Falling Down

by David Cole

  I offered coffee or lunch, but he didn’t have time.

  “I don’t know much about La Bruja,” Schultz said.

  “It’s probably not going to help me anyway,” I said.

  “Still. You asked. I was curious. At my age, curiosity is a good thing on a sunny day. Especially with the feminine instead of the masculine. La Bruja. Not El Brujo. I guess, I just assumed it’s a woman. Really, I don’t know much. But there is such a woman.”

  “Here? In Tucson?”

  “Oh, no. Somewhere in Mexico. My sources say that people speak of her with respect, but nobody spoke out loud, they’d whisper of her. Lives in a castle, they said. Somewhere way south in Sonora, or maybe Chihuahua. A castle on the side of a mountain, you know, what we call a sky island, just the single mountain rising out of the desert. A valley and lots of water below, a good-size village. Not a town, certainly not a city, but protected, that’s what people said of La Bruja. She protected the people.”

  “Drug lords in Colombia,” I said. “They protected, so the people would serve.”

  “Not the same, Laura.”

  “It’s drugs and smuggling,” I said.

  “And you know this how?”

  “A client.”

  “Ah,” Schultz said. “A secret client.”

  “The woman makes a fortune through drugs, spends money around her own village, keeps the drugs out of those people’s hands.”

  “There was a movie. Nineteen fifty-three. La Bruja. Here’s a color reproduction of the poster.” Handing me an exact duplicate of the card left in Mary’s mailbox. “The leading role played by an actress named Marilena. My source in Mexico City says she only used the one word because she was half Austrian. Full name was Marilena Stimpfl.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “And this town, this castle, where is it?”

  “Nobody knows. And I’ve got to run.”

  “Thanks, David. Thanks a lot.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been of much help.”

  “At this point, any information helps.”

  Staring at the pool, the surface absolutely calm. No ripples, no insects skimming along, no leaves or debris, just a large oval of water, bluer than the sky.

  Look into the water.

  The thought so random and unsuspected, like Obi Wan guiding Luke Skywalker near the end of Star Wars.

  Delilah. The woman I’d met a year ago, on the road near Ruby. A flash flood blocking the road, she pulled my car across with a winch, she took me to Monica’s birthday party in Arivaca.

  Arivaca Road. Where Mary found Ana Luisa.

  Look into the water.

  I remembered why Delilah said that.

  You’ve got to do the work, girl. You’ve got to see a mirror image of yourself, you’ve got to mirror yourself and illuminate the anger you see in yourself instead of just figuring what your emotions are toward other people. Flip those emotions so you see them in yourself, then you work on what that’s doing to you.

  But instead of working on my anger, I flipped everything I knew about the events of the past days. Starting with the visit from Bob Gates, I turned over all conversations and phone calls and computer data search results, I questioned everything about these events.

  What if. That’s the process. What’s on the flip side of this coin?

  After an hour, there were only two pieces of data that might have other explanations. E210. The answer to most everything had to be in E210.

  I ran into the house, dressed quickly, packed my shoulder bag, stuck the Beretta underneath a pale yellow jacket I wore with sleeves rolled partway up over a tank top, nothing coordinate, just dressing quickly.

  I went looking for Christopher Kyle.

  35

  But Kyle had been suspended from active duty, pending…pending something the desk sergeant wouldn’t tell me. One of his partners in Homicide finally told me that Kyle just couldn’t put in the long hours, his hips burned with pain. I finally found Kyle at a baseball practice batting range, working out his frustration at his failing hips by using the muscular top half of his body.

  Stood in the batting cage, punched the button to start feeding him balls. Metal canes at his feet, propping himself with determination to stand unaided. First ball came at him right in the sweet spot, but he swung under it. Adjusted his stance, smacked the next ball just above his hands. Tink. From the aluminum bat.

  “It was me,” I said. “I caused this.”

