Days of Atonement

by Walter Jon Williams

  Loren found himself watching this domestic scene with a surprising homely joy. Things could work out, he thought.

  The screen door closed behind Jerry. Through the screen Loren could hear Jerry’s boots on the sidewalk over the sound of a racing car engine.

  The living room window exploded inward, the opaque white curtain dancing. Katrina gave a little scream, her orange drink spilling. The air was full of buzzing sounds. Things thwacked into the far wall.

  Loren lurched forward, body-blocked his daughter, knocked her to the ground behind the sofa. He covered her body with his own. A picture on the wall crashed to the floor in an eruption of glass.

  Guns like buzz saws ripped the night. Tumbling bullets made fierce hornet sounds. Family photos on the bookshelf splintered and shattered.

  The guns fell silent. Glass kept tumbling off the bookshelf.

  “What’s going on?” Kelly’s voice. Loren rolled over, saw her standing in the hallway, still in her nightshirt and stocking feet.

  “Get down!” Loren’s voice was a scream. He lunged for her across the floor, the rug folding up under him in waves, broken glass spilling on his head. He caught a stockinged foot and yanked. She tumbled down, landed on her tailbone, and yelled.

  Tires squealed outside. Loren got to his hands and knees and moved like a crab across the floor to where he had the police pump shotgun propped in the corner. He snatched at it, peered out the torn screen door, and then gathered his legs under him and charged outside. His boots ground on gravel, on limbs of the front-yard ocotillo that had been severed from the tree.

  Taillights glowed on the corner. A car made a shrieking turn.

  One of the Taurus’s wounded tires hissed as it slowly deflated. Jerry’s body, hit maybe twenty times, was lying like a bloody sack in the driveway by the hammered rear end of the car.

  Loren stared after the vanished auto as his pulse stammered in his ears. The gun in his hand, he realized, was useless. It was still loaded with bird shot from his hunting expedition a couple days ago.

  Animal rage filled him like a blowtorch flame. He threw down the shotgun and screamed, screamed into the face of the hot dawn wind until his lungs ached and his brain reeled with lack of air.

  Much, much too late, he heard the sound of sirens.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “We found the guns in the car,” Cipriano said. “Two UZIs. Eloy’s checking the numbers on the LAWSAT. The car was stolen— Keith Sands’s Mercury— and we found it abandoned behind the Church of the Risen Savior out on Penny. No prints, but lots of casings. All nine-millimeter.”

  “Yeah,” Loren said. “That’s in the manual, right? You do a hit, you steal a car to do it in.”

  Cipriano was exasperated. “What manual? What are you talking about?” He spoke over the hard, echoing sound of hammering: some of Loren’s neighbors were nailing sheets of plywood over the shattered front window.

  “The book that Patience read. Manual of Sudden Death. Three volumes. It was on his bookshelf.”

  The skin was drawn taut over Cipriano’s cheekbones. “Will you leave it the fuck alone?” he demanded. “You don’t have any fucking evidence connecting Patience to this!”

  Loren looked at him in amazement. “It’s his M.O.,” Loren said. “He stole a truck to wreck the maglev, remember? And who the hell else goes around town with UZIs?”

  Cipriano looked as if he were going to say something, then he gave a quick glance at the other police officers, Buchinsky and Esposito, who were engaged in digging lead out of Loren’s living room wall. Both of them were listening with frank curiosity. Cipriano closed his mouth.

  “I dunno, jefe,” he said.

  “This investigation was buried,” Loren said, “but it just got dug up. You know Patience did it, I know Patience did it, we both know that Jerry was mistaken for me, walking out into the dark with a couple guns on his arm . . .”

  “We don’t know anything of the fucking sort!” Cipriano shouted. He waved his arms in exasperation. “It could be those goddamn drug dealers after revenge! They pack a lot of firepower!”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I’m gonna look at the evidence. Starting with where Jerry’s been the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Look at where Patience has been. There’s your answer.”

