The information on Kamaria’s boyfriend filled the entire glass windshield in his rented Audi. Dowland studied it as the car remained running and parked at the curb next to the gate for the high-end neighborhood southwest of Nashville. The details he had been given reported that on most Friday mornings Zander’s nondescript Autoveh left this community between nine and a quarter after nine. Dowland read the details on the man he was about to meet again.
Zander Stock. Twenty-seven years old. CEO for Zander Entertainment. Primary shareholder for Zander Entertainment: Jackson Heyford. Worth: $34.5 billion.
More details filled the screen, but Dowland toggled through it with his finger to find what he wanted: the personal stuff only people like him had the ability to access.
Addictions: Functioning alcoholic. Steroid abuser. Occasional Pique user. Police record: Public drunkenness, theft, assault, battery.
The assault and battery charges looked interesting, so he tapped for more information. Several dates and charges were listed, but he saw a charge of battery one year ago and another charge of assault only two months ago. Both charges had the name Kamaria Dareigo by them.
She never learns.
Now there was no question about his plans for this cold but clear morning. Sure enough, the square, gray-colored vehicle cleared the guard and was allowed to exit and start its usual morning commute to work. A guy like Zander used an Autoveh for publicity reasons, to look like a noble and upstanding citizen in compliance with environmental protection. He also wanted to travel discreetly.
Dowland followed him for ten minutes before speeding up next to the Autoveh as they wound around on a two-lane country road through rolling hills and by large lawns. The rental car quickly overtook Zander’s car. Dowland jerked the steering wheel, slamming into the front of the Autoveh and sending it directly into the ditch next to the road.
The Autoveh balanced itself as it hit the side of the hill, and Dowland jammed on the brakes of his Audi, sent it into reverse, and then shifted quickly into Drive again. He plowed into the side of the Autoveh, denting and cracking its steel frame. The air cushion in the Audi went off, but it took him only a few seconds to rip it apart with his pocketknife. Dowland got out of his car and ran to the other side of the Autoveh, shooting the side window instead of bothering to wait until it opened itself.
If the bullet struck Zander, that was fine, but he hoped to have one more little discussion before the inevitable happened.
The big guy with the shaved head was screaming inside his Autoveh, not because he had been shot but because he was terrified. Glass littered the floor and the seat as Zander held up his hands, his suit jacket ripped and his tie hanging to one side.
Dowland didn’t bother to wait. He struck Zander across the cheekbone with the barrel of his Beretta, hard enough to break bone and tear skin and hear the wailing of this weak man now that he wasn’t sneaking up on him in the darkness.
“Get out,” Dowland told him. The large knife he had brought was folded in his pocket, but part of him wanted to use it. Especially for what Zander had done to his ear.
“I said get out. There. Go over there and kneel.”
Zander did as he was told. Sweat covered his forehead as the gash against his cheek gushed blood. He knelt as he was told, holding his arms above his head.
Dowland looked around to see if there were any houses within sight but saw none. He walked over to Zander and shoved the top barrel of his gun into his ear.
“I’m going to ask you this one question,” Dowland said as he jammed the Beretta forward so Zander would be forced to lift his big head up. “Who sent you?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because men like you never take the initiative themselves.”
Zander spit out curse words along with blood. Dowland only dug the barrel deeper into his ear, seeing some of the skin tear.
“Look at me. Look at me! You’ve met death today, and you’re staring him in the face, and the only last words I want you to utter are the first and last name of who sent you. Tell me now.”
Dowland needed to know. Just to make sure.
Laughter. First barely audible coming from Zander, then trembling aloud, then suddenly convulsing into a shivering tornado. The laughter was soon joined with more mocking curses. “Here’s a parting gift to you,” Zander said. “One you’ll love. One you already know. Kam sent me. She told me to kill you. Not just warn you but kill you. She hates you that much to plead with someone to execute you.”
For a moment Dowland froze, expecting this information but still aching inside. No, it can’t be true. How could she? He’s lying. She would never do something like this. The moron crawling around in the ditch beneath him coughed up more blood and continued to laugh.
Dowland pressed the trigger. Then pressed it again. Then again. And again. As he stared at the mess on the ground at his feet, he could feel the emotion pulsing through him. His right arm shook, and he had to take deep breaths to get control of his anger.
Looking into the sky, he sucked in air and let it out again. She really did do it. The love of his life and the woman he would take back today without any question hated him so much she had gotten someone to do the very thing he did for a living.
Zander’s laugh had shown him that Kamaria had told him enough. He knew that Dowland would never hurt her, would never touch her. His fury would have to be bottled and thrown into the sea and set adrift.
The same love so ripe with passion can become so raw with hate.
Dowland couldn’t—wouldn’t—hurt her. But he knew how to answer this wonderfully sweet valentine from her. He was going to make the rest of her life a living nightmare. The worst kind of hurt doesn’t break your skin but crushes your soul.
