"Yes. I saw one on HBO." I didn't know where wa were going with this conversation.
"What did you think?"
"I was impressed, he announced what he was going to do before he did it and I still couldn't see him do it. Your point?"
"Don't you see? Chester or D.B, or whoever it is that's after us is that clever, we know he's cheating, but he's so good we can't even catch him cheating. What's the lesson, the lesson is we can't play cards with him. Because he'll always, always end up with the aces, and we won't know how he did it."
"You're making my argument for me, Sawyer, that's all the more reason to head home. Now."
"Without seeing this Victor Garritson? No way, alan, together we have, what, thirty-some-odd years of clinical experience? I spend half my waking hours with sociopaths, either inmates or their lawyers, we'll be able to tell, we'll know if he's the one, alan. It takes something special, some advanced arrogance, some ultimate confidence, to do this. To cheat while the world is watching and know that they can't catch you. I want to look in Garritson's eyes and see if he has it, that arrogance."
"That's all you want to do?"
"You don't believe me?"
I didn't answer, after completing the turn I guided the Taurus into the right lane and pulled into the driveway of the first restaurant I spotted. "I'm hungry," I explained. "Uh-oh;" she responded.
Our waitress could have been Gloria-from-the-airport's little sister. Blond wavy hair and legs up to who knows where. Sawyer ordered a Coke and toast and jam. I ordered a breakfast that Sam would kill for.
Sawyer noticed our waitress's resemblance to Gloria, too. "Our waitress's twin? That girl at the airport? She's sweet on you."
"Sweet on me? What are you talking about?"
"The one with the pleats and the legs."
"Gloria."
"Yes. Gloria. I think she was yours for the asking."
"You think you know about these things?"
"Yeah, That first day I met you, when I saw you walk into Mona's party; I felt the same thing. I was yours for the asking."
"You sure didn't act like it."
" 'Act' is the operative word. You didn't do any asking."
"I was kind of shy."
"You got over it quickly enough."
I was afraid I was blushing. I said. "I'm happily married to a great woman. I'm not shopping around."
She smiled coyly: shrugged and raised her eyebrows.
I wanted to know where she was heading but not as much as I wanted to change the subject. "Before, back on the highway., when I said I was hungry., why did you say, 'Uh-oh'?"
"Because way back when, whenever you wanted to talk, you know, seriously, you always tried to do it over a meal. You did it again last week when we were in Vegas. I wanted to gamble, you wanted to nosh."
I nodded. It was an interesting observation, at first blush, I had to admit it had the ring of truth.
"This time you're right, I guess."
"I'm usually right about the little things."
"Just the little things?"
"Unfortunately." She sipped at her Coke.
I said. "I do have something serious to talk about, that call I made while you were in the hangar? It looks like Sheldon Salgado is dead, Sawyer, he died this morning sometime."
I waited for her to react.
Her eyelids drifted down and her eyes closed, a tear formed in the outer corner of each eye and her shoulders inched up. I reached over and unwrapped her hand from her red plastic glass of Coke and entwined my fingers with hers, the tears dropped one at a time, the left one migrated down her cheek in an uneven path, the right ona fell to her lap.
"What happened?" she said.
Not "What did he do to him?"
I told her about the area where Sheldon lived in the foothills, about the fire overnight, about Sam's call that came with the news that three bodies had been found just as Sawyer was scraping her plane's belly along the runway.
"Three?"
"That's what my friend said."
Sawyer wanted to talk about the third of the three bodies. "You ever meet his baby? Sheldon's baby? She was bom during the first week of the second year of the residency, sheldon and Susie called her Olivia."
"No. I never met her. I wasn't that close to Sheldon, she would be, what, almost sixteen now?"
"Something like that. If she's still alive."
She stared out the window and watched as the driver of an eighteen-wheeler tried to maneuver his rig into a no-prayer space in the small parking lot, her voice devoid of affect, she said. "She was a gorgeous baby, she didn't deserve to die. Olivia."