  The phone rang. Another round of hammering came from outside. Loren went to the receiver and picked it up.

  “Hawn.”

  “Chief. This is Eloy.” Eloy’s voice was hesitant.

  “What’d you find out?”

  “Lemme just say how sorry I am about Jerry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Everybody liked him. What happened was so pointless.”

  “Thanks.” Loren took a breath. “Did you track those serial numbers?”

  Eloy sighed. “They’re ATL’s guns.”

  “Good.” Loren felt his mouth twist in a snarl of triumph. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

  “But we had ’em last,” Eloy said.

  Loren’s heart gave a lurch. “Say again?”

  “Those four UZIs we took off those ATL guys earlier in the week— Jerry was shot by two of them.”

  Strength flooded out of Loren. He sagged against the wall. “Are the other two missing?”

  “I haven’t looked. I don’t have the combination to the safe.”

  Loren hung up the phone. He stared at the plastic receiver for a moment, his mind working, and then he looked up at Cipriano. “Jerry was killed with two of the UZIs we confiscated from ATL earlier in the week. You didn’t give em back to their owners, did you?”

  Loren could see successive waves of paranoia twitch their way across Cipriano’s taut face. “They’re still in the safe, so far as I know,” he said.

  “Who’s got the combination?”

  “You and me, jefe. And Al Sanchez, since he’s the sergeant.”

  Loren straightened. “I didn’t give it to anyone. Did you? Did Al?”

  Cipriano thought for a minute. “Yeah. I gave it to one of our men who called late at night. He needed to put something in the safe.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t remember. It was years ago.” He looked at the other two officers. “Was it either of you guys?”

  Buchinsky and Esposito both shrugged. Cipriano turned to Loren.

  “Jefe. How many years has it been since we changed that combination? A zillion people could have it by now. And that safe is old. A hundred years at least. Guys with crowbars could of—”

  Loren took a breath, then another. He needed time to work all this out. “Nobody used crowbars,” he said. “They opened it with the combination. Why don’t you go and look at it? Maybe something else is missing.”

  “Okay. I’m ten-seven outta here.”

  “And think about what’s happening, okay?”

  “Sure, jefe.”

  “I’ll talk to Al.”

  Loren watched Cipriano as he walked out through the wide-open screen.

  He was following his own advice and thinking hard.

  *

  The morning was a wild chaos, flurries of frenzied activity interspersed with harrowing, throat-tearing moments of blind sorrow. Police interrogations, Kelly and Katrina in hysteria and tears, neighbors offering help and food, Debra trying to coordinate everything while Loren organized police response . . . He made himself watch while Jerry was photographed, while he was zipped into the white plastic bag and carried away. He wanted to record it himself, burn it into his mind.

  Bystanders stood silently in the street or cruised slowly by in their cars. Soaking everything into community memory. Making a legend out of everything before the day was out.

  They have struck at my family. The idea kept tumbling through the cold hollow emptiness of Loren’s skull. He went to the bedroom and put on his gun belt. The familiar weight did not make him feel any better.

  Rickey arrived immediately after his morning service. His eyes were wide at t
he devastation, at the smear of red that no one had got around to washing off the driveway. He huddled in the back with Debra and the girls, doing whatever it was that preachers do in such circumstances.

  After Cipriano left, Loren stood for a long moment on the broken glass in his living room, working out his next moves. Then he talked to Al Sanchez, who didn’t remember having given the safe combination to anyone, but who, in case he forgot it, had written the combination down on a piece of masking tape, which he’d then stuck on the inside door of his locker. Anyone with access to the locker room could have seen it on any occasion in which Al had his locker open. “Small-time,” Loren said. Disgust filled his heart. “This scene is so small-fucking-time.”

  The phone rang: Cipriano. All four UZIs were gone, along with the bag of grass they’d taken from Robbie Cisneros and his friends. “Those dealers,” he said. “What’d I tell you?”

  “Christ,” Loren said. Loathing choked him. This wasn’t even worth the argument. He dropped the phone onto its cradle without another word.

