Black Water mr-3

by T. Jefferson Parker

  "Remember the honeymoon suite?"

  "You don't forget something like that."

  "Let's get together right now."

  "Okay!"

  Archie put his hand on her leg, felt it warm through her dress. He was still looking out at the ballpark so he didn't turn to Gwen, but his hand felt the familiar shape of her thigh and he could smell the milk and orange-blossoms smell that Gwen had when he was close to her. He felt her hands on his service belt and the zipper going down, then the cool air below his belly.

  “…and in this deeply relaxed and receiving state your subconscious mind will fill with the thoughts that are most important to you. Let these thoughts come. Experience these emotions. Become truly and totally who you are."

  "Wish we were home for this one," he said.

  "We could use that old pickup now," said Gwen.

  He relaxed a little, let her get comfortable, not easy with the center console in the way. His hand in her soft dark hair now, feeling the wonderful shape of her skull, then the physical sweetness, intensely specific but oddly general too, like his entire body was being swallowed.

  Archie saw the giant and the blond man walking across the Air Glide parking lot at two minutes until midnight on the Durango clock. They were the men from the meeting with Gwen in the El Ranchito bar, absolutely no question about it. Something to do with OrganiVen. Marketing concerns, Gwen had said, right? The big one turned sideways to get in the front door, then, as he had done last night, pivoted his enormous head to scan the lot before yanking the door shut.

  Archie closed his eyes for just a moment and tried to remember what it was he had seen behind the bright light that aimed down at him before the bullet smashed into his life: a man's face, possibly, but.. this man? That face? He remembered the cartoon he and Kevin had drawn in third grade, a bearded man with rectangular glasses. The man's beard and hair were identical opposites, and his ears were rounded and sprung from the middle of his head, so that when you turned him upside down he looked almost exactly the same. They'd named him "Reversible Man."

  And that was what this giant looked like. Archie had realized this over a year ago when he sat in his sunglasses and ball cap and bag; hula-girl shirt in the El Ranchito bar and watched with knots in his stomach and a forty-five automatic Colt pistol digging against his ribs as his young wife nervously sat down with two obvious monsters. Yes, she'd said marketing concerns, he could remember that clearly now.^ Reversible Man. Pretty Blond. But was it Reversible Man's head behind the glaring light that night? Archie opened his eyes. It was impossible to say.

  He'd need to talk with them to determine that. With at least one of them. It wouldn't be easy and it wouldn't be pleasant, but it was easy to pick which one he'd interview.

  At one-sixteen, what looked like a black Lincoln Town Car came into the parking lot from behind the building. It passed behind the silver stretch limousines and stopped at the entrance of Coast Highway. Archie saw Reversible Man deep in the darkened interior, and as if to confirm his ID, the driver's side of the car rode slight! lower than the other. No signal, but a break in the swift traffic and Reversible Man gunned the Town Car northbound on PCH. Just like the night before.

  Pretty Blond came to the window and the blinds angled down to block Archie's vision. The lights stayed on for a few minutes-he could see the yellow outline between the blinds and the window frame. Then the lights went off and nothing that Archie could see stirred within the Air Glide office for twenty-four minutes. At which time the lights came back on.

  A few minutes later another black Lincoln-this one a Mark VII-rounded into view from behind the office. Pretty Blond, alone, waited and signaled and turned south on Coast Highway.

  Archie moved the gumball from the floor to the seat beside him, then followed. It was an easy tail, the traffic moving fast with plenty of cars to put between them. Pretty Blond was considerate, obeying the speed limit and signaling his lane changes. He turned east on Jamboree, headed past the big hotel where he and Gwen had played all those years ago, past Newport Center and Fashion Island toward Irvine.

  Archie put the gumball on the Durango roof and pulled over Pretty Blond outside the Tuscany Apartments. There was a nice entry lane away from the traffic and he could see the man tilt to his left, probably to get a wallet or a gun.

  Wildcraft filled his lungs as he approached the idling Mark VII, flashlight in his left hand.

  The window of the Mark went down.

  Archie stood beside it, but just slightly back of the driver's easy angle of vision, just like they taught you for patrol. Make them turn to you.

  "Step out of the car, please."

  Maybe it was Archie's summer-weight green cotton/poly-blend uniform. Or the name Wildcraft on the brass nameplate over his left chest pocket. Maybe it was the badge. Or the barrel of the forty-five ACP he touched to the lashes of Pretty Blond's left eye.

  "Yes."

  An hour later, Archie was standing just outside the master bathroom in his home. Sonny Charles leaned in the corner of the bathroom proper, in the same spot where Gwen had lain. She was with them, behind and slightly above Archie.

  "She died right where you are," said Archie. "Isn't that right, honey?"

  "Yes. Right there."

  Charles looked at him without moving his head. He was sweating hard and his blond hair was shiny in the overhead track lighting of the bath. He had a narrow face and reminded Archie of the guy who painted the soup can. His eyes were blue and dry and extremely skeptical.

  Archie unwound the duct tape from Charles's face and pulled the tennis ball from his mouth.

