Warning Shot

by Dustin Stevens

  Coming as little surprise, she sees nothing.

  Not once had she actually expected to. That wasn’t the point of the trip.

  The point was so that she can now call Sven and tell him to proceed. To be wary and have an eye out, but that the Wolves have been warned off and she herself has checked to ensure compliance.

  Proof not only that she did as requested, but that if something does go sideways while he’s there, her ass is covered. That he knows she wasn’t involved in it, would have no reason to try and set him up with the Wolves.

  Coming to the end of the street, Teller allows her shoulders to sag back down into position. Reaching up, she snatches the hat off her head and shakes out her long blonde hair.

  Extending a finger, she directs Google Maps to invert the directions they just gave her, returning her back to the airport.

  With any luck, in twenty minutes she’ll be out of the Focus and back into an acceptable ride, just one more bullshit errand in this entire situation checked off the list.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After sharing everything she had at the table, I couldn’t bring myself to press Inina further in front of the Ogos. Once she had explained having watched so many of her friends and fellow Micronesians wither and pass, it would have been mean. Probably would have even gone beyond that, an exercise in the macabre, like I was wanting to revel in the disheartening details.

  Something I’ve seen more than once when returning back from deployment. People pretending concern or interest that really just want to hear the explicit details about what we’d seen or done.

  Instead, after she’d told us about the high mortality rate within her own generation, I’d gently steered the conversation to those that have come after. The younger people that weren’t exposed to quite the same levels of radiation as those that were present when nuclear testing was actively taking place decades before.

  Seeming to understand what I was doing, the woman had been kind enough to oblige. She’d gone on to share the difficulties many had with assimilating into American culture. Finding education. Fighting the constant battles of immigration and racism that seem to be gripping this corner of the country.

  Start to finish, we’d sat at that table outside of SD Buzzed for well over an hour. Long enough that by the time we finished, the sun was well into its descent for the evening. The establishment we were in front of had turned off its interior lights. The afternoon crowd on the streets nearby had thinned even further, people making their way home for dinner.

  Once we were finished, none of us had much felt like eating. As a group, we’d risen and deposited our empty cups, piling back into my car. Bypassing St. Mary’s, I drove Inina directly to her home, a converted garage in the backyard of a property across the bridge in Crown Point. Accessible through a gate along the side of the house, I asked Valerie and Fran for a few moments and offered to walk Inina to her door.

  Not until we are both out of sight of the car do either of us say anything, Inina the one to pull up short on the concrete walk. Taking advantage of the brief stretch of sidewalk completely hidden along the side house, she stops and looks at me, expectation obvious on her face.

  An expectation I’ve had since first sitting down at the coffee shop – since leaving Father Wagner’s office – to try and determine the best way to approach, but still can’t quite decipher.

  Fortunately, Inina doesn’t seem to have quite the same compunction.

  “There is more you want to ask me,” she says.

  For just an instant, I feel my eyebrows lift. Responses rise, attempts to pretend otherwise, receding as fast as they first appeared.

  We are alone. She has given me the floor.

  There is no point in hiding any longer.

  “There is,” I reply. “Something Father Wagner mentioned while you ladies were all still in mass.”

  Vertical lines appear on either side of her lips as she draws them in tight. “You want to know about Daniel.”

  “Daniel?”

  “I guess some of the others called him Father Dan, but he wasn’t actually a priest, and he hated being called Dan.”

  It takes just an instant before who she is referring to clicks into place. Not once had Wagner mentioned the first name of the man that had led the Chuukese mass and then fled. Now that I think on it, never did he refer to him as a father or priest either.

  Only Brother Lucero.

  “I do,” I reply. “Father Wagner said it was rather abrupt.”

  I don’t bother adding that it was heavily implied that there might have been foul play involved. Much like earlier, I don’t want to influence whatever she might offer, just as I don’t want to frighten her.

  Based on the stories she’s already told, she’s intimately aware of the dangers staring her way.

  In the shade afforded by the house, the temperature is much lower than just a few moments ago. In the air, I can smell meat cooking, something fried, like a breaded steak or pork loin. Somewhere nearby, someone is listening to a football game, the same thing I would likely be doing on a Sunday evening before all of this was dropped on me.

  Folding both arms across her stomach, Inina seems to shrink two sizes. “Yes and no,” she replies. “His leaving was pretty fast, but everything leading up to it was much, much slower.”

  Just as happened while sitting at the table, her eyes go glassy with tears. Her nostrils flare slightly as she pulls in air.

  I say nothing, content to let her get to whatever she is about to share in her own time.

  “Daniel’s wife was my best friend. A wonderful woman named Keani. They’d come here together a long time ago, I believe, because they wanted to help.”

  No mention of the man’s wife had been made by Wagner. Already, my mind starts to work, piecing things together, even as she is just beginning to share.

  “And together, they did. They helped a lot. People just like me, cycling over here from the islands in search of something. School, care, a new place to start, whatever they needed.

