Angle of Attack

by Lee Baldwin

  “She’s gone,” I masterfully state the obvious. Wolfe nods slowly, a dark expression on his face. He turns to Tharcia. Tears streak the girl’s soft cheeks in the candle glow.

  “Did you say that your mother hit you?” Wolfe asks.

  “She did hit her,” Rayne answers, giving Tharcia no room to wiggle the truth. Tharcia gives Rayne an irritated look, but nods at Wolfe.

  “How old are you, young lady?”

  This time Rayne lets Tharcia answer. “I’m 19. I can take care of myself. It was an accident. She was trying to grab my car keys.” She’s looking the detective smack in the eyeballs. I see that she can be a convincing liar.

  “An accident in the middle of a screaming argument,” Rayne adds.

  “Girl! You are seriously getting on my nerves,” Tharcia glares at her. “Put a possum in it.”

  Rayne glares back, but her voice is softer. “Tharcie. You have to say something. After all this time.”

  Looks like it’s official Get Montana night. Wolfe and I look at each other. His expression tells me he sees an unpleasant course of action. Tharcia and Rayne are hugging now, doing their own private I-forgive-you routine.

  “Mr. Clay, ladies. I think we’re through here for now. Thank you all for your patience and cooperation. This has been difficult, but most informative.”

  Wolfe steps out the door. We’re quiet as his flashlight bobs through the rain and dark, his car drives away. The wind has let up, the rain is coming straight down now. The house is cooling. I throw a couple of chunks in the woodstove, leave the door open to let it breathe. The orange light is cheerful. Candles flicker peacefully.

  As at the end of a play, the house lights come up. In the kitchen, I put on the kettle. Some hot tea before they hit the road. It’s getting late, tomorrow will be a busy day.

  I’m in the bathroom looking at the cut on my calf. Tharcia appears at the door, asks if she can look at her face. Sure, sure. So we’re in there both of us dealing with our war wounds. I’m watching her examine the bruise, she stops and is looking at me in the mirror. Her eyes move back and forth, from her reflected face to mine. She goes kind of frozen for a second. I look too, at both of us. And that’s when everything changes.

  Unbefuckinglievable.

  She turns to face me. Echoing between us is Montana’s explanation about leaving for L.A. before grad, about raising a kid on her own. Standing by the sink, we reach out like sleepwalkers, clasping wrists. Her face holds a look of questioning wonder.

  “Where have you been?” She says it real soft.

  How can I sum up 20 years? “I could start with abandoned.”

  Her fingers touch my cheek. “It would never have happened, with you.”

  “No.” I shake my head slowly. “No.”

  The kettle is screeching downstairs and Rayne is yelling, where is your tea?

  Tharcia gets this childlike grin. “Hey, can you do this?” She pokes out her tongue a little and curls it up on the edges. I’m laughing fit to bust. Wade, me and our mom could all do it. I show her.

  “Mom can’t,” she says. Laughing, she slugs me in the shoulder and heads downstairs.

  I get the tea ready and put three cups on the plank table by the sofa. The gals come in and stand by the woodstove hugging for a long time, dissipating the negative energy of the last two hours. Finally we’re sitting on the couch, me between them, looking into the fire, not saying much. I’m thinking some thoughts though, I’ll tell you. Like, why did Montana force Yamamoto to move my case to her roster? Why does she need to be so vague about it? Why on Earth would she want to kill me, as Wolfe accused? Meanwhile my brother and I have to push our plans to the next step. I need to talk to Wade, and it has to be in person. I’m seeing him, soon as I can get out of town without being followed. And I sure as hell won’t ask Montana’s official permission. It’s a chance I have to take.

  Most pressing question is, how am I going to deal with Mick’s murder-for-hire thing, threatening not just Montana, but Tharcia? I can’t carry through on that. But it comes to me, if it means keeping Tharcia safe, I have to go way outside the box. Who can I trust?

  The fire burns warm, sound of rain steady on the porch, wind has dropped. Tharcia and Rayne sitting on both sides of me, quiet in their own thoughts. Tharcia leans in and her head rests on my shoulder. In that moment, the universe rights itself. I take a breath and let it out slow. After a while, Rayne leans closer. We sit like that looking at the fire as the logs burn down.