  Tink. Solid hit with the barrel of the bat, the ball rising continually until it caught the steel mesh wiring thirty feet away. Two other men started up in the cages beyond Gates, all three ball-feed machines operating at different time intervals.

  “Computers don’t lie.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “You’re guilty,” he said.

  Tink. Gates swung off-stride, slicing his next ball so it whacked the steel mesh near my face.

  “Don’t hook your fingers through the wire,” Kyle said. “I hit any more as bad as the last one, I’ll bust a few of your fingers.”

  “Is that a threat?” I said. Tink. Getting damn tired of these men, swinging a bat like they were just a signed contract away from the bigs.

  “Negative.” Not flinching when he stepped too close into the next ball, drove in down off his instep.

  “Sure sounded like a threat,” I said. Regripped the mesh, lacing my fingers through the diamond-shaped holes.

  “Suit yourself. Busted fingers, can’t work a keyboard.”

  “What’s happened, Christopher?”

  “You’re poison, Winslow. Worst thing of all, you’ve poisoned yourself.”

  He stepped into another pitch, I saw him turn sideways, deflecting the ball toward me, but too low, it struck the fence around my knees.

  “That’s definitely a threat,” I said.

  Gates stepped away from the next ball, rested the bat on his shoulders. “Negative, Winslow.”

  A ball floated past, right in the zone, a home run ball, but he didn’t swing.

  “Listen to me, listen to me. I believed in you, I trusted you. But no more. You’re guilty. And because I spoke up for you, I’m now under suspicion of…they don’t even tell me. So. Just leave me alone. We’re done here.”

  Kyle went to the ball-feed control panel, slid the single switch fully open. Balls streaked at him every fifteen seconds, he swung and connected with almost every pitch, spraying balls everywhere inside the cage until the feed bin emptied.

  I called Mary’s cell. No answer, but my phone rang just after I’d disconnected.

  “Laura,” Mary said. “Something really bad’s happened to Ken.”

  “What?” I said. “What, where is he?”

  “St. Mary’s Hospital. Intensive care.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Any ICU is brightly lit, rooms arranged around a central nursing station, patients in most every bed, either recovering or dying, all kinds of continual monitoring of vital signs, breathing, heart machines that beeped steadily, the atmosphere charged with the starkness of these choices. You went to another bed, you got better, you went home. Or you went to the morgue.

  Mary sat beside Ken’s bed, Ana Luisa asleep in a hard plastic chair, a rosary in Mary’s hands, her fingers quiet on the beads. She’d been crying, her face now grim but dry.

  “I’ve kinda forgotten how to say a rosary,” she said. A quick smile, but her face lined with frowns and sadness.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Getting in his car, right in front of police headquarters. He started to pull out of the parking spot, a garbage truck rammed him sideways, crushed him into his car. Somebody jumped from the garbage truck and ran.”

  “Just tell me he’ll live.”

  “Mostly broken bones. Left ankle, right thigh. Two ribs broken, four more cracked. He’s on morphine, he’s had surgery, their biggest concern is whether he had a concussion.” Fiddled with her ros
ary. “I know the sense of what I’m supposed to say, I don’t remember the rituals. Hail Mary. Our Father. Dark beads. Red beads. Mostly, I’ve been praying to Mother Teresa. Praying she’ll intercede for me, help Ken’s recovery, help keep him alive.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “It is my fault. I saw that first image on Ken’s computer, I got him to contact you, I pulled you and your family into this. I’m guilty of all that.”

  “You’ll be forgiven,” I said. Unsure what that meant to her.

  “But will I forgive myself?”

  “I’ve got to tell you this,” I said finally. “You realize, if this wasn’t an accident, if somebody tried to kill him, then you’re in danger.”

  “Yes. I know that. I still feel guilty I pulled all of you into this.”

  My cell rang. Tempted to ignore the call, I glanced at caller ID and saw it was Alex. Held up a finger while I flipped open the cell.

  “Laura!” Alex was triumphant. “We’ve found the woman.”

  Finally. A break.

