“Hey, Mac, I told you to move it.” The receiving clerk made a sweeping motion with his hand like I was an insignificant piece of rubbish, something easily brushed away. But I kept my cool; to this guy I was just a uniform.
“Sorry, I’m new on the route.”
“Yeah, that’s what the gate guard said. Now, goddamn it, Chip, go get the milk.”
I started to turn, but took one more glimpse inside. The choral group on the TV was gone, replaced by a familiar figure, the guy I’d met at Hazel Farris’ church, J. Billy Bickerton, the part-time preacher and owner of the Holy Spirit Network. He was pacing back and forth across the stage, his hand clutching the mike. He whipped the cord around behind him until it became a skinny black snake that followed in his steps, ready to jump up and bite him on the ass. The teens in the kitchen turned and gazed at the screen. They stood mesmerized, listening intently to Bickerton’s bombastic sermon. I couldn’t make out what he was shouting about but, of course, I didn’t care. I turned and hurried back to my truck.
Since this was the last stop on the route, I didn’t have to check the order sheet. I just loaded everything remaining in the truck on the dolly and wheeled it over to the receiving clerk.
Clipboard in hand, he checked the order. “Hey, are you trying to pad your commission?”
“No, why?”
“You got an extra case of butter here. We ain’t paying for butter we didn’t order.”
“Got a new promotional deal. Fourth Monday of the month, free case of butter.”
“It’s only the third Monday.”
“Our mistake, take the butter.”
I was eager to get inside the commissary. I wanted to poke around while unloading the order. If I spotted Jane, I’d have to figure out how to get her aside and explain the plan I’d worked out in my mind, the plan to get her off the base, the plan where I’d rescue her without getting shot. The plan was a simple one. I’d somehow hide her in the truck and drive through the gate. I had everything worked out-everything but the details.
The receiving clerk gave me a look but stepped aside. I pushed the dolly past him into the kitchen. The TV was still going full blast, but some guy standing in front of a lectern pounding a bible had replaced Bickerton.
My eyes combed the room studying faces: blank faces, faces of kids without passion or vivacity. These kids moved and acted like zombies, like the walking dead I’d seen in the B-movies of the ’50s at the Gage Drive-In Theater, I Was a Teenage Deadhead, or something.
“Over there,” someone said. A teenage boy with blond hair cut short wearing a rubber apron, leaned listlessly against a washing sink. He pointed to the walk-in refrigerator door cut into the wall beyond a bank of several mixing machines.
“Thanks, buddy.” I started maneuvering the dolly through the tables. “Give me a hand, okay? I got a sore back.” My ribs were sore, but that’s not why I asked for help. I wanted him to move close to me, close enough so I could quietly ask about Robbie and Jane.
The kid ambled over to the cooler. He grabbed the latch and yanked the door open. “In here,” he said in a flat voice. “I’ll unload the stuff.”
When I got to the door, he took the dolly from me and I followed him into the cold, darkly lit room. The kid bent and lifted the cartons. Shelves lined the walls behind him.
“Do you know Robbie Farris, a kid who lived out here for a while?” I said in a low voice.
He wagged his head from side to side and kept on working.
“How about Jane Simon?”
The kid stopped in mid-turn, stood stock still for a moment, then slowly turned to me. His face was white.
“Who are you?” he asked.
CHAPTER 29
From the look on his face, I knew he didn’t believe I was the milkman, so I took a chance. “I’m here to help her. My name’s Jimmy.”
The kid set the crate down. “She told me you were going to save her. She said you were coming for her.”
“What? How did she know that?”
“You’re her guardian angel, aren’t you? She said you were.”
“I’m just a guy who wants to help her… and maybe she can help me too.”
“Hey, I’ve never heard of an angel named Jimmy.”
“Look, kid, I’m not an angel-guardian, cherubim, seraphim, or even an L.A. Angel.”
I sensed a presence and glanced over my shoulder. The receiving clerk, hands in his pockets, stood braced against the freezer door jamb. I didn’t know what he’d heard. I stiffened up. The kid went back to stacking the milk crates.
