The horses were now galloping near the fence. The baseball flew by the spot where Shane was standing, and the horses raced to catch it. He could feel the slipstreaming air against his face as they thundered past.
"Rules," Shane said softly in the darkened bedro om, the word still on his lips as he opened his eyes.
When he spoke, he woke Alexa, and she turned over and looked at him. "What?" she asked.
Shane wasn't sure. He just knew that he was terribly troubled by the innocuous dream, as if something was lying there on the bottom of his subconscious, something important that he'd forgotten to pursue, but he didn't know what it was. "Rules in polo," he said. "Everybody has to register, or they can't play."
"What?" Alexa looked at the digital clock. "God, it's twelve-thirty," she said, turning on the bedside lamp.
"Maybe we should make sure Chooch got to bed and isn't sleeping on the couch out there." She got up, put on her robe, and left the bedroom.
"Rules," Shane repeated, trying to figure out what his subconscious was trying to tell him. "Everybody has rules." He sat up in bed, his heart pounding because he knew this was important but didn't, for the life of him, know why.
He had spoken for ten minutes on the phone to the polo club guy. They didn't have rules; that was the point. The man had stated that all you needed was a horse and a team to play on. "Rules," he said again, as Alexa returned to the room.
"What?"
"Everybody has rules. You can't play without registering first."
She turned off the light. "Chooch is in his bedroom, conked."
"Good."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"A dream," he said. "I was with Jody, watching a bunch of men playing polo, only they were hitting a baseball, and in my dream he said, 'You don't get to play unless you register,' that you can't play because there are rules…"
She looked at him. "Okay, there are rules. How does that apply?"
"I don't know…" He looked at her and shook his head ruefully. "Polo… Rules in polo. Of course, there're rules in polo. Shit."
She smiled and kissed him then got back into bed. Shane hugged her, feeling her breath on his neck, the slow beating of her heart, and then, wrapped in her safe cocoon, he was quickly asleep.
He was back on the polo field. Only now he was petting a huge Arabian horse that poked his nose over the fence where Shane was standing. He knew, without asking, that the horse was Sir Anthony of Aquitaine. He was coal-black and eating a cube of sugar out of Shane's hand.
"I've never seen a horse as beautiful as you, " he said in the dream.
The stallion snorted. His black coat was shining. "I'd sure love to have a horse like you," Shane said in wonder. "If you ever have a colt… "
Shane suddenly woke up again, this time with a start. His heart was pounding, slamming in his chest. Shit, he thought as he lay in bed. What is this?
He got out of bed and quietly limped out of the room. Wearing only his Jockey shorts, he went down the hall, then out into the backyard, where he sat in one of the metal chairs and watched the quarter-moon ripple on the still water. His thigh had been bandaged with white medical wrap, but some of the stitches must have broken loose, because a dried bloodstain the size of a grapefruit had leaked through the gauze. He was going to have to get his wounded thigh redressed.
"Rules," he said again softly, returning to his dream. "Horses… Polo…" You can't ride
Why can't you ride? You can't own an Arabian horse without… Without what? Shit. He sat there turning it over in his mind. You have to register to ride… to play? Why do I want a damn horse, a colt? Why? I'd have to register. I'd…
He lunged out of the chair, headed into the house, turned on the lights in the bedroom, and put a hand on Alexa's shoulder.
She rolled over and glared at him. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Are you ever going to sleep?"
"Listen, if you ofrned an Arabian horse, wouldn't you have to list him with some kind of Thoroughbred registry?"
"I guess…"
"You do, you have to. There're rules about it. I think I read somewhere with all Thoroughbreds, you have to register them to protect the bloodlines and stud fees. Thoroughbred horses are registered at birth… When they're colts. There's some kinda Arabian horse registry."
"So?"
"It'll have the address of the owner."
"Unless his horse is registered to Blackstone Corporation in Switzerland, like everything else this guy owns."