  “Her name’s Deb Carlin,” Alex said. “Norman Don is parked a block away from her house. She’s inside, Norman thinks she’s alone.”

  “Call our security people.”

  “Shouldn’t we really call the police?”

  “No. Get security to St. Mary’s Hospital. Mary’s also here.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Yes. It’s Ken. Somebody tried to kill him, but he’s alive. Get security people here, outside the room. Protect Ken, Mary, and Ana Luisa. I’m going to meet Norman. We’ll then brace Deb Carlin. This has to end.”

  “I’m going with you,” Mary said.

  “No.”

  “I’m going.”

  “No way. This is my responsibility.”

  Mary opened her purse, showed me what was inside. Ken’s .357.

  “I started all this,” Mary said. “I want to help finish it.”

  36

  A huge, sprawling million-dollar home in Ventana Canyon, sitting on two acres of foothill property. We pulled up behind Norman Don’s car, parked on a road about a hundred feet higher and overlooking Carlin’s backyard. A woman lay flat in a lounger, topless, face up to the sun.

  “I don’t have binoculars,” Norman said. “But I wouldn’t want any reflected glare from them anyway. I’ve moved my car every twenty minutes or so, but there aren’t many places nearby to park. Alex wants you to wait for backup.”

  “Give me that,” I said. Reaching through his open window for some Watchtower pamphlets. “I’m going to witness for Jehovah.”

  “What do we do?” Mary said.

  “You’re staying here.”

  “Don’t argue with me.” Reaching in her purse, she grabbed Ken’s pistol, pulled it out.

  “Whoa!” Norman said. “Easy, easy.”

  “I’m going with you,” Mary said.

  “All right,” I said finally. “All right, all right.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Norman said.

  “We’re going up to her front door. We’re Witnesses, working her neighborhood. Chances are, she won’t even see us coming. We can take her at the swimming pool. Where’s your cell?” He handed it to me, I called my own phone, and when it rang I left the connection open. “We’ll be at her door in ten minutes. If she gets up from that lounger, if she goes into the house, it’ll be us at the front door. You tell me exactly what she does. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Put on your sunglasses,” I said to Mary. “Take these two pamphlets, make sure you walk tall, work your smile. Here.” I pulled a straw hat from the back seat, put it on her head, but she had too much hair so I wore it. Ready?”

  “She just sat up,” Norman said. “She’s looking around, waiting.”

  “Ring the doorbell again,” I said. Mary pushed the ivory button, chimes rebounded somewhere far away from the front door.

  “She stood up. She’s chewing a fingernail, she’s picked up a big towel, she’s holding the towel like there’s something underneath. She’s going inside.”

  “Ring it again. Smile.”

  “God is with us,” Mary said.

  A slot opened in the thick oak front door.

  “Go away.” A woman’s voice, husky, without much emphasis. “I don’t want your kind around here.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry, I know you think we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses. But actually, we both live two blocks away. We’re circulating a petition against one of the homeowners. He’s, well, he’s decided to plant grass, I mean, grass. Here, in this development. When it’s been perfectly landscaped. A riparian habitat.”

  “Grass?” the voice said.

  “Yes. Actually, some of it won’t even be real grass.”

  “Plastic,” Mary said. “Like, say, on a football field. Plastic grass.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” the voice said. “Fake grass.”

  “Exactly,” Mary said. “I’ve got a petition to the zoning commission, complaining about the grass. Most everybody on our blocks have signed, today we’re trying to get other signatures. It’ll just take a minute, just print and sign your name, we’ll fill in the address.”

  “Shit. Sure, okay, sure.”

  Two deadbolts released, the door opening about a foot, and I rammed against the door, knocking the woman backward, her towel flying up and out of her hand and dropping a small automatic pistol that gouged a chip in the entryway tiles.

  “Down, down,” I shouted.

