33
Bosch had been left in darkness before. And many of those times he was scared and knew that death was near. He also knew that if he waited, somehow he would see, that there was lost light in all places of darkness, and if he found it, it would save him.
He knew he had to try to understand what had just happened and why. He shouldn’t be alive. All his theories ended with him in a box. With Drummond putting a bullet in his head in the same callous manner he had executed Reggie Banks. Drummond was the ultimate fixer, the cleaner, and Bosch was part of the mess. It made no sense that he was spared, even temporarily. Bosch had to figure that out if he was to survive.
The first step was to free himself. He put all of the case questions aside and concentrated on escape. He brought his ankles in underneath him and pushed up, slowly rising into a standing position so that he could better assess his surroundings and possibilities.
He started with the column. It was a 6 × 6 solid piece of timber. Hitting it with his back caused no shudder or shimmy. It only caused him pain. The beam wasn’t going anywhere, so he had to work with it as a given.
He looked up into the darkness and could just make out the shapes and forms of tie beams overhead. He knew from before the light went out that there was no way for him to reach the top, no way for him to climb up to free himself.
He looked down but his feet were obscured in the dark. He knew the floor was straw on dirt and he kicked at the bottom of the beam with his heel. It felt solidly anchored but he could not tell how.
He knew he had a choice: wait for Drummond to come back or make an effort to escape. He remembered the image he had conjured up earlier of his daughter and decided he would not go easily. He would fight with his last strength. He used his feet to sweep the straw away and then started kicking at the dirt with his heel, slowly digging down beneath the surface.
Knowing it was a last desperate effort, he kicked with ferocity, as if he were kicking back at anyone and anything that had ever held him back. His heels were damaged by the effort and screaming in pain. His wrists were pulled tight into the cuffs to the point that he could feel numbness taking his fingers. But he didn’t care. He wanted to kick at everything that had ever stopped him in life.
His effort was futile. He finally dug down to what he believed was the concrete mooring the column had been set in. The connection was solid. It wasn’t going anywhere and neither was he. He finally stopped his efforts and leaned forward, head down. He was exhausted and feeling close to defeated.
He settled into the knowledge that his only shot, his only chance, would be to make his move when Drummond came back. If Bosch could come up with a reason for Drummond to uncuff him, he would have a fighting chance. He could go for the gun or he could make a run for it. Either way, it would be his only shot.
But what did he have, what could he say to make Drummond give up his one strategic advantage? Bosch straightened up against the beam. He had to be alert. He had to be ready for all possibilities. He started reviewing what Banks had told him back in the motel room, looking for a piece of the story that Bosch could use. He needed something he could threaten Drummond with, something hidden and that only Bosch could lead him to.
He held fast to his conviction that he could not give up the email he had sent to Chu. He could not put his partner in potential danger, nor could he allow Drummond to erase the solution to the case. Banks’s confession was too important to barter with.
Bosch had no doubt that Drummond had already examined his phone, but it was password protected. The phone was set to lock after three failed attempts to enter the code. If Drummond kept trying after that he would eventually trigger a data purge. That gave Bosch high confidence in the recording safely getting to Chu without Drummond knowing. Harry decided that he must do nothing that would change that.
He needed something else now. He needed a play, a script, something that he could work with.
What?
His mind grew desperate. There had to be something. He started with the fact that Drummond had shot Banks because he knew he had talked to Bosch. Working it from there, Bosch could say Banks showed him something, some kind of evidence that he kept hidden as his ace in the hole. Something with which he could turn the tables on Cosgrove and Drummond, if he ever had the chance.
What?
Bosch suddenly thought he had something. The gun again. Follow the gun. It had been the rule of the entire investigation. There was no reason to change it now. Banks had said he was the National Guard company’s inventory officer. He was the one who packed the souvenir guns in the bottom of the equipment cartons for shipping back to the States. He was the fox guarding the henhouse. Bosch would tell Drummond that the fox had made a list. Banks had kept a list of serial numbers to the weapons and it contained the names of who got which gun. That list included the name of the soldier who got the gun that killed Anneke Jespersen. That list was hidden, but with Banks dead, it would soon come to light. Only Bosch could lead Drummond to it.
Bosch grew excited with hope. He actually thought the play could work. It wasn’t completely there yet, but it could work. It needed embellishment. It needed a reason to create genuine concern in Drummond, a legitimate fear that the list would come out and expose him now that Banks was dead.
Bosch began to believe he had a chance. He just needed to wrap the basic story in more detail and believability. He just needed—
He stopped his thought processes. There was a light. He realized he’d had his eyes open the whole time he was working out the play with Drummond. But now he was drawn to a small greenish-white glow he saw down near his feet. It was a blurred circle of dots no bigger than a half dollar. There was movement within the circle, too. A tiny speck of light like a distant star moved along the circumference of the circle, touching dot to dot to dot.
Bosch realized he was looking at Reggie Banks’s watch. And all in a moment he knew how he could escape.
