by Baron, Mike;
“Stuart here. Looks like they got your boy. Come on back to the house.”
CHAPTER 58
Pratt found them all in the living room: Cass, Ginger, Munz and the three Flintstone ops. A television the size of a card table showed police vehicles and fire trucks gathered around the remains of a smoking farmhouse. Stuart stood, hands on hips.
“DEA agents found Moon this morning by following a stolen vehicle to this rural Lake County property. Sheriff’s deputies said shots were fired from the house. They returned fire and the house burst into flames. They found his body in the kitchen.”
Cass leaned forward from the sofa. “Holy shit. That’s my place.”
Stuart looked at Cass. “They’ve tentatively identified Moon from some body ink but they’re sending in the fingerprints just to be sure.”
Munz sat with an arm around his wife. “Looks like your job here is through.”
“Up to you, Mr. Munz. You may want us to stick around until we get a positive confirmation.”
“How many crazed fucking Indians are there? They know what he looks like. That’s it. It’s over. Good job.”
It didn’t feel right to Pratt. “It’s a fake-out.”
Stuart looked at him. “What makes you think so?”
“This guy’s a ninja. He’s not going to get caught in a shoot-out with cops. I don’t think he even uses guns. Check his rap sheet. No guns.” Pratt turned to Munz.
“Nate. You need to keep these guys around for a few days.”
“Do you know what Flintstone charges? Come on. He’s toast.”
Ginger put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Nate. One more day.”
Munz looked at her and caved. “What the hell. It’s only money! We’ll give it another twenty-four, see what the situation is tomorrow.”
Stuart nodded minutely as if Munz had just confirmed something he’d suspected. Bonner and Foucalt were indifferent. They were getting top dollar. It was a sweet gig compared to keeping American civilians alive in Baghdad.
“How do you people feel about staying in the house or on the deck for the rest of the day?” Stuart said. “Better safe than sorry.”
A far-off rumble rolled through the still air. Munz shrugged. “Going to rain anyway.”
Stuart nodded to his boys. Bonner and Foucalt left via the front door exuding confidence. Munz headed toward the stair. “Might as well try to work.”
Cass and Ginger went back to the breezeway, leaving Pratt alone in the living room. Cass wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
His woody had taken on a life of its own. He could hide in a bathroom and jerk off or make up with Cass. Pratt didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. The last thing he needed was a distraction. But it wasn’t up to him—not any more. The Flintstone boys had relieved him of responsibility. Too bad they couldn’t relieve of him of his hatred or fear.
He went out onto the deck via the kitchen so he wouldn’t have to pass through the breezeway and phoned Calloway.
He got the detective’s machine and left a message. From the upper deck, the lake was just visible through the trees. The forest thrummed with the wind and there was a cool nip in the air. Fall was coming. A lone drop flew through the canopy of trees and smacked him coldly on the cheek.
Pratt folded his hands and looked down. “Dear Lord …” He stopped. He’d been tugging on God’s ear a lot lately, and called in some big favors. He was in no position to implore the Lord. Rather he thanked him.
Pratt could hear the ladies in the breezeway. At least they were laughing although God knew, neither one had much to laugh about. Like a compass needle in the grip of a powerful magnetic force, Pratt’s imagination returned to Eric and the concentrated evil of what had been done to him.
The scope of it never ceased to take his breath away. Since Pratt had gotten religion he’d accepted the idea of pure evil in the world. But he had never imagined he would encounter someone who was pure evil.
Pratt leaned against the rail. He was exhausted. He’d had hardly any sleep for two nights running. It was all he could do to drag his tired ass downstairs, flop on the sofa and pull the Afghans over his head. He was instantly asleep, a sweet, dreamless, velvet-lined plunge into oblivion.
Thunder woke him and the sudden dash of rain on the patio glass like a bucket of gravel. Pratt sat up momentarily bewildered. Lightning illuminated the tiki-themed rec room and he remembered. It was dark outside. He looked at his watch. He’d been out for ten hours. It was seven pm. Normally it would still be light outside but the summer storm that had been brewing all day had arrived, cutting off the sun with an iron curtain.
