Soul Survivor (A Leo Waterman Mystery Book 11)

by G. M. Ford

  By the time I managed to appropriate a seat, the assembled multitude were on to their second round, and gaiety had morphed into bleary-eyed bliss. About the time they started line dancing around the snooker table, I paid for another round and eased out the front door.

  It was two weeks later. Nothing much had changed. I was still feeling like a stranger in a strange land. Seemed like my life had holes drilled in it. Like I couldn’t remember how I used to fill my time before all of this had happened. Rebecca . . . yeah, sure . . . I could feel the empty space. Interestingly, in addition to the sense of loss, I also felt a certain sense of release, but it was more than that. I was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee, ruminating on that very matter, when the gate buzzer rattled my brain.

  The speaker crackled. “Leo, it’s Tim. Open up.”

  I walked to the front of the house, pushed the gate button, opened the front door, and watched a black city car roll up to the front steps. Tim Eagen got out. No driver, meant he didn’t want witnesses to whatever he’d brought to my door.

  “You take the captain’s exam yet?” I asked as he came inside.

  “Studying my ass off,” he said. “Lotta shit’s changed since the last time I went over that stuff. Week or two maybe.”

  We wandered into the kitchen. I poured us each a cup of coffee.

  “To what do I owe the honor of a celebrity visit?”

  “You’re the one’s about to become a celebrity,” he answered.

  “How so?”

  “The FBI’s releasing its report on the white supremacist investigation at five P.M. on Friday on CNN. They’re naming you as a person of interest.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “My newfound status gets me a look at everything ahead of time. Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because they’re pissed, man. They don’t like losing. They really didn’t like the army of attorneys Joey Ortega sicced on them, so they’re gonna put as much pressure on you as they can, see if they can’t get you to change your story.” He shrugged. “Means they don’t have shit too,” he added. “Your girlfriend Gabriella and the old lady from the tavern claimed they didn’t know shit from shoe polish. According to them, they were out for a little spin when they were suddenly attacked by a taco truck. Other than that, they claimed not to know anything.”

  I didn’t speak for a while.

  “So . . . who were these guys climbing over my wall?” I asked finally.

  “We’re thinking it was guys from Everett. Phil Hardaway finds out his father-in-law Art has been to see you and decides they need to put out your lights too.”

  I opened my mouth, but he cut me off. “And it’s worse than that now, Leo,” he said. “Counterterrorism is picking up a lot of online Aryan chatter to the effect that this thing’s gone national. It’s not just a bunch of paranoid yahoos up in Everett jumping the gun anymore. Whoever’s at the top of that Aryan-idiot food chain wants your big ass dead. They’re calling you a race traitor and a nigger lover. They want to make an example of you. Offering fifty grand for anybody who puts you under the sod.”

  “Only fifty?”

  “This isn’t funny, man.”

  “Nothing about hate is funny.”

  “Don’t you get it, man? The Bureau’s using you for bait, Leo. Hoping that if they embarrass those Aryan assholes, they’ll do something stupid like killing your ass. Hoping they can catch ’em in the act. Maybe turn somebody, get something that way. As far as they’re concerned, no matter what happens, they got nothing to lose.”

  “Hardly a sustainable future for me.”

  “No shit,” Eagen said. “I saw some of the printed material those guys had. They’re out of their goddamn minds. Ya can’t stop a killer who doesn’t care whether he gets out alive or not.” He cut the air with the side of his hand. “Not possible. Best case scenario, you both die. They’re nutcases.”

  “Actually, Tim, they’re a lot like Matthew Hardaway,” I said. “They’re searching for a community, a sense of purpose, anything that makes them feel like they’re part of something. You give them a chance to blame their problems on somebody else, and they will. It’s basic human nature, and worse yet, from there it’s just a short step to ‘it’s the government,’ or ‘it’s the Jews,’ or anybody other than them.”

  “Caribbean vacation time, Leo. Go down there and soak up some sun with Carl and the reggae twins. Maybe something’ll break on this end.”

  “Can’t live like that.” I shook my head. “Just can’t.”

  “Then you better have your friend Joey send Cinderella and a few friends over to keep an eye on you. Like twenty-four seven.”

  “Can’t live like that either,” I said.

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  It’s true. I’m predictably pigheaded.

  “What are you gonna do?” he asked.

  “Think about it.”

  “I’ll beef up the local street patrol as much as I can get away with, but that’s about all I can do.”

  “Oh . . . man . . . you don’t need to . . .”

  “Shut up.”

  And it’s not like I didn’t take precautions. I had my security company come out and go over everything. The gates, the motion detectors, the lights. A day and a half later the system was deemed state of the art.

  I loaded every weapon in the house and stashed them in places where they might be of use. Even the little derringer my old man used to carry in his watch pocket. I checked the locks on the doors and windows more times than I’m willing to admit.

  Strangest of all, I kept returning to the office safe, where I’d stashed all that money I’d made down in Arizona, selling off a couple of pieces of property owned by one of my old man’s shadow companies—money I’d have gratefully paid the tax on, except that I’d then have to explain to the IRS where the money came from, which would surely open up yet another chapter in my old man’s illicit financial history. Maybe even give the city cause to sue me for the return of the money yet again. I couldn’t bring myself to do that.