"Sir Anthony of Aquitaine?" Shane smiled. "No fucking way. That horse is his status symbol. He might register his car or a house to the company, but this animal's a champion… It's in Papa Joe's name. Count on it. Jose is in the fucking horse registry, I'll bet you anything. It'll be somewhere on the Internet."
She rolled out of bed and put on her robe. "Let's get Chooch out of the sack. He's our best computer jock."
It was so easy, it was almost ridiculous. The registry was called exactly what Shane had guessed: the Arabian Horse Registry. Sir Anthony of Aquitaine was in the stallion listings. Below that was a lot of stuff about his bloodline: out of this sire and that mare, going back six generations, but at the bottom was the owner's name and address, right there on the screen:
Jose Luis Mondragon
2457 Malibu Canyon Road
Malibu, California
Chapter 50
COWBOYS AND INDIANS
THEY CALLED TONY Filosiani from the Pacific Coast Highway, waking him up.
"Malibu?" he said after Alexa filled him in over her cell phone. "You guys go in the county without Sheriff's Department jurisdiction and Messenger will throw one a'his Egyptian conniptions."
"Then call him and get us some backup," Alexa said.
"I'll try."
Shane slowed down the Acura to make the turnoff from PCH onto Malibu Canyon Road. That two-lane highway climbed up into the coastal mountains, becoming a dark, treacherous, winding two-lane that widened periodically to include a center passing lane. The road snaked along a ridge above a deep river gorge, and they flashed by a sign that said they were leaving Ventura and passing back into L. A. County. Shane was slowing, looking for the address. There were very few intersecting roads on the two-lane highway and even fewer driveways. Shane had to be careful not to overdrive his headlights and shoot past 2457 Malibu Canyon Road.
Then he saw it.
The address was painted on a mailbox on the left-hand canyon side of the road. Shane braked hard, snapping his headlights off as he made the turn, heading slowly down the dirt drive into the canyon below. The driveway was rutted from a recent rain. It headed down, switching back and forth, into the narrow valley.
"Wait a minute," Alexa said. "Stop."
Shane put on the brakes. "What?"
"We can't go down there without Sheriff's backup," she said.
"If Jody's down there, I want him."
"You aren't thinking straight."
"Is that any way to talk to your future husband?" he scowled theatrically. "Gimme my ring back."
"You're not man enough to take it, buster." She hit him playfully on the shoulder with the back of her hand. "If we wait, we get two things-we get backup, and we get jurisdiction."
"I haven't had a shred of jurisdiction since I choppered outta that fuckin' hangar two weeks ago. And as far as backup goes, guess what?" She stared at him apprehensively. "You're it."
"Okay, but at least don't drive all the way down there. Let's find a hole in the bushes and park it."
"Good suggestion. I've got enough Bondo in this sled already."
They rolled slowly down the road, keeping the headlights off and the engine on, with Shane riding the brake.
Finally, they could see the roofs of some ranch buildings below, so Shane started looking for a place to stash the Acura. He found a good spot about a quarter mile from the end of the dirt driveway: a trash area with two large Dumpsters. Shane rolled the car in between the two metal bins and shut off the engine, t
hen reached up and pulled the bulb out of the dome light on the headliner. He had long before removed the plastic cover for easy access. He stuck the bulb in the ashtray, then both of them quietly opened the doors and slipped out of the car.
"Okay," he whispered, "I'm taking point."
"Will you cut it out with the John Wayne bullshit? Let's just move on this together."
"No," he said sharply. "I want you back twenty yards at least."
"Why? Because you're afraid I might stop one?"
"Yeah," Shane said.
"Or is it because, if you find Jody, you're gonna take him out and you don't want a witness?"
Shane gave her such a withering scowl that she shrugged. "Just asking."
They headed down the drive with Shane out front, limping badly but keeping about twenty yards of separation. When he came to the end of the road, he kneeled down to check the surroundings. Pain shot up his leg.
There were two horse barns, some stables, and three houses in a cluster next to a training corral that contained a center turnstile. Long metal bridle poles used for breaking horses carouseled out from the turnstile. There were lights on in the main house and a couple of spots on light poles over by the corral that threw a dim glow over the entire front yard. Two empty cars were parked by the main house.