I said. "I know." What gorgeous baby deserves to die?
Sawyer shook her head and started to cry. I thought she might weep for a moment as the shock of Sheldon's death seeped into her. But her composure evaporated and she dissolved into grief, she lowered her face into hea hands and didn't seem to be able to stop crying.
The rest of the patrons in the restaurant stared at me with rancorous glares, the waitress who resembled Gloria looked as though she would gladly stab my eye out with her pencil.
I realized they all figured I had just dumped Sawyer. I could see the irony distorted in the distance, as if through a thick fog.
TWENTY-FIVE
Sawyer wouldn't be dissuaded from continuing out to Cave Creek to lay eyes on Victor Garritson, she was actually confident that she could pick a killer in disguise out of the crush of humanity at a cocktail party. "I talk to murderers every day. I'll know him after a few minutes. Next left, we're almost there."
I turned left.
Her anguish over the death of Sheldon Salgado and his family had subsided as abruptly as it had flared, the demeanor she adopted after our brief meal reminded me of the one she had worn to keep me at bay emotionally during our training, she wasn't exactly aloof, not exactly cold. But there was no invitation in her tone, no welcome in her smile, she wasn't telling me to go away, she was telling me to stay exactly where I was.
To watch my step.
"You know, he's changing in front of our eyes. Sawyer. This man, this murderer we're after."
"What do you mean? Like a chameleon?"
"No. I'm thinking maybe deterioration, not camouflage, he's losing patience, the, um, rapidity is troubling, he used to take two years or more to plan one of these murders. Now he hits Sheldon and you in the same night, that's a radical change, he's under pressure of some kind, he must be. Why the rush? I think there's little doubt that he's starting to get sloppy, we need to take advantage of his change in mental state."
"All the more reason to confront Garritson now, we can examine that mental state face to face."
"What are you suggesting? I thought we were going to Cave Creek to 'eyeball' Garritson. What's this about confronting him?"
"Semantics," she argued, shaking the map. "Next right, that's his street."
Victor Garritson lived in a trailer park, the Red Sky Mobile Home Village, the park and its trailers had been well maintained, but were certainly a decade or more past their prime. Red Sky wasn't some contemporary community of "manufactured homes"; this was a trailer park that provided marginal housing to working people living on the margins. No double-wides here, no shiny Ford Expeditions parked beside the front doors. Red Sky consisted of a few dozen trailers, a lot of dust and sand, some mature oleanders, and a few trees that would rather be living elsewhere.
Victor lived in ‘03. Sawyer barked out directions to his pad as though she'd reconnoitered the place the night before. I stopped the Taurus two trailers away and examined Victor's abode from a distance.
The trailer had been in this location for a while. It was a single-wide that had once been blue and white before the desert sun bleached the aluminum shell from Caribbean Azure to the pale hue of fire-sale toilet tissue. Oleanders obscured one end of the trailer completely, a big brown Ford Econoline blocked the other end, the rust on the vehicle announcing that it had spent most of its earlier years
in a locale other than Arizona, one that actually had humidity. Instead of a few steps leading up to the front door of the trailer, a switchback ramp of sun-bleached cedar led from the sandy ground to the entryway.
An air-conditioner compressor hummed loudly.
Sawyer said. "He's home."
No lights were visible. "The AC?"
"That's right."
"If he was in Santa Barbara yesterday screwing around with your plane— and if he was in Kittredge at three o'clock this morning setting fire to the forest around Sheldon's house— he made pretty good time getting back here."
"I haven't flown for two days, so who knows when, or if, somebody touched my plane, and you made it hera easily enough from Colorado, he could, too, anyway, maybe he has his own plane, like me."
"And maybe he's not our guy."
"Let's go find out."
I killed the engine and eased out of the car, the desert heat hit me in the face like a physical blow from an open hand. Sawyer didn't seem to notice.
