by Meg Gardiner
18
The apartment building was a crumbling edifice overlooking the 101 where it slid down out of Cahuenga Pass into Hollywood. It reminded him of the place where he grew up. The trappings were as worn and tacky as the whore—dingy furniture, a hash pipe, and a set of Princess Diana commemorative plates from the Franklin Mint. He lowered the blinds and got to work.
He took out his cordless drill and installed the new lock on the door. The whore’s life was lonely, but even lonely whores might have friends. And they always had a pimp.
He gave her corpse a final stare. Alive, she had been rotting flesh. Breathing, speaking, rutting meat. Saliva pooled at the back of his throat. And the army had discharged him? Claimed that he was unfit to fight on behalf of meat like this . . . this . . .
I’m Wanda, honey. Hundred on the dresser, just put it right there and get undressed. Wanda’s going to start the party.
But he refused to undress in front of Wanda, so she tried to undress him. She touched him. She should not have touched him.
What’s this scar, baby? Ooh, looks like that hurt. Your necklace, that’s kind of spooky. Why you wear something that ugly?
He had snapped her neck at the top, C-1.
He bundled her body into a bedspread, duct-taped it into a shroud, and shoved it into the closet. He stripped and showered and toweled off, careful not to pull open the cut on his hand. He wiped the towel across the steamy mirror and beheld his reflection. His blown pupil stared back at him, black and wide.
He was not capricious and he was not wasteful. He took only those on the list. And he tested them only to determine whether they perceived pain, whether they continued perceiving pain under increasingly intense application of stimuli, and whether at some point their pain perception shut off completely. Most, of course, ended screaming. But those who stopped feeling pain, those worthless unworthy who didn’t know the power and invincibility that could have been theirs—those ended in silent confusion.
He ran the towel around the mirror. He saw the scars, all the rest. He hated seeing it, this ugliness. He hated living with it. Some men, he knew, felt comfortable in their skin, proud and open, even if they were effeminate. The ladyboys back in Thailand would primp and priss, sashaying even if they were simply working behind the counter at their mama’s dry-cleaning shop. And they were beautiful. The boy who saw him at the bar in Patpong had thought Coyote beautiful as well, the boy with the sleek black eye-liner who had kissed his ear and slid his hand along the crotch of Coyote’s pants and laughed when he didn’t respond, saying, “You not want a ladyboy, cowboy; you want to be a ladyboy.” Coyote had killed him.
Thinking of the boy caused him to fret. Things had begun going wrong when he saw the ladyboys. Their beauty, their silky movements and delicacy had upset him. Killing that boy had been beyond the mission parameter, but he had been compelled to do it. And he had been repulsed by those desires in himself. Herself. Whatever he was becoming.
He dressed and returned to work. Soon the apartment was transformed. The photos, printouts, X-rays, and other recent data were thumbtacked to the wall. On the coffee table he set out the original source material from Bassett High.
Somewhere in here lay the error. He must find, correct, and eradicate it, so that the mission could continue.
And he needed to do it quickly. He underlined four names. He needed to take them, and soon.
Dr. Lourdes Abbott bustled into the examining room carrying my chart. Beneath her white lab coat she wore a gray wool dress and stethoscope. The furrow in her forehead had deepened since my last visit.
“Positive,” she said. “You’re pregnant. Very.”
I nodded. She crossed her arms over the chart and offered me a compassionate, noncommittal look. She knew I wasn’t married.
“You’ve been under considerable stress, I understand. A pregnancy adds to that, especially if the news itself is upsetting.”
“No, this news is great.”
She looked doubtful.
“Really.”
Her furrow creased further. “Despite what you see on soap operas, fainting generally isn’t the first symptom of pregnancy. I want to check your blood sugar and do some blood work to make sure you aren’t anemic.” She rested her hand on my arm. “Get yourself seen by your ob-gyn as soon as possible. Till then rest, eat well, and take prenatal vitamins. Drink plenty of water.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She patted my arm, saw the diamond on my finger, and arched an eyebrow.