It took him a second to realize the pool was dark. The lights were out. Pratt made his way upstairs and found Ginger, Cass, and Munz in the dining room eating cold cuts by the light of candles. Pratt sat at the table. Cass didn’t look at him. No doubt she’d spilled her guts to Ginger and they were seated in judgment against him, a worthless rat.
“How long has it been raining?” Pratt said, blinking.
“About fifteen minutes,” Munz said, holding a seeded bun in one hand. “One minute the air was still, the next like we were in a tunnel with a freight train and wham, a wall of water.”
Ginger used her arm rests to get to her feet. “I’m going to take a nap.”
Munz rose next to her. “Let me help you, dear.” Ginger took Munz’ hand and they headed toward the stairs. Cass remained, staring into a cup of coffee.
“You’re right,” she said. “I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
“I just need a little more time, is all,” Pratt said, hating himself. He’d been through this shit before although never with a woman of Cass’ class. Sexually speaking. He wasn’t talking to Jesus now.
“Come on,” he said extending his hand. The hand would lead to the hug, the hug would lead to bed.
Cass looked at his hand for a minute and took it, as he knew she would. Her scent drove him wild. Something named after an American Idol winner.
They went out on that part of the deck that had a roof over it. Water cascaded over the rim like a curtain. The air had taken on a slight chill. They leaned against the rail and Pratt put his arm around Cass as she snuggled into him.
In like Flynn.
CHAPTER 59
Pratt and Cass lay in the dark in the same position they had last night when the trouble began. This time Cass kept her mouth shut. Let it ride for now. Pratt liked the feel of her next to him, the snug curve of her hip. Let her think that with time he would warm to the idea of commitment. It could happen, he kept telling himself.
Lightning lanced through the night followed by cannon fire. The blinking light on the TV box had stopped. Rain lashed the windows. They were in for an old-fashioned goose drowner. Pratt tried out the thought of marital bliss: coming home from a long day tracking stolen cars or delivering summonses, the little lady greeting him on the stoop with an apron and a cocktail. More likely leather hot pants and a joint.
Pratt had no clue what domestic bliss looked like. His father was a one-man wrecking machine. Duane claimed to have been married, three, four, or five times. All questions about Pratt’s mother were turned away with, “That bitch. You don’t want to hear about her.”
When pressed Duane would smack him with the flat of his hand.
Light shifted in the stairwell, a sudden flickering and shadow dance cast upon the wood-paneled wall.
“Hey Pratt,” Munz stage-whispered down the stairs.
“Yeah?”
“Come up here a minute, would you?”
Cass was instantly awake. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Stay here. Keep that gun handy.”
Pratt pulled on his jeans and slipped his feet into his Velcroed Nevados. He put the Ruger in the fanny pack and buckled it around his waist. He ascended into a dark house lit by a handful of flickering candles and the occasional lightning flash. Munz stood at the top of the stairs in cargo pants, gun worn over his tucked-in shirt, push
ing back against his belly. He looked strained. Pratt glanced at his watch. It was only eight-thirty but the skies were dark as a tunnel.
Munz shut the basement door and led the way into the kitchen, where a skylight admitted flashes of harsh white light.
“What?” Pratt said.
Munz set the candle holder on the granite-surfaced island. “It’s about the boy.”
“What about him?”
“Is there a chance he’s not Ginger’s?”
This again.
Pratt shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out, if we find him. With every passing day that seems more and more unlikely. I’m afraid this is a soul who is simply unequipped to exist in our world. Moon stole his life. Murder might have been kinder. I doubt very much we’ll ever see him again, much less find him alive.”
Munz sagged against the counter and for a moment seemed far older than his forty-plus. “I pray that it is so. You’ve got to understand something, Josh. I love my wife. The moment I laid eyes on her I knew she was the girl for me. God, that sounds so clichéd, but it’s true. Most women prattle on about soul mates without the slightest clue what they’re looking for. Ginger’s past never bothered me. The tats, they didn’t bother me. She cut way down on the drinking.