  It was like some part of me wanted to grab that money and just start my life over, but another part wasn’t willing to say it out loud. Instead I took it out of the safe several times and fondled it unmercifully. Even rubbed one bundle of cash on my cheek a couple of times. Don’t ask me to explain it.

  My basic plan was to lie low, be safe, and hope that this crap would blow over. These days, nothing stays at the top of the news cycle for long. As a society, we have the attention span of a sparrow. It’s short-attention-span theater. That’s what I was telling myself anyway.

  By the time Friday rolled around, AmazonFresh had delivered me enough supplies to feed an armored division, and I was doing my best to see it didn’t go to waste. I’d also gotten a delivery from the liquor store down in the village and was pretty much prepared for another round of unwanted notoriety.

  I’d decided not to watch the CNN broadcast. The way I saw things, watching wouldn’t serve any purpose other than to raise my blood pressure, so I was binge-watching Goliath when the gate buzzer sounded. I paused Billy Bob, shambled out to the front door, and peeped out. They must have had a Shirley Jacksonish lottery to see which one of them was gonna push the gate button. The kid looked like he was scared to death. Best as I could see through the trees, there were at least four mobile satellite units parked outside my gate.

  I turned the volume on the gate speaker up to “Enter Sandman” volume and used my best Jack Webb voice: “This is private property. Any unauthorized entry is illegal and will immediately be reported to the police and to your employer. I have no statement to make at this time.” Click. Then I turned on the yard lights. They lit the neighborhood up like a ball game. After a while, my neighbors would get pissed and come out to see what was going on, at which point they’d start giving the news crews a raft of shit and calling their attorneys. The wrath of the well-heeled would immediately descend upon their bosses, who would
begin to feel the heat, and after a while, they’d go bye-bye.

  Took a while, though. I’d been through a media siege several times before but never anything quite as insistent as this one. They stayed out there for over a week. Day and night. I did the same thing but on the inside of the fence.

  So, a few days after the last satellite truck disappeared, and dazed and confused Leo Waterman was no longer the story du jour, I walked out to the north wall and boosted myself to the top, where I could survey the street. The street was devoid of assholes, so I moseyed back to the garage, fired up the car, and let myself out the gate.

  It felt like when I was a kid and I’d been home from school for a few days—you know, out with the flu or something—how the world suddenly seems shiny and bright when you’ve been away from it for a while. Felt a lot like when you got let out of jail.

  Mostly I just ran errands and cursed at the traffic. I took it around several blocks and backed into a couple of parking lots, making sure I didn’t have anybody on my tail. Stopped for lunch at the Two Bells Bar & Grill, inhaled a cheeseburger while I caught up on old times with the owner, Jeff Lee.

  It’s a well-known fact that Seattle Parking Enforcement Officers regularly eat their young. I was halfway back to my car when I spotted one of the accursed ones working her way down Fourth Avenue handing out parking tickets like party favors.

  I broke into a dogtrot. Once they started pushing buttons, you were out a hundred fifty-four bucks, no matter what, so I gave it all I had.

  I skidded to a stop beside my car, hopped into the seat, and started her up. When I looked to my right, she was standing there, electronic ticket book in hand, gazing disgustedly at me through the window. I buzzed the window down.

  “You’re four feet onto the red curb,” she said.

  I make it a point not to argue with cops unless I’m already under arrest, at which point all bets are off. So I opened the driver’s door and stepped back into the street to check my parking job. Maybe I hadn’t been paying attention.

  But no. The car wasn’t hanging over the no-parking zone. I turned my head to protest and found myself staring down the barrel of a revolver. Instinctively, I dove for the ground. In the process, I collided with the open driver’s door, slamming it into the murderous meter maid, sending her staggering backward into one of the sidewalk tree wells, where she went down on her ass.

  Without rising, she two-handed a round my way. The window became a thousand individual pieces and waterfalled down into the street.

  I scrambled around the back of the car. Peeked around the corner. Lovely Rita was on her feet and coming my way. I hustled up the passenger side, slid around to the front just in time to see her coming around the rear. She snapped off another round. I kept shuffling to my left. Doing the best I could to keep the engine block between us.

  One thing was for sure—if we played this game of ring-around-the-Chevy for long enough, she was eventually gonna get a clean shot at me. That’s why I was so damn glad to hear alarmed voices bouncing off the buildings. Problem was, my assailant didn’t seem to give a shit. She was still coming.

  I slid left until I bumped into the back of the open door. I pirouetted around the door. She was up at the front, sliding between cars now. I reached into the car and pulled the shift lever down into first gear. The Chevy lurched forward, pinning her between cars. In a spasm of pain and agony, she put two more rounds through the windshield before the pain became too much to bear. I watched her eyes roll back in her head and then heard the pistol slip from her grasp and hit the pavement.

