by David Rich
“You don’t. And neither does your partner. He’s just pretending to think it.”
“You’ve lost me.” She wasn’t cold and she wasn’t warm. She kept her tone in that zone that would allow me to keep talking but would discourage huge exaggeration or outright lies.
“You said yourself I didn’t kill Frank Godwin. And witnesses know I didn’t do the shooting in Montana.”
“And Houston?”
I told her about Gill killing Arun. “I have no proof. But the same guy did all the others, even the guy with the flame tattoo.”
She sipped her ice tea and looked across the street at Hanrihan, who stood next to a palm and watched us. “He’s stupid, but he’s not evil,” she said. “He works hard. The sexist comments are so lame they’re not worth protesting. But he thinks the best approach is to accuse everyone he interviews. He claims he’s had success that way.” The waiter delivered the appetizer. Sampson turned her gaze on me. “How do you know the shooter is the same guy? And who is he?”
“Your partner is bent.”
“Oh, come on.”
“How did you know where to find me in Houston?”
She looked at me for about thirty seconds. “We can check hotel records and rental card records and flight records.”
“Did you do it, or did he?”
“He put in the request.”
My turn to wait. I tried a shrimp. Sipped my beer. She did not rush me. “If you access that request, you’ll find that he was looking for Robert Hewitt. That was the name I traveled under. Rollie Waters was not in Houston. The shooter knew I was Robert Hewitt. How did Hanrihan know?”
“I would have to check this out. I can’t just take your word.”
“When you do that, see if he ever interviewed a Victor Kosinski entering the country from Canada.”
“Why don’t I just arrest Victor Kosinski?”
“I’m going to tell you how you can do that, too.” I explained what I expected would happen over the next few days and the part I hoped she would play. First, Hanrihan was going to be in touch with Victor, letting him know where I was. Then I was going to need Sampson as backup, need her to take Hanrihan out of the mix. I told her we could not meet or talk again and she would have to improvise along the way.
“That’s fine. If your story checks out.”
“Be careful of your partner. He’s stupid, but not as stupid as he looks.”
Waiting tried to burn me out on a hilltop in Helmand. It might have been on my second tour, but I can’t be sure; waiting time is hazy time. Waiting feeds on congealed hope. Every day in every way, I was getting worse and worse. And I was doing better than most. Randy Jackman, a corporal, hounded me. “How do we know it will ever end? How do we know they’ll ever attack? This is hell. We’re already in hell. This can go on forever.”
“Do you have a dog?”
“What the fuck has my dog got to do with this?”
“Every time you leave the house, your dog thinks he’s gone to hell. He thinks you’re never coming back. But he waits patiently and doesn’t piss all over the house. So try to be a dog, man.”
I was a dog, too. But when I realized I did not have to wait for the enemy to attack, I was fine. I did not have to outwait time; I only had to outwait my commanding officers. Eventually, they would send us to find the enemy and on to a slightly cooler level of hell.
I wanted to set up Victor and grab him immediately. I did not want to wait: I had to wait. Will Panos went east to play the Exhumationist, with plenty of backup, enough for Hanrihan to notice. I had to wait for it to look like I had been taken off the case. I had to hang around for it to look like I had not brought any new information about where the money was hidden. I had to wait for Victor to find me and watch me.
Waiting made me a target. My instinct was to hide. I longed to go to Big Bear and work at Loretta’s shelter. But if Victor trailed me there, Loretta would be put in jeopardy. That would be an unforgivable sin. I considered luring Victor into the cave in Arizona the way I had done to McColl’s men. But Victor was too wary and maybe even too shrewd to fall for that. I had to wait.