I still know you, and you think you know me, but you have no clue.
Nobody knew him, and that was a good thing.
Nobody needed to see all the darkness residing in his shattered soul.
8.
“You still seek the soul you think you miss.”
Dowland wished the man speaking through the Autoveh was present so he could reach over and punch him in the mouth.
“Stop talking like Yoda with a German accent,” Dowland said.
Mel Bohmer’s laughter echoed in Dowland’s head, somehow louder than any song he might be playing.
“See, this is why you’re the man for this.”
“The man for what?”
“The man to do the necessary dirty work,” Mel said to him.
“And why is that?”
“Because you can’t help but be yourself, Mr. Dowland. And you can’t help but be honest, even to men like me.”
“We’re all going to die one day. Nobody’s immortal. Not even powerful men like you.”
“I agree, though at times I feel some of my associates actually consider themselves immortal.”
“Immoral, yes, but you can’t add a t to it.”
“Your passion is your wound, Dowland. You temper it with your vices and use it with your profession.”
“Is this a counseling session?”
“No, this is an intervention, and I’m the only one here who cares one bit about you. There’s something fascinating about your savagery, Dowland. About the absolute out-of-hand way you approach life.”
“That’s why you employ me,” he said.
“We could find any sort of lowlife who can show instability and absolute chaos. But you— It’s different with you. And this isn’t the first time I’ve vouched for you.”
Dowland wanted to tell him to stop being so wonderfully charitable, but he had enough common sense not to say this.
“I’m fine with your habits, with how you need to cope,” Mel continued. “I’ve never killed a man with my own hands, so I can’t imagine what it would feel like. I’ve imagined this too. Many times. But I kno
w I’d be afraid when it came time. I couldn’t. So the weight of what you carry with you— I’m sure I can’t imagine that. But the reason we pay you and not some insane thug is because you can carry that. And look and act normal.”
It was two hours after Dowland had officially ended Zander’s pathetic life on the side of a road. He had done the necessary job of cleaning up the situation, getting rid of both the body and the car. He didn’t have to worry about the authorities; Dowland had to worry about men like Mel.
“These little messes you continue to make on the way, like this morning—they have to stop. You can blow off steam and get into barroom fights or go off on benders. That’s fine. But this morning is a no-no. These are the things that can leave breadcrumbs for those who might be so bold as to follow them. You cannot risk the vitality of what’s at stake here. I’m stepping out again and vouching for you. I won’t do it again if you do something else stupid like that.”
“I understand,” Dowland said.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“No witty retort. I think, perhaps, you do get it.”
“I’ve always gotten it. It’s just that sometimes the better parts of me—or I should say the lesser parts of me—drown out reason and rationale. This won’t happen again.”
There was a pause from Mel, and then he eventually spoke. “I, too, would fight to get her back. A woman like her is a miracle. She is a diamond in this charcoal world.”
“I agree.”
“Yes, but you decided long ago to light the charcoal around her with gasoline, torching everything. Sometimes you have to accept what nature gives you. The fire and the ice.”
“I understand,” Dowland lied.
“Tomorrow a plane will take you to your next destination.”
He didn’t ask where, nor did he ask what he was supposed to do once he arrived. All he did was utter two very familiar words. “Sounds good.”
He tapped the surface of the Autoveh’s console as the robot driver pretended to navigate the car. For a moment he opened his palms and looked at them.
These are the hands that have done nothing right. The limbs that have done far too much wrong.
They weren’t finished either. They still had a great deal to do.
SIX
The Beginning of the End
1.
For the first time since meeting him, Cheyenne saw Jazz looking worried. That casual and carefree attitude he first carried was gone.
“There’s no question. We’re being followed.”
They hadn’t spoken much since getting in the Hummer and driving, first around snow-covered roads that snaked and sneaked through the endless Rocky Mountains, then as they arrived on a long stretch of highway that made her eyes droop and her mind drift off for a while in the morning light. Since waking up, Cheyenne hadn’t bothered asking Jazz more questions. She couldn’t help thinking of the painting in his bedroom titled The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
As Cheyenne looked out her window at the side-view mirror, she spotted the nondescript gray vehicle that resembled many of the other commuters on the highway. She recalled seeing it half an hour ago.
“Are they following you or me?” Cheyenne asked.
“Right now there’s only a ‘you’ they know about. But that might change soon after they scour every inch of space back at the bunker. Somehow they’re tracking you.”
“How?”
Jazz shook his head. “We solve that after we figure out how to get rid of our tail.”
“How do we do that?” she asked.
After thinking for a few moments, Jazz began to look at the dashboard of the Hummer. Then he turned a few times to peek at the back. His eyes moved back and forth, and then his demeanor changed as he appeared amused.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“God has a funny sense of humor,” Jazz said. “I’m thinking of the guys I got this vehicle from. Sketchy dudes. This Hummer isn’t registered. It’s off the market, off the grid, off everything. They used it to smuggle drugs and guns.”
