Echoes of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

Angus will know something’s up.

  With fatalistic acceptance, I realize that if he makes his way back to the stable, and therefore back to the site of the crucifixion, I won’t be able to hide behind Marco and his cross when I return fire. I’ll have to place myself between them, Secret Service–style.

  Oddly, I’m at peace with that.

  The Sawzall bounces a few times on the hard steel and then makes short work of the nail. The metal is hot from cutting. It sizzles as I pull it from Marco’s hand and toss it to the ground. The open wound drips blood, but any real medical attention will have to wait until we’re clear of danger.

  I turn my attention to the other hand.

  Another burst of gunfire erupts, with return fire not from the ridge but from someplace off to my left.

  When his second hand comes free of the cross, Marco holds it up next to the other and stares in blessed joy and utter sorrow. Joy, because he’s free and he still breathes. Sorrow, for all he’d lost in the preceding days. These wounds, his personal stigmata, are a testament to all he’d suffered.

  Marco weeps.

  “I don’t know what to do about your feet,” I say in desperation. “If I cut the nail, you’ll fold over in half around the belt at your waist. If I cut the belt, all the weight will shift to your feet. The pain…”

  I leave the rest unspoken.

  “There’s … a pulley,” Marco manages.

  My eyes dance around—then I see it.

  Quickly looping the rope around Marco’s ankles, I ratchet the pulley until the smallest amount of pressure is on the rope. Even this causes Marco to writhe with pain.

  “Steps!” a voice cries from perhaps fifty yards away.

  It’s Jimmy. His voice is urgent.

  Jumping to my feet, I turn toward the sound but see nothing.

  Then I see everything.

  With an explosive outward thrust, the door to the stable bursts open. A mountain of a man steps through with a rifle in his hands. I recognize Angus from his many booking photos … but only barely. People always seem so different in real life.

  Here we go again, my mind says.

  In slow motion, I watch the barrel of the rifle rise in my direction. Near the top of its rise, it swings wildly off to the right as Angus jumps suddenly and dodges a Sawzall flying in his direction. It barely registers with me that I’m the one who threw it. Instinct, I suppose.

  As the barrel of the scoped hunting rifle slowly swings back to find me, a hand rises in front of me and spits off a round from a Sig Sauer pressed into its palm. My hand. My Sig.

  The shot goes wild, and I fire in slow motion again and again. One of the rounds punches through Angus’s thigh, but the man barely flinches.

  I can see the black, bottomless hole at the end of the rifle now; the eternity hole.

  I’m surprised to find Marco at my back. Somehow, I’d managed to throw a Sawzall, fire several rounds, and throw myself between a lunatic and a congressman. I suppose there are worse ways to die.

  Angus jerks as his rifle cracks.

  The bullet whistles past my left cheek.

  The big man stares at me for a moment, a look of surprise on his face, as if he’s never missed a shot before. Then I see it. A growing patch of crimson just above his heart. He drops to his knees.

  Either determined or possessed, he tries again to lift the rifle, his eyes now fixed on Marco. There’s nothing left in him.

  The lifesaving shot from Kip’s M4 has done its job. The bullet may not have pierced Angus’s heart, but it’s close enough. As he falls face forward to the earth, Angus jerks spasmodically once, then twice, yet I feel no pity.

  There are humans and there are monsters; Angus was the latter.

  Irredeemable, unsalvageable, unrepentant.

  He dies as he lived.

  * * *

  With a little help from Jimmy and Ross, we free Marco from the cross and are just lowering him to the ground when the ambulance arrives. Joe had called for it shortly after our arrival, requesting that it approach with no lights or siren and stage two miles down the road until given the all clear.

  At the gate, Pete somehow cut his hand slightly on the broken window glass but is otherwise uninjured. He seems pretty pleased with himself and is already cultivating the story of the shoot-out at Rancho Colina.

  In his version, he shoots back.