One night while taking a walk, I went into a video store and found a copy of The Criminal, the Stanley Baker movie that Bannion was so fond of. Baker played a career criminal, a villain named Johnny Bannion. He ran the prison block he was on, and as soon as he got out, he set up the heist of a lifetime. Slick confederates and his ex-girlfriend betrayed him and he was sent back to prison. The rest of the plot hardly mattered; everyone was trying to get Johnny’s money. Johnny just loved being a villain, loved playing one enemy off another. He thought nothing of being sent up again. In prison he operated freely, according to the Universal Law of Villainy. But the money was on the outside. He thought nothing of the cost of breaking out.
The two Johnny Bannions shared a need for chaos, which they believed they could rearrange for their benefit. Both men thought they could cheat their destiny, too. The Bannion I knew was a thorough villain: cruel, treacherous, and deceitful. And he was a lodestone. I consoled myself with the thought that there were probably plenty of Johnny Bannions to go around. He would cheat anyone, but, like Dan, he specialized in the vain and fatuous, the men who thought their epaulets meant something, and didn’t know they were there only to store their gloves.
“You miss him,” said Dan.
“I know what you want me to say and I won’t. Not ever.”
“You could do the same. You could take his place.”
But I knew I could not take his place or Dan’s. I saw their ends. I saw the consequences. I was on another track and as blind to my future as they had been to theirs.
During the day, I walked down to Venice and joined in with an outdoor tai chi group. Afterward, I ran into two guys fighting quarterstaff and I paid them to teach me. It was similar to Aikido in some ways: your balance, his momentum. Attacking left you vulnerable. Countering was the way to achieve hits. The staff was about eight feet long, but after about a half hour, it became manageable. By the third day, I could hold my own. We worked out for two hours, then went for a beer.
They were Englishmen who made their living performing at fairs around the world. The girlfriend of one of them, who was also part of the act, joined us. At that moment, it sounded like the best life anyone ever had. Perform, leave soon, before the dust of responsibility or duty could settle. We talked about the possibility that I might fill in if they needed me. They had always managed to cover expenses and did not worry about the future. One of them talked vaguely about someday opening a school to teach quarterstaff and other similar skills, but the other guy mocked him: “Teaching kids to hit each other with sticks? I’d rather be selling the insurance policy.”
Other worlds drifted across the boardwalk until a set of crazy, staring eyes sliced through at the far end. On the Venice boardwalk, that should not have been alarming or notable, but these were unforgettable. They belonged to a man a little shorter than me, a little thicker, dark.
The Englishmen were probably relieved to find out how unreliable I was before we got too involved with one another. I got up quickly and walked in the direction where Victor had appeared. He was gone.
Around midnight, I took a walk. The streetlights painted the night with a pale gray tint, making the clear night feel foggy. I walked south first, below Pico, before turning toward the ocean. The homeless men had already settled into their doorways and onto their benches. I always preferred unlocked cars, parks, and cemeteries; the zombies were protection from all the other homeless men who believed in zombies. Any one of the lumps could have been Victor, ready to pop out after me. I sped up like a gang member crossing enemy territory. Across the road, I went down a flight of stairs and followed a path toward the water until the bike path cut across. Uneven white lines rolled hypnotically off the black screen on my left, just ahead of the grunting snare sounds. A
couple holding hands appeared from under the pier and they tightened up as they came near me. The boy shifted to the left so he would be closest to me. I kept my gaze beyond them, but I saw no movement.
I walked under the pier, moving slowly. On the other side, the view expanded and the beach spread out. The pier was silent and the cars above, on the bluff, could hardly be heard. I looked back, hoping Victor would materialize like some demented wraith who I could wrestle in a death match. He did not appear.
In the morning, I drove to LAX, parked, bought a ticket to Phoenix, walked through two terminals, came out and got on the Avis shuttle, and rented a silver Toyota. I did not think I was going to lose Victor; I wanted him to think I intended to lose him.
First, north, then east, past Edwards Air Force Base, north again, into the Owens Valley. Tufts of green stained the wrinkled camel hair hills. This was the Garden of Eden ravaged by its promise. Forced water tribute had left behind plains as dry as a forgotten sponge. Outside Lone Pine, I stopped for gas. Victor did not pull in behind me.
