by Barry Eisler
He had to stop Snake. For the moment, nothing was more important. Not because he was worried about Bradley’s threat to tell the man how Kane had intervened to have him sent away. At least, that wasn’t his primary worry. Next to the president himself, Kane had the best protection in the world. Still, he wouldn’t have it forever. He wouldn’t have it when he was no longer vice president. Which he certainly wouldn’t be if anything came out about Bradley and that aptly named creature Snake.
When Noreen Prentis had gone missing, Kane suspected Bradley. When he learned Hope Jordan had been raped and murdered—the Portland newspaper noting with infuriating coyness the connection to Bradley—Kane was nearly certain. And seeing Bradley tonight, seeing his reaction, confirmed it. Snake had cooked up a plan. With whatever level of support from Bradley, tacit or otherwise, Snake was eliminating the three women who might tell stories about Bradley from high school, and about how at the time Kane himself had engineered their silence.
Without more, those stories might have been survivable. After all, powerful men had beaten back multiple allegations of sexual impropriety before. What they hadn’t beaten back were revelations that they had been killing the women who might accuse them.
It was maddening. Even as a boy playing Little League baseball, Bradley had ignored any coach who told him to go for the base hit, preferring to swing for the fences and take a chance on striking out instead. And certainly he had ignored his own father’s attempts to steer him to Annapolis and the navy, preferring to seek glory as an enlisted man in the army instead. Kane supposed it was simply in Bradley’s wanton, undisciplined nature to default to the high-risk, high-reward strategy.
On the other hand, he had to admit, in some ways Bradley’s default settings had been working for him. “War hero” was a key element of Bradley’s political brand, after all, and had been a huge asset in the special election that had earned him his congressional seat. Still, the success of Bradley’s approach was more appearance than reality, because it had always depended on hidden assistance. First from Kane, who had bought off those girls. And now from Snake, who was killing them.
Maybe it was Kane’s fault. He had been mortified when Bradley threw back in his face his own dictum about owing the bank a billion dollars. But he supposed his mortification was at least partly the product of the truth of Bradley’s words. Because hadn’t Kane continued to bail the boy out, starting with the girls he was indiscreet with in high school and continuing all the way to the present peril, getting in deeper and deeper until, indeed, Bradley’s problems were no longer primarily his own but rather his father’s?
Yes, maybe. But it didn’t make a difference, either. He couldn’t permit Bradley to go under. The debtor’s bankruptcy would destroy the bank. Which meant there was nothing to be done other than another bailout.
He couldn’t deny that it both enraged and disgusted him that Snake, through his current activities on behalf of Bradley, was in some ways part of that bailout. While also contributing to the bankruptcy Kane was intent on heading off.
But the emotion was irrelevant. So was the paradox behind it. What mattered was, there was a delicate sequence in play, and Kane needed to manage it. He had to let Snake finish quashing the women who could hurt Bradley. And then quash Snake.
Ordinarily, a sequence like that would present a challenge. But not this time. Because this time, Kane knew exactly where the man was going. The focal point of Snake’s final service to Bradley, and the occasion on which he would present his last danger to Bradley, were one and the same.
The third woman. Sherrie Dobbs.
31
Livia looked through the window, watching the ground recede as they gained altitude.
Little figured his boss, Ronald Tilden, was still keeping tabs on him, so after extensive countersurveillance, they’d chartered a small plane from Sea-Tac to avoid having their names entered into the CBP system. The cost was $450 an hour, and the pilot, a guy named Dan Levin who exuded the kind of quiet competence anyone would want in a cockpit, told them he’d be happy to wait on the tarmac anywhere they liked, as long as they understood the meter was running. Little, saying that was what his 401(k) was meant for, accepted without hesitation.
Livia wanted to get in touch with the Kanab Police Department. Little had been opposed—he wanted to keep things as low profile and unofficial as possible. But Livia had asked how he was going to feel if Snake showed up and took Sherrie Dobbs while she and Little were in the air. At that, he relented. So as soon as they took off, Livia used the satellite phone and got ahold of the local chief of police, a guy named Cramer, who naturally wanted to know what it was all about.
