“Umm, nice leather,” he said, fondling the mocha-colored armrest that bisected the sedan De Ville’s bench seat. “Nice, even if it does drive mushy. I can see why you hold on to yours.”
“Not too obtrusive for a tail?”
“L.A. Chevy, pal. Your pricier neighborhoods, this is what the help drives.” He smiled. “Besides, it’s brown. Like my fashion statement. Blends in with all the bullshit.”
We followed the Volvo onto the 101 toward Ventura, stayed with it all the way through the west Valley. When it switched to the 23 North just past Westlake Village, Milo sat up straighter and smiled.
I said, “Let’s hear it for educated guesses.”
We sped past an industrial park with high-tech leanings. Vaguely ominous limestone and mirror-glass buildings with nondescript logos, security-gated parking lots, and streets with names like Science Drive and Progress Circle. The Volvo kept going.
When traffic thinned out at Moorpark, Milo pulled over to the shoulder and stopped.
I said, “What is it?”
“Now we are too conspicuous. Gonna give him a mile, then get back on.”
“Not worried about losing him?”
He shook his head. “We know where he’s going, don’t we?”
“If our information’s up to date.”
He said, “The Colonel’s information.” Frowned and checked his watch and got back on the highway. The highway became Grimes Canyon and evolved into a narrow, serpentine mountain pass. No other cars going our way; a few huge tankers coming from the opposite direction. The curves challenged the Cadillac and Milo put two hands on the wheel. Shifting his weight, he said, “Now the mushiness isn’t fun.”
I said, “You could have borrowed the Colonel’s Honda.”
“Right. God knows what kind of crap and gizmos he’s packed it with. Would you feel comfortable talking in something he owned?”
“Nope.”
“Him and his data banks. Guy’s got more info than the IRS. You see how fast he came up with what we wanted? But try to get something on him, and other data banks dry up real fast. I had a very reliable source on it, Alex. Same guy in Washington who helped me trace Kaltenblud. All his computer had to say about the Colonel was name, rank, date of discharge. Ditto with Major Bunyan.”
I said, “New Age warrior becomes New Age entrepreneur. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a colonel.”
“What then? Some clerk? He’s exactly what a colonel is. A general, even. Forget the George C. Scott stuff. Go high enough in any organization, and what you get is assholes exactly like him.”
Suddenly angry again.
I said, “He thinks he saved our lives.”
Milo grunted.
I said, “Maybe he did. But I think we had a pretty good chance without him. That sleeping-beauty act you pulled took me by surprise.”
He grunted again. The road straightened and we were in agricultural country: mountain-rimmed, ruler-edged plots of flat dry lowlands, ready for harvest. Cows grazing side by side with bobbing-grasshopper oil wells. Pig and egg farms; horse breeders, where gorgeous Arabians pranced arrogantly around roadside corrals; acres of citrus being cultivated for Sunkist.
The end point of the view from Howard Burden’s office window.
The maroon Volvo was nowhere in sight.
“Nice,” I said, looking up through the windshield at clean blue sky. “If you have to run, do it in style.”
We crossed a green-hooded bridge over a dry bed of the Santa Clara River and kept going to the 126 junction at Fillmore. Past a business district consisting of well-preserved two-story brick buildings on spotless, empty shopping streets striped with meterless diagonal parking spaces, full-service gas stations staffed by attendants in hats and uniforms, and a Frosty Mug root beer stand that could have been part of the set for American Graffiti. Then a continuation of the highway and more citrus groves, working ranches, and produce stands advertising nuts, olives, tomatoes, corn, and “all natural” beef jerky.
Just a few more miles to the base of the mountains and Piru. The outskirts of town was abandoned railyards and citrus warehouses, derelict auto bodies and lots of dust. A hundred yards in were clumps of small, poor houses. One-and two-room structures set in chockablock randomness on fenced dirt lots. Untrimmed trees lined the road—date palms, plums, beeches, and stocky-limbed carobs that emitted a spermy perfume which insinuated itself into the car’s air-conditioning system and lingered. Chickens in the front yard. Toddlers in hand-me-downs making toys out of found materials. Inflatable wading pools. The few adult faces we saw were sun-beaten and solemn, tending toward elderly and Hispanic.
Main Street was a couple of blocks that crawled past a one-story bank so petite it resembled a county-fair model. Yellow brick, tile roof, gilt script on the windows over drawn Venetian blinds. Closed. Then a general store, a couple of saloons, one with a handwritten Menudo today poster taped to the front window, and a silvered-wood barnlike structure advertising auto repair, tack and ferrier supplies, bait and tackle.
Milo drove another half block until we reached more empty freight yard. Stopping and consulting his Thomas Guide, he jabbed a finger at a map page and said, “Okay, no problem. No problem finding anything here. We’re not talking Megalopolis.”
“No problem,” I said, “if you know there’s something to look for.”