  And here I sit, I should be happy. Yes I am. On the other side I should be disgusted with myself. Doing the very thing I’d conditioned myself not to. Having friends.

  Chapter 9

  Wild Horse

  OF COURSE, MONTANA DOES NOT keep our appointment. Monday afternoon I’m in San Jose waiting in the parking lot beside the Investigative Services Division on West Younger, busy place bustling with cops, plain and uniform. Mostly I’m staring at my phone. I’d left her messages, but after Wolfe’s accusation and her abrupt departure last night I’m surprised at nothing. What can she be thinking?

  We’re supposed to be meeting the detective in 20 minutes to square up our stories about the night we found Roswell. And Wolfe’s accusation about her shooting Roswell by mistake while waiting for me. Do you have a word for that? I call it showdown.

  I have the growing suspicion that a formal accusation is coming. Possibly an arrest. I am sure that is why she’s a no-show. Am I happy the shitstorm is blowing her way? Not especially.

  There’s also a text from nrrdgrrl. She hasn’t heard from her mom. Even knowing Montana, this is hard to compute. She’s got an intelligent daughter, potentially a good home life, successful career. Does she intend to throw that away? She seems headed in that direction. What is pushing her?

  I’ve also reached a decision about Mick’s little ‘job’ for me. That’s definitely not happening. And I have a different plan. I pull up Wolfe’s number. When he picks up he gets right to the point.

  “Mr. Clay. Will you be on time for our meeting?”

  “Yes detective, but we can’t meet in your office. Look for me outside in the parking lot. I’m three rows back from the main entrance.”

  Wolfe sounds uncomfortable. “Mr. Clay, you and I are meeting with Agent Harrison to resolve the matter of your whereabouts the night of the murder.”

  “I don’t expect Montana will join us. Plus which there’s something I need to discuss with you away from your office.”

  Reluctantly Wolfe agrees, and we end the call. Reason numero uno is security entering this County building. What I have to show Wolfe would create a major scene in the screening area, starring me getting arrested. A violation, write-up, and back to lockup. Can I trust Wolfe that much?

  I stand on the sidewalk in front of the building as Wolfe exits the lobby. I wave, he heads my way. I start walking. He follows to my El Camino parked a few rows back. We get in.

  “I know we’re not going to see Montana today,” I tell him, “and you’ve heard my story enough times.”

  He nods, looking me over carefully. “Have you spoken to Agent Harrison?”

  “No. Left her messages since last night, but nothing. Her daughter hasn’t heard from her either.”

  Wolfe’s face is serious. “Same.” He looks out the window and sighs, like he’s being pushed into an undesirable course of action. I go on.

  “Detective, you could have called us in for this last week. Why did you wait?”

  He looks uncomfortable. “Actually we are investigating an internal matter that does not involve you directly. We were hoping someone would do the right thing.”

  By someone I get that he means Montana, and I am instantly afraid for her.

  “Thank you for that. But there’s something else. I need your help. You cops always ask people to come forward with tips. There someone in my past, Montana’s past, who is very dangerous.”

  “You’re referring to McIntyre?”

  Good, the detective is ah
ead of me.

  “Bang on. So here’s a tip I received yesterday morning from a couple of gangsta types tricked out like DEA suits. Open the glove box. Stick with me on this. I have no choice, it threatens Montana and her daughter. Look in the envelope.”

  At this point I am not scared I am merely terrified. With this, Wolfe can take me down for a violation on the spot. He’s watching me intently, jacket open, has an easy reach for his weapon. Doesn’t entirely trust me, but I’m sitting here trying to come across all relaxed, both hands on the steering wheel. That’s when I notice the plainclothes dude a couple rows over, making like he’s checking his tire pressures. Cool. I’m glad Wolfe is cautious. Wolfe takes out the bulging manila envelope. Looks inside.

  “Mr. Clay, you realize it’s a parole violation for you to have a firearm.”

  “Of course I realize that, Wolfe. This is a lead for you. This was handed to me by Mick’s people. I’m supposed to shoot that guy, in the photo. Look it over.”