“Hey, Saint Butterfat, what’s going on? The dishes are stacking up, and you’re jawboning with my dishwasher about angels. The Reverend gives the sermons around here.” He waved a hand. “Get back to the sink, Ariel. You know better than to talk to this guy. Angel Gabriel here is paid to unload his own stuff.”
The guy had obviously heard the part about angels, but it seemed he hadn’t overheard me asking about Jane.
The kid fled into the kitchen. I made a move to stack the remaining crates, but as the clerk started to turn away, I said, “Gotta use the restroom.” I didn’t know how much time I had here before they suspected I wasn’t really the milkman. I felt this might be the only chance I’d have to take a look around the building.
“All right, but make it snappy. Go out through the kitchen to the hall. Turn right. Men’s room is three doors down.”
I dropped the milk crate and dashed to the door that led from the kitchen into the depths of the building. Instead of turning right, I went left, figuring I’d get a better picture of the place, and if I it was my lucky day, I might spot Jane. But as I jogged along, it dawned on me that I had no clue where I was heading or where she could be.
I paused for a second and glanced around. The hallway, a narrow well-lit corridor, had a cracked, speckled linoleum floor. The walls were plain, covered with a putrid yellow tinge that might’ve originally been painted white but had long aged. Unmarked doors-all of them closed-ran the length of the hall. Scattered at intervals, mounted high on the walls, were more of the TV sets like those I had seen in the kitchen, only smaller. They showed the well-groomed image of Bickerton again booming dire warnings, predictions of eternal torture waiting those who doubted the Word of the Lord. Running to the end where the hallway formed a T, I turned left again.
More unmarked doors, more TVs, and another hall at the end of this one. I turned right this time and kept running. Not a soul was in sight. I tried a doorknob-locked. A few more-they were all locked.
What the hell was I doing here? Jane was supposed to be working in the kitchen. She wasn’t there; the plan was tanking. I’d never find her running through hallways, rattling doors. This hallway alone had a dozen of them, the building had hallways going off in all directions, and there had to be half a dozen buildings in the compound.
A guy could get lost charging around these hallways, all of which were identical, nothing to show me the way back. All of the doors were locked. But what if one wasn’t? If I opened it, did I expect to see Jane standing there? Was I being foolish or what? I had to get back to the commissary. The receiving clerk seemed suspicious to begin with, and if I wasn’t back soon… well, I didn’t want to think about that.
I raced to the end of the hall, hung a right, and skidded around the corner. More of the same; just putrid yellow walls and closed doors.
I kept running and thinking. Maybe behind these locked doors were bedrooms like in a college dorm. Or maybe they were like prison cells. Maybe they all held teens, boys like Robbie and girls like Jane, young kids all locked up in these little cubicles. How many kids were held here? Where did they all come from and what were they doing on this base named after a serpent? Was Bickerton the head snake, or did they just pipe in his verbose diatribes to grant comic relief to the inhabitants? My thoughts whirled as I ran.
More doors, more running, more hallways. Quit thinking, O’Brien. Get back to the kitchen fast before you’re spotted das
hing around these halls like a lunatic turned loose in a maze. I stopped, bent forward at the waist, and placed my hands on my knees, gulping air. But how did I get back to the kitchen?
Hold on, I thought. If there’s a kitchen here, then there has to be a dining room or mess hall close to it. I should have turned right when I left the kitchen, just as the receiving clerk had said. Sure, that’s it. What’s the matter with me? The restrooms would be located next to the mess hall and Jane would be working there, serving the food or cleaning tables just as she’d been doing at the Bright Spot Cafe.
I turned and ran back down the length of the corridor.
Stopping at the end of the hall, I tried to think: left or right? I wasn’t sure, but I took a left and raced to the end of the hallway where it dead-ended at a door with a small window cut into it. I hadn’t gone through any doors to get where I was, so I turned around and headed back.