A plan quickly formed in Bosch’s mind. He slid down the beam to the point where he was in a sitting position without a chair beneath him. Despite soreness in his thighs and hamstrings from the plod through the almond grove the night before, he used his right leg to brace his back against the column and hold his position, then reached out with his left foot. Using his heel, he attempted to hook the dead man’s wrist and pull it toward him. It took several tries before he was able to find purchase and move the arm. Once he had moved it as far as he could with his foot, he stood back up and rotated 180 degrees around the column. He slid all the way to the ground this time and reached back with his hand for Banks’s hand. He was barely able to reach it.
Holding the dead man’s hand in both of his, Bosch leaned forward as far as he could to drag the body even closer. Once he accomplished that, he reached for the wrist and unbuckled the watch. Holding it in his left hand, he flipped the buckle back so the prong extended free. He then twisted his wrist so he could work the small steel pin into the keyhole on the right handcuff.
As he worked, Bosch visualized the process. A handcuff was one of the easiest locks to pick, provided you weren’t doing so in the dark and working with your hands behind your back. The key was basically a single-notched pin. The key was universal, because in law enforcement, cuffs were often moved with prisoners from officer to officer, or from bench to bench. If every pair of cuffs had a unique key, then an already ponderous system would slow down even more. Bosch was counting on that as he worked with the watch buckle’s pin. He was skilled with the set of lock picks that he kept hidden behind his badge in the wallet Drummond had confiscated. Turning the prong of a watch buckle into a pick was the challenge.
It took him less than a minute to open the cuff. He then brought his arms around and removed the other cuff even faster. He was free. He got up and immediately headed in the direction of the barn door, promptly tripping over Banks’s body and falling face-first into the straw. He stood back up, got his bearings, and tried again, walking with his arms out in front of
him. When he made it to the door, he reached to his left, moving his hands up and down the wall until he found the light switch.
Finally there was light in the barn. Bosch quickly moved back to the huge double doors. He had heard Drummond slide the outside bar home but he tried to move the doors anyway, pushing hard but failing. He tried it twice more and got the same result.
Bosch stepped back and looked around. He had no idea if Drummond and Cosgrove were coming back in a minute or a day, but he felt the need to keep moving. He walked back around the body toward the darker recesses of the barn. He found another set of double doors on the rear wall, but those were locked as well. He turned around and surveyed the interior but saw no other doors and no windows. He cursed out loud.
He tried to calm himself and think. He put himself outside and tried to remember looking at the barn in the wash of the headlights as they had pulled up. It was an A-frame structure, and he remembered that there was a door up in the loft for loading and unloading hay.
Bosch moved quickly to a wooden ladder built next to one of the main support beams and started climbing. The loft was still crowded with bales of hay that had never been removed after the barn was abandoned. Bosch made his way around them to the small set of double doors. These doors were locked, too, but this time from the inside.
It was a simple flip-over hasp with a heavy-duty padlock. Bosch knew he could break the lock if he had the right picks but they were in his badge wallet, which was in Drummond’s pocket. A watch buckle wouldn’t work. He found his escape thwarted again.
He bent forward to study the hasp as best he could in the dim light. He was thinking about trying to kick the doors open, but the wood seemed solid and the hasp assembly was anchored by eight wood screws. Trying to kick it open would have to be only a loud and final resort.
Before going down to the lower level again, he looked around the loft for anything that might help him escape or defend himself. A tool for prying off the lock hasp, or even a piece of solid wood to use as a club. What he found instead might work better. Behind a row of broken hay bales was a rusted pitchfork.
Bosch dropped the pitchfork down to the first floor, careful not to land it on Banks’s body, and then climbed down. With the pitchfork in hand he made one more search around the barn, looking for a way of escape. Finding none, he returned to the light at the center of the barn’s floor. He checked Banks’s body on the off chance he carried a folding knife or something else he could use.
He found no weapon, but he did find the keys to his rental car. Drummond had forgotten to retrieve them after killing Banks.
Bosch moved to the front doors of the barn and pushed one more time, even though he knew they would not part. He was less than fifteen feet away from his car but couldn’t get to it. He knew that in the trunk, beneath the cardboard boxes of equipment that he had transferred, there was another box that he had moved from his work car to the rental. It was the box that held his second gun. The Kimber Ultra Carry .45, loaded with seven bullets in the magazine plus one more jacked into the chamber for good luck.
“Shit,” he whispered.
Bosch knew he had no choice but to wait. He had to surprise and overpower two armed men when they returned. He reached over and switched off the light, dropping the barn back into darkness. He now had the pitchfork and the darkness and the element of surprise. He decided that he liked his chances.
34
Bosch didn’t have to wait long. No more than ten minutes after he turned off the light, he heard the scraping sound of metal on metal as the slide bar outside was moved. This was done slowly, and Bosch thought maybe Drummond was trying to surprise him.
The door slowly came open. From his angle Bosch could see the outside darkness. He could feel the rush of cooler air enter the barn. And he could just make out the shadow of a single figure entering.