  Wolfe takes everything out of the envelope. Looks at the gun and clip inside the Ziploc bags, looks at the photos, reads the information on the back of the Carruthers photo. Looks at me.

  “Councilman Carruthers. And you got this material how, Mr. Clay?”

  “Coming out of the glider school yesterday morning, this poser DEA car was sitting there. They were gangsta, work for McIntyre. I recognized one. They push me in the back, hand me a phone, and I’m talking to Mick McIntyre from his cell at Lancaster.”

  Wolfe studies me thoughtfully. “What was the nature of your conversation?”

  “He offered me 45 large to take this gun and shoot this guy.”

  The detective looks puzzled. “Why would he ask you? Surely he has his network.”

  “My question exactly. I’m no shooter. Look at those photos, McIntyre’s enforcers say Montana and Tharcia get hurt if I don’t follow through. There’s been two attempts on my life already, this smells like another trap. Could be Mick all along.”

  “And why would Mr. McIntyre want to kill you?”

  “Detective, your guess is as good as mine. Heard a rumor he has an appeal coming up. Could be worried about my testimony.” This can cut both ways. Once detective Wolfe starts digging into my involvement with Mick, that thing with the dope run could bring me the wrong kind of help.

  “Very well, Mr. Clay.” He raises the envelope. “Of course I need to take this.”

  Whew. No violation. “That was the idea.”

  Wolfe nods. “Did anyone see you talking to McIntyre’s lieutenants?”

  “We were parked in front of the flight school. Someone might’ve seen.”

  Wolfe gets out, I get out. We’re talking across the roof of my car. The plainclothes cop starts to walk closer, hand on his belt. I’m sure he’s not the only cop out here watching Wolfe’s back right now.

  “One last thing, Mr. Clay. You may be interested in knowing something about your friend, Mr. Roswell.”

  I snort. “Not my friend, if you would be so kind to acknowledge that.”

  Wolfe laughs dryly. “Indeed, Mr. Clay, I use the term loosely. This Mr. Roswell we now know to be one Peter Drake, a former Navy pilot, with a carrier group. He’s 43 years old, left the Navy as a Lieutenant J.G. with a Tail hook rating.”

  Now Wolfe says something that shakes me up, the name of the aircraft carrier Wade served on four years as a jet mechanic. As in, the one this Peter Drake flew from. I should know the name, I’d addressed enough packages to that ship.

  “So why was he trying to kill me?”

  “That, Mr. Clay, is something we would dearly like to know.”

  “As would I.”

  “Indeed.”

  Wolfe glances at the open bed of my El Camino. My beater bike is there, my bolted-in tool chest. Nothing really incriminating, but a search would raise too many pesky questions. I’m grateful when he turns to leave. The detective’s posture as he walks away is that of a man with a heavy load. I remove the battery and sim card from my phone. Where I’m going I want no snooping.

  I’m 35 miles outside of San Jose, heading up California 580 toward Altamont Pass, when I finally take a deep breath, watching the mirror for a tail. Way too spooky, being around all those cops downtown. But Wolfe is cool. He knows things are happening. Neither of us understands why I seem to be in the center of it.

  But I’ve had this sinking feeling in my gut the last half-hour, and finally my noggin serves up the reason. Wolfe said Roswell is actually a retired Navy pilot named Peter Drake. Wade called his pilot friend Pete. Ay caramba!

  But if it’s the same guy, why would he come to my place and not Wade’s farm, where the plane is? My paranoid brain reminds me that Drake’s stunt would be a great way to shake a tail. If so, who was chasing him? And how did someone magically catch up with him at my front door, after his elaborate deception? Makes no sense, nada.

  Next thing due to happen though, is a new parole officer. Cripes. I’m sure of it. Montana’s already off the deep end, Wolfe more than hinted at an internal investigation. I’ll be reassigned. Best for me would be going back to Yamamoto, but he’s set to retire.

  So then it will be the full shakedown from question one, complete review of my crime, prison records, where are you employed, all that shit. They’ll find I was fired and put me on a treadmill of mindless job interviews, all the suckhole companies who say they’ll hire a rehabbed drug dealer. I reassure myself I’m not gonna be here for that.