“Just being cautious,” Livia said. “I’m investigating a murder, and Ms. Dobbs has information material to my investigation. I don’t think the suspect is anywhere near Kanab. Mostly I’d like to reassure Ms. Dobbs. She was feeling jumpy when I spoke with her on the phone. I should be there in about two hours, regardless.”
“Well,” Cramer said, “if it were tourist season, I don’t know that I could spare someone. We’ve only got six full-time officers on the force, if force is even the right word for a police department that mostly hands out speeding tickets and deals with illegal camping. But this time of year? I’ll be happy to park in front of the Dobbs house myself. Nice couple, by the way. Moved out here a few years ago and opened the kind of bakery I’ll bet you don’t have even in Seattle.”
“What brought them to Kanab?” Livia asked, because you never knew what you might learn.
“Oh, the same thing that brings anyone who’s not originally from around here. Mostly the great outdoors. We’re a stone’s throw from Grand Staircase-Escalante, Zion, the Grand Canyon . . . plus housing’s affordable and the people are friendly. My wife and I fell in love with the area backpacking and rock climbing in college. We lived in Coeur d’Alene for a while, and it’s beautiful out there, but with all the Californication a cop can’t buy a house. So here we are. Got a great wife, two great kids, and I’m chief of police at thirty-two in a part of the world where nothing bad ever happens. You sold yet?”
Livia laughed, but his words made her uneasy. Maybe she’d tried a little too hard to downplay the danger to Sherrie Dobbs when she’d first described the situation. Maybe she should have told Dobbs to go to the station and wait for Livia and Little there. But no, the woman was on bed rest. “Listen, Chief Cramer—”
He laughed. “Tom, for God’s sake. Barely anyone around here even calls me officer.”
“Tom, then. I told you, a patrol car in front of Sherrie Dobbs’s house . . . it’s more about reassuring her than protecting her. But the man I’m investigating is dangerous. You’ll want to be cautious, okay? You said it’s not tourist season. Good. If you see someone near Sherrie Dobbs’s house you don’t recognize, or anything that makes you uneasy, get backup right away.”
There was a pause. “How serious is this?”
“The man I’m looking for . . . he’s killed at least two people. And he’s got military training. Combat experience. It’s great that nothing bad ever happens in Kanab. But if anything bad were going to happen . . . it would be this guy.”
“You have a photograph or a description?”
She’d asked Fallon the same thing. He hadn’t been able to offer much. “White. Wiry build. Five nine and maybe a hundred sixty-five pounds. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Well, it’s something. If he shows up at all.”
“You have a cellphone number?”
He gave her the number. “Thanks,” she said. “I really appreciate the help.”
“You bet. I’ll see you at the Dobbs house. Two hours, you said?”
“Give or take. Thanks again, Chief. Tom.”
She clicked off. The urban density of the Seattle metropolitan area was already behind them, the Cascade Range coming into sharp relief below.
She felt uneasy. How much pause would the sight of a patrol car give someone like Snake?
Some, at least. Noreen Prentis, Snake had disappeared into thin air. Hope Jordan, he’d made look like an ordinary carjacking that escalated to something worse. A tragic coincidence. But a dead cop in front of Sherrie Dobbs’s house, with Dobbs dead or missing on top of it . . . how could they explain that? It would make Prentis and Jordan impossible to dismiss as unconnected. They wouldn’t be that brazen.
She thought that was right. But of course she couldn’t be sure.
Kanab, she thought. Where nothing bad ever happens.
She was going to do all she could to keep it that way.
32
Snake was proned out on a mesa overlooking Sherrie Dobbs’s house, watching through binoculars. It was a good thing he’d reconnoitered before moving in. Because there was a cop parked in front.
