by Robert Crais
When he reached his motel she expected him to go inside, but he didn’t. He continued around the side and got into his car, and then she was following him again.
Holman picked up Sepulveda Boulevard and dropped south through the city. Pollard stayed five or six cars back, following him steadily south until Holman surprised her. He stopped near a freeway off-ramp and bought a bouquet of flowers from one of the vendors who haunt the ramps.
Pollard thought, what in hell is he doing?
She found out a few blocks later when Holman arrived at the cemetery.
39
THE LATE-MORNING sun was breathtakingly hot as Holman turned onto the cemetery grounds. Polished head markers caught the light like coins strewn onto the grass, and the immaculate rolling lawn was so bright Holman squinted behind his sunglasses. The outside temperature gauge on his dashboard showed 98 degrees. The dashboard clock showed 11:19. Holman caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and froze—in that instant, he saw the dated Ray-Ban Wayfarers with his hair shaggy over the temples and was his younger self; the same Holman who ran wild with Chee, doing dope and stealing cars until his life spun out of control. Holman took off the Wayfarers. He must have been stupid, buying the same glasses.
With the midweek morning and the heat, only a few other visitors were scattered throughout the cemetery. A burial was taking place on the far side of the grounds, but only the one, with a small crowd of mourners gathered around a tent.
Holman followed the road up to Donna and parked exactly where he had parked the last time he came. When he opened his car the heat crushed into him like a wave and the glare made him wince. He started to reach for the sunglasses, but thought, no, he didn’t want to remind her of what he used to be.
Holman brought the flowers to her grave. His earlier flowers were now black and brittle. Holman collected the old flowers, then policed the headstone of dead leaves and petals. He took the dead stuff to a trash can by the drive, then brought the fresh flowers back and put them on her grave.
Holman felt badly he hadn’t brought some kind of vase. In this heat, without water, the flowers would be shriveled and dead by the end of the day.
Holman grew even angrier with himself, thinking maybe he was just one of those people who fucked up everything.
He squatted and pressed his hand onto Donna’s marker. The hot metal burned his palm, but Holman pressed harder. He let it burn.
He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Holman?”
Holman glanced over his shoulder to see Pollard coming toward him. He pulled himself up.
“What did you think I was going to do, rob a bank?”
Pollard stopped beside him and gazed down at the grave.
“Richard’s mother?”
“Yeah. Donna. I should’ve married this girl, but…you know.”
Holman let it drop. Pollard looked up and seemed to study him.
“You okay?”
“Not so good.”
Holman studied Donna’s name on the marker. Donna Banik. It should have been Holman.
“She was proud of him. So was I, but I guess the kid never really had a chance, not with the way I was.”
“Max, don’t do this.”
Pollard touched his arm, but Holman barely felt it, a gesture with no more weight than a wave from a passing car. He studied Pollard, who he knew to be a bright and educated woman.
“I tried to believe in God when I was in prison. That’s part of the twelve-step thing—you have to give yourself to a higher power. They say it doesn’t have to be God, but, c’mon, who are they kidding? I really wanted there to be a Heaven, man—Heaven, angels, God on a throne.”
Holman shrugged, then looked back at the marker. Donna Banik. He wondered if she would mind if he had it changed. He could save up the money and buy a new marker. Donna Holman. Then his eyes suddenly filled when he thought, no, she would probably be ashamed.
Holman wiped at his eyes.
“I got this letter—Donna wrote when Richie finished the police academy. She said how proud she was he wasn’t like me, here he was a policeman and nothing like me. Now, you might think she was being cruel, but she wasn’t. I was grateful. Donna made our boy good and she did it alone. I didn’t give them a goddamned thing. I left them with nothing. Now I hope there’s no goddamned Heaven. I don’t want her up there seeing all this. I don’t want her knowing he turned out like me.”
Holman felt ashamed of himself for saying such things. Pollard was as rigid as a statue. Her mouth was a tight line and her face was grim. When Holman glanced at her, a tear leaked down from behind her sunglasses and rolled to her chin.
Holman lost it when he saw the tear and a sob shuddered his body. He tried to fight it, but he gasped and heaved as tears flooded his eyes, and all he knew in that moment was how much pain he had caused.
He felt Pollard’s arms. She murmured words, but he did not understand what she was saying. She held him hard, and he held her back, but all he knew were the sobs. He wasn’t sure how long he cried. After a while Holman calmed, but he still held her. They just stood there, holding each other. Then Holman realized he was holding her. He stepped back.
“Sorry.”
Pollard’s hand lingered on his arm, but she didn’t say anything. He thought she might, but she turned aside to wipe her eyes.
Holman cleared his throat. He still needed to talk with Donna and he didn’t want Pollard to hear.
“Listen, I want to stick around here for a while. I’ll be okay.”
“Sure. I understand.”
“Why don’t we call it quits for today?”
“No. No, I want to see the reports. I can do that without you.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
Pollard touched his arm again and he reached to touch her hand, but then she turned away. Holman watched her walk to her car in the brutal heat and watched as she drove away. Then he looked back at Donna’s marker.
