I began going over everything I’d been told so far, hunting for a lead that might ID him.
* * * *
Slow, soft footsteps creeping toward me. Then a noisy rush.
Flash of light. Pain, pain, pain.
Chains pulling at me.
I wasn’t dreaming; it was another hideous, very real flashback.
* * * *
HY RIPINSKY
H
e waited under the shelter of the Cessna’s high wing, in his tie-down space at Oakland Airport’s North Field. The afternoon was clear but windy—windy enough to make the wings of the neighboring aircraft, a homebuilt, creak and groan. After a while a man cut through the rows of planes and approached him: near six feet five, heavily muscled, wearing a brown leather flight jacket as battered as Hy’s own and a plain blue baseball cap pulled low on his forehead.
Len Weathers, an acquaintance from the old days in Bangkok. Weathers kept a Cessna Citation here at the field, and Hy and he had exchanged nods over the years, but they’d never spoken. Neither wanted to acknowledge those old days, and Hy didn’t want to acknowledge Weathers because of what it was rumored he’d become.
The word was that Weathers freelanced as an enforcer for various unsavory elements in California and Nevada. Among his alleged services were kidnapping and murder for hire. The same forces that had operated in Southeast Asia during the post-Vietnam era—greed, ruthlessness, and preying upon the weak and helpless—had affected both him and Hy in vastly different ways. Hy had returned with a load of guilt and nightmares enough to last his lifetime and—in time—a desire to make the world a better place. Weathers had continued in an ugly, downward spiral.
Hy had been certain he’d never again exchange a word with Len Weathers. But now he needed one of the man’s services.
Weathers ducked under the wing. Shook Hy’s hand. Said, “I understand you’ve got a problem.”
Hy had relayed his desire to talk with Weathers through one of the line men at the fuel pumps.
“Yeah,” he replied. “My wife—”
“I know what happened to your wife.”
“Her agency and I are working on finding whoever did it.”
“How does that concern me?”
“It doesn’t until we find the person.”
Their eyes met and held, each man taking the other’s measure. Hy flashed back to Bangkok: Weathers had been a hotdog pilot for K-Air, the flight service Hy was employed by, and a tough man. But there’d been a good-natured, humorous side to him. Now there was no trace of that; he was cold and hard and exuded the scent of danger.
Weathers also had not aged well; although he was only in his forties, his face was deeply lined. A scar from a knife fight in Bangkok cut crazily across his forehead, and Hy had noticed a limp as he approached. A few more years and he’d look like an old man.
What happened to you, Weathers? What happened to me that I’d be standing here about to ask you to do this thing?
Well, he knew what had happened to him. McCone had been shot and might die.
“Okay,” Weathers said after a moment. “You want me to take him or her out?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because this person is mine. But I want to know if I can call on you if there’s a problem.”
“Call on me any time you want. I’ve got to warn you—I don’t come cheap.”
“I don’t care about price; it’s dependability I’m after.”
“Deal.” Weathers held out his hand.
Hy took it, thinking, My God, I feel as if I’m shaking hands with the Devil.
* * * *
CRAIG MORLAND
H
e’d spent the afternoon replaying the videos he’d taken from Harvey Davis’s condo. Young women and major players in state and city politics, engaging in all sorts of explicit sex acts. No clue as to who the women were—save one—but surprise and outright shock about the male participants. By the time the doors opened and closed in the rooms to either side of him, he felt both grim and outraged. Dirty all over again.
He picked up the earpieces to the listening devices he’d earlier installed.
Supervisor Amanda Teller sighed, unzipped her travel bag, and ran a bath.
Representative Paul Janssen went out for ice, opened a bottle and poured into what sounded like one of the plastic glasses provided in the bathroom. A chair groaned.
Teller bathed. Janssen drank. Craig fiddled with the volume on the earpieces and their connections to his recorders.
The phone rang in Janssen’s room. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”
Noises from Janssen’s room; his door closed and his footsteps went toward Teller’s unit. He tapped on the door, and seconds later was admitted.
“Good trip down?” she asked.
“As if you care.”
“No need to be hostile in these beautiful surroundings.”
“Why not? Did you hear about Harvey Davis being killed?”
“Yes. Poor man.”
“That’s all you can say? Don’t you understand what his murder means to you and me?”
“Suppose you spell it out.”
“Harvey knew, or maybe only suspected, what was going on. But he was an insatiable information gatherer; the reason he was shot is that they knew he had those videos. If they know you’ve figured it out—”
“Don’t be nonsensical, Paul. I didn’t tell Harvey anything he didn’t need to know.” Teller paused, and there was a rustling of papers. “I have the document right here. I’ll go over it with you.”