The guy was in a pretty good tactical position, too—right at the edge of the corner lot the house sat on, away from bushes, parked cars, or anything else someone trying to sneak up on him might use for concealment. The guy looked alert—not snoozing, not reading a magazine, just giving the area a regular scan, making good use of his rearview and sideviews. And though Snake couldn’t be sure because he could only make out the guy’s chest and shoulders, he looked like a pretty solid specimen. Definitely not some weekend-warrior type, even though the town felt like a backwater.
What are you doing here, Mr. Policeman? Sherrie get the word about poor Noreen and Hope and then call you?
Or did someone send you?
Snake wasn’t much of a marksman, but the cop was parked only about two hundred yards away, and Snake was in an elevated position with clear line-of-sight. If he’d had a rifle, it wouldn’t have been a difficult shot. Unfortunately, he had nothing but the Ruger. If it had been night, he could have ghosted up on the cop no problem. Unfortunately, it was midday, and the sun overhead was so bright Snake could have stripped down and caught a tan.
Think there’s another one inside?
He doubted it. The car was marked Kanab Police. Local. And how many local cops could there be in a town like this? A half dozen? Snake had a feeling the guy was here to humor someone, most likely Sherrie Dobbs.
What to do, what to do.
He supposed he could just wait. It would get chilly when the sun went down in a few hours, but he was wearing his homeless getup, including a watch cap, multiple sweatshirts to create the appearance of extra weight for any witnesses he might encounter, and tactical gloves to make sure he didn’t leave fingerprints anywhere. Let it get dark, ease in, kill the cop then. It wouldn’t be hard.
But waiting involved risks. Snake had done his online research, and made sure to walk by the bakery they owned. The husband had been behind the counter, and no sign of the wife. So a safe bet that right now, Sherrie Dobbs was home, and probably alone. Otherwise, why would there be a cop parked in front of her house? But in a few hours, who knew? Sherrie could go out. Her husband could come home. The neighbors might drop in for a chat. Anything was possible.
Plus, at night, people were less trusting about answering the door. Although in fairness, with a cop out front, it looked like that sort of trust would be in short supply regardless of the hour.
Snake watched the cop through the binoculars. The guy was still scanning. Snake wondered if he had any military training. Maybe. Or maybe it was just that he wasn’t the complacent type.
Waiting felt like a risk. Now felt like an opportunity. The only impediment was the cop. Well, there were ways to take the man out that didn’t involve a rifle or waiting for night. The problem was how it would look. Because the idea was that with two women missing and one raped and murdered, Boomer would be able to stonewall. But change that to one woman missing, one raped and murdered, and one disappeared with the cop guarding her house dead outside it, and stonewalling could start to get a little challenging.
On the other hand, hadn’t Boomer’s supporters already demonstrated their willingness—hell, their eagerness—to explain away Noreen Prentis? There were a half-dozen Facebook groups with thousands of supporters dedicated to the proposition that Noreen was a false flag, with her disappearance abetted by Boomer’s enemies. One of the groups, and by no means the smallest, had even gone so far as to theorize that Boomer’s enemies hadn’t just assisted in her disappearance but had actually done her in. The controversy was causing some uncomfortable questions, sure, but only in media circles and among voters Boomer was never going to win over anyway. His supporters, by contrast, were fired up. Snake couldn’t help smiling at the thought. Maybe he’d missed his calling. He should have been some kind of political consultant.
Not that whatever insights he had were rocket science. If there was one thing Snake knew about people, it was that once they got attached to a theory, it was hard to get them detached. They’d screen out unhelpful facts, invent favorable ones, and ignore contradictions in their own claims. Look at those Sandy Hook truthers, babbling about false flags and crisis actors and all the rest. When people were motivated enough to believe something, they were going to believe it no matter what. There was no such thing as a bridge too far.
Meaning . . . so what if a third woman were taken? So what if the cop who was parked in front of her house to protect her was killed? It would only show the lengths Boomer’s enemies would go to in trying to discredit him. Because of his service to country. Because of what he stood for. Whatever. It didn’t matter why. Boomer’s people loved him, sure, but more than that, they hated his enemies. Snake figured the more threatening those enemies seemed, the more it would motivate Boomer’s base.