Mountains, gray and frosted, jutted on both sides. Though I had driven through there a few times before, I could never tell which peak was Mt. Whitney. None stood out to me. Bishop has a Sears, a Kmart, and a Penney’s spaced along a wide, faded, two-story Main Street that looks like the other stores would be featuring record players with stereophonic sound, and TVs with color and remote control. I snuck in between the pickups in front of the hardware store. I bought a shovel, a pick, gloves, and a lantern. Just off Main Street, I found a mountaineering supply store. I bought an anorak, thick wool socks, two sweaters, and a wool hat. I did not know what kind of shelter I would find. I did not know how long Victor would wait.
32
Aspens and pines lined the climbing road northeast of Bishop. An unpaved road cut off to the east and wound around a couple of hills. Below on the left sat a small placid lake. The road curled down again toward the lake and stopped at a gate marked DS Lodge. A heavy padlock held the gates together. I considered shooting it out with my pistol, but I used the pick instead and smashed the lock.
The log cabin was big for a fishing lodge, with a big square-paneled wooden door and an ostentatious knocker. I parked facing out. A steep path led to the lake about fifty feet below the house. Yellow and purple wildflowers spread in a meadow toward the hills to the left of the house. Behind the house was forested. Foothills ringed the property, isolating it from the world. I saw no sign of Victor, no sign of Sampson and Hanrihan. No sign of the graves.
I had to knock off the front doorknob and fiddle with the bolt to get into the house. The stone fireplace and chimney dominated the living room. The back wall was blackened, but there were no ashes. Two chairs faced the large front windows. There was no other furniture in the entire house. The kitchen had been cleaned out; not even a spoon remained. There were two bedrooms, one on each side of the living room. They were empty. None of the windows had blinds.
By the time I walked the meadow twice end to end looking for graves, the wind rose and pushed in heavy clouds. I moved through the forest, checking the clear, flat spots. No graves. The path down to the lake had been provided with a few makeshift stairs of stone. It wound left for about thirty feet, then cut right, straight down. The meager shore consisted of big rocks and three feet of dirt. The lake level looked a little low. A peeling, turned-over rowboat was pulled up onto the rocks. No graves. Underneath the boat I found a pair of oars.
By the time I was halfway across, I knew where the graves were. I kept rowing anyway until the boat bottomed on the opposite shore. There the dirt, covered in grass and weeds, ran back thirty feet to the spot where the rocks began to rise.
The headstones were in the shade, near the rocks.
It was after six. It would be dark by the time I got back to the graves with a shovel. I could dig by lantern light, but I did not look forward to opening a bag full of money with no idea where Victor was. I expected Sampson and Hanrihan, too. But they would not show themselves until Victor did. I decided to spend the night in the house. Even if Victor spotted the graves, he would not kill me until he knew whether they held the jackpot or not. At least that was what I told myself.
Bundled up against the cold, I finished the bag of pretzels and the two chocolate bars and one bottle of water. I placed the bag and the crumbled wrappers near the front door, which would not lock anymore, in the hope that I would hear them crinkle when Victor stepped on them. I pulled the chairs together, got comfortable and repeated a few different versions of this mantra: He won’t kill me until he is sure there is money in the graves.
The mantra might have worked better if there had been curtains or shades. Breaking into an empty house was a familiar experience for me. I always slept well. But I had never done it when I was bait. The wind and the varmints became the tools of a mad adventurer fixated on me and obsessed with finding money that probably was not there. I moved to the floor and sat in half lotus.
The mesquite tree, the porch, the swing, the sheer curtain jostled gently by the breeze—I lingered on each leaf, link, ripple, and fold. Murmuring came from inside, but I went no farther than the window. I turned back and absorbed the scene from that angle. I sank into the peace. The murmuring was soft music. But I turned toward it again, and I saw the window.
And I thought about windows.
I hopped up and looked outside, but I might have been back in a cave; the blackness was absolute.
