“Tough day, Angie?” Father Bob asked, as he read her name tag.
Angie looked at him over her glasses, and at first he thought her strong face was going to stay that way, but slowly a small smile appeared.
Father Bob had always been at ease with people, and his years of working in New York City with all kinds of people had only sharpened his skills. He turned up his charm again and asked Angie and then the other woman, a graying lady named Lucille, about their jobs, their work, how they liked working at the Azteca and how long they had been there. He found them to be lonely, and he almost always found this when he talked to people living in large cities; it was indicative of living in a crowded city full of people. There was something about being unknown, going out each day doing your anonymous job, coming home each evening to your unspecified apartment in a nameless hive of an apartment building.
They asked him what job he wanted to apply for, and he told them that he was a retired guy and didn’t really need to work, but God, did he get bored and lonely sometimes, and he had thought he might check out a few of these ads in the paper.
“You know … what’s your name?” Angie asked.
“It’s Bob, nice to meet you, Angie and you too, Lucille.” He smiled and shook hands with both of them.
“Nice to meet you too, Bob,” Angie said. “These jobs in the paper are all lower-level type jobs—valet, bellman, et cetera. You’ve got a great personality, Bob; they could use someone like you in concierge or in the VIP center. You should fill this app out and bring me a resume and I’ll try to get you an interview with the personnel department upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“Oh yeah, baby!” Angie said. “Upstairs, where the really important people work—not like us peons below.”
The women exchanged glances and laughed. “Yeah, but we’re keeping it real down here,” said Lucille.
“That’s right, girlfriend,” Angie said. She turned to Bob and waved a plastic ID card that hung from her neck. “But anytime I want to see how the important folk live, I plug my card into the administrative elevators and go for a little ride to the top.”
Father Bob stayed quiet and let the women go on, raising his eyebrows in question.
“Oh, they have their own private elevator so they don’t have to be around us lower-level employees and the great unwashed masses that pay for their casino day in and day out,” Lucille said.
“Really? A private elevator? That seems a little odd,” he said.
“Oh, I bet most of the newer casinos have them,” said Lucille. “Ours is just through a little obscure door by valet.”
“You fill out your app and bring me a resume,” Angie said, “and I will give you the grand tour and escort you up myself.”
He visited with them some more and learned that only security, those who worked upstairs, and Lucille and Angie had cards that worked in the private elevator. “Oh and don’t forget room service,” said Lucille. “I think those servers can use the elevator so they can bring the bigwigs their nourishment.”
Father Bob visited with the girls until five twenty-five and then told them he should let them close up shop. They gave him their cards and told him to be sure to come back and they would put in a good word for him. He left feeling happy; he did like people and visiting with them. Even though his mission was a bit deceitful, he still enjoyed talking with Angie and Lucille. He supposed that was why he was so successful when he went after information—he was relaxed and could talk to people and put them at ease. He folded the application and put it in his pocket and took the elevator up to the lobby and valet.
Chapter 38
Tom listened again to Father Bob’s message. Tom knew he was already long gone. There was a stubborn streak in the man. Now what? This new information that Father Bob was headed to Vegas made Tom’s stomach cramp. The priest was strong and smart; Tom had seen this during the exorcism. But he was, as Cami had said, no spring chicken.
He did have the advantage that no one knew him—it would probably be okay as long as he didn’t go sticking his nose too deeply into these peoples’ business. But if Father Bob screwed up, he was all alone, except for God that is … and though the Devil had shown his hand numerous times so far, Tom wasn’t sure that he had seen God much. He leaned against the counter, staring at the answering machine. Cami was watching him with a worried look on her face. “Are you going to try his cell?”
“He won’t answer it.” Tom walked back to the table, where the remnants of lunch sat. He took a long pull on his iced tea. Cami had not told him about Father Bob’s message until after lunch and that was good, because he probably wouldn’t have eaten if he had listened to it first.
Now he needed to tell her about the Jameses. He looked at her for a moment, and then grabbed her hand. “Come outside with me for a minute.”
Though he felt as though the hourglass had been tipped when he shot the baby killer between the eyes … it had only been trickling. Now as he told her about the Jameses and the bullets and the unspeakable acts that were meant for them and their children, he felt the sands of time pour out. Something was in motion now that could not be pulled back; he was locking their course and the gears were turning.
Cami leaned on the railing of the front porch as her emotions tripped down the check list. Disbelief, anger, fear and grief crossed her face as she reddened and paled, her eyes full of tears and then cold, angry sparks. She did not interrupt him, but instead listened with her head leaning against the porch post. At last she sat down on the little bench by the front door and put her face in her hands. She was too quiet and Tom wondered about that.
“Before Father Bob called, I thought I would lock up the gates and take you and the kids up the canyon to hide out in the camp trailer. Now I’m not sure what to do.” He watched her eyes, as she at last looked up.
“God, things are moving too fast. I suspected that the murders had something to do with all this, but I didn’t want to believe it,” Cami said. She sat still, her hands in her lap, looking limp and exhausted. “Do you think they are going to come back so soon?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to be sitting here with a target on my forehead and I certainly don’t want you or the kids here unprotected.”
