and Unstable Cliffs and Visitors Have Fallen Here and Died—things like that.
He shook his head. What the fuck was he thinking?
A moment later, Snake zipped up and sat again. Boomer handed him the bottle.
Snake upended it, swallowed, then blew out a long, satisfied breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll disappear the third one. Anyone wants to talk about it, it’ll look like someone taking advantage of the narrative to undermine you. In which case, your supporters go ballistic, the election’s in two weeks, and you’re the new senator from Califuckingfornia. After which, who gives a shit?”
The sound of the breaking waves was smooth now, hypnotic. It seemed to merge with the ripples of moonlight on the water, the dark sky overhead, the nice, fuzzy cocoon behind Boomer’s eyes and all around his body.
“All right, man,” he said. “I mean, fuck it. You’ve been right so far. Shit, you give me better PR advice than my own damn advisors.”
Snake looked at him, and Boomer could see real gratitude in his eyes. That someone valued him not just for his skills, but for his brains, too.
Then Snake slid over so they were right next to each other and threw an arm around Boomer’s neck, mock-headlocking him. Boomer felt Snake’s hot breath on his face, smelled the whiskey on it.
“You know it’s because I love you, man,” Snake said. “Right?”
Boomer nodded.
“Where does she liv
e?” Snake said. “Sherrie, I mean.”
“Kanab,” Boomer said, looking out at the dark water.
“Kanab? What the hell’s Kanab?”
“It’s . . . southwest Utah. A little north of the Grand Canyon.”
Snake laughed. “Are you kidding me? That’s like, what, an eight-hour drive from the Salton Sea?”
Boomer laughed, too, knowing where the crazy bastard was going with this. And not giving a shit at all.
“I got an idea,” Snake said. “When I pick her up, I won’t waste her. I’ll drive her to you, like the pizza-delivery man. Right? Like I did Noreen. I mean, as long as you share a slice, right?”
Boomer laughed. Yeah, Snake was crazy, but . . . there was no one Boomer loved more.
“Can you get there?” Snake said. “I mean, with the campaign and all.”
Boomer looked at Snake. What did they call it? Serendipity, that’s right. “Fundraiser in Palm Springs,” he said. “Night after tomorrow.”
“Fuck me running, that’s an hour away, brother, it’s perfect!”
Boomer kept on laughing, knowing he was too drunk to drive, no longer even giving a shit. About a DUI, or anything else. “Good old Salton Sea,” he said.
Snake tousled his hair. “Fuck yeah,” he said, laughing. “Let the good times roll.”
22
It was just getting light when Livia rode past Cal Anderson Park on the Ducati. Little had texted her from a new number, as promised, and she had texted back with a message that they should meet in an hour. But she wanted to get there first.
She parked the bike in the lot between Broadway and Nagle, dismounted, pulled off her helmet, and looked around, her breath turning to vapor in the cool morning air. Just a few parked cars, their windows covered in dew. She secured the helmet to her backpack and slid her left arm through one of the straps. This way, she could drop the pack instantly if there was a problem, while keeping her right hand free to access the Vaari or the Glock. Then she did a quick walk around the perimeter, making sure no one came in behind her. Not that she was expecting anyone—she’d passed the I-90 interchange at about a hundred and thirty.
She stopped at the east side of the lot. It was elevated and had a nice view of the reflecting pool across Nagle and of the surrounding park. From here, she’d be able to see Little coming from a long way off. And she’d have plenty of time to spot anyone tailing him.
As it happened, Little arrived early, too, just ten minutes after she did. That was good. It suggested he was being careful, even paranoid. Slow, maybe, but not ineducable.
He entered the park through the northwest corner, from Denny. Probably he’d taken the Link light rail to Capitol Hill Station. Hopefully he’d gotten off a few times on the way, and stood on the platform to make sure no one was trying to stay with him, and then jumped back on in the other direction. Maybe beforehand he’d used a taxi or two, as well.
She watched him walk the perimeter of the park, checking his back along the way. Yeah, he was being careful. No one came in behind him. Okay.
She headed down to the street and took the stairs up into the park. Little was coming around the bend when she got to the edge of the reflecting pool and nodded when he saw her. She waited until he’d reached her position, then fell in alongside him, walking clockwise around the pool, the two of them scanning as they moved.
“You don’t have to mention it,” Little said. “I was careful. Cabs through empty neighborhoods, changing trains after waiting on deserted platforms, hoofing it around corners and waiting to see whether anyone was trailing after me. Serious old-school shit.”
“What about—”
“No phone with me. Well, the new burner just in case I had to reach you, but with the battery removed. They must have had a team on me when I went to the cemetery. I’m not saying that to distract from my own culpability. I should have been more careful about the possibility of physical surveillance. You were right. I’ve gotten to thinking everything is electronic these days. It isn’t.”
It was a relief that he’d shaped up. And she was glad, and impressed, that he wasn’t making excuses.
“What about the body?” she said.