  As for Marco, the medics don’t waste any time whisking him away. One moment they’re loading him on the gurney, the next he’s jumbled in a wash of lights and siren and headed for the nearest hospital. Halfway to Porterville, they’ll rendezvous with a helicopter air ambulance that’ll transport the congressman to Bakersfield.

  He’ll be a different man after this.

  Haunted.

  He may never have served in combat, but he’ll have the thousand-yard stare nonetheless. He’ll have the nightmares and the PTSD; the fear and the guilt and the anxiety. But he’ll also have life. He’ll have his sister and a dog named Roller.

  We all break when stretched too far. Some pick up the pieces and trudge on, others don’t. I’m hoping Marco is the former.

  I’d bet on it.

  * * *

  In the calm aftermath, all of us, in ones and twos, take a turn standing in front of the cross. The bloodstained monstrosity seems to mock us, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who wonders about the type of mind that could conceive of such a thing.

  I find myself staring absently at the ground, at the cast-off pieces of nail from Marco’s hands and feet. I wonder if he’ll want them, a reminder of what he endured, what he had lost, what he had suffered. Would I?

  Part of me says yes, but part of me wants to vomit at the thought.

  I turn away from the sad remnants, from the bloody cross. I glance at the corpse of Angus Graves where it lies on the ground, my bullet in his thigh, Kip’s in his chest. That a man could go so wrong shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose. Not after everything Jimmy and I have seen. It still makes you wonder, though.

  46

  It’s just before midnight when Jimmy and I stumble from the elevator and shuffle down the hall toward our rooms at the Sierra Inn & Suites. Les’s room is dark and quiet as we pass, but Marty’s room has all the sound and hum of a five-star party. Not too loud, of course, otherwise management would be up here pounding on the door.

  Jimmy just shakes his head as we pass and mutters, “Marty.”

  Our carefree copilot has a way of attracting people wherever he goes. Some people are like that; the life of the party. That’s never been me. I’m a sit-in-the-corner guy, the one looking at his watch and wondering when things are going to wrap up. That’s what happens, I suppose, when you have a kaleidoscope constantly spinning in your head.

  My life is a permanent glow party—a rave of unusual colors, every day, every night.

  Whether I like it or not.

  * * *

  “Good night,” Jimmy says as we reach our respective doors. I return the parting words as he turns his way and I turn mine. I hear his lock chime and disengage as he swipes the electronic key, followed by the turning of the door handle.

  “Steps…”

  I turn to find him paused in the doorway.

  “Good work today.” He gives a tired smile. “I mean it.”

  We share a moment and I smile back, giving a slight nod. As we turn once more to go our separate ways, it’s my turn to pause.

  “I’m thinking of upgrading to a Glock or a Sig.”

  Jimmy laughs. “What about your Walther?”

  I shrug. “I’ll give it to Heather.”

  He seems to like the idea, but as he opens his mouth to reply, a voice comes from down the hall—from the half-open door to Marty’s room.

  “Did someone say my name?” It’s the most beautiful voice I’ve heard in days. The words wrap around me like a blanket, and I sigh as Heather smiles and then bursts toward me.

  Throwing her arms around my neck, she draws me into a kiss that nearly takes
us to the floor. The cryptic conversation I had with Ellis on Tuesday evening starts to come into focus.

  In a flurry of words—kung fu utterances too fast to fully comprehend—Heather spills the details of her last two days in the type of eloquent, exquisite monologue that only she can muster. Sadly, this lush storytelling is lost in the fog of my exhausted, spent mind.

  The important takeaways are that she was scheduled to interview a witness for an article she was writing about the Nolan McMannis homicide. Instead of flying down, she decided to drive. The logic being that she could meet me in Bakersfield, and when I was finished with the case, the two of us could take a mini-vacation as we make our way back to Bellingham.

  She talks excitedly about vineyards and Napa Valley; about Monterey and Carmel-by-the-Sea; about other places I’ve only heard of—or never heard of.