“And Father Bob, he’s going to be all alone down there in Vegas.” Cami twisted her wedding ring around and around her finger, something she did when she was on edge. She stood and hugged Tom. “I think you need to go after him. The kids and I will be fine; the canyon is a perfect idea. The road is rough and dusty—I will be able to see anyone who is driving up a half an hour before they get there. No one will know we’re there. I can have Farley and a gun. We will be fine.” Her face was against his shoulder, and she was glad he could not see the fear in her expression. Her voice was strong though.
Tom was relieved. “I’ll lock the gates now. It will just make me feel better. If you want, start packing the trailer and I’ll haul it up there tomorrow morning—we’ll have you settled in before noon and before I take off for Vegas.”
“Okay. And maybe Father Bob will call tonight and you can talk some sense into him and you won’t have to go.” Cami spoke quickly, her hopefulness sounding false to her own ears.
“Cami”—Tom pulled back so he could look down into her eyes—“maybe I can, but you know how Father Bob can be—don’t count on it.”
She broke his firm stare and looked away. “I know, but Tom, what about the cops—the FBI—somebody?”
“Father Bob was afraid that there might be cops that know about this family—that work for them.”
Now Cami met his look with wide eyes.
“And even if the cops don’t work for them—what then—first I have to confess to murder and then prove their guilt? Who is going to look out for us in the meantime? And the publicity—Cami—can you imagine how many of these reporter whores would sell their souls—” He stopped and grimaced at his words. “I mean, what they would do for a story like this?”
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Cami nodded, looking paler and more like a little girl every minute. Tom wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be okay, but right now that would feel like a lie.
“You told me the reporters were like buzzards over at the James ranch.” He paused, not sure that there was anything left to say. He hugged her again and her return hug felt weak, as if she didn’t have the energy to embrace him. He stepped back and brushed a tendril of her hair from her lips. “I better go lock the gates … we’ll both feel a little safer then.”
She stood there motionless on the porch and then nodded at him. She watched as he and Farley drove away, wondering how her little life had gone to hell so quickly.
Chapter 39
Even with the uncanny fortune of having an experienced search and rescue team close by, the broken man’s deliverance from the mine shaft took hours, because of the instability of the cave-in. Thanks to the geologist, who managed to lower some water to him and to the search and rescue paramedic who later rappelled into the crumbly pit and set up an IV in his arm, he still clung to life. With the maddening dehydration abated a little, his body took better notice of the pain that wracked his body. He begged the paramedic for morphine, and when the man told him that he had none, he cried and begged him to shoot him. Then he passed out.
The paramedic did as much as he could for the man, which wasn’t a lot in the deep, dark pit. He stood uneasily over the broken figure under the opening of the shaft. The smell of the rotting half body combined with the man’s bodily functions, which he had lost control of some time ago, made him gag. He wanted out of the hellhole immediately—it felt so much like a grave. He prayed the soft walls would hold as the crew above prepared a special winch set up to lower a stretcher for the broken man at the bottom. They wouldn’t bother with the half carcass. That was up to the cops—it was a crime scene as far as search and rescue was concerned—they were after this fractured creature that was barely alive. The paramedic had seen lots of horrible things in his line of work—dead children had always been the hardest for him—but this was an original. When the geologist had told them there was a hurt man and a half of a man at the bottom of the mine shaft he had expected to find the other half nearby. He had expected some sort of gruesome accident, perhaps a fall on some ancient, jagged machinery at the bottom of the pit. But no, there was only this broken man with his head resting on a rotting half body. As the minutes stretched to hours, he heard the cops arrive, and then he heard someone say that the FBI would be coming too.
“Better keep him alive, son,” some old cop wearing a cowboy hat shouted down to him, “the big boys are gonna want to talk to him.”
“You had better hurry then,” the paramedic called back, “because he’s swirling.”
He didn’t know if his last words had anything to do with it, but ten minutes later they shouted down to him to stand back while they lowered the stretcher. Another paramedic lowered down to help him, and they propped the man and lifted him on the count of three onto the stretcher, strapping him in and setting the IV on top of him. They pulled the helper paramedic out.
The man came to and watched, then asked, “You leaving too?”
The paramedic nodded.
“Don’t leave me, mister! He’ll eat me!” The man didn’t try to struggle, but his voice was agitated enough that the paramedic bent and tightened the straps. He was used to critical patients saying weird shit, but this was an original one.
“Lay still. They have to pull me up out of the way before they bring you up.” He wanted to pat the man’s shoulder to reassure him, but was afraid that even that small touch might hurt him, so instead he bent closer and smiled. “You’ll be out one minute after me.”
He began to cry. “Mister, don’t leave me down here in this hole. He’s got big teeth and his eyes—” He sobbed. “His eyes are as black as the Devil’s heart.”
