by Ben Sanders
“God, Lucas. What, just now?”
“Yeah. Just this morning.”
“Oh, no. He make it, or has he passed?”
“He’s passed. Actually two of them. First one moved along fairly promptly, second man’s still hanging on. Could go either way.”
“Lord. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m all right.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I just … We had to go down to Albuquerque, pick up a coupla guys. But they didn’t want to come quietly.”
“And they shot at you?”
“Yeah. I shot back a bit straighter.”
“Sweetheart. You’ve hit some bad luck recently. Only just been the Farmington thing.”
“Yeah, I know. Haven’t been shot myself, so must be some good in it.”
“Oh, Lucas. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah. It just weighs on you when you think about it, you know?”
“Sweetheart, I know. But you shouldn’t let it. You have to be strict about what goes into your head. Keep the regrets out.”
“Yeah.”
“And I’ll keep pulling them out long as you keep putting them in.”
He laughed but didn’t answer, moral issues tugging on him the more he talked.
She said, “Is it this drug violence business or is it a new thing?”
“It’s a bit of everything I think.” He smoothed his tie, making sure it was good and central. “Shouldn’t tell you about it, give you the heebie-jeebies.”
“Why don’t you come home a bit early? Or are you still doing interviews?”
“Yeah, I still got some interviews to get through. They’ll probably want me to write a novel about it, as well.” He thumbed his star, watched the metal cloud and then clear. He said, “Funny. Much as I wish I hadn’t done it, idea of killing a man doesn’t bother me nearly as much as getting killed myself. I don’t know. Maybe that’s callous. How it’s been put to me in my own head, anyway.”
“And that’s the exact same way I’d put it to you, too. And the girls.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. On the courthouse lawn the flag was shifting and popping faintly in the breeze. “Yeah, I know. I just … Sometimes I worry if I got hurt I wouldn’t see you again.”
“Sweetheart. Don’t be silly.”
“I know. It’s just … Something like this happens, puts all the things you care about in real sharp perspective, so I thought I’d better call you, case I got clipped by a truck or something coming home. Ten o’clock news they’d all be like: and just today he’d survived a major shootout with cartel fellas, but now he’s been hit by a drunk driver. Something like that.”
“Now you are talking silly.”
“Yeah. Just makes you wonder about things though, you know? Like whether people have always agonized over the state of it all, or whether it’s a new thing.” He studied the mirror, like somehow with his own reflection lay a broader image of the world. He said, “Place’s actually getting worse maybe. You know what I mean?”
“It’s not getting worse for me. I get to see you every day.”
He knew he needed to wrap it up, things at risk of snagging in his throat, but he said, “When I die I want to be in bed with you. Having just had a nice long evening playing Scrabble. And drinking something good.”
“Well, we can get the Scrabble out, and I think there’s a bottle of something somewhere. But you’re not going to be dying.”
He smiled, eyes still closed. “Not tonight?”
“Not tonight. Not for a very long time.”
FORTY-THREE
Marshall
“How long are you going to sit there?”
Marshall was still at the table, look in his eye like he maybe enjoyed the wait, gun the only sign he was expecting conflict. He said, “I don’t know. Until it’s over.”
“You think he’s actually going to come here?”
He was nodding slightly, not an answer to the question, just working on his own thoughts. He said, “Someone will. Rojas came to my house, no reason he won’t come to yours, too.”
“Do you want something to eat?”
The way he looked at the ceiling he seemed to consider that in some depth. Eventually he said, “No thanks.”
She said, “So what happened to everyone?”
“In New York?”
“Mmm. In New York.”
He picked up the sunglasses and angled them so they fell open and slipped them on, somehow easier to talk when he was slightly hidden. He said, “Asaro’s in federal lockup like I said. Lloyd’s doing seven years at Sullivan on a Class D felony. Menacing me with a firearm. Probably out by now.”
“And what about the sister?”
“Chloe.”
“Yeah.”
Marshall inspected the ceiling again and said, “I think she’s probably okay.”
“Probably.”
Marshall said, “Last I heard she was in ICU. Only meant to shoot her in the arm, make her drop the gun, but I got her in the chest, punctured a lung. She had to have a transfusion. All that training, and I missed anyway.”
Shore didn’t answer.
He said, “Far as misses go it’s probably not bad, better than shooting fresh air. I don’t know. She would’ve just got a misdemeanor, if anything. But I almost don’t want to check.”
“Case you shot her better than you thought.”
“Well, yeah. Or worse, depending how you look at it. Something like that anyway. I call the apartment every so often but it’s never gone through, probably disconnected. Dumb habit really, sort of thing you could find out so easily but I keep thinking if I call, one day she might pick up and say … I don’t know. Don’t worry, you only shot me a little bit. Water under the bridge.”
She didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “Stupid, but … That’s what I do.”
She said, “I sleep with a loaded gun in the bed.”
Marshall nodded. “Did that for a while, too.” He raised the Colt’s muzzle off his knee. “Actually had it under the bed so I could just hang an arm down and there it was. Used to wake up all out of breath and have to check it was still there, put my hand on it. You know that real thumping anxiety? And then it just goes.”