Then Shane saw the big blue and white motor home. It was under some shade trees, about thirty yards to his left.
"Jody's here," Shane whispered to Alexa, who had moved up and was just kneeling down beside him.
"How do you know?"
He pointed at the thirty-seven-foot, double-axle rig. "That's his. We used it to go to Palm Springs, dropped it in the Valley before we left for Aruba."
"How did he get that monster down this narrow, winding road?" she asked.
"You're right. There must be another way in and out of here."
"What're you gonna do?"
"There used to be an auto-mag in that rig before we left town. It was Victory Smith's. Maybe it's still there. I'd like to get my hands on it. Not that I don't love these little Spanish Astras," he said, smiling.
"Shane," she said softly. "I think…"
"I know, wait for the sheriff. Tell you what, why don't you go back up the road and flag him down when he gets here."
"Right. Great idea, dick-brain."
Shane didn't respond but moved off, heading toward the motor home.
He was thankful for the quarter moon that gave a little light but didn't flood the yard. He crept along the perimeter, out of range of the corral lights, hugging the moon shadows until he was at the back of the motor home. He paused to listen, heard nothing and snuck up the side, pulled Alexa's Astra, thumbed off the safety, and tried the door handle.
Unlocked.
Shane pulled open the metal door and looked back. Alexa had moved up behind him to take a cover position at the rear of the vehicle. She had her gun in both hands, held slightly up in a range-ready firing stance. From there, she was in a good position to protect his back. He nodded at her, then carefully climbed up the three steps into the motor home.
Sandro Mantoor was inside…
He had been hacked to death, then dismembered. His head was sitting in the sink, staring with lifeless eyes at a spot about a foot over Shane's head.
"Fuck," he whispered, afraid to inhale, swallowing hard to keep his stomach bile down. The carnage was almost impossible to absorb. Blood squished in the carpeting under his feet. He found Sandy's arms on the double bed; his torso in the stall shower. Then he heard movement behind him. He spun and aimed the Astra at the door.
Alexa's face poked through the opening, looking in at him. Shane hurried to keep her from coming inside. He met her at the threshold, blocking her view of the mutilation, quickly pushing her outside and closing the door behind him.
She saw his pale expression. "What is it?" she asked. "What's in there?"
"He… He…" Shane stopped, took a deep breath. "It's a mess in there. You don't wanna see it. He butchered a guy-Sandro Mantoor. He's in pieces all over the place. Head's in the fucking sink."
"God, no…"
Shane was shaking now; his wounded leg felt weak and was beginning to go numb.
"When you're on backup you're supposed to cover the exit line, not come inside," he said, anger replacing shock.
"I think I saw somebody coming out of the house a minute ago. He went into the barn carrying a valise."
"Was it Jody?"
"I don't know. I couldn't tell. Too far away."
"I'm gonna get closer. This time, back me up, okay? Don't move in unless something goes down."
He took off toward the house, his heart pounding. It took him almost five minutes to reach the west wall because he was favoring his left leg and because he had to stay wide to keep out of the light coming from the two poles by the corral. He hugged the perimeter of the yard before finally reaching the side of the house. He stood and peeked through the living-room window.
Papa Joe Mondragon was sitting in a chair, facing a wall. His head was slumped over, and he looked as though he was sleeping. Other than Jose, the room appeared empty. Shane made a slow circuit around the house to get to the east-side window, which would allow him a better view.
When he got there, he wished he hadn't. Jose's face had been beaten to a red pulp. He looked as if he was still breathing, but blood was running down his chin, dripping and staining his collar and crotch.
Shane wondered how Jody could have gone so far out of control.
Suddenly, cars were coming down the road. He turned around in time to see two Sheriff Department black-and-whites barreling into the yard. They weren't using sirens, but drove in with their gumballs flashing, throwing colored light all over the place.