Holman’s eyes filled again, and now he was glad Pollard had gone. He squatted once more and adjusted the flowers. They were already beginning to wilt.
“Bad or not, he was ours. I’ll do what I have to do.”
Holman smiled, knowing she wouldn’t like it, but at peace with his fate. You just couldn’t beat the bad blood.
“Like son, like father.”
Holman heard a car door close behind him and glanced up into the sun. Two men were coming toward him.
“Max Holman.”
Two more men were coming from the direction of the burial, one with bright red hair.
40
VUKOVICH AND FUENTES were coming from one side and two more men from the other. Holman could not reach his car. They spread apart as they came like they expected him to run and were ready for it. Holman stood anyway, his heart pounding. The empty plain of the cemetery left him exposed like a fly on a dinner plate with no place to hide and no way to lose them.
Vukovich said, “Easy now.”
Holman started for the gate, and both Fuentes and one of the men behind him widened out.
Vukovich said, “Don’t be stupid.”
Holman broke into a trot and all four men suddenly ran forward. Holman shouted at the burial party.
“Help! Help me!”
Holman reversed course toward his car, knowing he couldn’t make it even as he tried.
“Over here! Help!”
Mourners at the far tent turned as the first two officers converged on him. Holman lowered his shoulder at the last moment and drove into the smaller guy hard, then spun, making a sprint for his car as Vukovich shouted.
“Take him down!”
“Help! Help here!”
Someone slammed into Holman from behind, but he kept on his feet and turned as Fuentes charged from the side, Vukovich shouting, “Stop it, goddamnit—give it up.”
Everything blurred into bodies and arms. Holman swung hard, catching Fuentes in the ear, then someone tackled his le
gs and he went down. Knees dug into his back and his arms were twisted behind him.
“Help! Help!”
“Shut up, asshole. What do you expect those people to do?”
“Witnesses! People are watching, you bastards!”
“Calm down, Holman. You’re being dramatic.”
Holman didn’t stop struggling until he felt the plastic restraints cut into his wrists. Vukovich lifted his head by the hair and twisted him around so they could see each other.
“Relax. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you in. Relax.”
“I haven’t fucking done anything!”
“You’re fucking up our shit, Holman. We tried to be nice, but could you take the hint? You’re fucking up our shit.”
When they lifted him to his feet, Holman saw that everyone in the burial party was now watching them. The two motorcycle cops who had escorted the hearse were walking over, but Fuentes was trotting out to meet them.
Holman said, “They’re witnesses, goddamnit. They’re gonna remember this.”
“All they’re going to remember is some asshole getting arrested. Stop being stupid.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“In.”
“Why?”
“Just relax, man. You’re going to be fine.”
Holman didn’t like the way Vukovich told him he was going to be fine. It sounded like something you heard before you were murdered.
They stood him up outside their car and went through his pockets. They took his wallet, keys, and cell phone, then checked his ankles, waist, and groin. Fuentes came back and the two motorcycle cops returned to their funeral. Holman watched them go as if they were life preservers drifting away on the current.
Vukovich said, “Okay, load’m up.”
Holman said, “What about my car?”
“We’ll get your car. You’re in the limo.”
“People know, damnit. People know what I’m doing.”
“No, Holman, no one knows anything. Now shut the fuck up.”
Fuentes drove away in Holman’s Highlander as the two new guys pushed him into the backseat of their car. The larger man got into the back with Holman and his partner climbed in behind the wheel. They pulled away as soon as they had the doors locked.
Holman knew they were going to kill him. The two cops didn’t speak to each other or look at him, so Holman made himself think. They were in a typical Crown Victoria detective’s car. Like all police cars, the rear seats and windows locked from the front. Holman wouldn’t be able to open the doors even if he could get his hands free. He would have to wait until he was out of the car, but by then it might be too late. He tested his wrists. The plastic ties had no give and did not slide over his skin. He had heard cons say these new plastic ties were stronger than steel, but Holman had never worn them before. He wondered if they would melt.
Holman studied the two cops. They were both in their thirties with solid builds and burnished faces as if they spent time outdoors. They were fit men and young, but neither had Holman’s heavy shoulders and weight. The man seated beside Holman was wearing a wedding ring.
Holman said, “Did either of you know my son?”
The driver shot a glance in the mirror, but neither answered.
“Was it one of you fuckers gunned him down?”
The driver glanced again and started to say something, but the backseat man cut him off.
“That’s up to Random to tell him.”
Holman figured Random was probably the fifth man, but now Vukovich, Fuentes, and these two guys were also part of the action. Add in Fowler, Richie, and the other two, and that made nine. Holman wondered if anyone else was involved. Sixteen million was a lot of money. There was still plenty to go around. Holman wondered what they knew about Pollard. They had probably followed him from his apartment and they would have seen her at the cemetery. They probably didn’t like the idea of stirring up the FBI, but they wouldn’t be willing to take the chance. When they got rid of him they would get rid of her.