“I’m perfectly able to read legal documents by myself.”
“Whatever.”
Silence. Pages being turned.
“This clause—it’s vaguely worded.” Janssen.
“Let me see...Oh, yes, of course. Go ahead and insert clearer wording and initial it.”
“All right—you bitch.”
“Paul, do you have to be so unpleasant? Let’s have a drink—I have a bottle of good single malt.”
“I wouldn’t drink with you—”
“But you used to.”
“Much to my disadvantage.”
“You should learn to hold your liquor a lot better.”
“There are many things I should learn. You too, Amanda.”
“Meaning?”
“You think you’ve pulled off a big coup, but these people are dangerous. Consider what they did to Harvey.”
“You’re an alarmist, my dear. The document will remain safe with me, so long as you hold up your end of the bargain. Speaking of that... ?”
“The transfer will take place Monday morning.”
“Good. Now sign the document.”
“Gladly. It may be your death warrant.”
“You know, Paul, you really ought to get some help for your paranoia. It’s beginning to cloud your judgment and make you unpleasant to deal with.”
“I ought to tear this up and shove it up your ass!”
“Just sign it.”
A long pause and then, “Done.”
“How about that drink now?”
“I’d sooner drink with Hitler.”
“Whatever.”
A chair moved. Footsteps went toward the unit’s door.
Teller said, “In spite of your insults and acid tone, it’s been a pleasure.”
“Go to hell!”
Door opening and closing. Janssen returning to his room.
Teller was silent. Then Craig heard her laughing softly.
Something thudded into the wall between Janssen’s unit and his.
“Filthy bitch! Cunt! I hope to God you get yours!”
In her room, Teller was pouring a drink. Then she called a pizza delivery service. No sound except ice clinking and liquor pouring from either unit until the pizza arrived. Then Janssen’s room went totally silent, and Teller switched on the TV to a cop drama. Craig ate the deli sandwich he’d brought with him, continued to monitor
both rooms, and when the TV went off in Teller’s, he went to bed with the earpieces on.
He’d been up since seven on Friday morning, and he sank immediately into a deep sleep.
* * * *
SUNDAY, JULY 20
* * * *
MICK SAVAGE
I
t was after midnight, but he couldn’t sleep. He wished he’d brought along a good book. TV was miserable at this hour.
He’d followed Craig to Big Sur on an impulse, and now he considered the foolishness of it. If Craig found out, he’d be pissed and probably never let him assist in any of his lines of investigation. And he’d heard nothing from the next room but the door opening and closing, a muted conversation, the door opening and closing again.
What a super sleuth he was. No good in the field. That was why Shar kept him chained to his desk.
Shar...
He had the Brandt Institute’s number on speed dial. He pressed the button and, when someone answered, asked about his aunt’s condition. No change, but she’d had a few visitors and, while tired, had seemed to enjoy them. Was Mr. Ripinsky there? Mick asked. No, he’d left a while ago.
No change. Would there ever be a change?
Had to be!
Mick booted up his laptop and began—obsessively, as he had ever since he’d been told of Shar’s diagnosis—to search sites about locked-in syndrome. When that yielded nothing new, he put in a disc of a favorite film—The X-Files: I Want to Believe—hoping it would lull him to sleep.
* * * *
Pop!
The sound brought him awake slowly, as if he were surfacing from the depths of a swimming pool.
Another pop, then silence. A door, the one to his unit’s left, swung closed on squeaky hinges. He was off the bed and fully alert within fifteen seconds.
Outside it was still dark and a chill sea wind blew fog inland. At first Mick saw no one, then another door opened and a man stepped out. Craig. His astonished eyes connected with Mick’s; he rushed over, grabbed him by the elbow, and shoved him back into his room.
“What the hell’re you doing here?” Craig demanded.
“Same thing you are. What’s happened?”
“I don’t know. A popping sound in the next unit—could’ve been a gunshot.”
“I heard it, too.”
Craig peered through the partially opened door, his head swiveling from right to left. “Don’t think anybody else did. No lights, no people anywhere.”
“Then let’s check it out.”
The door to the unit was unlocked. They pushed through, and Craig nudged the light switch on with his elbow.
Two figures lay sprawled on the bed, naked. They were facing each other, and their heads were destroyed, blood and brain matter splattered on the linens, headboard, and wall. The man held a gun in his limp hand, and the smell of cordite was strong in the small room. No signs of a struggle, just two people ... shot. Shot dead.