Yeah, now that he was thinking about it . . . maybe a dead cop associated with Sherrie Dobbs’s disappearance wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. Maybe it would even be . . . an asset.
He imagined explaining it all to Boomer later. Boomer wouldn’t like it, any more than he’d initially liked the way Snake had taken care of Hope Jordan. But he’d come around, right? He had when he’d seen Noreen Prentis, bound and gagged and ready for the two of them to enjoy. It would be the same with Sherrie Dobbs. Boomer might protest, but then he’d look at her, realize that Snake couldn’t very well send her back, and fuck it, let the good times roll.
Okay. But none of it was going to happen if he didn’t first deal with this cop. He’d have to adjust the approach, of course. Snake’s car—a Toyota Corolla rented back in San Diego but with plates borrowed from another vehicle he’d found in a St. George office park on the drive to Kanab—was parked a quarter mile away in a motel lot. He’d planned to drive it to Sherrie Dobbs’s house after reconnoitering, but that wouldn’t work now. He might be able to pull up alongside the cop and get the drop on him. But doing it that way would mean an open approach from at least a block away. That was more time than Snake wanted to give the guy to get his game face on.
Presumably the guy had been briefed, and knew someone dangerous might show up. But that wouldn’t be a problem. Because when it came to danger, there was knowing, and there was knowing. So unless this cop had seen the kind of combat and killing Snake had, which was seriously unlikely, then no matter what he told himself, there were still going to be some background assumptions. For example, the assumption that violence always involved a buildup, an escalation, some kind of warning signs. Sure, violence might move fast, but not that fast, not so fast you couldn’t anticipate it. People imagined even the worst violence would be like a sports car. There would be an engine roar, and squealing tires, and maybe the front would lift up a little because man, that baby is accelerating fast, you better jump out of the way. But in Snake’s experience, almost no one was prepared for his kind of violence, which was less like a car accelerating than like an IED you didn’t even know was there before it blew up in your face. Good luck getting out of the way of that.
Meaning he could imagine a number of ways to get to the cop. But in the end, he went with the most straightforward.
He dropped back to the north side of the mesa and circled clockwise until he was out of sight of the cop’s position.
Then he scrambled down the side, his boots sending rivulets of red sand ahead of him and kicking up little clouds of dust into the dry air. It took him just a few minutes to reach the street parallel to the one Sherrie Dobbs lived on—another block of sleepy detached single-family houses, a few with cars in the driveways but most looking empty, thickets of trees casting shadows on the parched scrub lots, all of it surrounded by the desolate red mesas.
He walked along until he was about even with Sherrie’s house and one block east of it. Then he turned right onto the driveway between two houses and slipped into the backyard behind one of them, zigzagging from tree to tree to maintain concealment from the cop’s position. A dog barked from a house somewhere to his left, but Snake kept moving, and after a moment the barking stopped. There was the buzz of a lawn mower somewhere. That was all.
Within a minute, he had reached the back corner of the house directly across the street from the Dobbs place. He squatted and looked through the trees. There was the cop, still scanning, not fifty feet away now. His windows were open, maybe on account of the fine weather, maybe because he wanted to be able to hear the world outside the car. Snake would have left the windows up, himself. The glass would offer you some protection—say, from someone with a knife. And yeah, the glass would cut off some sound, but the tradeoff would be worth it.
On the other hand, the guy had parked the way Snake would have. Wrong side of the street, driver side facing the house. Meaning anyone approaching the vehicle from anywhere other than the house would be coming at the driver from across the passenger side. Not a huge buffer, but survival was a game of inches, and anyone who said otherwise had never been in the shit.
He waited, timing the cop’s head scans. The guy was concerned enough to be doing the scans, but not concerned enough to be doing them randomly. Not a good idea. Sentries on regular patrols could be predicted. Sentries who could be predicted could be taken out.