  “They must have followed me,” I said. “I’ve had no established routine for a while now. I don’t go to see Jeff all that often, so it’s not like they could have had the place staked out waiting for me to show up every few months..”

  “That means they’ve got a whole crew someplace around here,” Tim said.

  I’d told my story twice. The cops took notes both times. Half a dozen other witnesses attested to the fact that things had transpired pretty much the way I’d said they had. Plus they had the perp in custody, so the whole thing took less than an hour.

  Tim was smirking. “Glad you’re all right, man.” He snickered. “Though, I’ll tell you, Leo, I wouldn’t have minded watching her chase you round and round the car.”

  “How’s she doing?” I asked.

  “She’ll live,” Tim said. “Mashed sternum. Bunch of broken ribs. Collapsed lung.”

  “She say anything?” I asked.

  “Not a peep. Her prints say her name is Violetta Standish from Norman, Oklahoma. She got three arrests on her sheet. One for hate crime assault. Two for simple assault. She did nine months. At the time of her last arrest, she was homeless.”

  “My old man used to say you should never do business with anybody who has less to lose than you do.”

  “Something called the Spiritual Awakening Alliance is standing by to post bond after her preliminary hearing on Thursday. Regardless of the amount, I’m told.” Tim treated me to his most baleful stare. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What are you gonna do? You can’t just sit up there in that big house and wait for them to try again.”

  “What else is there? Let ’em drive me out of my own home? Run away somewhere and pretend they can’t find me?” I spread my hands in resignation.

  “Caribbean vacation,” Tim suggested again. “Give this thing a few months to settle down. God knows you can afford it. By that time, you’ll have a nice tan, and these assholes will be back to purifying the white race, and they’ll eventually forget you ever existed.”

  When I didn’t say anything, Tim went on, “These kind of hummers aren’t like they used to be, Leo. This is secret-agent racism now. That’s how come all the guys they had scheduled for terrorist raids looked like regular folk and not skinheads. At work, they nod and smile at diversity training sessions and say all the right things. They get themselves promoted into positions of power where they can bring other racists on board and keep nonwhites from getting in. Wasn’t long ago, you told me this crap, I’da thought you’d slipped a cog. Woulda sounded like a bad joke. Not anymore, man. Not anymore.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  He jabbed me in the chest with his finger. “Vacation.”

  The bullet holes in the windshield whistled as I drove. Sounded like “Clair de lune.” On my way home, I either reinvented the concept of clandestine or expanded the perimeters of paranoia—maybe both. Took me an hour to cover the five miles back to my house. I used every dodge I’d ever heard of to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Under the circumstances, I’d probably have felt better if I had spotted somebody on my tail. At least that way I could have done something stupid.

  By the time I rolled into my garage and locked everything in sight, I’d made up my mind. I couldn’t spend the rest of my days backing into alleys and driving to the bottom of parking garages and waiting to see who showed up behind me. Tim had a point about how the alt-right were hidden among us now. Brought to mind an old B movie starring the wrestler Rowdy Roddy Piper, where the United States had been secretly invaded by lizard aliens, but you could see their lizardry only while wearing a special pair of x-ray sunglasses. If I stayed around here, that was what my life was gonna look like. I was gonna spend my days trying to figure out who was a lizard and who wasn’t. With getting it wrong pretty much guaranteed to be fatal.

  I knew there’d be days when I’d hate myself for turning tail and running, but at least I’d still be around to have regrets. So I started making phone calls. Arranging this, arranging that. Hired a security company to keep an eye on the house while I was gone. Called my landscaper and told him where to send the bill. Everything else got paid automatically.

  By the time the sun went down, I had my affairs in order and was ready to pack.

  I rummaged through the upstairs closets until I found my old duffel bag, the one I’d dragged all over Europe thirty years ago.


  I piled the rest of the three hundred Gs from the safe into a perfect cube, but there were two bundles too many, so I stuffed the extras in my pants pockets. The money cube I wrapped in butcher paper and duct-taped it all around. First thing in the bag. Then the clothes, then the shoes and underwear and socks. Finally my toothbrush, razor, and such. My little Smith & Wesson auto felt heavy and warm in my coat pocket.

  I’d decided that figuring out where I wanted to hide out long term was gonna take serious thought, and since I think better when a gun isn’t pointed at the back of my head, my plan was to hitchhike my ass out of here first thing in the morning, soon as the rush hour was over, then take a few days in some roach motel to plan my retreat in a sober and thoughtful manner. Like my life depended on it, which it did.

  I had enough cash to not leave a paper trail, and easy access to whatever else I needed, so I felt pretty confident I could get short-term lost without requiring anybody’s help this time.

  By midnight I was ready to go. Whatever could be done had been done. I only had one loose end and couldn’t make up my mind whether or not to pull it. I sat on the edge of the bed staring down at my cell phone. Reached for it a couple of times but pulled my hand back.

  At one point, I put the phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and got under the covers. Lasted about two minutes. Light on, quick speed dial.

  She picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” Rebecca responded. “Kinda late, don’t you think?”

  “I’m taking a little trip in the morning,” I said. “Won’t be around for a while.”