Circling the tack shop, he drove down a back street, crossed Main, and coasted for another couple of blocks before turning off onto Orchard. The road took on a mild grade, turned to dirt, and ended at a bungalow court. Flat-roofed buildings of yellow stucco. Half a dozen of them, less than a foot of separation between the units. In the center, a plaster fountain that hadn’t spouted for a long time. The Volvo was parked at the curb, windows open, unoccupied, with a cardboard sunscreen stretched across the windshield.
We got out. The air was broiling and smelled like marmalade. Milo pointed again, this time for direction. We walked past the bungalows, taking a dusty path that ran along the right side of the court. Behind the units, in what would have been the backyard, was another building, fenced by waist-high pickets that needed priming and painting. White frame cottage, green sash and shutters, tar roof, warped porch, plank swing hanging lopsided from one piece of rope. To the left, a weeping willow grew out of the dirt—dreaming the impossible dream. Huge and rich with foliage it imprisoned the tiny house in a wide black ellipse of shade.
The drapes were drawn. Milo pointed to the left of the big tree and I followed him. Two-step cement porch. Rear panel door. He knocked.
A voice said, “Who is it?”
Milo said, “Naranjas.”
“Sorry, we’ve got.”
Milo raised his voice and gave it a plaintive twist.“Naranjas! Muy barato! Muy bonito!”
The door opened. Milo shoved his foot in it and smiled.
Ted Dinwiddie stared out at us, startled, his ruddy face mottled by patches of pallor.
He said, “I—” and remained frozen. He was dressed the same way he’d been at the market, minus the apron: blue broadcloth shirt rolled to the elbows, rep tie loosened at the neck, khaki slacks, rubber-soled cordovans. Same good burgher’s uniform he wore every day...
He kept staring, finally managed to move his lips.
“What is it?”
Milo said, “Even though my mother spent years trying to convince me otherwise, I never developed a taste for asparagus. So I guess we’re here to see your other special.”
Dinwiddie said, “I don’t know what you—”
“Look,” said Milo, his voice gentle and scary at the same time, “I was never any fashion model—I need all the help I can get to be able to walk down the street without freaking out little kids. This”—he pointed to his eye— “ain’t exactly help.”
Dinwiddie said, “I’m sor—”
“Can the apologies,” said Milo. “Your being a little more forthcoming in the first place might have prevented substantial pain and suffering to my person.”
I said, “He’s understating. The two of us nearly lost our lives trying to figure it out.”
Dinwiddie said, “I know that. I read the papers, for God’s sake.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I never meant for it to—”
“Then how about you let us in out of the heat?” Milo said.
“I— What purpose would that really serve?”
Milo turned to me: “What’s that word you used, Dr. Delaware?”
“Closure.”
“Closure, Ted. Dr. Delaware and I would like some closure.”
Dinwiddie bit his lip again and tugged his straw mustache. “Closure,” he said.
“You took psychology,” said Milo. “Or was it sociology? Either case, that should mean something to you. Man’s search for meaning and finality in a cruel, ambiguous world? Man trying to figure out what the fuck is going on?”
He grinned and put his hand on the doorknob.
Dinwiddie said, “And after that, what?”
“That’s it, Ted. Scout’s honor.”
“I don’t believe much in honor anymore, Detective.”
Milo lifted the bill of his baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Brushed away black hair and exposed white, sweaty skin, knobbed and scraped and scabbed.
Dinwiddie winced.
Milo tapped his foot. “Lost your innocence, huh? Well, bully for you, Mr. Clean, but there’s still plenty of explaining to do.”
A voice sounded behind Dinwiddie, the words incomprehensible but the tone pure question mark. The grocer looked over his shoulder and Milo took the opportunity to grasp his shoulders, move him aside like a toy, and walk into the house.
Before Dinwiddie realized what was happening, I was inside too. Small kitchen hot as a steambath, with white cabinets and counter tops of yellow tile laid diagonally and bordered with wine-colored bull nose. Open doorway to a paneled room. Yellow enamel walls, white porcelain sink, four-burner gas stove, a Pyrex carafe half-filled with water on one of the burners. Five big paper double-bags printed with the name of Dinwiddie’s market sitting on the counter. A sixth bag, unpacked: boxes of cereal, bags of whole wheat flour and sugar, sausages, smoked meats and fish, spaghetti, tea, a jumbo mocha-colored can of deluxe-grade Colombian coffee.
Holding the can was a boy wearing a baggy T-shirt and cutoff jeans. I knew his age, but he looked younger. Could have been a high school senior. Varsity letter in basketball.
Mocha-colored himself. Very tall, very thin, light-brown hair worn in a two-inch Afro—longer than in his photo. Full lips, Roman nose. His father’s nose.
Almond eyes full of terror.
He lifted the can as if it were a weapon.
Milo said, “It’s all right, son. We’re not here to hurt you.”
The boy darted his head at Dinwiddie. The grocer said, “These are the two I told you about, Ike. The cop and the psychologist. According to the papers, they’re on the right side.”