Bosch braced himself and raised the pitchfork. He was standing near the light switch. This is where one of them would go first. To turn on the light. His plan was to thrust from shoulder level and drive the weapon through the body. Take out the first one, go for his gun. Then it would be down to one on one.
But the lone figure did not move toward the light switch. He stood stock-still in the door’s opening as if letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He then moved forward three steps into the barn. Bosch wasn’t ready for this. His attack position was on the switch. He was now too far away from his target.
A light suddenly came on in the barn, but it was not from overhead. The person who had entered was carrying a flashlight. And Bosch now thought it might be a woman.
She was past Bosch’s position now, and the flashlight was held out in front of her body and away. Bosch could not see her face from his angle but he could tell by size and demeanor that it was neither Drummond nor Cosgrove. It was definitely a woman.
The beam swept across the barn and then jerked back to the body on the ground. The woman rushed forward to put the light on the dead man’s face. Banks lay on his back with his eyes wide open and the horrible entry wound to the right temple. His left hand was extended out at an odd angle toward the support column. His discarded watch was lying in the straw next to it.
The woman crouched next to Banks and shifted the light as she played it across his body. In doing so she revealed first the gun in her other hand and then her face. Bosch lowered the pitchfork and stepped out of cover.
“Detective Mendenhall.”
Mendenhall swiveled right and brought the gun’s bead on Bosch. He raised his hands, still holding the pitchfork.
“It’s me.”
He realized he must appear to her as some sort of send-up of the famous American Gothic painting, with the pitchfork-carrying farmer and his wife—minus the wife. He let go of the pitchfork and let it drop to the straw.
Mendenhall lowered her weapon and stood up.
“Bosch, what’s going on here?”
Bosch noted that she had dispensed with her own demand for rank and respect. Rather than answer he moved toward the door and looked out. He could see the lights of the château through the trees, but no sign of Cosgrove or Drummond. He stepped out and went to his rental car, using the key fob to pop the trunk.
Mendenhall followed him out.
“Detective Bosch, I said, what is going on?”
Bosch lifted one of the cardboard boxes out of the trunk and lowered it to the ground.
“Keep your voice down,” he said. “What are you doing here? You followed me up here over O’Toole’s complaint?”
Bosch found the gun box and opened it.
“Not exactly.”
“Then, why?”
He retrieved the Kimber and checked its action.
“I wanted to know something.”
“Know what?”
He holstered the gun, then took the extra magazine out of the box and put it in his pocket.
“What you were doing, for one thing. I had a feeling you weren’t going on vacation.”
Bosch closed the trunk quietly and looked around to get his bearings. He then looked at Mendenhall.
“Where’s your car? How did you get in here?”
“I parked where you parked last night. I got in the same way.”
He looked down at her shoes. They were caked in mud from the almond grove.
“You’ve been following me and you’re alone. Does anyone even know where you are?”
She averted her eyes and he knew the answer was no. She was freelancing on Bosch while he was freelancing on Anneke Jespersen. Somehow, some way, he liked that about her.
“Turn off the flashlight,” he said. “It will only expose us.”
She did as she was told.
“Now, what are you doing here, Detective Mendenhall?”
“I’m working my case.”
“That’s not good enough. You’re freelancing on me and I want to know why.”
“Let’s just say I followed you off the reservation and leave it at that. Who killed that man
in there?”
Bosch knew there wasn’t time to go back and forth with Mendenhall over her motives for following him. If they got out of this, he would get back to it at the right time.
“Sheriff J.J. Drummond,” he answered. “In cold blood. Right in front of me, without missing a beat. Did you see him when you were sneaking in here?”
“I saw two men. They both went into the house.”
“Did you see anybody else? A third man arrive?”
She shook her head.
“No, just the two. Can you please just tell me what is going on? I saw you taken here. Now there’s a man in there dead and you were locked in like—”
“Look, we don’t have a lot of time. There is going to be more killing if we don’t stop it. The shorthand is that this is where my cold case has led. The case I told you about and that I went to San Quentin on. It’s here. This is where it ends. Get in.”
Bosch continued in a whisper as he moved toward the driver-side door.
“My victim was Anneke Jespersen from Denmark. She was a war correspondent. Four National Guard soldiers drugged and raped her on an R&R leave during Desert Storm in ’ninety-one. She came over here the next year, looking for them. I don’t know if she was going to write a story or a book or what, but she followed them to L.A. during the riots. And they used the cover of the riots to murder her.”
Bosch got in, put the key in the ignition, and started the car, keeping his foot as light on the gas as possible. Mendenhall got in the passenger side.
“My investigation has caused the conspiracy that binds them to unravel. Banks was a loose end, so they killed him. They mentioned that another man was coming and I think they’re going to kill him, too.”
“Who?”
“A guy named Frank Dowler.”
He put the car in reverse and started backing away from the barn. He left the lights off.
“Why didn’t they kill you?” Mendenhall asked. “Why only Banks?”
“Because they need me alive—for the moment. Drummond has a plan.”
“What plan? This is crazy.”
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