  "Let this man tell us what happened."

  "I was not here," he said. His voice was clear and brittle, like it could break. "I have never been in this house."

  "Apin, the big guy," said Gwen. "He was the one who crashes and shot me."

  "Is that right, Mr. Charles? Was it Mr. Apin who did it?"

  "Apin? I don't know any man named Apin."

  "Oh." Archie sounded disappointed, even to himself. He slid left hand into his pocket and slipped out the S amp;W S.W.A.T. knife, thumbing it open. It was a never-used First Millennium Run with short black blade, incomprehensibly sharp. He put the point Charles's forehead, mid-latitude, far left side.

  "Mr. Charles, we have a situation. This is it: you will tell me what happened that night, or I'll cut your throat with this knife and let you bleed out in the bathroom here. Your blood on Gwen's."

  "That's awful," she said.

  "I know it's awful, and I don't want to do it," said Archie. "But if he tells me everything I want to know, I'll let him go."

  The blue eyes looked uncertain, as if the man wasn't sure he was being spoken to.

  "Now," said Archie, "look in the mirror."

  He swept the knife lightly. Charles wrenched his head but couldn’t move it far because he was contained, chin to tiptoes, by the carpet roll from the home-improvement center. The roll was snugged up him with ten triple-wrapped belts of duct tape and five flat nylon straps with quick-release fasteners. Inside, his hands and ankles were secured by plastic department-issue restraints. He leaned upright in the bathroom corner, stiff as a mummy. Out in the bedroom was the mechanic's creeper on which Archie had wheeled him from the garage, along the side walkway, into the kitchen, down the hall and into the master bath. And the gag, freshly cut away to encourage free speech.

  A line of blood jumped to Sonny's forehead, then washed down over and ran into his eyes.

  "God," said Gwen.

  "Be strong," said Archie. He reached over the carpet collar to touch the blade to Charles's carotid. A tight fit. Blood from the cut forehead eased over the knife blade and Archie's knuckles. "You've got five seconds to start talking. I don't really like this kind of thing, so I’m getting it over quick either way."

  "I drove," said Pretty Blond. "Zlatan shot you and killed her. There, now you will let me go?"

  "He put the gun in my hand?"

  "Yes."


  "And her blood on my robe."

  "Yes."

  Archie stared into the hard blue eyes, now blinking through the curtain of blood.

  "What kind of bullet is in my head?"

  "Twenty-two."

  "A silenced automatic?"

  Sonny nodded as the blood ran off his chin and onto the backing of the carpet.

  "You'll need to tell me every detail of that night. Every small detail. And where I can find Mr. Apin when I need to. Then, if what you say turns out to be true, I'll let you go. But you'll never drive a getaway car for another murder, I can promise you that."

  Archie watched the hope drain away from Sonny Charles's eyes. He turned on the small tape recorder that he'd set on the bathroom counter between the sinks.

  "You've got my word, Mr. Charles. Here, let's get a bandage on that cut while you tell me what you did. Honey, do we have any rubbing alcohol?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rayborn and Zamorra sat in the blue department sedan outside Ascension Cemetery on the hope that Archie would cruise his wife funeral. They got there half an hour early for the eleven o'clock service, rolled down the windows and waited.

  A few minutes later the guests began arriving. Merci watched the park near the chapel for the memorial service, saw the black suits and dresses moving with slow respect through the inland heat.

  The Kuerners and the Wildcrafts arrived separately but walk into the chapel together. George drove the Mercedes, a gift from the son, with an almost sacred caution. Rayborn saw Brad Eccles- Archie's alleged best friend-arrive with a big-hipped woman in wide black hat. A moment later Damon Reese pulled up in a new black pickup truck with pipes that made it rumble and a vinyl bed cover that gave off heat waves. Merci watched him shut the door and make his way alone into the chapel. She felt his touch on her forehead; again, wondered if he'd call like he said he would, wondered if she answer it.

  "How's Kirsten?" Merci asked. She asked about Kirsten irregularly, but now seemed as good a time as ever.

  "She's fine. She told me we should get married."

  "What did you say back?"

  "That I'm not ready."

  "It's only been a year."

  Zamorra was quiet for a long beat. Then, "Funny how the same amount of time can seem like a year or five minutes, depending on your mood. How about you and Frank?"

  "I see him occasionally. Movies, dinner. He's real good with Tim."

  "I'd like to meet him."

  "One of these days we'll have you two over for dinner. Dad's a good cook. Tim would like to see you again."

  "I'd like that."

  "How about when we catch these Russian gangsters? That'll give all of us reason to celebrate."

  "Perfect."

  But she wouldn't invite Paul and Kirsten over, and she knew it, and that was fine with Rayborn. When she looked at Zamorra she felt interest and attraction, but less than before. She felt disappointment, but less of that, too. Merci did not believe that people came together "for a reason," or, certainly, that things always "happened for the best." She thought a lot of decent people got together for bad reasons, that much was obvious. But she also thought that she and Paul would be good, and it dented her pride to think that she somehow hadn't made the grade. But what exactly was missing? Ask him, she thought.

