by Dave Stanton
I set the album aside and looked through the thick colored paper stock at the bottom of the box. There was a promotional flyer for a 1978 Isaac Hayes concert in Anaheim, a brochure for a 1995 Cadillac Eldorado, and a Los Angeles Rams versus Dallas Cowboys game program, dated December 1981. That was it, except for a small black case that looked like it might contain a piece of jewelry.
Dust puffed from the case when I pried it open. Resting on a black cloth background was a gold heart-shaped medallion. Attached to it, a folded purple neckband. A raised bust of George Washington was on the front of the heart. I lifted it in my fingers. On the back, in raised letters, it read, “For Military Merit.” Inscribed below that was a name: Lawrence Tucker.
I arranged the entire contents of the box in piles on Cody’s coffee table. Sun had already cut through the morning overcast and was shining through the partially opened front window curtains. I held the medal in my hand and stared at the name. After a while, I put the medal down and began doing Internet searches. Then, despite two cups of tar coffee, I fell asleep on the couch.
It was almost noon when Cody woke me. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “I’m starving,” I said.
“I cooked some bacon and made you an omelet,” he said, nodding toward the stove.
“How good of you. When did you learn how to cook?”
“Hell, I’ve spent more years as a bachelor then you.”
“I don’t remember you ever cooking a damn thing.”
“That’s because you refuse to recognize me as the Renaissance man I am.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
“What secrets did the box unlock?” Cody asked, eyeing the stacks of papers.
I handed him the black case. He squinted and fingered the medal. “Son of a bitch, a purple heart. Who’s Lawrence Tucker?”
“My first guess would be Lamar Tucker’s brother, using Farid Insaf as an alias.”
“Do we even know if Lamar Tucker had a brother?”
“No, not yet.”
“Okay, so who is Lawrence Tucker?”
I sat at Cody’s table with a plate of chow. “Obviously ex-military.”
“Be nice to have a look at his military record.”
“I did a search earlier this morning. Found his serial number, but that’s about it.”
“How about that retired general you know?” Cody said, replacing the medal in the case.
“What about him?” I asked.
“Call him. He should have access to everything.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“Why not?”
“You’re assuming he would share classified information with me, just for the asking.”
“You saw two slabs of military-grade C-four, Dirt. That stuff ain’t commercially available. Send those pics to the general, tell him there’s a national security risk at stake.”
I swallowed a mouthful of Cody’s cooking and looked up at him. “All right. Then let’s go back to the Skyscape, see if anything’s going on.”
“You got any more surprises in store for me?”
“Not at the moment.”
• • •
Retired three-star General Raymond Horvachek didn’t sound displeased to hear from me, which was a pleasant surprise. I had investigated his daughter’s death two winters ago, and although I’d delivered the closure he and his wife sought, it was no victory, not for them or for me. I doubted their anguish had receded much in the two years since we’d spoken, and I had no desire to revisit the matter. I imagined my voice might open a floodgate of grief.
But when I mentioned the C-4, the general became all business, as if invigorated with a sense of purpose and perhaps relieved at the distraction and a potential avenue for his energies. He confirmed Cody’s suspicion that the C-4 I saw in Farid Insaf’s home was almost certainly stolen, and its possession by a civilian was a crime. He also said he would have Lawrence Tucker’s full military record in his hands by five o’clock today (“by seventeen hundred,” he stated) and would call me later in the evening.
At two o’clock Cody and I drove off in his Toyota sedan. The sky was cloudless except for a light haze that hung low over the green mountains to the west. It was a comfortable eighty degrees outside, the high sun bathing the valley in warmth. We got on the freeway, and as we were nearing the exit for Guadalupe Parkway, I was thinking it would have been a fine day for a hike in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Then Cody said, “Check your mirror. I think we got a tail.”
I turned down his passenger seat visor and flipped open the vanity mirror.
“Two cars back. Black SUV.”
“I can’t see them,” I said.