  Kicked the automatic to one side as the woman lunged for it and I drew back my foot and kicked her on the right breast and that hurt, she grabbed the breast, rubbing it with one hand, sitting quietly now and looking for an edge. She cut her eyes between my face and Mary’s and then she smiled.

  “I know you,” she said. “I know you both.”

  “And now we know you. At last.”

  “We’ve seen each other before.”

  “Yeah. You videotaped me and I videotaped you.”

  “In your leather bra,” she said finally. “Should have thought of that.” She turned her face to Mary. “And how’s that little girl?” she said.

  “She’s safe,” Mary said. “She’s in God’s hands.”

  “Where we want to send all of you. Straight up to God.”

  She made no effort to cover her naked breasts, she sat with both hands braced behind her, firm, large breasts hardly moving, but I saw muscles rippling in both arms and knew she’d launch herself at us if she saw any edge.

  “Mary,” I said. “Move over near that chair. Put that .357 on her.”

  “Wow,” the woman said. “Tall lady. Big gun. Wow.”

  “I only want one thing,” I said.

  “Cockfighting is a misdemeanor. Small fine, no jail time.”

  “This has nothing to do with cockfights.”

  “I’ve nothing really to say. Really. Nothing.”

  “Is Deb Carlin a real name?”

  “It’s a name.”

  “But you’ve had other names.”

  “So have you,” she said. “Really. This is a waste of time. I’m getting up.”

  “Have you heard about Carlos?” I said. She blinked, lips twitched slightly, hardly noticeable if I weren’t two feet from her face.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Carlos Cañas.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “He’s dead. Burned to death two days ago.”

  “Is he with God?”

  I backed off two feet, sighted my Beretta, calculated the angles, and fired, the bullet runneling a deep crack in three of the tiles. She flinched, regained her composure.

  “Shoot up the house,” she said. “But you won’t shoot me. I’m getting up.”

  “Five days,” I said. She stopped, halfway from a hallway to the back of the house. “For five days, I’ve been wondering if I should stop carrying this Beretta.”

  “Oh fuck that,” she said. “You’re gonna shoot me, for Christ’s s
akes, shoot me. But I’m going to get dressed.”

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t move.”

  “Oh, by all means,” Mary said. “Move.”

  “That goddam girl of yours,” Carlin said. “The people I worked with, they’ve got these lists. When something goes wrong, they’ve got to take care of everybody on those lists. And that girl saw too many people. A pity she didn’t die in that crash. You’re Catholic, aren’t you?”

  Mary nodded, the heavy .357 wobbling a bit in her hand.

  “So let me ask you,” Carlin said. “Is the hand of Jesus on that gun?”

  “No,” Mary said. “This is all on my own. Your future is between God and yourself. I’m just here to help arrange the meeting.”

  “Wow,” Carlin said. Laughing. “Right out of a movie. Listen, you two. I’m not somebody who stays in the shallow end of the pool. I’m gonna get dressed now.”

  “Don’t move,” I said.

  She shrugged, started to turn her back.

  I shot her in the left knee, blood spurting on the cream-colored tiles, and she writhed in agony. I stuck my shoe under her bathing towel, flicked it on her.

  “Find the bathroom,” I said. Mary in shock, her pistol drooping. “Mary. Find a bathroom. Get more towels. Do it.”

  “You shot her,” Mary said.

  “And I might shoot the other knee. Get some more towels.”

  Mary ran down a hallway and returned quickly with two huge terrycloth towels. She started to kneel at the woman’s side, but I motioned her back.

  “Throw her the towels,” I said. “Don’t go near her.”

  I expected curses, anger, anything, but the woman ground her teeth and wrapped two of the towels around the already swollen kneecap.

  “Where’s Carlos?” I said.

  “I…don’t…know.”

  “Where’s Carlos?”

  “He’s dead,” she said. “He was nothing.”

  Another wave of pain twisted her face and she fell on her side, holding the towels over her leg, trying not to put pressure on her knee. She shook her head, grimaced, tried to speak, shook her head again.

  “Where’s E210?” I said.