by Spencer Kope
“I don’t know,” Crystal replies in a small voice. “He once told me that if his mother’s God stood for love and compassion, then he would become the god of hate and destruction. I asked him if he thought he was the Antichrist, and he laughed at the notion. He said he was something different from the Antichrist. Something apart.”
“What the hell’s that mean?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It may mean nothing; idle comments carelessly spoken. But with Angus, you just never know.”
38
As we roll into Angus’s neighborhood, malachite-green footfalls tread here and there, polluting the sidewalk, street, and parking lot with tainted shine. Rather than appreciating the magnificent color for what it is, I’ve come to despise it, viewing it the way one might look on black mold or some fungal spore under the magnification of a microscope.
I love green, but I’ll never again look at this particular shade with the same eyes. The color is forever linked with Angus and Blood Eagles and exhumed corpses. I’m sure the gremlins that administer my nightmares will have a field day with it. Little bastards.
As we exit the car, I get close and whisper, “Malachite,” to Jimmy.
He pauses, takes a deep breath, and nods his understanding.
* * *
Angus’s apartment is on the bottom floor and has a first-rate view of the overflowing dumpster next to the concrete barrier wall separating his complex from the one next door.
Jimmy knocks while Ross takes up position to his left, hand on the butt of his gun. The door opens enough to reveal a diminutive man cast in shadow, who takes one look at us and says, “He’s not here.”
“How do you know we’re here for him and not you?” Ross asks.
“Are you? Here for me? Because my CCO—deep—was just here two weeks ago.”
We all stare at him.
“What … was that?” Jimmy says with a puzzled look.
The man shrugs. “I got a tic. It’s like that Tourette’s thing, only I got just the one word, and no cusswords. I woulda liked some cusswords,” he adds wistfully. “I don’t say it all the time, only—deep—when I get nervous, or when my hypoglycemia kicks in.”
“Deep is your one word?”
“Yep—deep!” The utterance sounds like a dismembered hiccup, a sound with no legs to stand on.
“What’s your name?” Jimmy asks the odd man.
“Delmont.”
“Delmont what?”
“Just Delmont. I’m a mononym. It means someone—deep—with just one name, like Madonna and Sting. Cher and Bono.”
“Okay … Delmont. What would your name be if I checked your criminal record?”
“Deep.” The little man screws up his mouth at this and stomps a foot the way a spoiled child might after not getting his way. “Delmont Wilson,” he replies nastily.
“That’s more like it. Now, what about Angus? Is he home?”
“Didn’t I just say he’s not here?” Delmont replies, exasperated. “I know somebody said it, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the voices.”
Jimmy pauses at this, and I know his inclination is to ask about the “voices,” to get their opinion, but we’re in too much of a hurry. The voices will have to wait.
“You know, I’m pretty sure that lying to us would violate your release conditions, right? Sending you straight back to prison? Before I ask to come in and check for Angus, I want to make sure you don’t want to change your story. Like maybe you forgot that he came home late last night and he’s asleep in his bedroom, or he’s taking a shower. Something like that?”
“He. Ain’t. Here.”
“So you say. May we come in and check?”
Delmont’s behind the door now, looking like he might slam it on us.
“You got a warrant?”
“No. But you’re under supervision, same as Angus. If it’s a problem, we can have your CCOs join us. In case you forgot, they can do spot checks of the residence anytime they like.”
“No, I didn’t forget,” Delmont mutters. Then, in a louder voice: “Fine! It’s no problem—deep! Come on in. I got—deep—nothing to hide.”
He throws the door wide, and in the enhanced light I notice that he’s wearing nothing but a white tank top—a wifebeater—and a skimpy pair of red underwear. Women’s underwear, as it turns out.
He flicks his hand toward the back of the two-bedroom apartment.
“Angus is on the right. Mind the—deep—toys.” By which he means the sex toys and porn magazines scattered around a worn beanbag chair on the floor behind him.
We give the collection a wide berth.
There’s no attic or basement, and Angus is simply too big to hide in a hamper or under a kitchen sink, so we limit our search to closets, the shower stall, and a massive pile of used and soiled blankets on the floor next to his naked mattress.
The blankets look nasty, and we argue briefly over who gets the honors. Ross finally sighs and extracts a pair of nitrile gloves, settling the issue. Using a baseball bat that was stashed behind the bedroom door, he pokes at the pile and flips the blankets over and around, dislodging a pair of off-white underwear big enough for two men. They look soiled.
Satisfied that no one’s hiding underneath the pile, we beat a hasty retreat and decide that the apartment is clean. Well, clean of Angus. The rest of it—filthy!
Disgusting.
As we leave, Delmont boldly grumbles, “Get the hell out of here,” and goes about whatever he was doing before we arrived.
I’d rather not dwell on it.
* * *
Back in the car, Jimmy retrieves his phone and dials a number. I hear the faint ring and then the indistinguishable sounds of someone answering.
“Kip, it’s Jimmy.”
39
Ross is just pulling his unmarked away from the curb when the theme song from The Pink Panther issues from Jimmy’s phone. Diane’s ringtone. He puts it on speaker.