“Yup,” I said.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
Her hand remained on my arm. “The young man out in the waiting room—he’s the one who phoned about you?”
I indicated the ring. “He’s the one.”
Her eyebrow stayed up. Her expression reeked of curiosity.
“You’re wondering how this happened?” I said.
“Frankly, yes.”
“Apparently we’ve been struck by lightning. We haven’t had fertility treatment. It’s pure, cosmic luck.”
Her face mellowed. The smile was in her eyes. “Then I’m thrilled for you.”
“This kind of luck might come around only once in a lifetime. So I want to take the utmost care of myself.”
“Don’t get overanxious about the fainting. I’m cautious, not alarmed.”
“I went down on a hardwood floor.”
“Your body’s designed to take that kind of bump. It’s not as if you jumped off a building.” She eyed me. “There’s something else?”
“I just found out that I was exposed to toxic chemicals on a field trip in high school. I know this makes me sound like a hypochondriac, but a number of my classmates have died from neurological problems.”
Emotion guttered behind her eyes—concern, and perhaps skepticism. “What kind of problems?”
“Varying. They start out with anorexia, paranoia, obsessions, and loss of coordination. Then they just die. And another classmate has a terminal brain disorder. She says it’s eating tunnels in her head.”
Dr. Abbott stilled. “How has she been diagnosed?”
“I don’t know.” I realized that Valerie hadn’t phoned me back. “But she thinks it’s tied to the chemical exposure. And no, I don’t know which chemicals, and it’ll be hell to find out.”
“Tunnels. That’s the word she used?”
“Yes.”
She frowned and rubbed her ear. “It almost sounds like she’s describing a spongiform encephalopathy.”
“Mad cow?”
“Variant CJD, kuru . . . there are several varieties of transmissible spongiform encephalopathies, TSEs. She gave you no more information?”
“I’m waiting to talk to her again.”
She eyed me critically. “You’re awfully wound up over this.”
“Kuru and mad cow are prion diseases, right? Contracted from eating infected brains?”
“Yes. So, unless your school cafeteria engaged in ritualistic cannibalism, you should take a step back and calm down.”
“Can they be caused by exposure to toxic chemicals?”
She crossed her arms over my medical chart. “Neurodegenerative diseases can be caused by anything from a head injury to genetic mutations. You’ve extrapolated too far for the evidence you’ve been given.”
“You don’t understand.”
At which point the spigot turned on. Sputtering tears, I told her about South Star’s research into sleep deprivation and a pain vaccine. The explosion and the Outbreak treatment my class received afterward. Students from the field trip beginning to die after graduation. From propeller hypnosis, anorexia, drug abuse, a car wreck, and now murder. Valerie Skinner and the brain-eating disease that was killing her.
Dr. Abbott handed me a tissue. When I wiped my eyes, she put a hand on my shoulder.
“This is far more than I realized you were dealing with. But here’s the bottom line. Your health is excellent. Correct?”
“Asi
de from this attack of the killer hormones, you mean.” I blew my nose. “Yes. I’ve been fine.”
“Don’t project your friend’s illness onto your own life. If you speak to her, try not to apply every symptom she describes to yourself. You’ll make yourself ill.”
I nodded. “There’s something else. One of my classmates . . .” I cleared my throat. “One woman died following childbirth. So did her baby.”
She sighed and fixed me with a cut-it-out glare.
“And no, I don’t know why Sharlayne or her baby died. It’s just god-awful scary right now.”
Her hand circled my wrist, cool and firm. She took my pulse and apparently disliked the count. The furrow reappeared.
“How about I phone the hospital where Sharlayne was admitted and see if I can learn anything?” she said.
“Please. Yes. Thanks. God, thank you.”
I gave her the information about Sharlayne’s Spirit and Le Bonheur Children’s Medical Center in Memphis. I had a dozen more questions, but she was giving me a firm stare: conversation closed. She patted my arm. I wondered if she was holding back her thoughts so as not to terrify me.