“You know the Lake Youngs Reservoir, east of the airport?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s just say you might not want to go swimming there for a while.”
“You dumped the body in the reservoir?”
“That’s right.”
“That reservoir gets a fair amount of maintenance. SPU—Seattle Public Utilities—manages it. And the body’s going to float.”
“Not after what I did to it.”
She stopped and looked at him, part relieved, part concerned.
And, she couldn’t deny, part impressed.
“You put holes in it?” she said.
“With a screwdriver, yes. The entire chest cavity, abdomen, soft tissue . . . wherever gas could collect. It’ll stay sunk.”
She kept looking at him, trying to process this part of him that she hadn’t accounted for until now.
“What?” he said.
“Just . . . that’s grisly work.”
Little grunted. “The way I see it, that man was protecting whoever took my little girl. Whoever did to her what they did. So no, it didn’t feel grisly at all. In fact, he’s lucky you killed him before I had him alone. You studied sublimation in your college psychology courses, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“Well, punching holes in his corpse was a poor substitute for what I wish I could have done. But it was something. And I hope you can believe me when I tell you I was thorough. Anyway, no one’s going to find him. And even if they do, there won’t be any trace of you on him, if there ever was. He’s just gone. One more down. Now, were you able to find out anything about that drone?”
They started walking again. She tried to think of how to tell him. She was concerned the information would be so momentous he wouldn’t be able to control himself. That he would fly to Southern California, go straight to Boomer Kane’s office, and try to tear him apart with his bare hands.
Well, she had to tell him, one way or another. Best to just get it out. And then try to rein him in.
“The drone is the least of it,” she said. “I think I know . . . who took Presley.”
He stopped and seized her arm. Instinctively she broke the grip and grabbed his sleeve in return, but stopped herself from doing more. “I told you, don’t fucking touch me,” she said, shoving him back.
“Who?” he said, leaning forward, his arms frozen halfway to her, the fingers hooked as though desperate to clutch something. His eyes were narrowed and his lips drawn back, his face a mask of pure, primal rage and hate. Then he flinched and shoved the back of a fist against his lips, his expression shifting instantly from rage and hate to grief and terror. His eyes welled up. “Is she alive?” he whispered, and his voice broke.
Livia shook her head. “I don’t know. But I don’t think so.”
Instantly the grief vanished, replaced by rage again. “Then who? You tell me who, goddamn it, who!”
For one second, she hesitated, afraid that the instant he heard the names, he would take off running. But no. He’d want to hear it all, every scrap of information. She’d have a chance to talk him down.
She told him everything. By the time she was done, it was full daylight, and the park was lively with morning joggers and tai-chi practitioners.
“I can get to this man Boomer,” he said when she was done, his tone icy calm. “Oh, yes I can. But the other one . . . Snake . . . Do we have a nexus beyond Boomer?”
“Apparently not. No family. No way to know where he’d go when they let him out of Leavenworth.”
“Well, he went to Boomer, we know that much. That’s what happened to Hannah Cuero. At least we know why they were quiescent for seven years. And why I wasn’t able to uncover a connection in all my searches of prison sentencing. I was looking at federal and state institutions. Didn’t
occur to me to look into military prisons, for an offense committed in an overseas combat zone. It’s my fault. I fucked up.”
She understood his guilt. She’d dealt with a lifetime of it over Nason. The guilt existed independent of logic and had no basis in facts. So trying to reason with it was mostly futile. You just had to learn to endure. To recognize the guilt’s presence, and try not to pay too much attention no matter how loudly it demanded you listen.
Still, she found herself saying, “No one would have thought to look into military prisons for offenses committed overseas. And even if you had, Snake’s conviction was for something called abusive sexual contact. Different crime, different MO. It wouldn’t have meant anything to you even if you’d seen it earlier. It wouldn’t have made a difference. Not to Presley. And not to Hannah Cuero.”
Little took off his glasses and with his free hand scrubbed his face. Maybe he appreciated the gesture. But he was never going to buy what she was selling.
“Why only Snake?” he said after a moment. “Why didn’t they lock up Boomer, too? His old man?”
Livia nodded. “That’s my guess. My contact said there were rumors that the two of them were taking advantage of young girls during raids. But the girls would never come forward.”
“Easy to understand why.”
“Sure. It’s a war zone. Open your mouth, and your rapists come back and kill your family.”
“So what put Snake away?”
“According to my contact, it was the testimony of men in his unit.”
Little laughed harshly. “Half a loaf. Score one for unit integrity, I guess. Why just the one count?”
“My contact didn’t know. But you know how it works. Someone made some kind of deal. One count, a lesser offense, Boomer not involved, the witnesses agree to cooperate.”
Something was tugging at a corner of her mind. Some . . . connection. She could feel it but not see it. She tried to bring it closer, into the ambit of her vision, but Little interrupted. “If Boomer is my nexus to Snake, that’s fine. Getting the first is my route to the second. Same way that drone operator knew he could get to you. By following me.”