“But this business with the kid terrifies me. I already raised two kids and got ’em out of the house. If they find this kid and God forbid, there’s something wrong with him, I’d be for putting him in an institution. I’m afraid it’s going to break up my marriage.”
Pratt shook his head. “Don’t worry about something you can’t control. Chances are we’ll never see him again. But if he does somehow manage to survive, and we find him, I’ve already looked into counseling. People at the university would be eager to help.”
Munz reached into a cupboard over the sink and removed a flask of bourbon. He poured himself a couple of fingers in a juice glass, looked at Pratt. Pratt nodded.
They silently toasted. Pratt sipped his bourbon. Like lava pouring down his throat. The bourbon triggered an atavistic longing for a line of coke or meth to bring him fully up to speed. Pratt smiled. He would no sooner dive back into that barrel than he would take his own life.
“What?” Munz said.
“Oh, I was just thinking about the way I used to live. I can identify with Ginger. We both sort of came out of that biker scene and lived to tell about it.”
“I asked a doctor once if all that shit she did before she met me, the meth, the blow, the smack, whatever, might have brought on the Crohn’s. Not likely.”
“Like it or not, she’s the woman you fell in love with.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Munz did so. He refilled his glass and held the bottle up for Pratt. Pratt shook his head.
“When’d the lights go out?”
“About two hours ago. Happens all the time. They should be up soon.”
“Have you heard from Flintstone in the past hour?”
Munz frowned, pulled out his cell phone and pushed buttons. He put it to his ear and frowned. “The cell phones are out. Nothing. No signal.”
Pratt reached into his pocket, pulled out his own cell phone and confirmed. The lights were out. Cell phone service was out. As if some brujo had sacrificed a lawyer and brought the storm.
“Shouldn’t there be somebody out front?” Pratt said, walking toward the front door.
Munz strode fast to keep up. “I looked about a half hour ago but I didn’t see anyone. I just figured they were on patrol.”
Pratt paused at the front door and peered out the mullioned window. Rain reduced everything to a washed-out dark gray and concealed all movement. Pratt opened the door. A blast of cool moisture assaulted him. The agents’ car rested at the curb, dark and inscrutable.
Pratt reached for an umbrella in the stand next to the door. “Wait here.” He stepped out beneath the porte cochere and popped the black brolly. Clutching the umbrella just beneath the brace, he stepped out into the driveway. The wind tried to yank the umbrella from his grip. Pratt stepped down to the drive.
Rapid percussions echoed down the long drive, the sound of automatic gunfire.
CHAPTER 60
Pratt looked around. Where was Flintstone? A flash of lightning illuminated the black Chrysler. It appeared to be empty. Munz came out on the stoop.
“That’s gunfire!”
“It came from up toward the road. Shit!” Pratt was dying to know what happened but he dared not leave the ladies. Someone ran around the corner of the house into the drive. In the rain and dark Pratt nearly shot him. Bonner did a massive double-take.
“Don’t shoot! It’s Bonner!”
Pratt lowered his pistol. He hadn’t even remembered pulling it. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah. The radios are down. Foucalt and Stuart are on perimeter. Our transceivers are still working. I’d sure like to know what happened.”
“I’m going up there,” Pratt said. Somebody had to do it. If something had happened to the deputy they had to know.
“Don’t be stupid,” Bonner said. “I’ll go.”
“No. Your job is here protecting the women. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes …” He let it die.
“Wait a minute!” Bonner said. He opened the Chrysler’s trunk and removed a heavy device that looked like binoculars with a head strap. “You know how to use this?”
“Show me,” Pratt said.
Bonner fitted the device over Pratt’s head and switched it on. An electronic hum reverberated between Pratt’s ears as the landscape suddenly stood forth in an unnatural green. He could see each raindrop as it zipped by. He could see the outlines of the towering blue spruce.