Mick reeled back, gagging, and left the room. Leaned against the railing of the walkway, his head down, breathing heavily. Sweat chilled on his forehead, and he swallowed hard to keep the rising bile down.
God, now he knew why all those nightmares plagued Shar. That scene in the motel room would haunt him till the day he died.
Craig was still inside. After a few seconds he came out, obviously shaken, looked quickly around, and once again dragged Mick into his room. “You okay?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“I know, guy, but we’ve got to move fast. That’s Amanda Teller and Paul Janssen in there. Supposed to look like a murder-suicide.”
“My God! The supervisor and the state representative?”
“Uh-huh. What I’ve been working on.” Craig’s mouth pulled down grimly. “The shit’s going to hit the fan in a big way when their bodies’re discovered, and we don’t want to get splattered with it.”
Mick didn’t focus on what Craig had said. He asked, “Were they having an affair?”
“No. This was a business meeting. And I think they were murdered and placed like that to make it look like a suicide pact. My damn surveillance tapes must’ve run out while I was sleeping. The pops we heard indicate the gun was equipped with a silencer, but it’s gone now.”
“Man, we better call the police.”
Craig shook his head. “No, neither of us wants to be here when they’re found. And that won’t be for a few hours. Since nobody but us heard the shots, it’s safe enough to take off, put some distance between this place and us. We’ll meet up at Monterey. I know a diner there that’s always open.”
The thought of food made Mick’s stomach lurch and he grimaced.
“Hold on,” Craig said. “I know you want to puke, but you’ll be surprised how fast your appetite comes back. Besides, you gotta eat. Now, here’s what you do: you’ve paid in advance?”
“Yes.”
”Registered under your own name?”
”No.”
”Good. Leave the key in the room, roll your bike out of here and up the highway a ways before you start it. The diner in Monterey is called Lulu’s, on Munras Avenue. Wait there for me.”
”You’re not leaving yet?”
“Pretty quick. There’re a few things I’ve got to do.”
Mick stood still, numb. Craig gave him a nudge. “Go. Get your stuff and leave now!”
* * * *
SHARON McCONE
M
a arrived on Hy’s arm at ten in the morning. She was wearing a smart blue dress and carrying a bunch of yellow roses—my favorites. But when she looked at me she started to cry and Hy, rolling his eyes, helped her into the chair and took the flowers.
“Can I touch her?” Ma asked him through her tears.
“Of course. She can see you and hear you. You can look into her eyes and ask her yes-or-no questions. One blink yes, two blinks no.” He sounded weary, as if he’d repeated this to her many times. “I’m going to get a vase for the roses.”
He fled. Ma started to cry. She’d cried all through dinner with Hy last night, he’d told me. The hell of it was, I couldn’t put out my arms to hold her, or say something funny that would soon jolly her out of it. The past thirteen days had defined the word “impotence” in depth for me.
Hy came back, removed the dark red roses he’d brought me the day before, and replaced them with Ma’s. Their delicate yellow petals reminded me of the ones he’d sent me weekly at the office for years until, as our relationship deepened, he’d changed the standing order to a darker and darker red; they still came—in fact, some might be sitting on my desk at the pier right now.
The pier... No, don’t think about that now. Bad enough to have these jumbled flashbacks.
Suddenly Ma gave a strangled cry and threw herself on my chest. Grabbed my head with both hands and stared into my eyes. “You really are there, my precious baby! I know you are!”
I won’t be if you crush me!
Hy lifted her off and set her back in the chair. “Kay,” he said, “you’ve got to calm yourself. You’re upsetting Sharon.”
Sobs. “How can I upset her? She just lies there and ... Oh!” A wail.
God, I wish I could get up and smack her!
And then, like a messenger of the deity whose name I’d just invoked, my other mother walked into the room. Saskia Blackhawk. She smiled at Hy and me, but went straight to Ma.
“Kay, don’t cry. Sharon’s here with us. Just ask her if she is.”
Ma, her makeup ruined by tears, looked hesitantly at me. “You are with us, aren’t you, darling?”
I blinked yes.
Ma sank back into the chair, then gave me a tremulous smile.
“Kay,” Saskia said, “I noticed a pretty little atrium garden when I came in. Why don’t we go out there and talk about what we’re going to do for our daughter?”
Ma nodded, clearly eager to be out of my presence. Hy watched them go, shook his head, and said, “Thank God Saskia’s plane was on time. I don’t think either
of us could’ve taken much more of that... caterwauling.”
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