They drove for about fifteen minutes. Holman thought they would take him out into the middle of nowhere or maybe a warehouse, but they turned off Centinela onto a cluttered middle-class street in Mar Vista. Small houses set on narrow lots lined both sides of the street, separated by hedges and shrubs. Fuentes had already arrived. Holman saw his Highlander parked ahead at the curb. Fuentes wasn’t in the car and no one was standing nearby. Holman’s heart started to pound and his palms grew cold. He was getting close and he would have to make his move soon. It felt like walking into a bank or circling a hot Porsche. His life was on the line.
They pulled across the drive of a small yellow house. A narrow drive ran past the side of the house under an arching carport to a garage at the rear of the property, and a blue sedan was parked beneath the arch. Holman didn’t recognize the sedan. Fuentes was probably already inside, but he didn’t know about Vukovich and Random. The entire house might be crawling with people.
The driver shut off their car and unlocked the back doors. The driver got out first, but the backseat man waited. The driver opened Holman’s door, but stood close as if he wanted to block Holman’s way.
“Okay, dude. Get out, but don’t move away from the car. When you’re out, stand straight up, then turn to face the car. You understand what I’m telling you?”
“I think I can handle it.”
They didn’t want the neighbors to see that Holman’s hands were bound behind his back.
“Get out and turn.”
Holman stepped out and turned. The driver immediately stepped up behind him and took a firm grip on his wrists.
“Okay, Tom.”
Tom was the backseater. He got out, then moved to the front of the car, waiting for Holman and the driver.
Holman took in the surrounding houses. Bikes in the front yards and knotted ropes hanging from trees told him this was a family neighborhood. An outboard powerboat was parked in a drive two houses away. He glimpsed low chain-link fences through breaks in the shrubs. No one was outside, but people would be inside with their air conditioners, mostly women with small children this time of day. He could scream his ass off, but no one would hear. If he ran, he would have to go over fences. He hoped none of these people had pit bulls.
Holman said, “You’d better tell me what you want me to do so I don’t fall.”
“We’re going around the front of the car.”
“We going to the front door?”
“Straight down the drive to the carport.”
Holman had already guessed they would use the carport. The front door was open, but the kitchen probably opened under the arch. The door would be hidden. Holman wasn’t going to let them bring him into the house. He figured he would die in the house. If he was going to die he wanted to die out in the open where someone might see, but Holman didn’t plan on dying that day. He glanced at the powerboat again and then at his Highlander.
Holman stepped away from the car. The driver closed the door, then nudged him toward the front. Holman slowly shuffled forward. Tom waited for them at the drive, then walked a few paces ahead, and would reach the door first.
The driver said, “Jesus, you can walk faster than that.”
“You’re bumping my feet. Why don’t you back off and give me some room, for Christ’s sake. You’re going to trip me.”
“Fuck that.”
The driver moved up even closer behind him, which was what Holman wanted. He wanted the driver as close behind as possible in the narrow space between the house and the blue sedan.
Tom stepped under the arch between the house and the car and went to the door. He waited for Holman and the driver, then opened the screen. When the screen door was open, Tom was on one side and Holman and the driver were on the other, sandwiched between the house and the blue sedan.
Holman didn’t wait for the door to open. He swung his right foot high against the house
and shoved the driver backwards against the sedan as hard and fast as he could. He jerked his left foot up to join with his right, and crushed hard with both legs, pressing so hard the sedan rocked. He slammed his head backwards and the solid bone-on-bone impact made his eyes sparkle. He hammered backwards again, driving with his thick neck and shoulders and felt the driver go limp as Tom realized what was happening.
“Motherfuck—hey!”
Tom scrambled to get the door closed, but Holman was already running. He didn’t look back. He didn’t run across the street or away from the yellow house. He cut hard across the front yard, then turned again, racing for the backyard. He wanted to get out of sight as quickly as possible. He plowed headfirst through bushes and shrubs and fell across a fence. He heard someone shouting inside the house, but he didn’t stop. When he reached the rear of the house he rolled over another fence into the neighbor’s backyard and kept going. Limbs and branches and sharp things tore at him, but he couldn’t feel their claws. He sprinted across the neighbors’ yard head-on into a wall of shrubs and kicked his way over another fence like an animal. He landed on a sprinkler head. He struggled to his feet and ran, falling over a tricycle as he cut across their yard. Inside, a small dog snarled and snapped at him through a window. He heard shouts and voices two houses away and knew they would be coming, but he moved up along the side of the house toward the street because that’s where he had seen the boat. The boat was in the drive.
Holman crept to the corner of the house. Vukovich and Tom were in the street by their car, Vukovich holding a radio.
Holman crept forward to the boat with its big Mercury outboard motor. He twisted around to push the plastic tie onto the edge of the propeller blade and sawed as hard as he could, hoping that con was wrong about these things being stronger than steel.
He pushed with all of his weight and sawed the tie back and forth. He pushed so hard the tie cut into his skin, but the pain only drove him to push harder and then the tie popped and his hands were free.
Fuentes and Tom were now moving in the opposite direction, but Vukovich was walking down the middle of the street in his direction.