  Two neighbors came through the front door, hammers in their hands. One of them was Archie Gribbin, the husband of Debra’s back-door confidante Madeleine.

  “We finished with the window,” he said. “Anything else we can do?”

  “Yeah.” Loren glanced over his shoulder at the two officers still prying bullets out of particleboard. “Let me talk to you in the back for a second.”

  Gribbin was a foreman at the Riga Brothers power plant, a muscular shot-and-a-beer sort of guy who had helped Loren build the addition for Katrina’s bedroom. Loren walked with him into the backyard, leaned close, and lowered his voice.

  “I’ve got to get my family out of here,” he said. “I can’t concentrate on this unless I know they’re safe.”

  Gribbin’s reply was simple. “What d’you need?”

  “Can you loan me your Jeep for a while? A few days maybe?”

  “Natch. I’ll bring it around.”

  Loren shook his head. “We’re probably being watched. I’ll bring them to your place, then they can get in the Jeep inside your garage so no one will see.”

  Gribbin took all this in stride. Maybe he watched a lot of cop shows on television and figured that police work was always like this. “I’ll go get her ready,“ he said.

  Loren found his family in Kelly’s bedroom, surrounded by Kelly’s usual perfumed chaos of schoolwork, grooming aids, and laundry-to-be. Rickey straddled a chair backward, hands clasped atop the chairback as if it were a pulpit. Kelly lay facedown on her bed clutching a pillow; her sister slumped, semi-reclined, on cushions piled against the bedstead. Debra was in another chair, staring hopelessly at the sky visible through the window. Crumpled tear-sodden tissues were scattered over everything.

  “Excuse me,” Loren said. Heads turned toward him. “I’ve decided that it would be safer to get you out of town till this is over.”

  Debra’s reply was practical. “Where?”

  Loren hesitated. “I’ll show you later,” he said. “But right now, I’d like you all to pack a few days’ clothes. And schoolwork, books. Maybe some games. Whatever will pass the time.”

  Debra looked up. “Should I pack food?”

  “There should be food there.”

  Loren’s family rose at once, seemingly pleased with having something to do. Rickey rose from his chair. “Chief?” he said. “Can I talk to you for a bit?”

  “Sure.”

  Rickey followed Loren out into the hallway, then into Loren’s own room. Rickey turned and closed the door carefully behind them. Loren went to the gun rack, unlocked it, took out the Dragunov and a pair of magazines. He started loading with 7.62mm sabot rounds.

  “Chief,” Rickey said, peering up at Loren through his thick spectacles, “I’d like to point out that the process of grieving is long and complicated.”

  “Yeah.” Loading ammo. “I know.”

  “I suppose you would, in your line of work. My point is that I would like to see your family again. As often as possible in the next few days. In hopes of turning their grief in a constructive direction.”

  “After this is over,” Loren said.

  “With all respect—”

  Heat gathered under Loren’s collar. He tossed the rifle onto the bed. “With all respect, Pastor, my family isn’t safe!” He realized his voice was louder than he intended, and he took a breath and tried to reduce his volume. “I have to hide them out somewhere till this is over.”

  “Hide them, by all means. But I would like to visit them. Or arrange for some other experienced counselor—”

  “Later,” Loren said.

  “I—”

  “They would follow you. Then my family would be dead or hostage, and you with them.”

  Rickey stared at him, blinking furiously. Then he straightened. “I see,” he said.

  “When the killers are dealt with, I’ll bring my family back. Then you can see them all you need.”

  Rickey peered at him. “I should like to see you as well, Chief.”

  “After it’s over.”

  “No.” Rickey shook his head. “Before that. I want to reassure myself on a matter of conscience.” He stepped close, looked up into Loren’s face. “As soon as you come back from delivering your family. I need to know. I beg of you.”

  Loren wanted to burst into laughter at this preposterous piece of melodrama, but a knock on the door interrupted him. Buchinsky opened the door before Loren could respond. “Mr. Figueracion is here, Chief,” he said.

