Wildcase - [Rail Black 02]

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Wildcase - [Rail Black 02] Page 17

by Neil Russell


  The sun was behind us, and its angle caused the quartz crystals in the sand to twinkle like daylight stars. The road wasn’t straight, and Chuck’s woods gradually receded until it was just a strip of green in the distance. About six miles from the gate, a deep pair of ruts overlaid with ATV tracks intersected the road and headed off to the north. It looked like rough going, but that’s why I’d driven the Ram.

  I stopped and made Birdy tighten her seat belt until she was cinched flat against the leather, did the same and turned into the ruts. The ravine bent north as well, and we bounced along for half an hour before it was back beside us. I saw a path leading into the woods and turned into it. A short time later, we crossed the gorge on a cattle bridge just barely wide enough for the truck.

  Once out of the trees on the other side, the ruts disappeared, and the desert stretched off to the horizon again. I picked up the pace to forty and aimed at an old, corrugated tin barn in the distance. It was rusted a dark caramel, and as we got closer, it seemed to list several degrees.

  I parked next to the barn, and we got out. It was deathly quiet, then a sudden loud bang caused Birdy to let out a little yelp and jump. I walked around front and saw the wide metal door swinging in the wind. I propped it open with a broken two-by-four to and went inside.

  The front was a mishmash of clutter. Old tarps, broken machinery and an elaborate stone birdbath cracked in half. All the way in the rear, a late-model, red Jeep Wrangler sat facing the doors. It was buttoned up tight, and about a week’s worth of blowing sand covered its exterior. I tried the door, and it swung open.

  There was an infant carrier strapped into the passenger seat and two extra blankets in the back. I saw no key in the ignition, so I retrieved the one from the backpack and inserted it. The engine sprang to life on the first try, and the gas gauge read full. I popped the glove compartment. Inside was the pink slip and a current Allstate certificate, both in the name of Lucille Brando, along with an auto club map of Southern California, Arizona and Nevada. I unfolded the map and checked for markings. There were none. I turned the Jeep off and got out.

  Birdy had come into the barn, and her curiosity got the best of her. “You knew this was here?”

  “No, but logic said it should be.”

  “I’ve got no clue what that means, but I’ve got ways of making you talk.”

  “And I’ll hold you to them.” I stepped away from the Wrangler. It was positioned in such a way that there could have been another vehicle parked beside it, but the wind had erased any tracks. What it hadn’t erased was the chunk of tin bent away from the barn doorframe. I crossed to it, knelt and examined the jagged metal. Flakes of bright red paint came off on my finger.

  One very brave, very scared lady in one hell of a hurry. There was no longer any doubt what Chuck and Lucille’s killers had wanted, and they’d gone away empty-handed.

  Whatever the original arrangements had been, Chuck would have had a backup plan—one that couldn’t be deduced if someone found the second backpack. This woman was running for her life, probably without knowing why, and she was doing all the right things. I liked her without knowing her, and I hoped I’d get a chance to tell her.

  Yale Maywood wouldn’t be a factor because Chuck wouldn’t have trusted anyone with stars on his collar. Victorville was out—too close. So was Vegas, which was probably the girl’s original destination, but in an emergency, Chuck’s sphere of influence wouldn’t have been strong enough there. However, he did have a network that was both inside and outside the system. One where no one would question anything he asked. Perhaps even die for him. Blue Rescue.

  I knew the names of the people we’d helped in the last few years, but I’d never worn a badge, so that disqualified me from ever being confided in. Same with Jake, who hadn’t been particularly conscientious about attending meetings anyway. There was someone who could help. Question was, would he?

  Capt. Julius Watson of the Los Angles Fire Department hadn’t liked me from the moment he met me. Part of it was the usual father antipathy toward any man dating a daughter. The other part was that Anita was a battalion chief with plans to one day run the department, and Julius didn’t think being squired around by a rich guy with a low regard for politicians enhanced her chances.

  He might have been right, but we never got to find out. Then, when Anita was killed, I had to make a decision about attending the funeral. Either way, I was screwed. He’d see me and be pissed I was there, or not see me and be pissed I had a cold heart. I opted for out-of-sight, maybe out-of-mind, and paid my respects my own way.

  She’d been gone three years, and we’d had a dozen Blue Rescue meetings in the interim. I was still waiting for him to look my direction. I had his number in my phone for no other reason than our common charity association. I asked Birdy to wait in the Ram, leaned against the Jeep and hit send.

  Unlike retired cops who get the cold shoulder when they stop by their old precincts, firemen usually enjoy hanging around with the old guys. Not that Julius was old. Fifty-six, and he was a certifiable hero, still carrying a couple of slugs in his chest courtesy of a firebug who took umbrage at being busted for burning down half the Angeles National Forest. All the same, he had a prick quality about him that probably set active commanders’ teeth on edge. At least it would have mine.

  When he answered, I heard a bell going off, men running and trucks starting up in whatever station he was gracing with his presence. “Who’s this?”