She nodded. “You feel like you’re in danger?”
He traced a thumb lightly around the edge of the table, one way and back, like testing a blade. He said, “Saw Asaro in court, this was just before I went into the program. His lawyer gave me a letter, opened it up, all it said was ‘Dallas Man.’ Only thing he’d written. That was the name of the cleaner he used. The Dallas Man. Don’t even know if he was from Dallas, but anyway. I just knew it was his way of saying, Sleep with one eye open. He wasn’t going to let anything rest. I don’t know. Part of me always wanted to stay where I was and face it all down and see an end to it, whatever it was. WITSEC kind of felt like running. Right now feels better though, feels a bit like atonement. Who knows, I do this long enough, it might bring me back to what I should’ve finished before I left. But we’ll see. Right now I feel like I’m waiting. I’m not running from anything.”
“You think you’ll see them again?”
He nodded. “Probably. Everything in life’s got a ripple, every so often something bumps into something else. So. We’ll see. People always telling me how it’s a small world, I’m putting it to the test. See if it’ll rise to the occasion.”
She didn’t answer.
He said, “Are you going to go back to work?”
“I hope so. I’ll always do it, maybe not officially.”
Marshall said, “I saw your files in the living room.”
She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got old robbery cases I’m working through. Slowly compiling stuff. One day I’ll find who did it. I’ve promised myself that.”
Marshall said, “I could help you.”
She didn’t answer. After a while she went into the living room and closed the door be
hind her.
* * *
He was checking the phone for messages every thirty minutes. He had the SIM and battery routine down to a fine art now. Nothing all day. Or, nobody he wanted to speak to.
In the strip of glass beside the living room door he could see Shore hunched at the coffee table making notes. Every so often he’d catch her looking at him, interesting how she’d give it a few seconds before looking away. Safe behind the sunglasses he wasn’t bothered. Pink as they were.
At four P.M. he reassembled the phone and switched it on and found a message.
Rojas’s number, but a new voice: “Call me back.”
He waited thirty seconds, coming down off the little jolt of discovery. Trancelike he was so still, the gun in one hand and the phone in the other, Marshall contemplating how things might come to a close.
An end of some sort approaching and maybe it’s yours.
He dialed.
“Yes?” The same voice from the message.
Marshall, watching Shore, said, “Is my friend Troy there?”
“Marshall. I’m glad you rang back. This is Leon. We spoke yesterday morning.”
He took himself back there. The hot car and the circling of the birds. He said, “I remember. Life and death and that sort of thing.”
“That’s right.”
“Is Troy there?”
“He is. He can’t actually talk, though. A bit indisposed right now.”
Marshall said, “I need to come see you. Ask you about Alyce Ray.”
“All right. You sure you want to do that?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”
“Remember what I said yesterday. About how looking for disappeared people’s a good way to end up disappeared yourself.”
Marshall said, “I’ll take my chances. I’ve done all right so far.”
“Not going to last forever, nothing does. But okay. You know where Calor is? Central Avenue in Albuquerque?”
Calor. He remembered it from the DEA photographs. That pink building where Alyce Ray had last been seen.
Marshall said, “When?”
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
“Well, how about thirty minutes, then?”
Marshall said, “Good,” and clicked off.
Shore had noticed him talking and was coming in from the living room. Marshall finally stood up, pushed the chairs in. He took a step back to check everything was correctly spaced and put the gun in his belt.
He said, “I’ve found him.”
* * *
He went into the bathroom and locked the door. On the shelf above the basin a long display of pill bottles, prescription and off-the-shelf. He turned them so he could read the labels. Sleeping pills. Anti-anxiety. Codeine. Vicodin.
He placed the gun on the medicine cabinet and rolled up his sleeves. Blood from the Bronco men still on him, hair on his arms crusted with it. He ran a basin of hot water and soaped his forearms, and using a small nail brush removed the lather one long stroke at a time, elbow to wrist. A delicate pinstripe of foam remaining. He splashed water from the faucet to get the residue and rinsed his face and hunched dripping over the bowl. A pink tint in the dimpled water and this odd distorted figure looking back. Just the shape of a person.
He leaned close to the mirror and ran a hand along his jaw. His beard just showing. He took a step back and crouched slightly to see his reflection and turned his head left and right and then up and down to check his hair. Scissors from the medicine cabinet to clip a rogue strand. It fell in a gentle curve on the water and frayed slowly to its composite threads.
There was a five-pack of razor blades in the cabinet as well, and he unwrapped two of them and set them on the shelf in front of the pills, short side flush with the edge. Then he removed his belt and held it up to compare widths, blade to leather, and marked the midpoint of the belt with his thumbnail. In a drawer beneath the basin he found a single Band-Aid and cut the adhesive tab from each end, and one after the other peeled off the protective paper and taped the razor blades to the inside of his belt at the position he’d marked. Then he threaded it carefully back through the loops and did the buckle and turned and looked over his shoulder to check his reflection, but all was hidden.