  Priscilla Brock arrived with her husband. Merci watched them walk in, nominally together, Charles ahead by two steps, oblivious to her. Priscilla seemed not to care. Merci wondered if Gwen had had the same casual radiance.

  A minute later a panel van with a wheelchair lift parked and an orderly helped a very old woman position her chair. The lift engine groaned and the woman descended to the asphalt. Merci watched her: white hair and white hands, head cocked sideways, brand-new black shoes that had never been and never would be walked in. The orderly slammed the van door shut and pushed the woman toward the chapel.

  Then a group of young deputies who looked about Archie's age, fashionable guys, not meat-and-potatoes cops like Damon Reese. The kind of men who liked a little style and could pull it off. Archie's friends, she thought, and Gwen's admirers. She gave them credit for coming.

  "I've heard lots of talk about this funeral the last couple of day “ said Zamorra. "Half the deputies have Archie good for the murder. The other half thinks he got himself mixed up in something he shouldn't have."

  Merci watched as one of the cool young cops conferred with the woman in the wheelchair, then took over for the nodding orderly.

  "That's what I got, too," said Merci.

  Left unspoken was the fact that half the department wouldn't talk to Rayborn in the first place. Those who did tended to be the young men and women who had advanced and profited from Rayborn's testimony about a corrupt phalanx in Chuck Brighton's old guard. The most awful side effect of that testimony, in Rayborn's opinion, was that some good old deputies had gone down with Brighton while some undeserving younger ones had risen to replace them. By the end her grand jury appearance Merci had been ready to disclaim everybody, cash out her meager savings and take Tim down to Mexico in search of the pink house on the white beach that she had often thought about but never seen. Zamorra had not allowed her to throw away her badge.

  "These deputies who've come," she said, "I respect them for showing."

  Merci had never seen admin so quiet on such a hot department issue as the Wildcraft case. There had been no official guidance, meetings or memos, none of the unofficial "policy" that often leaked from behind the closed doors of the sheriff's office. Those who thought Archie was innocent were staying low, and the ones who thought was guilty were staying even lower. Lots of I-told-you-sos waiting be spoken, Merci thought. Lots of bets covered.

  She watched a couple of young deputies and their wives or girlfriends stepping out of a van. The driver waited until they were out then locked the vehicle with a chirp. He looked at one of the dark windows and ran his fingertips along the hair behind his ear.

  Maybe it was Wildcraft's own fault, she thought: he had built the wall around himself, he had brandished his weapon at Brice, he had the temper and the pretty wife and had stubbed his toe on more money than the guys he worked with would ever see. Maybe if Archie had been a little more open, a little more forthcoming, then people could rally behind him now, take up his cause. She had long suspected that being open and forthcoming were often methods for self-advancement rather than signs of good character, but what did this matter?

  More opinions, she thought. More loud, useless opinions.

  Rayborn, too young for wisdom but old enough to become tired of herself, sighed and shook her head slowly and stared out through the heat as the door of the chapel swung closed.

  "So you get a deputy shot in the head," she said. "And his wife takes two in her own bathroom. He can't go to his wife's funeral because he thinks we'll put him in the hospital or under arrest or both. He's out trying to catch the creeps himself because he doesn't think we are. That isn't right."

  After the memorial service the mourners drove to the grave site. The cortege moved slowly through the cemetery and Merci stayed far behind so as not to annoy the Wildcraft and Kuerner families any more than she had to. She wanted to march over there to the hole in the ground and tell them she was sorry about Gwen, that she was really pulling for Archie every way she could, really wanted to button down this case and get a little justice done for their girl. But instead she parked by the rounded curb and endured a long hostile stare from Natalie Wildcraft as she walked from her Mercedes to the grave.

  From the car Merci could see the dark mourners and the green hillock and a pile of red earth covered by a blue tarp. There were two big black boxes that looked like loudspeakers-far too much power, she thought, for the meager audience. The casket was gunmetal gray with gold accents. She flashed on Gwen in her bathroom-the robe and her blood and the cell phone in the sink, and thought: what a way to go to the satin. Twenty-six years old.

  She was too far away to hear what the preacher was
saying. Merci caught the earnest baritone coming across the grass and asphalt to her and it seemed like that sound must always be here, part of nature, like the breeze. Why not use the speakers?

  At eleven fifty-seven Merci saw the helicopter waver into view and she wondered if Archie had friends with the air patrol. Her second thought was network news. The bird squatted in the blue sky and lowered upon the graveyard, tail swinging around like a cat's as it came closer to the ground.

  By then she saw it wasn't a Sheriff's Department or a news chopper, at least it wasn't marked that way. She wrote down the numbers on the tail.

  It leveled off a couple of hundred feet above the grave and she could see hair and black clothes rippling and jumping in the rotor wind, and hear the bone-tickling whump whump whump of the blades. Down it came, another fifty feet. The dirt swirled up from the edges of the tarp and the tarp jittered against the mound.