  Jimmy’s just smiling, having known about this all along.

  While Heather and I are tooling through California and Oregon, he’s taking Jane and Petey over to Victoria, British Columbia, for a much-deserved vacation.

  Apparently, they have cool gardens.

  And a couple of castles.

  47

  Friday, March 13

  Jimmy and I say our goodbyes incrementally, but all at one location: Kern Medical.

  It seems that anybody who’s anybody is here. Ross and Ella shuffle back and forth between Marco’s room and Noah’s room, which are side by side. With the help of some complicit nurses, they even snuck Roller in for a visit.

  These are the survivors, all of them, in one way or another.

  Graves will be dug because of this case. Funerals will be attended: Jason Norris, Wade Winchell, Barbara Mills … Angus Graves.

  William Johansson shouldn’t count in the tally of funerals, having already been buried once. He’ll need to be returned to his coffin, and since his god-awful sky-blue burial suit is locked away in evidence, maybe he’ll get some decent clothes for the great beyond.

  * * *

  The media is having a field day with the Perez story. News is big business I suppose, especially when it’s bad.

  I haven’t exactly had time to watch much TV recently, but the Marco Perez story has soaked up the ratings this last week. From all the fuss, you’d think a busload of kids had fallen down a well or something.

  Marco’s probably a shoo-in for reelection.

  Legions of media are camped around the hospital, like flies on a carcass. Their masts and antennae give the place a prickly feeling. The reporters, for lack of anything else to say, breathlessly report the minutiae of daily hospital life, everything from the switch to chocolate pudding on the dinner menu to the odds of catching MRSA or some other ailment that’s worse than the thing that brought you to the ER in the first place.

  Jimmy and I join the congressman in his room. With him are his sister, Canela, and that funny wheelchair-bound dog, Roller, who recognizes me right away. He demands a pet, putting his head under my hand and lifting up until I comply—slave that I am. Then he looks at me and gives a low woof.

  I didn’t know this, but woof is Doggish for “feed me.”

  This becomes clear when Canela reaches into her purse and pulls out a beef-flavored Pup-Peroni, handing it over with an apologetic grin.

  “There you go,” I say to Roller as he takes it from my hand, leaving a dripping deposit of slobber behind, the currency of dogs. I can almost hear him say, Keep the change, as I wipe it off on my pants.

  Dogs!

  Marco looks remarkably well considering his near week in captivity. He extends a hand to shake, but the thick bandage reminds him of the holes in his palms, the unholy stigmata. He can’t seem to stop thanking us—both him and Canela. Part of me wants to accept this, but the vision of Jason and Wade on the autopsy table clouds my vision. It’s hard to hear such words when you only half succeeded.

  I’ve always had trouble with the balance sheet between wins and losses.

  There was a time I kept track of such things in two photo albums, my own Book of the Dead and Book of the Living. The tally of the dead always seemed to exceed that of the living, no matter how hard we tried. Jimmy eventually convinced me to set them aside. I still have them; I just no longer add photos to them.

  Canela gives each of us a hug before we leave, insisting that we call if there’s anything they can ever do for us. Not that we’d ever abuse that privilege, but the thought of having an influential congressman on speed dial is kind of nice.

  We stop by the room of Noah Long, but he’s in surgery. A liver and a pair of kidneys from the same donor became available overnight. I can only imagine how conflicting such moments are for the recipients of such a gift, knowing that they have a shot at life because some unfortunate soul perished.

  And for the family of the departed—how odd to know that some earthly part of their loved one lives on in some other form. There must be some comfort in that, some sense of salvation from loss. I can’t even imagine.

  * * *

  We’re quiet on the way back down to the lobby.

  The hardest goodbye is yet to come.

  Jimmy and I are in a unique profession that throws us into life-and-death situations with perfect strangers. Within days, these men and women become comrades in arms.

  We’ve been with Ross for almost a week now, through things none of us could have imagined. I still think he looks like a belly-rubbing Teletubby, but he’s our Teletubby, and I don’t want to let him go.