Before Shane could plan his next move, two shots rang out-flat, barking sounds that came from the direction of the barn. One of the sheriffs who had just gotten out of his car went down immediately and started screaming in pain.
The sheriffs cars' bar lights strobed red and blue patterns across the front of the barn. Then Shane saw Alexa moving toward them, holding up her badge.
"Stop, throw down your weapon!" the second sheriffs deputy yelled at her, leveling a riot gun at her over his door.
"LAPD," she shouted, but kept coming.
"Throw down your gun. Get facedown on the ground!" the sheriff yelled back.
Now Shane heard a horse galloping. He turned and faced the sound but couldn't see anything, so he made his way around the side of the barn just in time to see a fleeing dark shape. The rider's head was low on the horse's neck, behind the mane. He spurred the animal on, galloping fast down the narrow trail, into a riverbed that was framed by narrow canyon walls.
Shane made a limping run across the open space toward the barn door.
Two more shots rang out. Then he heard Alexa scream, "No! He's a police officer." But the sheriff opened up on Shane anyway. Bullets whizzed all around, pinging and ricocheting off nearby farm equipment and thunking into the soft wood of the barn walls.
Shane dove inside the barn and slammed the door shut. The building was huge, with stalls on both sides. Shane had never been much of a horseback rider, limiting his saddle time to a couple of weekends at a dude ranch in Arizona, where he'd been more interested in his date than in any of the swayback nags stabled there. He grabbed a halter off a nearby hook, then opened the nearest stall containing a horse. It was a large chestnut bay with a black mane and tail. He wrapped the halter around the horse's neck and tied it to a corner post, found a bridle hanging in the stall, grabbed it, and tried to push it into the horse's mouth. The animal reared up and spit the bit back at him.
"Nice horsey," Shane said, sounding like a seven-year-old.
He finally wrestled the bridle on but decided he'd have to forgo the saddle. He'd wasted too much time already.
Shane pulled the stubborn bay out of the stall and led it out the back of the barn, where he tried to mount it. With his blown left leg, he was having no
luck, so he pulled the horse over to a nearby stable rail and managed to get on by climbing up, then swinging aboard. He suddenly heard more sirens as additional sheriff's cars arrived.
He kicked the horse in the withers and it bolted out of the open corral with Shane barely aboard.
He was flying down the road behind the barn, desperately holding handfuls of the horse's coarse mane, almost dropping the reins and the Astra 9-all of them tangled in his white-knuckled grip.
The horse was galloping down the trail full tilt when Shane saw dark shapes coming at him fast. At the last second, he ducked and avoided being knocked senseless by a low branch. Soon he was away from the farm, galloping along the wet, sandy wash, the horse's metal shoes splashing water and ringing on stones. Shane's eyes were straining for any shape that resembled a man on horseback up ahead.
He was bouncing painfully on the horse's bony back, his nuts slamming mercilessly up between his legs.
Fuck this› he thought, reining in the horse and slowing him. The horse's footing was unsure in the rocky wash. He didn't want the animal to stumble and go down.
The wash narrowed, and Shane was forced to ride slowly down the center of the rocky stream. He was leaning down close to the horse's neck to avoid another low limb when a shot rang out and clipped a branch not three feet from him.
Shane lost his grip, fell off the horse, and splashed loudly into the stream. He lay still, the icy water flowing over him. The eight-shot Astra 9-millimeter was still in his hand. He'd managed to hold it high, keeping it dry.
He wasn't sure how long he waited there, but it seemed an eternity. He was freezing now; his whole body feeling as numb as his left leg.
"Who you think you're kidding, Hot Sauce? How long you gonna try and play dead?" his old friend called out to him from somewhere in the dark. Shane didn't answer. He tried to pinpoint the direction the sound was coming from.
"You were always a better catcher than an Indian." Jody's voice came down to him from about forty or fifty yards away, up high and on the right. Shane didn't think Jody could see him, or he would have fired again. He was trying to lure Shane into a conversation so he could find him and end it.
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