She mounted the wom wooden ramp with determination and no apparent fear. I had barely reached the switchback when she started pounding on the door of Garritson's trailer.
After ten or fifteen seconds. I heard a reply that was almost a growl. "I'm resting. Go. Whatever it is you're selling, I don't want any. Whatever it is you want. I don't have any."
Sawyer pounded some more.
"Leave me alone, damn it."
She pounded some more.
"What the— ? Shit, gimme a goddamn minute."
It was about this time that I wished that Sawyer and I had a plan. Pounding on a homicidal maniac's door unannounced didn't seem like the most prudent thing for us to be doing, at that moment. I had the sinking realization that I was along for the ride with Sawyer on this one. My memories of cocktails in the thunderstorm surfaced and I felt an uneasy feeling with my current role.
She was calling the shots again. How could I slip into such a passive place with her so easily? "Sawyer." I said, in a meek effort to raise a protest. "Doing this, you know? I'm not sure that this is such a great idea."
"He won't recognize us. Don't worry."
"What are you planning on—"
"Shhh."
I half expected a volley of semiautomatic weapon fire to pierce the aluminum skin of the trailer and slice Sawyer and me in two as though we were constructed of nothing more than perforated paper, after she quieted me. I thought I heard a groan from inside the trailer, followed by some labored breathing.
After another minute or so the doorknob turned and the door swung outward violently; almost knocking Sawyer backward off the ramp. I caught her arm and steadied her.
The inside of the trailer was unlit; the curtains had all been shut against the heat. Peering into the darkness was like looking into a cave. I couldn't see who was there waiting for us.
A voice said. "Down here, you idiot."
I looked down and saw the silhouette of a man in a wheelchair. One shoulder drooped a good six inches, and the rest of his body listed in that direction, he wore a filthy sleeveless T-shirt and had a baseball cap on his head. It was hard to be certain in the shadows, but I thought the cap was adorned with the logo of the Arizona Diamondbacks.
Sawyer was apparently as taken aback as I was by the man who was greeting us, her tone lacked any confidence as she said. "Hello, we're looking for Victor Garritson, are you Victor Garritson?"
He said. "Actually; I'm Christopher Reeve, doing research on a movie on what it's like to be a crip in a trailer park. Who the hell are you?"
"I'm Anton Faire,” she said, without a pause. I remembered instantly that Anton was Sawyer's middle name, her mother's maiden name.
"And you want what, anton Faire? Bill collector? You can collect all of them that you would like. Don't worry., I have plenty to spare. Child support? Perhaps you can perceive the truth, which is that I can't even support mvself. Let me see, what else could you be after? I know. Bless you, maybe you're here to give me my daily massage. I sure as hell hope you're as flexible as you are pretty, are you?" His mouth hung open, waiting for a reply, the man needed some serious dental work. "Come on, come on. So, what I want to know is, do you do hand jobs? I'm the odd one who prefers them to blow jobs. Some give them, some don't. I don't want any moralizing, mind you, just a woman's touch." He paused again,
shrugging that one shoulder, his attention fixed on Sawyer, he was ignoring me totally. "No? Well then. I give up. What the hell do you want? Please don't tell me you want to talk to me about Jesus. Whenever I start talking about Jesus.., no, that hasn't proven to be a good thing. No." He lowered one hand to the wheel of his chair and seemed to get lost in thinking about Jesus. Finally: he said, without conviction. "Do I know you?"
Sawyer was flustered and confused, she said. "I didn't know you were in a wheelchair."
His reply was bitter and cruel, he made a rapid clicking sound with his tongue. "Sometimes I forget, too. Just find myself walking around the house, getting on the treadmill, doing jumping jacks, taking care of business, and then I say; oops, forgot again, better get back in that chair. Can't start pretending you're not a crip: Vic. Get it? Vic for Victor, Vic for victim. Pick one, pick one."
Sawyer looked at me, then back into the tepid darkness of the trailer. "Mr. Garritson, we may have made a mistake. Coming here. I mean. I'm very sorry to disturb you."