  Why try to put lipstick on a pig? “Rail Black, Julius. I need a favor.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Feel better?”

  He didn’t answer, so I laid it out. “Chuck and Lucille Brando are dead. Murdered. You won’t read about it, and you’re now one of two dozen who know.” I waited.

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a girl who has information. I’ve never seen her, and I don’t know her name. She’ll be good-looking in an obvious sort of way, and probably not out of her twenties. She’s got a kid with her probably. Chinese. Most likely an infant. And unless she’s changed cars, she’s driving a red Wrangler with its left side scraped up pretty good.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll drive around town on my lunch hour. Buzz you if I see anything.”

  “Fuck you, Julius. I’m sorry Anita got killed, but I didn’t do it. All I’m guilty of is showing her a good time and caring about her. We probably wouldn’t have ever been anything but good friends, but who knows? She was a heckuva girl. So, help me or don’t, but get the fuck off your high horse.”

  When he didn’t hang up, I went on. “If I’m right, there’s a Blue Rescue recipient Chuck was especially close to, and that’s where she is. Could go all the way back to when he came on the board, but with a few phone calls, you’ll know who it is.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Watch out for an FBI chick named Huston. You’ll recognize her by the four-hundred-pound chip on her shoulder.”

  “You know what you call a Fed on an arson case?”

  I didn’t know or care, but what the fuck. “What?”

  “Retired. Fuck her. I’ll be in touch.”

  * * * *

  As we hit the outskirts of Victorville, Birdy looked at me. “What now, Rail Black?”

  “Train station. Send you home to your ponies.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “First to church, then Las Vegas.”

  “That usually work?”

  I laughed but didn’t elaborate.

  After a moment, she said, “Racing season’s over, and I’m off until the end of the month.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to run into over there.”

  “Church or Vegas?”

  “Both.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Just a caution.”

  “Then think about the last thirty-six hours.”

  She had a point. Plus, a couple is always less conspicuous. Delta learned the hard way that nothing draws attention faster
than physically fit guys traveling together. Now, when they fly commercial, each operator is accompanied by a female—military, of course, with clearances. Also attractive and an excellent actress.

  I took my eyes off the road long enough to have a moment with her. “Under one condition. If I tell you to do something, you don’t even blink. There might not be time for me to explain—or to worry about your feelings.”

  “Hey, why should you be any different?” She let that sit for a moment, then burst out laughing. “A little joke, General. You have my word. You point, I’ll hurl myself on the grenade. But if I’m going to be squired around fancy casinos by a good-looking guy, I need to do some shopping.”

  “There’s a mall at Caesars.”

  “You must be kidding. Find me a Target.”

  I smiled and put my hand over hers. “Money’s not an issue.”

  She turned toward me and took my hand in both of hers. “We were pretty good together, weren’t we? I mean besides digging holes and feeding horses.”

  For an answer, I squeezed her hand.

  “Well, when we go to bed tonight, if I’m taking off my own clothes, it won’t be an obligation.”

  Somewhere in the back of my brain, a voice called out, Uh-oh. A special one. You don’t need this now, Black. Take her to the train. Take her to the goddamn train!

  So naturally, I said, “I know where there’s a Sears.”

  * * * *

  16

  Pierce Arrows and PT Boats

  DECEMBER 17, 1944

  PEARL RIVER DELTA

  The launch rode low in the water. Built to hold four men comfortably, six without equipment, it limped along with nine, not counting the babies. The pilots took turns holding the fragile infants, who were swaddled in tiger skins, but several of the fliers were in even worse shape.

  Pags was back at the wheel. “Jesus Christ, partner, I can’t believe you. Why didn’t you ask for a couple of fuckin’ dogs too?”

  “As I recall, it was a certain lieutenant who got all wound up about baby girls. So it came down to both babies and the pilots, or no babies, no pilots and probably our own monogrammed posts in the plaza.”

  Pags spit over the side. “You know we got no shot at getting back to the carrier in time.”

  “At least we’ll go out breathing fresh air.”

  Fabian turned to check on the passengers. The pilot holding the baby girl smiled. “Thank you, Ensign. Especially from this little one. I’ve got two of my own back home, and refusing to take the boy unless you got her was extremely brave.”

  “Oh, he’s quite a sport,” Pags shouted over the engine. “Hey, partner, here comes our old pal.”

  With the fog mostly gone, the Tango’s outline was now clearly visible. More than two years into his hitch, Fabian was still awed by the sheer size of warships, and this cold, dark piece of steel seemed even larger in its slumber.

  And then he saw the light again. It was coming from the top of the bridge, and it swept first one way, then back in a rough sixty-degree arc. Fabian timed an interval. Eleven seconds, start to return. The next, identical. Pags had begun to angle the launch off the AKA’s bow, but Fabian gestured for him to change course back toward it.