About halfway down, one of the doors swung open and a boy with a mop and pail emerged. I was moving fast and damn near ran him down, but stopped before we collided. He had on khaki work clothes and appeared to be about sixteen. Now less than a foot away, he jumped when he saw me. Then he gave me a strange look, eyes wide with the brows riding high on his forehead. He eyed me as if I were some kind of alien being.
“Sorry, fella,” I said. “I’m the milk delivery guy, and I’m lost. Which way is the dining room?”
He didn’t answer. He just stood there, stiff, holding the mop in one hand and the pail in the other.
“C’mon, guy, where is it? I kinda lost my way,” I chuckled, a little levity, laughing at my foolishness.
He turned and pointed, shook his finger once or twice, then angled his hand and pointed to the left. Down the hall, then turn left was what he said with his finger.
“What’s the matter? You can’t speak?” I asked.
The kid shook his head and put his finger over his mouth.
“They won’t let you talk around here, is that it?”
He nodded and silently ambled away, head hung. I stared at his back as he made his way down the corridor. My God, what kind of weird place is this? Supposed to be a gun club. That’s a laugh. What kind of gun and target shooting club has facilities this huge, sermons blaring from every nook and cranny, and teenaged kids working who moved like zombies? The kids weren’t even allowed to talk. Teenagers in the L. A. County juvenile hall had fewer restrictions than the kids in this loony bin.
In spite of the sermons blaring from the closed-circuit TVs, I was sure this place wasn’t a Christian drug rehab center. Real Christians didn’t treat people like slaves and they didn’t have gun turrets on their facilities. I jogged to the end of the hall and rounded the corner in the direction the kid had indicated.
I stopped dead my tracks.
Three men were walking toward me, the two thugs who had attacked me at my carport and the redneck brute I’d seen sitting with Ben Moran at the Bright Spot Cafe. Moran had called him Buddy; I’d call him the Bear. They were talking to one another and hadn’t noticed me yet, but I figured if the Bear recognized me, he’d do more than just give me a growl.
I spun on my heel and scurried back to where I had just come from. I turned the corner and kept walking, stiff-legged, down the corridor. They’d seen me, I was sure, but I didn’t think they recognized me and silently prayed that they’d turn the opposite way when they reached the T. Was the blind guy correct when he said people didn’t notice guys in uniforms while going about their tasks?
A voice shouted, “Hey, you! You in the white uniform, what are you doing here? This area is off-limits.” Nope, the blind guy was full of crap; they noticed me.
The three guys turned toward me. I knew this was going to be trouble.
“You deaf, or what? Stop, I’m talking to you.” I pretended not to hear Buddy Bear’s angry demand and kept walking.
I picked up my pace some more and marched with alacrity straight down the hall. If they decided to push it, where could I go from here?
“Get him, boys!”
They decided to push it, so I ran.
I rounded the first corner I came to and heard the pounding of my pursuers’ boots hammering the floor. Buddy Bear’s voice echoed behind me: “Give it up, O’Brien. Yeah, we know who you are. You’ll never get outta here.”
I shot a quick glance over my shoulder. The goons appeared to be gaining.
“Last chance, asshole,” one of them shouted.
Head down, legs pumping, fight or flight…I choose flight. How do you fight an army of gun-toting bastards on their own turf? I ran with adrenaline valves wide open, the energy coursing through my system.
I slipped and skidded around another turn, then made a mad dash for the end of the hallway. Unmarked doors flickered past as I continued to run flat out. In a few seconds, I reached the end of the corridor and turned right. I didn’t look behind me. I didn’t want to waste the energy, but I sensed that they were getting closer.
A shot rang out!
“Jesus Christ!” I cried as the slug whizzed by my head and slammed into the wall. These sons-of-bitches meant business.
Another shot. The explosion reverberated in my skull.
If only I could find an exit somewhere and get outside of the building, out into the open, I might be able to make it to the truck and hit Sol’s panic switch, the one on that stupid beeper. But what could Sol do with only two of his men? What chance would we have against an unknown number of armed hoodlums?