He drained the basin and ran the tap to get the last of the blood and dropped the scrunched remains of the Band-Aid and the razor papers in the trash can beside the toilet. He stood square to the mirror and crouched again to center his face.
Could be the last time you see it.
He turned some pill bottles to restore disorder and then he picked up the gun and walked out.
FORTY-FOUR
Wayne Banister
He hadn’t changed motels yet. He was still at the Gibson Boulevard place, guest numbers low enough the safe option was to stay put rather than be seen at the desk.
Sitting at a table in a Starbucks just up the road, working through coffee and a newspaper, the blue phone rang. He checked the time. Four thirty P.M. He looked out the window as he answered. Not even the traffic moving. A clear afternoon, and on the sidewalk the long shadows of the streetlights reaching eastward.
The Patriarch said, “Thanks for the file. It’s taken a while to break the encryption, but there’s a lot here.”
“Anything useful?”
“Yeah. The Frazers seemed to think their main rival is a guy called Jackie Oswald Grace, working with someone called Leon. No surname. I’d like to know who did their intel, it’s good stuff. Spreadsheets and everything.”
“Junior said they used some ex-Mossad guys.”
“Interesting. We might have to look into that.”
Wayne said, “Sure.”
“Anyway, they’ve catalogued all their assets, including the vehicles. It says Leon’s got a red 1994 Jeep Cherokee, a white 2013 Audi Quattro SQ5, and a black 2013 Chrysler 300C.”
“Okay.”
“But I saw just now the State Police down there have a BOLO out on an Audi SQ5 involved in a shooting yesterday, and APD’ve caught a homicide, someone dead next to a red Jeep Cherokee.”
“I haven’t seen the news.”
“No, well I checked the local stations to see if TV had caught anything, and there’s been a shooting at a motel in Bernalillo too, looked like they tried to reenact the O.K. Corral. But one of the cars there is a Chrysler 300C.”
Wayne said, “So Leon’s been busy.”
“Seems so. Either he’s after someone, or someone’s after him.”
Wayne closed the paper and folded it. People at adjacent tables hunched over laptops. He was just background, no one even glanced. He said, “You want me to look into it?”
“Yeah, I just don’t like the coincidence. First I hear Marshall’s in Albuquerque, and then the news is full of shootings involving drug dealers.”
“That’s pretty standard down here. Cops love it.”
“Yeah, I’ve just got that feeling. And I don’t want any missed opportunities. Even if it’s a slim chance it’s still worth checking.”
“You think he’s hunting dealers?”
“I don’t know. It’s the kind of thing he might be up for, though.”
“I’ll look into it. How many people has this Leon guy got?”
“Four. Assuming they’re not all dead.”
Five-on-one, potentially. Wayne thought about it a second and said, “Okay. I’ll check it out.”
“Thank you. I don’t have the file in front of me, but it says he’s got a place up in Santa Fe. I’ll text you the details.”
“Sure. I’ll head up there now, see what’s going on.”
“Great. The file said there’s no alarm, and the lock’s a Schlage Camelot, apparently. I’ll send you the code.”
“Thank you.”
He finished the coffee as he walked back to the motel, the paper under one arm. Camouflage against anyone not focused on the car ahead.
In the room he put the bag on the bed and checked the load in the guns. He clipped the
SIG on his hip and tugged his shirt over it. Then he put a foot on the edge of the mattress and strapped the .22 in its holster to his ankle.
A nice added weight. He always liked that comfort of metal.
This is your place in the world.
In the bathroom he took a leak and looked at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands, tipping his head different ways to check his hair. He turned off the tap and leaned on the sink so his reflection was centered.
Could be the last time you see it.
He checked that both phones were in the bag before he left.
* * *
Afternoon traffic pushed the trip out to an hour.
When he pulled into the driveway he saw the garage was empty. He slowed and came popping in over the gravel. The broad curve of a house becoming evident as he drew nearer, and he saw the windows were all curtained. He stopped and set the brake and with the engine running opened his door and sat half off the seat with a foot outside and the SIG held low.
Ding, ding, ding.
He thought of Frazer and Chino, probably still out west, getting pretty leathery by now.
He shut off the engine and removed the key. Without looking he reached across and took both phones from the bag and pocketed them. He got out and closed the door. Very quiet without road noise. The car slowly ticking. He felt the heat from the wheel arch. The house dark and lifeless.
And you’re going in.
Gun raised, he ran lightly to the entry and punched the lock code. The mechanism clicked. He turned the handle and nudged the door back with his knuckles and waited, staring down the sights. Just the creak of the hinge as it eased back around. He went in. The weapon held close and two-handed, snapping left and right to cover doors as he passed them. No one in the living room. The place a mess. Needles and coke. The crack house standard.
He checked the hallway. Empty bedrooms, an empty bathroom, two locked doors. He kicked them both in. Product and gun storage. Stairs to a basement as well, but he decided to check them later. He headed back toward the entry. There was another door with a combination lock, maybe an office.
He stood straining to hear. Then he took a step back and trained the gun chest-high and kicked the bolt in. The door flung open and bounced off the adjacent wall and swung almost closed, caught by the ruined tongue. He shouldered in.