  “Let him in,” Loren said. He looked down at Rickey. “I’ll see you later today, then.”

  “Good.” Rickey nodded. “Good. Thank you.”

  Luis was dressed in a blue suit and a red tie spotted with little gold zia symbols. Someone had combed his hair for him. He advanced into the room and clasped Loren’s hand in both his own.

  “I’m so damn sorry, Loren.”

  Loren withdrew his hand. “You should be.” He walked around Luis and pushed the door shut, then swung toward the old man. “This is your goddamn fault.”

  Luis stiffened. His voice was dignified. “You’re lucky you got an excuse for talking like that.”

  Loren stepped close. “Jerry was killed because somebody took him for me,” he said. “And they wanted to kill me because I’ve solved three murders, okay?”

  “I came here to say that I’m sorry about Jerry,” Luis said. “If you’re too upset to understand that—”

  “Fuck you, Luis,” Loren said. “You cut the fucking ground out from under me.”

  Loren could see the red crawling up from beneath Luis’s collar. “Nobody talks to me like that!”

  “You cut your deal with ATL!” Loren shouted. Spittle sprayed Luis’s spectacles. “We get a museum, and they get an end to the investigation!”

  “I don’t haveta—”

  White light flashed behind Loren’s eyes. He straight-armed Luis with a smashing left palm to the chest. The old man stumbled back, arms windmilling. The disordered bed caught at the back of his knees and he would have gone over, but Loren snatched out a hand and grabbed Luis’s tie, yanking him forward. Loren’s gun, seemingly of its own volition, came somehow into his hand, rising smoothly out from the holster, the barrel jabbing just under Luis’s chin.

  “What if it was your brother, goddamn you!”

  Luis’s glasses and hair were awry and his face was red. He forced words out past the tie that was being drawn across his throat.

  “Suéltame.”

  “What if it was your brother! What if some fucking jerkwater political boss took your job away and let a bunch of murderers think it was all right with him if you got wasted?” He thumbed the hammer back. Joy shrieked through his veins. Power and dominion flooded his mind like a drug. “I’m waiting for a fucking answer, here!” he demanded.

  Luis’s eyes were popping out of his head. His hands clutched uselessly at Loren’s wrist. He forced more words out. “What d’you want?”
<
br />   “I want my job back. I want it back by noon, okay?” He shook Luis like a dog. “I don’t care how many IOUs you call in or whose balls you have to break. And I want you to call up your contact at ATL and tell him that your loyal and trusted police chief has found out that five of his own security force have killed two of his employees and one local townsman and that he’d better cut those assholes off at the fucking knees!”

  Luis gave half a dozen rapid nods.

  “I’m not done yet,” Loren said. “I want your support. I want the whole town’s support. Because I’m the sword and arm of the Lord, understand?”

  Luis’s nods turned frantic. Loren raised the pistol above Luis’s head, fully intending to bring it slashing down across the old man’s face. Luis cringed, closing his eyes. Power throbbed in Loren’s heart. He hesitated for a moment, then let go of the red tie. Luis fell heavily to the bed on top of the Dragunov. Loren watched while the old man wheezed for breath. Loren eased the hammer and holstered his piece.

  Luis ripped off his tie, opened his collar. “Enyerbado,” he said. His voice was a thready whisper.

  “Yeah,” Loren said, “damn straight I’m crazy. Better keep that in mind.”

  “El mismo diablo.”

  “I’m a sight meaner’n that, Luis.”

  Luis straightened his glasses and looked up. “Last man to try that with me,” he said, “got blown away with a shotgun.”

  Loren looked down at the rifle next to Luis on the bed. “I advise you not to try that.” The Dragunov was unloaded, anyway.

  “I wouldn’t soil my hands with such a thing. But I know people.” He pointed a finger at the ceiling. “I run this county! I run it! I don’t take shit from nobody.”

  “You’ve been eating up ATL’s shit with a spoon, Luis.”