The blasts were deafening; two more quick bursts, this time from an automatic weapon. The slugs ricocheted off the walls and buzzed around me like angry bees as I ran a zigzag pattern, racing for the hallway intersection. One more gunshot. Everything slowed. My legs were iron stumps. I moved dreamlike, reaching out for the next corner in this labyrinth of mindless hallways.
I made it to an intersection and drifted left this time. Real time came flashing back, and the certainty of my fate knocked at my consciousness: nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Enough! I stood flat, hard against a wall. Looking down I noticed blood splatter, droplets gathering around my feet. I had been hit, and suddenly I felt a searing pain on my right side just below the ribcage. I ripped open my shirt. The wound was a deep gash. The slug hadn’t hit anything important, just tissue. The seepage was already diminishing, but the pain wasn’t. I’d live-this time.
I clenched my fist into a tight steel hammer, my knuckles protruding like solid ball bearings. The first guy to show his head was going to get slammed in the face. I might connect and get one guy down before another one shot me. But then again, I might not be so lucky.
I waited, sweat gushing from every pore, gulping down oxygen as if I were a drowning man. The seconds ticked away, the clock in my brain running on frenzied, disjointed gears. I stood there with every muscle quivering. “C’mon, you rotten bastards, let’s get this over with.”
The footfalls retreated, and as time crept by it became apparent that someone had called off the storm troopers. They must have reverted to plan B-seal off the corridors and gradually close in on me from all directions.
What could I do? Nothing, just stand there and wait for the inevitable. It became very quiet.
I almost jumped out of my skin. A voice was calling me, a small lyrical voice, one that I recognized. I cranked my head to the left and saw her standing next to an open doorway a few yards down the hall. Jane was beckoning to me.
CHAPTER 30
“Jimmy, don’t be frightened. Come this way.”
I quickly scurried to her side. “Jane! I’ve been looking for you, but you found me.”
“Ariel told me you were here. Now look, there’s no time. Come this way, hurry. If they catch you, they will kill you.”
She turned and led me through the doorway, into another narrow passage, at the end of which was an opening that led to the yard outside of the building. Okay, I’d still be on the base, but at least they wouldn’t corner me in these hallways. I might have a chance in the y
ard. “This is where they let the dogs in at night,” she said.
“Dogs?”
“Guard dogs. They unleash them and the dogs roam the halls at night.”
“Why?”
“So the kids won’t leave their dorms after lockdown. Won’t wander in the halls and try to leave this place. That’s why they couldn’t turn the dogs loose on you. They’d go after the kids working in the building, too.” She pushed the door open. “The kennels are on the left, so you go right.”
I peered out into the yard. The sunlight was intense. Heat waves shimmered above the blacktop in the distance. I could see the kennel she was referring to, about a hundred feet to the left. A dozen or so Dobermans lolled in the heat, protected by an open front lean-to inside a wire mesh fence.
“Will you come with me?” I said to Jane. “If we can get to my truck…” I was about to tell her how I could ram the gate, and about the panic switch and how Sol would, somehow, help get us out of here, but she cut me off in mid sentence.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ll catch you unless I draw them off. I’ll go and disturb the dogs. Their barking will bring the guards. Keep down and crawl to the right, around to the front of building. As soon as you hear the dogs, make a run for it. Maybe you’ll have a chance.”
“What about you? I can’t let you get caught helping me.”
“I’ll be gone by the time they get there. Don’t worry, they won’t see me.”
“Tell me about Robbie,” I said.
“He’s not here. They’ve taken him away. Now, hurry. Go!”
She took off running and glanced back once. Our eyes locked for a moment before she disappeared around the corner of the building.
I took a quick look in both directions and saw no guards, just a couple of teenage girls listlessly sweeping the yard. They seemed oblivious to what was going on.
I crept, crablike, along the length of the building, keeping below the line of barred windows lining the wall. When I reached the northwest corner, I stopped and peeked around the edge. The milk truck was still parked there, backed up to the loading dock, about fifty yards away, exactly where I had left it.
The Brimstone Murders jo-2 Page 17