  When I find myself watching all the wind turbines driving down the other side of Altamont Pass, I start thinking it’s time to be sharp. Little burg out here a few miles off I-580 I know very well. Ranch and farm country, livestock, crops, open spaces.

  So first I drive randomly through dusty streets making sure my tail is clean. Park the El Camino in a residential area couple blocks off the main drag. Unlock the toolbox, load up the saddlebag on the bike. Forensic clean up. Check I have my disposable phone, beater laptop, handheld GPS in the saddlebag. Place I leave my car was selected because it is less than 50 miles from the nearest corner of Santa Clara County, permissible under my parole terms. Where I’m headed is a different matter.

  On the bike now, a trail leading away from the houses along a fence line, directly into the boonies. Barren moonscape out here, starting to get warm even though it’s mid-November. Have covered the route in two hours before. Beauty of it is, unless you’re in an airplane or on another bicycle it’s very tough to track someone coming through here fast. And I like fast. The dry arroyo is my freeway. The old river bottom twists back on itself like a snake but it’s worth the extra distance to stay hidden. Of course, if I stayed down here I’d miss the farmhouse, go right by it. My GPS and a small stone cairn tell me when it’s time to climb the steep bank and there it is, three miles away shrouded in trees. Wade’s place. I pull out the burner, dial a number from memory.

  “Is Betsy there?”

  “Wrong number.” My brother’s voice, telling me it’s all clear. We click off.

  Old house in the shade of tall oaks, obviously a good well on the property. Big barn a ways off, screened by trees. Something in there I can’t wait to see again. Lean my bike against the wall. Couple of cats appear out of the woods and stampede toward the porch, smarming around my ankles when the door is opened by a tall guy in jeans and a work shirt with a three-day beard and a grin full of white teeth.

  We’re all hey bro and big hugs, he’s a little taller, his beefier frame showing the four years he has on me. Intelligent eyes, familiar grin that usually hints some devilish plot. Were inside, he’s offering coffee, beer, scotch, raid the fridge. Old place, this farmhouse, hundred years old likely, the smell of aged wood, furniture oil. Wade keeps his place neat. We both picked up that gene.

  Wade Clay, my brother, ex-Navy man, now goes by another name. Has very good fake ID, stopped using his real name for anything that would leave a trail, such as phone, utilities, mortgage, driver’s license. Everything’s in his ex-wife’s name. Lucky
for him she’s a sympathetic soul and they parted friends. Wade has been living this way for 18 years, has a son who’s twelve, goes to school on a yellow bus that passes this place. Every school day, Wade watches it go by.

  Why does he do this, you wonder. We always joked I’m not the only one in the family with mental issues. Wade came back from the Navy quite paranoid, reading Marxism and verging on agoraphobia. Doesn’t want to go out, see people much. It must be another family gene, I hate being watched. But I can function in the world. He cannot.

  At his kitchen table I’m pulling stuff out of my saddlebag, sorting through everything. First things first, I slide a plastic sandwich bag full of bills across the table. Swimming pool money. It’s what keeps Wade going, keeps our project alive. A project that I’m totally hot to see right now. But that’s not what keeps him out here. After Mom died we sold the house and agreed he should use the money to buy this farm. He’s been a lot better, living out here in the middle of nothing.

  Wade grins. “Looks like the grow is doing okay. Those two hotties still work for ya?”

  “You should drop by sometime,” I grin. “They are outrageous.” Wade dropping by my place. Imagine. And he’d shudder at the real story of the Desmond twins.

  “I’m still waiting for our buddy to show up,” he says. Then he sees the set of my face and his expression changes.

  “What?” His look is intent, knows something’s up.

  “Wade, there might be bad news.” I give him a rundown of the glider flight, my jumper, finding Roswell bleeding on my porch, the shit with Montana. And what Wolfe told me this morning.

  Wade groans, sits back in his chair, closes his eyes. “They said his name is Pete Drake? How big a guy was he?”

  I give my description of Roswell the day of our flight. Mostly I remember the back of the guy’s head, but I am sure of his stature and so forth. Also that he was a sharp pilot. Wade watches me closely as I speak. Now he is shaking his head, not in disagreement but in disbelief, saying no, man, no.