“Let’s get that blood work.” She squeezed my arm. “You have another seven months to climb this mountain. Take it step by step.”
Back in Jesse’s truck, we puttered through crosstown traffic. The sun was pulling the city into the kind of golden afternoon that beckons you down to the beach, laughing and splashing into the blue surf. Valerie didn’t answer her phone. When we approached a dip in the road Jesse slowed to ten miles per hour and babied the truck across.
“You don’t have to handle me like a Fabergé egg,” I said.
“The doctor wants you to take things slow.”
“Not this slow.”
Behind sunglasses his face was cool with concern. “Watching out for you and the kid isn’t just my top priority. It’s my only priority.”
His protectiveness warmed me. “Thanks, Galahad. But that old lady just passed you. The one on the sidewalk, riding the motorized scooter.”
“Did not.”
“She blew you a kiss and shouted, ‘So long, sucker.’ ”
His mouth skewed. He swung around the corner onto Anacapa and eased the truck up to a more normal speed. His face remained tense.
“I let you down in L.A. It won’t happen again,” he said.
“You haven’t let me down.”
The look he gave me was sharp. Admitting weakness took guts. And he hated it when people let him off the hook because of his disability.
“I know you won’t let me down again,” I said.
He changed lanes. “If you feel up to it I’ll stop by work and see what’s brewing.” He checked the rearview mirror. “Then—Fuck.”
He braked hard. The tires squealed. He swerved to a stop, grabbed me, pushed me down, and lay across me. He opened the glove compartment and grabbed the gun. I heard him rack the slide.
“Stay down.”
I gritted my teeth, staring at the floorboards. Whatever was out there was behind us. There was no way he would get a good angle on it. He breathed one, two, three, and sat up, throwing himself against the door and swinging his right arm to aim the Glock at the back window.
For an aching second, then two, I heard nothing.
“Shit,” he said.
“Jesse?”
“Fucking shit. Is that what I think it is?”
“I’m sitting up.”
When he didn’t object, I poked my head up. He was flat against the door, gun arm rigid. I followed his line of sight.
A sound half snarled from my throat. “Lower the gun.”
He pulled his finger off the trigger and pointed the weapon at the floor. Sagging against the door, he ran a hand over his face.
“It looked like somebody was climbing on the tailgate.”
I ground my teeth so hard that my dental work creaked. “Tater must die.”
I got out and stomped to the back of the truck, where the Weekend Fireworks box sat with its lid half off. Panties and briefs and rubber toys lay strewn about. Looking up the street, I saw a red bra and a pair of fishnet stockings. I bet the love paraphernalia stretched back to Dr. Abbott’s office like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of bread crumbs.
Suzie Sizemore sprawled, partially inflated, against the tailgate. Her feet were still in the Weekend Fireworks box. From the ecstasy on her plastic face, she had climaxed from the thrill of flailing about in weekday traffic. I grabbed her and the box, tossed them in the backseat, and climbed into the truck, slamming the door.
Jesse sat staring dead ahead, hands tight on the wheel. “That’s twice today. Has anybody checked Taylor’s scalp for the birthmark?”
“Which one? Sixty-nine, or six six six?”
“I can’t take much more of this shit.”
I put my hand across his shoulder. He continued staring out the windshield, ignoring the traffic that flashed past and the bike that grumbled up and stopped outside his door.
All my adrenaline was depleted, so what I felt was the heat seeming to run out of my body.
“Boris and Natasha are here,” I said.
He looked at me, and out the window.
Jax Rivera was revving the throttle on the bike. Tim North, riding pillion, gave us his mutt’s stare. Dangling from his index finger was a silver lamé jockstrap.
“Jesse, mate, this style’s a bit tarty for you.” He nodded up the road. “Follow us.”
19
“I don’t like the vibe I’m getting here,” Jesse said.