  “Kip wanted to be here to see you off,” Ross says, “but he got a tip on Abel Moya. After what we found in the warehouse, he’s pretty hot to get his hands on him.” Ross pauses, rubs his belly. “I think I might join him.”

  We stand in the parking lot, not awkwardly, but in the way friends do when trying to avoid the inevitable, no one wanting to make the first move. When I see the glassy sheen in Ross’s eyes, it almost breaks me. Shaking his head and smiling through the building tears, he says, “Steps,” and embraces me, as if no other words are necessary. Jimmy is next, and they embrace as brothers.

  Will we ever see him again?

  I don’t know.

  Law enforcement is a strange profession, especially our version of it. Now that Ross knows what we can do, I have no doubt we’ll be the first ones he calls if something comes up.

  At least I hope so.

  * * *

  Heather is waiting in front of the Sierra Inn & Suites when we return, leaning against the trunk of her sleek little Honda S2000 and looking like a goddess. I notice the top on the convertible is down, which is fine by me. This is California, after all. Besides, after a week with the Mustang, I think my windburn is building calluses.

  “I checked out when you called,” Heather says, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Your stuff’s already in the trunk.”

  I turn to Jimmy. “I guess this is my ride.”

  He nods … then does something rare. He extends his hand. When I clasp it in my own and hold it for a moment, he places a hand on my shoulder and says, “Great job.”

  “You too.”

  Winking at Heather, he turns and strolls toward the motel entrance, my brother, unhurried by demands or needs. Untroubled.

  Rare.

  * * *

  Heather and I spend the next week like vagabonds. We visit Disneyland and Universal Studios because I’ve never been to either and I guess that’s a moral imperative (I didn’t get that memo when I was a kid).

  We swing through Monterey and some of the most stunning scenery I’ve ever beheld, particularly along 17 Mile Drive. We stop at the aquarium—Marty’s always going on and on about this aquarium—and while we’re waiting in line, Heather swears she sees Johnny Depp drive by in a red Maserati.

  I’m not so sure; the guy looked nothing like Captain Jack Sparrow.

  We visit Alcatraz in San Francisco, the vineyards of Napa Valley, Bodega Bay, which was the setting for Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 film, The Birds, and then it’s on to the Redwood Forest.
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br />   In Oregon, we stop at the Sea Lion Caves along Coast Highway, then linger at Cannon Beach before moving on to Astoria, near the Lewis and Clark National Historical Park.

  It wasn’t so much the places we visited as it was the shared memories we imprinted. Spending time together is one thing. Spending time on an adventure—even one as simple as a road trip—is a completely different animal. The impressions and memories scratch deeper, making themselves permanent: tattoos on the brain, only in color and ever moving.

  Such deep memories make two souls one. They’re bonding moments that make it easier to get through the inevitable rough spots down the road.

  It’s a good beginning.

  For the last six years, my life has mostly been about death. Death and the causes of death. Death and the perpetrators of death.

  Only now do I start to see that there is, in some sense, life after death.

  I mean to grab it.

  EPILOGUE

  Cold case.

  It’s a benign enough pairing of words for something that causes such angst for so many investigators. Every agency has them. It’s just a fact of law enforcement that there will be cases that can’t be solved regardless of the diligence brought by those seeking answers. For some, these cases are an open wound, an ever-present, festering reminder of their presumed failure. After all, justice denied is not justice; neither is justice delayed.

  Cold cases represent both.

  * * *

  Diane has no idea what she’s about to step into as she pulls into the Hangar 7 parking lot. She believes it’ll be a brief stop to check email and water her plants. With Jimmy and Steps a week into their respective vacations, there’s little for her to do, yet she can’t help herself. If she is steel, the office is a magnet.

  Collecting her purse and a fresh container of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts from the passenger seat, she exits her car and makes her way to the man-door on the side of the building.