He changed lanes. “How about now?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Two black dudes. Looks like Suggs’s GMC. Maybe they’re headed to the Skyscape.”
“Let’s find out.” We took the Guadalupe on-ramp, merged to the fast lane, and drove past the exit for the Skyscape.
“They’re still on our ass,” Cody said. “The driver is Suggs. But I don’t recognize the passenger.”
“Not Duante Tucker, huh?”
“No, doesn’t look anything like him.”
“How do you want to play it?”
“Let’s find out what they want.” Cody took the next exit, reversed direction, and got back on the parkway heading west toward Los Gatos. He drove at a leisurely pace, and the black GMC remained two cars behind us.
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
“They want to talk, or whatever, we’ll pick the place,” he said.
“Like where?”
“Up in the hills.”
We crossed over to Route 17, the freeway that leads over the grade to Santa Cruz. Within ten minutes we began navigating the sweeping curves heading into the mountains. We passed the sparkling waters of Lexington Reservoir on our left and the old Cats Tavern on the right. After that the forest became more dense, and the turns grew tighter. Just before we reached the summit, Cody turned off onto an auxiliary road, one that was seldom traveled—and only by the residents that lived in a few remote homes set back far off the track.
“They got to know we’re onto them by now,” I said.
“So what? They don’t dig it, they can turn around.”
“I don’t think so. They’re coming up quick.”
“Oh, yeah?”
The road was shadowed by tall pines, and thick brush grew in tangled clumps between the trees We approached a mild bend, and Cody downshifted and hit the gas, taking us up to sixty, which was about as fast as any sane person would go on that particular stretch. We came to a corner, braked sharply, then eased around the turn and did not accelerate. We drove at twenty-five until I saw them approaching fast behind us.
“They’re back,” I said.
This time we were on a straightaway, and Cody mashed the gas pedal. We launched forward and hit ninety, then he slammed the brakes before a sharp right-hander. The Toyota squealed around the corner, all four tires drifting, and Cody gassed it hard again, then he cranked the wheel onto a steep side road. He drove for a couple hundred yards until we reached a dirt shoulder wide enough to execute a Y-turn. Then we drove back, and just as we approached the highway, we saw the GMC roar by.
“Let’s see where they want to go.” Cody worked the gear box and burned rubber, dirt and gravel spitting from the rear tires. We gained on the black SUV rapidly, right as we entered a series of corkscrew turns dropping into a gully. The road had been cut out of the hillside, a steep rock wall to our right, a sharp drop-off to the left. The Toyota’s stiff suspension hugged the pavement, and in seconds we were on the bumper of the GMC.
“Take my piece out of the glove box, fire a shot over them,” Cody said.
“What?”
“Let’s see how serious these bad boys are. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
“Bad idea,” I said.
“Give me the gun, I’ll do it.” The SUV accelerated, its big tires howling as it lurched down the susta
ined right turns. Cody reached out with his paw and slapped me on the shoulder. “Come on.” We drifted into the opposite lane.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” I said. I opened the glove compartment and, under a stack of papers, found a Smith & Wesson short-barrel .32 automatic. A small gun, probably too small for Cody’s hand, and not very accurate either, at least not past fifty feet. Someone had ground off the serial number and installed patterned grips designed to obliterate fingerprints. Cody had probably acquired the piece, untraceable and disposable, in a back alley somewhere. I pulled open the slide and saw a brass jacketed round in the chamber.
“Hurry up,” he said. I could see Suggs’s eyes, white against his black skin, flicking back and forth to his rear view mirror as we tailed them. For a moment I considered all the bad results that could come of this. Then I blew out my breath and stuck my arm out the window, the gun pointed up into the blue void looming over the trees on the ridge above us. Just before my finger tightened on the trigger, I saw the passenger’s face in the side mirror, the dark features expressionless behind sunglasses.
The pistol bucked in my hand, sparks flashing from the barrel, the blast ear-splittingly loud. The SUV slammed its brakes, the tires skidding on the coarse pavement, then Suggs stepped on the gas and regained control. We followed at not more than ten feet from the rear doors. I could see the chassis straining against the springs as Suggs steered hard and tried to maintain speed. The roof almost scraped a rock ledge jutting from the wall as the vehicle leaned into the turn.