He slowed the truck around a hairpin turn. Ahead, Jax curved smoothly up the hill. On the back of the bike Tim leaned with her, hewing to her movements like a shadow. La Cumbre peak crowded the sky. Chaparral and drooping oaks congested the edges of the asphalt. Jax powered the bike over a rise and cut left onto a side road.
Jesse read the road sign. “Knew it.”
The hill steepened past rows of eucalyptus and houses hunched back in the brush. Jax angled down a driveway with a FOR SALE sign, to a lot where the concrete foundation for a house was laid. We parked on a promontory overlooking the city and followed them up onto the concrete slab, Jesse popping a wheelie.
Tim’s bearing was army. He moved with the economy of a snake. He admired the two-million-dollar view while we approached.
Trying to maintain a cool facade with a paid killer wasn’t simple. “You’re carrying the British love of irony too far.”
“Coyote Road. I suppose so.”
“Kai Torrance. I need to know if that’s Coyote.”
He continued taking in the panorama. “What’s brought you to this juncture?”
“A typhoon named Maureen Swayze, plus two goons who move like they have the same sniper training as you. And a guy in a baseball cap who sent Jesse on a whirl around the dance floor. It was a regular fiesta. All we were missing was the piñata.”
Jax approached. “I imagine Coyote had you penciled in for that role.”
My flesh crept. “We saw him. Blond, slight, Mr. Inconspicuous.”
“Don’t rely on physical appearance,” Tim said. “Next time Coyote may turn up as a fat cop or an old woman.” He turned his head at last, taking us in. “Even I don’t know what Coyote looks like, and I’ve met the bastard.”
Shit. “Took you long enough to tell us.”
“It was in Colombia, during one of the more robust interludes in the War on Drugs.”
He glanced at his wife. She was strolling to the edge of the slab, admiring the view. Even wearing shit-kickers and motorcycle leathers, she might have been gliding through a pas de deux in Swan Lake. Colombia, to hear Jax tell it, was where she hit the end of the line as a CIA operative. It was impossible to know whether she was remembering the final act in Medellín: the lover who betrayed her to narco-traffickers, the heroin she doped him with, the nine-millimeter round she fired into his temple.
Tim said, “In the field you sometimes work with peers from other intelli
gence services. I was occasionally part of Coyote’s supply chain, providing logistics.”
Jesse put his hands on his push-rims. “Thought you were at the top of the chain, behind the nightscope.”
“Even rock stars occasionally take day jobs.” Tim smiled a rough smile. Considering that he was the scariest man I might ever consider trusting, it was a disarming look.
“Of course, Coyote was using a cover identity. But you’ve nailed him. Kai Torrance.”
I let out a breath. “He was CIA?”
“I never saw who signed his pay slip. I only know that in his prime he was terrific. Quiet, effective, and reliable,” he said. “Later I crossed paths with him in Thailand, and he’d changed. He was edgy, almost brittle. His methods had become eccentric.”
“How so?”
“He’d taken to slicing claw marks into the bodies of his targets. Signing his work like he was bloody Zorro. Needless to say, a signature spook is an oxymoron.”
Jesse was grim. “Who are we up against?”
“He’s trained in sabotage and demolition, and he’s adept at vigorous interrogation.”
Demolition. Jesse and I glanced at each other, thinking of the explosion at the air force clinic that killed Dana West.
A bitter taste filled my mouth. “He’s a trained torturer?”
“He was trained to withstand torture. His methods of inducing pain were of his own devising.” He turned to me. “Covert ops deal with the most malign thugs on the planet, and it’s not your average agent who leaves his air-conditioned office in Virginia to face violence and dysentery in the armpits of the world. I’m telling you he’s one vicious cat with an unholy level of devotion to his mission.”
The sun felt harsh. I sat down on the edge of the foundation slab.
“What happened in Thailand?” I said.
“Drugs, whores of various flavors—devotion to mission doesn’t exclude the usual appetites.” He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Something split inside him and the wheels came off, at high rpms.”
“He killed somebody?”
“A transvestite in Bangkok.”