Repeat: Victor would not try to kill me until he saw what was in the graves.
I moved the chairs in front of the door, sat on one, put my feet on the other, my gun in my lap, and went to sleep. I don’t remember any dreams and I don’t know how long I slept. I don’t know what woke me.
The eyes were clear and backlit, despite the darkness. Just two feet in front of me. I reached for my gun, but it was not there.
“I have it,” he said. But he was not holding a gun on me. He just stood there looking down. I pushed the chair away with my foot and straightened up.
“Sit down, Ethan,” I said.
He stood up straight and his eyes got wide and lost the fire. He stepped back. “What did you say? Why did you call me that?”
“Ethan. Ethan Williams. That’s your name.”
“My name is Victor Kosinski. You know that.”
“I gave you that name. You know that. Sit down, Ethan.”
“Let’s go dig right now. You have a lantern and so do I.” The sales pitchman was still there, but impatience had crept in. I wanted him to lose the sugar completely. I wanted him ordering me to buy the goddamn sprinkler system even without the added nozzles.
“We can dig in the morning. Sit down.” I kicked the chair in a gesture of my hospitality. It took him about two minutes, but he finally adjusted the chair and sat down facing me. He cradled a pistol. I could not tell if it was mine or his.
“That was a good trick at the airport. I almost lost you. I gotta use that one sometime.”
“How did you follow me?” But I thought he did not follow me. Hanrihan had told him where I was going.
“Do you think it’s here? The rest of the money?”
“No. I think some of it is here.” He seemed to like hearing that. His eyes narrowed a bit and he smiled. “Tell me, Ethan, how did you hook up with Bannion?”
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“You were Sam Simmons when I first met you. Who was he?”
“Why do you care about Sam Simmons?”
“Who came before him? How many were there?” He was looking at the window. I turned and could see his pale reflection. He leaned forward and I did the same. “You’ve watched me. Studied me, you said. I’ve watched you. I want to know how you did it. All of it.” He stayed there, leaning in. His eye blazing again. “Tell me about Iraq,” I said.
“This is one of your tricks. No tricks anymore.”
> “You have the guns. You know where the graves are.”
The wind picked up and sand scratched at the door. There was nowhere for him to disappear to, nowhere for him to send me off to. He could not say, “You go first. I’ll wait here.” His relentless eagerness had trapped him in the abandoned house. I waited until I thought he felt the trap, until he could rationalize his mistake and deal with it.
“How did you get in? I heard nothing.”
“When you were on the lake, I came in and unlocked a bedroom window.”
“Smart. Did you kill the NGO worker in Farah?”
“I needed the money. I thought you knew. I thought you hated the NGOs.”
“Hated the NGOs?”
He tilted his head and his eyes were puzzled. He had not thought about an answer to that, had never gotten more specific than “hated them all.”
“I thought you hated everyone there. The growers and the NGOs and the Marines, too. Lieutenant Spera told me you said everyone was in business together. I asked him, y’know. Asked him to go in with me. He said he wasn’t smart enough to get away with it, but you were. But, he said, if I asked you, you’d shoot me.”
“He was wrong.”
“When you didn’t shoot me, I gotta tell you, I thought about it for a long time. You must have had a reason. It was tough getting out of there. But the thought that you had a reason to let me live kept me up. If you saw something, then I decided I better see something, too.”
“Thank you,” I said. He smiled as if the coach had patted his back.
Inspiration to a lunatic. I tried to reconstruct the moment when I let him go, refigure the calculation. It was not compassion for Victor, I hoped, that influenced my decision. I did not want to think I had deemed him pathetic or helpless, which would have only highlighted how pathetic I was. The picture of handing him over to the Afghan authorities had colored everything. My weakness was in the dread of sacrificing people to procedure, sacrificing people to appearance. Passing Sam Simmons to the Afghans would have turned him into a token. It would have been a mere gesture, not a duty or responsibility. It would have made me want to change my name.