  “What you saw at St. Mary’s today? That’s all that is left now, but not that long ago, there was so much more. There were language classes and food lines and whatever else Daniel and Keani could scrape together.”

  Pushing her attention to the side, Inina again pulls in air. A quiver passes over her tiny form as she does so, though she remains rigid.

  “I honestly don’t know how they did it. It’s not like they were much better off than any of us. But whatever they managed to get, they shared.

  “All of us, we were always welcome to sleep on their couch or their floor, eat their food. No questions asked.”

  I can tell she is building to something. Merely from the tenor of her voice, the construction of her sentences, it is obvious.

  Still, I remain silent, letting her go through the paces as she sees best.

  “Right up until Keani got sick.”

  “Oh, no,” I whisper, the words out before I even realize it.

  “Oh, yes,” Inina replies, flicking her gaze my way before returning it to the vertical slats of the security fence beside us. “And like I said, it was a long, painful process. For Daniel...well, for all of us.”

  My entire interaction with this woman can be boiled down to the last two hours, and still I feel the urge to reach out. To console her in some way, the anguish she feels so palpable.

  Anguish that I recognize in a way I never wanted to. Pain that, like hers, I’m sure will be sitting with me long into the future.

  “Cancer,” she adds, forcing herself ahead. “Brain.”

  Her eyes slide shut for just a moment, the movement causing a single tear to drop down the length of her cheek. Straight over the hollow curvature, it drips from her jaw, the woman making no effort to stop it or wipe away the evidence of its passing.

  “After that, everything changed. Without her, Daniel didn’t have the time or the energy to devote to our community anymore. Certainly didn’t have the money or the resources
.

  “His entire focus shifted.”

  Once more, she falls silent. Much different than her previous pauses, she holds it an extra beat, as if letting the moment pass by.

  Letting me know that this topic is now over, the grief she still feels too much to continue sharing.

  “I don’t know what actually happened to your wife,” she eventually manages to get out. “But I can tell you mean well. That’s why I’m sharing this story with you now.”

  Her focus moves to my face, imploring me to correct her if she is wrong.

  She is not.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “And why I’m asking that when you speak to Daniel, you be gentle,” she adds. “He’s been through a lot.”

  It takes a moment for the words to resonate, for what she is telling me to penetrate the somber moment. Slowly, my mind computes what she has just said, my eyes bulging slightly as I stare down at her.

  “Speak to him? But I thought...?”

  “He’s gone?” she replies. “He is, but that doesn’t mean he is no longer with us. Just that he had to find someplace where it was still safe for him to be.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The interior of the Clairemont Mesa station of the San Diego Fire Department fulfills every preconceived notion Detective Malcolm Marsh has about such places. Not the polished, well-intentioned version that is handed out to schoolchildren, filled with shiny red hats and fire poles and adorable dalmatians. The reality of the matter as perceived from the other side, an entity that doesn’t do near what their police counterparts do and shouldn’t be funded accordingly.

  From where he sits, he can smell chili. And hear a football game playing on the big-screen television blaring in the common area. And listen to the conversation being conducted by the handful of men all grouped up to eat.

  No doubt later on, once the game is over and they’ve digested, they’ll consider going for a run. Maybe playing some volleyball on the court set up out back.

  Or doing a hundred other things to waste taxpayer time and money.

  Sitting in the uncomfortable chair with a thin black leather pad in the sole office in the building, he forces such thoughts away. If not from his mind, then at least from his features, attempting to keep his face neutral as he stares across the desk at Arson Investigator Greg Bond.

  Built like a fire hydrant himself, he is short and compact. His head is shaved clean, offset by the faint outline of a beard reaching from one ear to the other. Comprised of both white and brown, Marsh guesses the man’s age to be mid-forties, if not a little older.

  Beside him is Tinley, his partner splashed across a chair matching his own. Having not been to bed yet since the scene at Hoke’s last night, it is apparent he is flagging. Heavy bags underscore his eyes and the faint smell of blood still clings to him.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Bond says. On his lap is a plain blue folder, the top flap peeled back to reveal a thin stack of papers inside. “I know I sent over the preliminary report already, but I heard back from the lab this morning and wanted to appraise you of everything I had in person.”

  Why such a thing is important, Marsh doesn’t pretend to know. Like the man said, already he had sent over his initial analysis. Anybody that was anywhere near the fire at Kyle Clady’s a couple of nights before knows what happened, the smell in the air and the complete destruction of the property enough to make it obvious.

  “Gas,” Bond says, skipping right to the punchline. “And a lot of it. Whoever did it went right in through the front door, splashed it on the major stuff in the center, sprayed a little down the hall and out the back door for effect.

  “No ignition source recovered, meaning it was likely matches or some such thing that completely burned up in the blaze.”

  Grunting softly, Marsh accepts the information. Not one bit of it is new, though he forces himself to pay attention the best he can and not to think of the other things he’d rather be following up on.

  Like whatever evidence was collected at Hoke’s. Or meeting with Chief Detective Wilson Ramirez’s contact out at Parkside Hospital.