“The papers,” said the boy. Aiming for defiance, but his voice was reedy, uneven, adolescent in its lack of confidence. Big hands tightened around the can. His legs were skinny and hairless—cinnamon sticks perched on bare feet.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said.
“Maybe so,” said Milo, walking up to him and standing on the balls of his feet to go eye to eye. “But you owe us, son. You owe someone else, too, but it’s too late for that. At least this is a debt you can pay.”
The boy retracted his head and blinked. The hand holding the can faltered. Milo reached up and took it from him. “French roast,” he said, examining the label. “Only the best for a super-hip fugitive, huh? And look at all this other good stuff.” Motioning toward the counter. “Granola. Pasta—what is that, tagliarini? Looks like you’ve got yourself hunkered down for the long haul, son. Comfy. Lot more comfy than where Holly ended up.”
The boy clenched his eyes shut and opened them, blinked again. Several times. Harder. A tear rolled down his cheek and his Adam’s apple rose and fell.
“Ike,” said Dinwiddie, alarmed, “we’ve been through that. Don’t let him guilt-trip you.” A cold look at Milo. “Hasn’t he been through enough?”
Milo said, “Tell it like it is, Ted. Wasn’t that an axiom you once lived by?”
The flush had returned to Dinwiddie’s complexion and his thick forearms were lumpy with tightened muscle. He was sweating heavily. I realized I was sodden. All four of us were.
Dinwiddie tugged at his mustache and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. I smelled confrontation. Said to the boy: “We’re not your enemies. Once in a while the papers do get it right. We know what you’ve been through, son. The running. Looking over your shoulder. Never knowing who to trust—that’s got to be hell. So no one’s saying anyone in your shoes could have handled it any better. You did exactly what you had to. But what you know can be useful—to get rid of the evil that remains. Draining the whole swamp. Terry Crevolin’s agreed to talk, and he’s not exactly Mr. Idealistic. So how about you?”
The boy said nothing.
I said, “We’re not going to force you—no one can. But how long can you go on like this?”
“Lies,” said a brittle voice from the doorway.
A very small old woman, wearing a gray-and-pink print shift and over that, despite the heat, a coarsely woven porridge-colored cardigan. Beneath the shift, bowed legs encased in supp-hose ended in flat sandals. Her face was wizened and sun-spotted under a halo of white frizz. Big dark eyes, clear and steady.
I wasn’t surprised by her appearance. Remembering Latch and Ahlward’s reaction when I talked about their plucking her off the street and disposing of her body.
Blank stares from both of them. No smirking, no jumping to take the credit...
Just a look.
My educated guess...
But something did surprise me.
Steady hands in one so tiny and old. Gripping a very big shotgun.
She said, “Cossacks. Lying bastards.”
Clear eyes. Too clear. Something other than mental clarity.
Beyond lucidity. A flame that had burned too hot for too long.
Ike said, “Grandma, what are you doing! Put that down!”
“Cossacks! Every Christmas a pogrom, raping and killing and giving the babies to the Nazis to eat.”
She aimed the weapon at me, held it there for a while, shifted it to Milo, then to Dinwiddie. To Ike, then back to Dinwiddie.
“Come on, Sophie,” said the grocer.
“Back or I’ll blast you, you cossack bastard,” said the old woman, eyes jumping from one imaginary foe to the other. Hands shaking. The shotgun vibrating.
Ike said, “Grandma, enough! Put that down!”
Loud, a little whiny. A teenager protesting unfair punishment.
She looked at him long enough for confusion to finally settle in.
“It’s okay,” said Dinwiddie, pushing down with one hand in a calming gesture and taking a step forward.
Her eyes shot back to him. “Back! I’ll blast you, you goddammed cossack!”
Ike called out, “Grandma!”
Dinwiddie said, “It’s okay,” and walked toward the old woman.
She pulled the trigger. Click.
She stared down at the weapon with more confusion. Dinwiddie put one hand on the walnut stock, the other on the barrel, and tried to wrest it away from her. She held on to it, cursing, first in English, then louder and faster in a language I guessed was Russian.
“Easy does it, Sophie,” said Dinwiddie as he carefully pried her fingers from the gun. Deprived of it, she began shrieking and hitting him. Ike ran to her, tried to restrain her, but she struck out at him, continued to curse. The boy struggled with her, absorbing blows, taking pains to be gentle, tears streaming down his face.
“Unloaded,” said Dinwiddie, handing the shotgun to Milo as if it were something unclean. To Ike: “I took out the shells last time I was here.”
Ike gaped at him. “Wh
ere? Where’d you put them?”
“They’re not here, Ike. I took them with me.”
Ike said, “Why, Ted?” Talking loud to be heard over the old woman’s invectives, his tall body canopied over her tiny sweatered frame. Trying to contain her with his spidery arms while fixing his attention on Dinwiddie.
Dinwiddie held out his hands and said, “I had to, Ike. The way she is—how she’s gotten. You just saw that.”
“She didn’t even know how to use it, Ted! You just saw that!”
Time Bomb Page 53