“How are you doing with the reports Ross sent over?” Jimmy asks by way of greeting.
“It’s going to take a while. Some of the reports are lengthy, while others are brief or have no narrative at all. I should be done with the first pass in another hour or two.”
“Anything jumping out?”
“No, but every page I read only reinforces the thought that this is one dangerous man.” The sound of rapidly flipping papers comes through the phone. “Take this for example: In 2004 he was listed as a suspect in the death of a rival drug dealer’s girlfriend. She was shot execution-style in the living room of her apartment. No witnesses, at least none that would testify.
“He’s a suspect in one other murder and listed as a possible suspect in another. I mean, we’re talking top-tier stuff. You could fill a book with his other crimes. I think he’s broken every law in the state of California except bestiality, and I’m not even sure about that one.”
“All right, well, call us when you get something.”
“Wait!” Diane says before Jimmy can disconnect. “That’s not why I called. I just got off the phone with some lady—Carol, or something—from California DOC, who said you gave her my number and told her to call if she had any new information.” Diane leaves the statement hanging in the air like a question.
“Yeah, that’s Crystal,” Jimmy confirms. “Angus’s CCO.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Diane says briskly. “In any case, she said she remembered something after you talked. It seems she gives all her clients a little extra attention and walks them to their cars after their scheduled in-office visits. A little bit of the personal touch, right? Anyway, she mostly does this to see what they’re driving and get the plate number in case something comes up. You know, like the abduction of a congressman.”
“Does that mean she has the plate number on Angus’s van?
“It does. She said on his last visit, he was driving a white 2005 Ford Econoline panel van—a work van. No windows, but big barn doors at the back. When she ran the plate th
rough DMV, it came back with a report of sale from several months back, but it’s still registered to the previous owner.”
“But the report of sale lists Angus as the new owner, right?”
“Not directly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I don’t think Jimmy Hoffa is cruising Bakersfield in an old work van.”
“That would be something,” Ross says with genuine amusement.
“Okay, what about the original RO?” Jimmy says, referring to the registered owner.
“The former owners are Tobias and Jackie Harlan, owners of—”
“Black Walnut Catering,” Jimmy says with a nod. “We ran that van after finding Noah. It was seen coming and going from the house on Tuttle Street.”
“Well, that would have been nice to know earlier.…”
“Oops!”
“Mm-hmm. I’m glad I could help,” Diane retorts. “Crystal also wanted me to tell you that she ran a check through California DMV, and there are no vehicles with current registration in Angus’s name. Despite her reassurances, I ran my own checks.”
“Yeah, Ross ran a vehicle check a little while ago and came up empty.”
“Did he?” Diane replies with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Did he also look at expired registrations?”
“I … don’t know.”
“Hmm. Because I did, and I happened to notice something rather interesting.” Diane pauses, an intentional delay meant to force a question. Her way of chastising us for not sharing the van data sooner.
“What’s that?” Jimmy asks compliantly. After years of working with Diane, he knows how this goes. You don’t stomp all over her turf without paying for it one way or another, and data—information—is her turf.
When she replies, her tone is not as harsh, and the didactic flow of her words has returned, implying that she’s satisfied with the modest supplication offered by Jimmy. “It seems that over the years, Angus has had several vehicles registered at an address on Old Stage Road in Porterville.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s due north of Bakersfield; about fifty miles, give or take.”
“Any idea what the connection is?”
“Still checking,” Diane replies, “but the property is an old orchard of some sort. I pulled it up on Google Earth and you can see some of the trees are still there. There’s a house, a barn or stable, and numerous other outbuildings. Some might be migrant housing for the workers, but others are clearly production related. The assessor’s office indicates it’s owned by Otis and Barbara Mills, but I haven’t found anything in CLEAR or Accurint showing a link between them and Angus.”
“Well, if he’s registering cars there, there must be a connection.”
“Obviously. I just haven’t found it yet.” There’s a pause. “So … maybe you should start heading that way…?”
“It’s fifty miles—”
“All the more reason to get started.” Then Diane says in a softer tone, “It’s the only real lead we have. We already know he’s not at his apartment—he couldn’t hide four hostages there if he wanted to. Unless the locals have a better location for him in Bakersfield, this might be as good as it gets. The orchard has everything he’d need to hide out, and, well…”
“Well, what?”
“Well … I’ve got a feeling about it. I’ve been crunching data a long time, and sometimes it doesn’t tell you exactly what you want, but it does steer you in the right direction.”
“And you think this orchard is the right direction?”
“I do.”
“This is life-or-death, Diane. We’re running out of time.”
“Don’t you think I know that!” she replies sharply, and for a moment I detect dismay or fear or heartbreak in her voice. Perhaps all three. This from a woman who doesn’t easily rattle.
“Okay,” Jimmy says quietly. “We’re heading to the orchard. Feed us updates as you get them.”
“I will.”
Jimmy waits for her to disconnect, but she doesn’t. The open line lingers as if waiting for a final assurance or admonition, something to speed us on our way and deliver hope to a place where hope has fled. In the end, Diane can manage just a single world.