  Or a lot of things that don’t involve him sitting in a damn fire station well beyond his own jurisdiction.

  Normally, fires such as this are handled entirely by the arson investigator. They determine what caused the outbreak, and if further action is needed, they are authorized to perform it. Any resulting charges are done in cooperation with the corresponding prosecutor’s office.

  In this particular instance, things are a bit more muddled. With the recent death of Mira Clady being an open investigation, everything tied to her husband, their property, and anything else that might be connected, also falls into Marsh’s purview.

  A fact that requires him to show up in moments like this and play nice, even if doing so presents very little in the way of actionable information to him.

  The situation as a whole is still a mess. A tangle of disparate threads and thoughts, none of them quite making sense.

  As for the fire, that much is pretty straightforward. A message sent directly to Clady. A finishing touch to what began with his wife ten days prior.

  The senders being exactly who he is going to look further into the instant he is out of this place.

  “Thank you,” Marsh mumbles. No matter his best effort to sound sincere, it comes out a bit stilted. In his periphery, he can see Tinley look his way.

  The problem isn’t with Bond himself. Only on rare occasions has he been forced to work with arson investigators, and compared to those instances, this is infinitely preferable.

  Peeking out from beneath the man’s shirtsleeve is the bottom half of a United State Marine Corps tattoo. In line with someone that came up with that type of training, the man before him is efficient. His investigation was quick and thorough, as was the lab work.

  The bigger issue is with everything that seems to be going on here. Ten days ago, Marsh was called to Balboa Park to pick up a husband that had gone off the rails and killed his wife.

  Or so he thought.

  With each passing day, the cloud surrounding that night seems to be growing. All of it circles back to the same central premise, though how it all falls into line continues to evade him.

  A fact that the brass hasn’t yet come down on him for, but if the text he got a couple of hours earlier from their captain asking for a rendezvous in the morning is any indicator, it is coming.

  “For getting to it so quickly and for keeping us in the loop on everything,” Marsh adds, hoping it might be enough to quell whatever his voice previously betrayed.

  A hope that, based on Bond’s expression, falls well short.

  Peering across beneath heavily lidded eyes, Bond lets the words fall away. He goes completely silent, the only sound the men watching the game nearby, before flipping the folder shut atop his lap. Tossing it onto the desktop, he grabs up a second file, this one plain manila. Without opening it, he leans forward, extending it toward Marsh.

  “This is actually the reason I asked you gentlemen here today,” he says. Adding no more, he waits until Marsh leans forward and accepts it before saying, “We pulled those from the cameras outside the Clairemont Town Square around the time of the fire the other night.”

  Turning the folder so it is right-side-up, Marsh leans a few inches to the side. Beside him, Tinley does the same as he swings the top cover open to reveal a pair of photographs inside. Both done in black and white, they are glossy prints, a timestamp appearing in the corner.

  Each photo is of the same vehicle, a small nondescript sedan in a light color. Sitting in it are a pair of men, one enormous, taking up the bulk of the space. The other is much smaller, hugging the passenger door.

  Neither of them has Marsh ever seen before, though the vests both are wearing he recognizes on sight.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Bond says, his voice pulling Marsh’s attention up from the pictures.

  “What’s that?”

&nb
sp; “Your reaction is the same exact one Kyle Clady had while sitting in that chair just yesterday.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The sharp sting of the glass in Ringer’s palm has receded. In its place is the icy tingle of plasma seeping out over it, starting the healing process. Not bothering to wrap it up, not wanting anybody to think it is a remnant of his encounter with Byrdie this morning, he leaves it uncovered. With his hand curled into a loose ball, it is balanced atop the table in the corner of The Wolf Den.

  In his opposite hand is a beer. Between them rests his cellphone.

  Opposite him are the two remaining deputies of the Wolves. To the right is Gamer, an enormous whiskey barrel of a man with thick arms and a head shaved clean. Tossed over his shoulder is a hand towel, used to wipe down the shimmer of sweat that seems to cover his arms and head ten months out of the year.

  To the left is Snapper, his name derived from the twisted assortment of teeth jutting out over his bottom lip. So prominent there is no way for him to ever keep them tucked back, rarely does he even try, a mouth breather in the purest sense.

  Without Byrdie, the two have shifted around the table. Instead of four men positioned like the points on a compass, they are now arranged as the lines on a peace symbol.

  Three men, all with their own corner of an equilateral triangle.

  The crowd that had assembled this morning has since dispersed. Like the trio of men currently sitting around the table, the membership has been split into thirds as well. Rotating every few hours, one third was sent out to continue looking for Kyle Clady. Another was told to resume normal Sunday activities, making a point of being seen with their families and out in the community.

  Those that remain have assembled here, awaiting orders from Ringer.

  Much like the decision to get involved with Byrdie personally this morning, the time for laying low and allowing things to simmer has passed. While every effort will be made to not draw attention, beyond that, the Wolves will no longer be sitting back to react.