The babble should not have bothered the paramedic, but something—the ring of truth in the man’s sobs, the unspeakable gore in this nasty pit, or maybe just the idea that the place could cave in at any moment—got to him and he felt a stirring of dread in his belly. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he felt like something was behind him. He turned quickly and could have sworn that he saw something gray disappear at the end of the tunnel. His flashlight must be failing, because the darkness seemed to be devouring the light. He didn’t have time to think about it, because they were pulling him out. He was glad and didn’t reassure his patient further—he just wanted the hell out.
Chapter 40
Father Bob found a bench in the lobby near valet. He opened his paper to the sports section and pretended to peruse it, holding the paper at a level where he could look over it but conceal his face quickly if he needed to. Now that he was aware of it, he could see the private elevator area easily enough. It was almost five thirty, and as he expected, a mass exodus began coming from the little elevator every few minutes. These people were all well dressed in executive-type garb—typical management types. They came from the elevator in knots of five or six and walked out to valet where their cars were already parked and waiting—a perk for working in administrative, he supposed. By five forty, all of the cars were gone and no one else arrived in the elevator; he decided to wait a little longer. By ten to six he was about to end his surveillance, when a black stretch limo pulled up outside. There were two guys in the front, and the one on the passenger side got out, came through the valet doors and waited by the elevator. Father Bob wondered at how much the guy looked like he was out of a mafia movie. Short and built like a fireplug, wearing a suit that he looked uncomfortable in, the man even had a pinky ring. Father Bob almost got caught looking at this one—he could feel the man staring at him. So he lowered his paper, turned the page and met the guy’s stare, exchanged a little nod with him and raised his paper again. This little acknowledgement seemed to put the guy at ease, and by showing his face, the man seemed to believe that Father Bob was just a guy reading his paper. The elevator opened and an extremely tall man got out. This time Father Bob allowed himself only the initial glance and then used the paper as a shield. It was Mr. Taylor, the owner of the casino. Something in the air changed—a vibration, an aura, an energy. Father Bob could feel the man’s gaze sear his paper, but there was no way he was going to look this one in the eyes until he had to. He waited until he heard the footsteps fade before he peeped over his paper again. Mr. Taylor was bending down and getting into the limo, and Father Bob again shielded his face. He didn’t want this one to see him—there was something in those watchful eyes, a knowingness, which told him to be very careful. This man didn’t miss much. The limo pulled away and he read the vanity plate “4theOne.” A little shiver ran down his spine as he considered who “the one” might be. He was pretty sure that it wasn’t the Prince of Peace.
Father Bob shook off the feeling and realized he had not eaten since early morning. He should eat—tomorrow would be busy and possibly dangerous. He also wanted to buy a bottle of Wild Turkey to keep in his room. But he wanted to check one more thing first, and then he would get out of this stifling place for a meal and to stretch his legs. He made his way back to the regular elevator and took it to the next level, one of the convention areas. It was quiet compared to the rest of the casino, and everywhere, groups of people were winding down from their meetings. Wherever he looked, men and women in business garb were networking, or on their laptops. Most of them had a cell phone to their ear or on their belt like a weapon. No one gave him more than a cursory glance, and he meandered seemingly aimlessly looking at display cases that had moderately valuable Aztec treasures in them. He made his way slowly past each conference room. He briefly glanced into each conference room, noting the name above the door and then moved on. There did not seem to be anything for him here. At last, at another set of elevators, he found an electronic signboard that listed which groups were in which rooms and the schedule. He read that Ash’s memorial was tomorrow at eleven a.m. on
the floor above him in the Obsidian Room.
He noticed a set of carpeted stairs and took them to the next floor. This floor was almost deserted, and most of the conference rooms were dark. The hallway lighting was on a dim setting, and it might have felt creepy if it wasn’t for the huge windows on the one side of the hallway that looked out on the strip. Father Bob saw that the room he was looking for blazed with light and activity. Casino workers were moving in and out, hauling in tables, chairs and enormous floral displays. They were unloading the stuff from a large delivery truck that was backed up to a set of double doors marked “emergency exit”—apparently the parking garage butted up to the casino somehow with a special ramp for delivery or vendor trucks. This would be the way the hearse would deliver the baby killer’s coffin, he guessed.
He walked past the room, looking in as he went by—it was the largest room so far, and from the number of chairs they were expecting a crowd. He headed towards the elevators and sighed. It was time to get out of this hole; he’d had enough detective work for the day.
Cami and Tom sat on their front porch. It was quiet except for the sounds of the kids playing in the backyard and the gentle rustle of the leaves in the breeze. Cami felt like her legs were in cement, she was so tired. She shouldn’t be so tired—yes, she had worked hard getting the trailer packed, but it wasn’t like chopping wood or digging a ditch. She had packed with high energy (or was it fear), moving quickly, logically and efficiently. Now she sat on the bench, swirling her red wine around and sipping it, exhausted. It must be the fear, the dread and the unknowing. Not wanting tomorrow to come, but knowing it was on its way. She glanced at Tom; he was on his second glass of wine. He must feel the same way, she thought, because the air felt heavy and thick with emotion, and his brow wrinkled with the intensity she knew accompanied his brain when it was whittling on a problem.
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