  Pags nearly came out of his skin. “I’m not gonna fuck around with you, Fabe. We’ve got a full house here, two sick babies and no time to give.”

  “You already said we’re not going to make our rendezvous. Maybe there’s a radio on board we can use to contact the Bay. And if that’s an American up there ...”

  Pags grunted and jerked the wheel a little too hard, causing the port side to dip perilously close to the water. He quickly corrected and eased back on the power. From somewhere onshore, familiar music wafted across the river.

  “Hey, hear that, Piano-Man?” Fabian said. “‘Smoke Gets in your Eyes.’ Paul Whiteman. You still got those rubbers? “

  “Goddamn you. Just plain goddamn you.”

  * * * *

  The hull stairway to the deck wasn‘t extended, but with Pags holding the launch steady, Fabian was able to stand on the boat’s hardtop and reach the bottom tread. As he swung out into space, one of his hands slipped, and he dangled for a moment with only three fingers clutching the sharp steel. After what seemed like forever, he was able to get his other hand back on the step and leverage himself up.

  He signaled for Pags to throw him a line and cut the engine. The lieutenant shook his head no, then reconsidered and complied. He wasn’t happy, but they didn’t need somebody coming out to investigate. Fabian tied the launch off to the stairs and ascended.

  Empty ships are a symphony of sound. Creaking, groaning, cracking and the odd whistle of wind blowing through rigging. Fabian crouched, his .45 drawn, and let the Tango’s audio signature imprint on his subconscious. The bridge, rising thirty feet above, was a dark silhouette. If the light was still there, it wasn’t visible from his angle.

  Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, he moved, staying low against the rail. Normal maintenance had been ignored for some time. The ship smelled stale, and there were patches of mold on her superstructure and seagull shit everywhere. Some of the cables securing the twin, multiple boom cranes were frayed, others were missing, and the smaller derrick near the bow leaned over the side at a precarious angle.

  But nothing commanded his attention like the dark, tarpaulin-covered shapes lining every inch of deck. He unsheathed his shark knife and cut the rope securing one so he could lift its corner. The fat whitewall tire and chrome bumper were so unexpected that it took him a second to process. But when he slid the tarp a little further, the Rolls-Royce “Spirit of Ecstasy” hood sculpture was instantly recognizable—even to a guy from the wilds of Pasadena. Fabian uncovered two more. A powder blue Duesenberg and a light cream, 1939 Cord. And he saw that shoved into the spaces around this acre of cars were spare tires, steamer trunks, furniture, and dozens of motorcycles.

  Unless somebody thought this would be terrific shrapnel, Fabian’s original sub barrier hypothesis was out the window. Nobody hung mines where a nearsighted dolphin might blow their expensive booty to kingdom come. The cables were a charade. The Japanese were doing a final bit of shopping on their way out.

  Fabian made his way to one of the deck guns and found the ammo rack full. You don’t store shells where salt spray can get to them, and if there’d been a battle, the rack should have been partially depleted, if not empty. The gun showed no sign of having been fired recently, so the Tango had been quietly taken or surrendered.

  When he had completed a careful sweep of the main deck, he made his way to the bridge stairs. Just as he reached them, he heard the launch bump against the hull and a baby cry out. He paused, and both noises stopped.

  The first level held the captain’s quarters. Papers were strewn about, and there were a few small pieces of debris but no signs of extreme chaos . . . and no bullet holes. He tried the map light over the captain’s desk, and it came on. Battery power meant the ship’s engines had been run within the last week, but based on the mold and guano, it probably hadn’t been her crew running them. He wanted to find the log and determine her last position, but that would have to wait. He turned the light off.

  The second level had taken a bit more of a beating. The glass covering the instrument panel for operating the cranes was smashed, and the loudspeaker system had been torn out. He stopped and listened. Above, he heard a low rattle, then a click, then the rattle again to another click. He counted. Eleven seconds.

  His .45 locked and loaded, he inched his way up the stairs. The pilothouse windows were dark, but from his crouch, Fabian could see the low sweep of a light on the far side, accompanied by the click, rattle, click. He watched it through several rotations, then, taking a breath, he stood and walked toward it.

  A metal caged work light rolled back and forth in the open doorway in rhythm to the gentle rocking of the ship. It clicked when it hit the first jam before beginning its journey to the opposite side. It had apparently fallen
from an electrician’s stand next to the ship’s wheel and turned itself on as it slid the length of its cord to the doorway.

  Fabian picked it up and stepped into the pilothouse. The light might have been used to pilot the ship. The shield would have, directed illumination where it was needed while keeping ambient glow to a minimum. He hooked the lamp back on its stand, clicked it off and turned.

  The rifle butt hit him on the side of the head, but he was lucky. It had been directed between his eyes. He went down, but not out, and was firing the Colt before he hit the floor. The percussion of his shots combined with his muzzle flashes deafened and blinded him, but he was already rolling away when an automatic rifle burst tore through the small room with unimaginable fury.

 

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