We came out of the corner onto a straight, sunny section. A stream ran along the road to our left, and a rolling meadow lay to the right. The GMC bolted forward, then abruptly stopped accelerating at about fifty MPH. Up ahead were more curves, the foliage deep in shadow.
For a few seconds we followed in silence. I held the pistol to the side of my seat. A pair of squirrels ran above us on a solitary telephone wire.
“They’re not trying to…” I said, then paused when the SUV’s rear doors flew open. The man who’d been in the passenger seat was sitting with his legs splayed before him, holding an assault rifle, probably an AR-15. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, but the doors swung back on him.
Cody hit the brakes and veered to the left. I leaned out my window and trained the automatic at the back of the SUV. The right side rear door opened, which blocked my view of the man. Cody swerved hard to the right and onto the dirt shoulder of the road, putting us out of the shooter’s eyesight. We skidded, and plumes of gritty dust spewed from our tires. The SUV moved right, trying to bring us back into range. For a brief second I saw the man holding the rifle. His foot was extended to hold the door open, and he had us dead in his sights. If we moved left, back onto the pavement, it would make his shot that much easier.
A burst of shots rang out just as Cody steered further to the right, off the shoulder and into tall grass. A bullet punched through the door behind Cody and tore a hole in the back upholstery. I fired twice, but we were bouncing violently over rutted terrain, and my shots flew off into the forest. The meadow ended a hundred yards up ahead, where the paved road turned into the trees.
Our tires washed into soft dirt, and the Toyota slowed. Cody cranked the wheel and downshifted, and we banged over a ditch and onto the hard shoulder. I saw the rear door to the SUV close as it turned into the corner. We hit the asphalt skidding and fishtailed in pursuit.
In seconds we were approaching the back bumper. The road was serpentine, the turns coming quick. The SUV rocked at sharp angles with every turn of the wheel, its high center of gravity throwing it all over the road.
The rear door opened again, but the momentum of the vehicle caused it to slam shut. Then the window above the door exploded, the butt of the rifle knocking the glass from the frame. In a second the barrel was pointed at us. I extended my arm and shot into the window, but my angle was awkward, making it unlikely I’d hit the man.
I ducked low, waiting for the shooter to return fire, but at that moment the road turned sharply left, the corner tighter than the turns previous. When Suggs yanked the wheel, the sudden change in direction caused the GMC’s suspension to bounce hard on its springs, and the right tires lifted off the ground. The top-heavy vehicle tilted almost to the tipping point before Suggs hit the brakes. For a moment the SUV remained pitched diagonally, balanced on its left tires. Then it fell back onto all four wheels and careened to the right, toward a steep drop-off beyond the pavement.
I saw the front tires steer left, but it was too late. Skidding but still moving at about thirty-five MPH, the GMC plowed off the road and fell from sight, followed a second later by an earth-shaking crash. A dust cloud rose into the trees and a cascade of brown pine needles rained down from above.
We stopped at the SUVs skid marks, jumped out, and looked over the edge. Thirty feet down, the GMC had collided head on with a large redwood, the trunk at least four feet in diameter. The impact had thrust the SUV onto its nose, where it leaned precariously against the tree. The roof over the front seats looked smashed flat to the doors. We stared at the undercarriage of the black wreckage. The wheels were still spinning.
“Got a coat?” I asked. I went back to Cody’s car and took my jacket and a pair of gloves from my bag.
“Why?”
“Poison oak down there.”
“Shit. You go.”
I pulled on the coat and stepped down into the dry mulch off the road. Leaves and sticks crackled as my boots sunk into six inches of loose ground cover. The grade was about forty-five degrees. I dug in my heels and descended, grabbing branches and saplings to balance myself.