“Friends of yours?”
He shook his head and chuckled. “Just people I met along the way in my other world. Look, they can’t see in here because of the tinted windows. Are you claustrophobic?”
“Umm…I’m a bit frightened to answer that.”
“Seriously. Yes or no.”
“No. Tight spaces don’t frighten me.”
“Okay, good.” Jazz continued looking in his rearview mirror. “We’re going to get off at the next rest area coming up in about ten miles. I want whoever is following us to come by and take a peek into the vehicle.”
“Are you crazy? Why?”
“They’re looking for you, not me,” Jazz said. “So they’re not going to find you.”
“Where will I be?”
“A place claustrophobic people would really, really hate. But you gotta get inside it while I’m driving.”
Cheyenne thought for a moment. “Would it be a place large enough for drugs and guns?”
“Yes. Lots of them.”
2.
She barely fit into the space in the back cargo area of the vehicle. Cheyenne had to perform some magic to figure out how to get the floor panel off, climb inside, and then position the panel back over her. Inside the small space was a rubberized area three feet long and three feet wide but only twelve inches deep.
“Wish you weren’t so tall,” Jazz said as she shifted the seats in the back in order to move the floor panel.
“Blame it on my Comanche heritage. They were supposedly among the taller Native American tribes.”
“Obviously that was on your mother’s side. I’ve seen your father, and that boy don’t look like no Comanche.”
She could only laugh, having heard that before. Cheyenne did a trial run, slipping into the narrow enclosure, curling up in a ball sideways, and tightening her arms and legs to her sides.
“Good thing I’m so flexible,” she said to Jazz.
“Can you stay like that for a while?”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
“Wait until I’ve stopped,” he said. “I’ll only have a few seconds to close the panel before they can see what’s happening.”
Right after parking in front of the building at the rest area and turning off the engine, Jazz scrambled over the seats and shoved the floor panel exactly in place. As he did, she suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“Are you okay?” his muffled voice asked.
She calmed herself, taking slow and steady breaths. Soon it was fine. “Yeah,” she said as loud as she could.
She wondered how thoroughly the person following her would search the vehicle.
Ten minutes into hiding she heard the tapping on the window, as Jazz predicted. The stereo was playing a rap song, and since the bass was right next to her, she felt as if she were one of the speakers throbbing in the back of the Hummer. At first the music continued, as if Jazz hadn’t heard the knocking. Then the knocking became pounding. The music went off, and the door opened.
Soon she could hear him talking to two other voices. For a moment the conversation was muffled, but then the hatch opened. She could feel the cold breeze slipping into the interior of the Hummer.
“Where are you going?” a man asked Jazz. “Where’s the woman with you?”
“I told you guys. It’s just me.”
A hand patted the top of the floor right above Cheyenne’s head.
Surely they’ll know. They’ll figure out I’m in here.
Breathing became difficult again. She tried to move but couldn’t and became a little more panicked with each passing second.
What if they take Jazz away and I’m stuck inside here? The thought seemed
to suck out any remaining oxygen. She wanted to wipe the sweat off her face, but she couldn’t move her arms. Calm down, Cheyenne. Relax. Smooth and steady.
“What’s a guy like you doing driving something like this?” a woman asked Jazz.
“What are you saying? That a young black man can’t afford a classic Hummer?”
“It’s unregistered, just like you are,” the woman said. “Want to tell us exactly what you’re doing in New Mexico?”
We’re in New Mexico? That was news to Cheyenne.
“Wanna tell me exactly why it’s any of the FBI’s business?” Jazz asked, imitating the stereotype of a scary gang member from the hood.
“The only business to worry about is the sort you’re going to find when you’re stuck in a prison cell,” the male said to Jazz.
“Why do you look familiar?” the woman asked.
“I sound even more familiar,” Jazz said.
When the beatbox sounds began, Cheyenne tried to understand what she was hearing since the music was so machinelike and artificial sounding. Then the voice started singing, or more like rapping, and Jazz’s voice sounded lower and soulful.
“They take it away, you take it away, we take it away, that’s just the way,” Jazz sang out before his beatbox sounds began again. “Or how about this one? ‘Show you black and you see the night, show you white and you see sacred light. I spent a life studying the mirror, but the picture’s no clearer.’ ”
Both of the FBI agents suddenly began talking. The man was laughing, and the woman’s tone changed to one of surprise.
Cheyenne had trouble believing it, but her sarcastic self told her it could certainly be the truth. Of course Jazz is the hip-hop and rap star named License. Perhaps she would have realized that if she listened to more music or knew more about pop culture, but then again, she hadn’t heard much from the megastar for the last few years.
Because he’s been hiding away in a bunker.
“So how’d you get involved with this?” the female agent asked him, her tone light and friendly now.
American Omens Page 14