Pratt made the “okay” sign with thumb and forefinger and trotted down the drive holding his pistol before him in both hands. The driveway curved to the right, concealing the end. An old oak lay across the drive, felled by the wind. Pratt stepped gingerly over it and pounded on, sticking to the side of the pavement, where every footfall created a little wave. He rounded the bend and saw the deputy’s car at the end of the drive through the closed gate. He paused and took in the scene. The only motion came from the rain and the trees sighing in the wind.
Pratt slowed down and approached cautiously, rounding one of the massive stone pillars on the outside. Concealed by the pillar, he looked at the scene. The patrol car’s windshield was punctured with dozens of bullet holes. An old Chevy pick-up rested with its butt in the air, nose in the ditch nearby, the driver’s door open. A dude sprawled out the driver’s side with his head on the tarmac staring sightlessly into the black sky, his legs still in the truck.
Pratt crept up on the deputy’s door, hunkering low. The door was ajar and one booted foot rested on the ground. Pratt got up to the door and looked inside. The deputy lay across his bench seat, face pulped, hand curled around his service automatic. The deputy had worn horn-rimmed glasses, which had split, one lens jutting up at an angle. Brass lay on the seat and on the dash. His vest hadn’t saved him. Whoever had opened up on him unloaded several clips through the cruiser’s windshield. It was some kind of miracle the deputy was able to shoot one of his assailants, if that’s what had happened.
Pratt opened the door wider. The rain and wind drowned out all sound. He tried the deputy’s transceiver. Dead. Pratt found it awkward to maneuver his head inside the cab with the night vision goggles but he could see the radio had caught a ricochet.
Pratt reached for the deputy’s shoulder radio and pulled it close. He keyed it. Nothing but static. Pratt eased himself out of the cruiser, went around the back and approached the pick-up on the passenger’s side. The door was open. There was nobody inside. Pratt went around the back of the truck and up to where the driver lay in the road. His long black braid snaked beneath the truck. Prison tats crawled up his neck. The driver wore a denim vest with a tiny War Bonnets patch.
There’d been a passenger. Filled with a sense of urgency Pratt cut off his inspection and headed back toward the house. Pratt r
an on the mossy shoulder close to the trees so as not to present a clear profile. If he had night vision so could they. He approached the curve in the driveway and jerked to a stop as if he’d reached the end of his chain.
Wait a minute.
The hairs on Pratt’s neck stood straight up. He backed into the woods, wet fir scratching him head to toe. He stopped with his back against a sycamore as ice water rolled down his back and peered through the glowing green landscape. Each tiny motion drew his attention. The wind howled, rain flew. It was like trying to find a pattern in a foaming sea. The tree erupted next to his head, sending a sharp splinter into his cheek. Simultaneously he heard the report of a big bore weapon so close it slammed his eardrums shut.
Instinctively Pratt sunk, whirled and fired. The Bonnet was standing six feet away. How had he missed? Pratt’s bullet struck the Bonnet’s Mac-10 below the barrel and it arced up and out of the man’s hands. The Bonnet was not wearing goggles. In the split second before he jerked into the trees, Pratt registered it was the caveman from the Chip—the retailer.
The fucking goggles now restricted Pratt’s vision. The caveman had juked beyond. Pratt whipped off the goggles and whirled wildly. A piece of the forest detached itself too close to identify. The caveman lunged at Pratt with a knife. Pratt instinctively swung the gun barrel down on the caveman’s wrist with a satisfying crack. Pratt put the gun to the man’s chest. The caveman lurched, staggering backward with each squeeze of the trigger. The caveman died with his mouth open, showing meth teeth like tombstones in a vandalized cemetery.
Pratt stared at the body. He’d never killed a man before. He didn’t count Taco.
And Jesus said unto him, Pratt, I don’t know shit about combat, but doesn’t this seem like a diversion?
Scooping up the night vision goggles, Pratt spent one second looking for the Mac-10. Fuck it. He had to get back to the house. Holding the pistol before him, Pratt booked.
He splashed back to the turnaround breathing hard. Fitting the goggles around his eyes, he turned them on. There was no sign of life. All lights in the house were off. The rain poured down. Angling into the wind, Pratt dashed to the black Chrysler and opened the passenger door.