When I reached the upended wreck, I had to kick a foothold in the dirt to keep from falling down into the brush. I could see that the grade steepened below and became almost vertical. I steadied myself and crouched to peer into the narrow slot still remaining in the shattered driver’s window. An airbag had exploded, but I saw no indication it had saved the driver. A streak of blood was painted over the remaining chips of glass in the window, and I could see just a brief swath of dark skin, perhaps a forearm. Lennox Suggs had been crushed to death. Chances of survival, zero.
I tried to open the driver’s door, but it was dented badly and jammed shut. I looked through the scrub to where Cody stood on the shoulder peering down.
“Can’t get to the driver,” I said.
“What about the shooter?”
I slowly traversed to the passenger side. The roof was not as deeply crushed there, and though I could look clearly into the interior, there was nothing to see except the blood-soaked pants of the driver. No one was in the passenger seat. I snaked my arm inside and tried to reach where Suggs’s wallet might be, but it was too tight.
I stood and attempted to open the rear passenger door. The surrounding metal had folded in, the paint peeling off the creases. The door wouldn’t budge. I stepped back and looked at the destroyed rig. Then I heard a sound from within.
“He’s trying to come out the back!” Cody yelled.
I took Cody’s pistol from my coat pocket and scrambled up to where I could look down at the rear doors of the SUV. But before I got there, I heard a grunt and a sprinkling of glass falling, then I saw a black man’s face appear, looking down from where his torso hung out the broken rear window.
The man’s face was coated with blood, which ran freely from an empty eye socket and a thick gash in his scalp. He looked at me with his remaining eye but seemed oblivious to my presence. Then he reached out with a muscular arm and slowly pushed himself farther out the window. Bubbles of blood formed on his lips. I trained the automatic at him and watched as he maneuvered out the window.
He leaned his weight out, holding the window ledge until he could grasp the rear bumper. Then he pulled, and his lower body followed, and he meant to hold on, but he was too weak, and fell in a heap into the mangled brush. As soon as he hit the ground, I heard a loud crack, and the GMC began falling toward me. I leaped away but tripped over a tangle o
f deadfall. I heard metal shrieking, bark tearing, and the snap of dry wood as I rolled away and tumbled downward for a second before grabbing a stout branch. The wreckage slammed down not two feet from where I lay and began sliding down the slope on its side. It slid through the scrub, leaving a scoured path, flattening small trees, picking up speed until it hit a large boulder jutting from the hillside. The vehicle flipped up with the impact, and a ray of sun penetrating the trees glinted off the twisted metal. Then the wreckage barrel-rolled and tumbled free of the hill and cartwheeled into the void until it reached somewhere unseen with a final, thunderous crash.
“Fucking Christ!” Cody shouted.
I pushed myself to my feet and made my way to where the man had fallen. I didn’t know if he’d still be there. But he was, or what remained of him. The SUV had fallen over his body and crushed his legs. I knelt and put my ear to his mouth. A faint wheeze came from his lips.
“Who are you?” I said.
I felt a weak hiss of air in my ear. His breath was dank, like rotting fruit in a pool of stagnant water. “Two, seven, six, four…” he whispered.
“What?” I said. But when I pulled away and looked at him, his eye was fixed, and he breathed no more.
He wore jeans and a camo tank top. I checked his front pockets, and when I turned him onto his stomach, I saw a tattoo on his shoulder, a grinning skull resting on a pair of automatic rifles as crossbones. “Semper Fi” was scrolled below. I found a thin wallet in his back pocket.
“Time to boogie, Dirt,” Cody called out. “Sirens coming, cops must have been nearby.”
I scrambled through the brush up to where Cody sat in the Toyota. He put the car in gear and U-turned, and we headed back the way we’d come.
“Dismantle that piece of junk,” he said. “Throw the pieces out.”
I released the clip from Cody’s automatic, ejected the bullets, and tossed them one by one off the side of the road. The sirens were getting louder. We came around a bend, and I chucked the slide deep into a clump of manzanita. We drove for another couple minutes before Cody turned onto a side road.