“Hurry!”
Then the line goes dead.
40
The weather is mild, but Angus Graves works up a sweat as he notches and shapes the massive timber from the stable. He only needs to work the side of the beam facing skyward; no need to heave it onto its side or back. Even with his great strength, Angus is thankful for this: the beam nearly killed him as he cut it from the roof structure and dragged it free of the building.
Once finished with this portion of his immense task, he fishes an icy beer from the cooler and falls into his favorite camp chair, which looks perilously frail under his bulk. With a gulping pull that seems ridiculously long, he empties the beer and then rubs the cold bottle against his forehead. A sigh of contentment escapes him.
After a small rest, and without a glance or word shared with Marco, Angus rises and gathers his tools. He walks to a separate building about sixty feet away and disappears inside. A disjointed orchestra of sawing and hammering soon issues from the old structure, which was probably once a mess hall.
As a reciprocating saw hums to life, Marco yanks hard against his bindings, pulling and straining and searching. His eyes scour the surroundings for something—anything—to cut the ropes. It’s pointless. By the time the sawing stops, his forehead is damp from the exertion, his wrists are bloody, and he’s no better for the effort.
When Angus returns, he’s dragging a second beam. It’s considerably shorter than the first, but still has a substantial girth, maybe six inches by six inches.
Marco watches quietly as Angus notches the very center of the second beam and fits it crosswise over the larger beam. Finally satisfied with the fit, he removes the beam and sets it aside.
Wiping his brow, he strolls over to the back of the van and opens the cooler, fishing around inside for another beer.
“Thirsty?” He casts a look at Marco.
The gag in the congressman’s mouth prevents a response. He could nod or shake his head if he chose to … but he does neither, casting his eyes defiantly to the hillside instead. It’s a small victory, but he’ll take it, for now he knows the suffering that’s heading his way. He can see what Angus has crafted and understands the significance.
More important, he understands the terrible part he’ll play.
How a man like Angus—even if utterly insane—could come to this is beyond Marco’s comprehension. He remembers Dorothy Smit, just as he remembers all the patients he lost. If Angus blamed him for that loss, he would understand, but the man clearly detested the woman and felt cheated at not killing her with his own hands, as if cancer had been an easy out.
This … spectacle that he seems bent on creating is nothing more than a sacrifice to the hatred he still carries for a woman now years in the grave.
If she had survived, it would be her sitting in Marco’s place.
The thought gives him no comfort.
* * *
“Sure. You gotta be thirsty,” Angus says, ignoring the congressman’s insolence. “How about”—he picks up a Coke and then a Sprite, but sets them aside and digs deeper—“ginger ale,” he says triumphantly, pulling first one can, then two, from the bottom of the cooler, where the ice has melted into a cold slurry.
“Great for the digestion.” He makes his way toward Marco. “My mom used to give it to me to settle my stomach when I was a kid. Did your mom do that?” Angus brushes aside the question. “Of course, she did,” he says with assurance. “Everyone’s mom does that.”
Removing the tight gag from around Marco’s mouth, he runs a rough finger along the impressions left on the skin, the furrows where the fabric had dug and pressed itself into Marco’s checks, rubbing the corners of his mouth raw and bloody.
“Little tight, I suppose.” Popping th
e top on the soda, Angus says, “Tilt your head back.”
When Marco doesn’t immediately comply, the big man gives him a perplexed look, then violently grabs a tuft of the congressman’s hair and yanks his head back as if he were a Pez dispenser.
Angus pours ginger ale into the congressman’s mouth as if from a fast-flowing faucet until he gags and sputters for breath, amber liquid flowing out the sides of his broken mouth and down his chin.
“Best if you do what I say.” Angus’s words are hard with purpose. After allowing a moment for Marco to catch his breath and clear his lungs, Angus once again orders him to open his mouth and tilt his head back.
This time he complies.
* * *
Angus cuts the restraints that bind the congressman to his chair, first at the feet in front of him and then at the hands, which are pulled tightly behind his back, cop-style. Marco entertains the brief hope that the man is going to release him—a change of heart for some reason.
It’s not to be.
Handing Marco a shovel, Angus leads him to a spot halfway between the stable and what appears to be a bunkhouse of some sort.
“Dig here,” he orders, kicking the toe of his boot into the dirt at his feet.
“Dig what?”
“A hole.”
“How-how big of a hole?”
Angus grins broadly, understanding Marco’s fear. With the same booted toe, Angus outlines a dig spot, dragging his foot this way and then that. Though he holds a menacing Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum in his right hand, he keeps a respectable distance between himself and the smaller man with the shovel. He knows what thoughts desperation can spark, for he has sparked some himself. Crazy plans that, in hindsight, were patently stupid.
When Marco hesitates, Angus waves the gun casually toward the outline on the ground, implying that Marco should get started. When he still doesn’t move, Angus uses the massive thumb to pull back the hammer on the stout revolver, doing so with slow deliberation, as if to let the moment unfold with a conjured sense of the surreal.