"Does this mean no hand job? I get myself all the way to the damn door and I don't even get a little touch? Just a little woman's touch, that's all. I'm quick; it won't take long." He started fumbling at his belt with one hand, the other arm seemed beached in place by his side.
"Good day; sir." said Sawyer. "I'm sorry we disturbed you."
"Now I'm a sir, that's no good. You never get off when they call you sir."
I heard him laughing as we walked away, he cackled. "Oh, you'll be back. You've been here before."
Two or three miles later, she said. "I guess it's not him."
"No." I said, touching her hand where it rested on the edge of the seat. "I guess not."
She wasn't eager to focus on the failure, though, she wanted to strategize. "We need to find D.B, and at the same time we need to start brainstorming about other candidates."
I was less reluctant to focus on our failures. Personally; as a detective. I was feeling like a rank amateur. "I think we're way out of our league. I think we should put all of our energy into getting the FBI more interested than they've been."
"They'll want names, alan. Everyone who was on the unit."
"Maybe our only choice is to stay alive and be unethical, the alternative is to die ethical and proud."
"Don't forget Eleanor Ward."
"That's the second time you've brought her up. Why is she so important. Sawyer?"
She looked away from me, out the side window. "Because she's an example of what will happen if we give out names." Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed. "And because she taught me so much, that's why."
"What does that mean?"
"No,” she said. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."
"Please."
She shook her head.
Her reluctance didn't feel provocative, but my patience had deteriorated a lot during those few moments on Victor Garritson's wheelchair ramp. "That's no good. Sawyer. My life depends on you right now, and yours depends on me. Don't keep things from me that may be important."
"You're doing it, too."
I made the mistake of inviting her to continue. "What does that mean?"
"You have feelings too. You're not saying anything about them. You've hardly spoken about your wife."
"My wife? What does Lauren have to do with this maniac?"
"You say you're happily married.., but my instincts say... I don't know, that that's not the whole truth."
I did not want to be having this conversation. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"I think you still have feelings for me."
What she was sayi
ng was disconcerting. It may even have been true. "Don't kid yourself, any tension you feel from me is about this situation. It isn't about us. I admit I’ve been waiting fifteen years to find out what happened between us, and I still want to know why you left the way you did. You took a big piece of me with you, maybe I want it back."
"What? Me? Or your dignity?"
"I want to know why you disappeared."
She shook her head. "I can't."
"Can't what?"
In a firm voice she said. "Stop the car. Please. Stop it." She barked the last two words.
I pulled over to the shoulder of the two-lane road. Sawyer immediately popped out of the car and marched back in the direction we had just come.
I followed her. So what else was new?
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I don't know. I'm walking."
A tractor-trailer whizzed by. I called after Sawyer, almost yelling to be heard above the droning diesel. "Bullshit. I think you always know what you're doing."
She whirled around and faced me. "Finally; the anger."
"Is that what you want? You want me mad? Okay.
You hurt me. I trusted you and you trashed me. Sure I was angry."
"Was?" she asked as she walked backward, away from me. "Did I ever.., did I ever encourage you? Did I? Did I seem to want you to need me?" Her voice seemed foreign, contemptuous. "No, that wasn't me. I liked your company, that's all."
"That's bull. You like that I was a pushover for you. You like that I'd put up with you."
She scoffed. "Don't blame me for your weakness. Despite every warning sign I put up, you leaned on me until you fell and I wasn't around to pick you up, that's not my fault. Don't blame me."
"I don't. I blame me, that doesn't excuse what you did. Sawyer. You ran. You knew that I loved you, and you ran."
"I didn't ask to be responsible for you, and you know nothing about my leaving. Nothing."
"No. You didn't ask to hold my heart. But they break when they're dropped. You dropped mine."
She turned away from the paved shoulder and pounded her feet as she headed off into the desert, she was at least a hundred feet in front of me when she yelled over her shoulder. "You don't know."
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