by Don Winslow
It didn’t matter, though, because the other party didn’t answer. I could hear that mousy little voice on the other end say, “The mobile phone customer you are trying to reach is not answering. Please hang up and try later.” As if it’s any of their business. I mean if I want to sit there and let that phone ring until Alexander damn Graham Bell gets up and answers it, I will.
Heinz-57 wasn’t all that thrilled either. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that he had this bewildered, confused look on his puss. You know, that sort of dazed expression that Type Triple-A anal retentives get when things aren’t going exactly the way they planned.
I made Heinz-57 out to be one of those kind of cooks who absolutely, positively cannot substitute an ingredient in a recipe. There are some people like that, you know. They have everything together and are just paragons of control until they find out they have to use Monterey Jack instead of cheddar and then they just go to pieces.
I filed this piece of psychological insight away, figuring it might be useful at some point, because it was clear just then that Heinz-57 had just had to swallow his first slice of cheddar. (I guess Neal would call that a “tortured metaphor” but screw him.) Whoever it was that old Heinzy was calling, he damn well expected him to be there. And the fact that it was a mobile phone led me to believe that Heinzy was not precisely sure where he was going.
This would, of course, drive a Type Triple-A anal retentive German (Neal would call this a “double redundancy” but screw him again) just nuts.
“Not home, huh?” I said.
See, I’m one of those kind of cooks who just can’t resist squirting lighter fluid on the charcoal briquettes.
“I told you not to listen!”
“What’s that?”
“I told you not to listen!”
“Sorry?”
“He told you not to listen, sweetie.”
“I told you not to listen!!”
“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?” I asked. You know, lighter fluid, briquettes. Hormones, whatever.
He sat back and sulked for a minute. Then he said, “When we get to the desert you will see what happens.”
“We’re in the desert, dickhead.”
“Language, sweetie.”
“Sorry.”
“Into the Mojave,” Heinz specified. “Where your bodies will never be found.”
“Sorry?” I said. “What did you say? I wasn’t listening.”
But I sure as hell was. Old Heinz-57 was taking us up to the Mojave, where the sun could kill you in about forty-five minutes. That is, if Heinz-57 didn’t want the giggles of shooting us. And he was right—either way, nobody would ever find our bodies. Not mine, not Hope’s, not Nathan’s, not Neal’s.
Neal—the reluctant father of our unconceived child.
Then a really awful thought occurred to me. If Heinz-57 was planning to dump our bodies, had he already dumped Nathan’s?
And Neal’s?
Chapter 23
I was trying to stay awake.
You’d have thought it would be easy, right? What with the fear, anxiety, hunger and thirst and all. But there’s something in the human system that just wants to shut down when things get too hideous, and I was struggling to stay conscious and keep that gun pointed right between the beady eyes of our new friend Sami.
So I tried to think about things.
First I tried to focus on the dynamics of our situation. Heinz was on his way and had a gun. Heinz would be thinking that we were already dead and all he had to do is pick up Sami and drive back. So the thing to do was to hide, throw Sami out as bait, and get the drop—oh God, did I say “get the drop”?—on Heinz before he figured out that we weren’t dead.
Simple, right? What could go wrong?
Another possibility was that Graham would track us down before Heinz could. It wasn’t out of the question. Graham wouldn’t fly out—that would waste time—but he’d direct efforts over the phone. He would have already used my credit-card number to get the car-rental agency and the license plate of the car. A little grease would have the state police locate the car at the rest stop. That’s where it would get tricky. Would they just assume we kept going west on Route 15, or would they think of taking the back road south through the Mojave? If they looked down the back road, they’d see the wreck of the car and figure it out from there. If not … hello, Heinz.
So what would Graham do? Send his troops on the highway or the back road?
Easy. Graham would do both.
Graham would have a map spread out in front of him and would consider each and every possible route from where they found the rental car. Then he’d send his troops out on a coordinated, organized search with designated check-in times and places.
You’d have to know Graham to know how sure I was of this. For example, this is a man who does his weekly grocery shopping as follows: He decides what he’s going to cook, then writes down all the ingredients he needs. Then he redoes that list, rewriting the items in the order they appear in the grocery store as you work from the left aisle to the right. That way he can go through the store once, in one smooth progression from left to right.
If any man could sit behind a telephone in New York City and find the splotch of a burned-out car in the middle of the Mojave Desert, that man was Joe Graham.
Since I figured it was a push between Heinz and Graham getting there first and there was nothing I could do to affect the results of that race, I moved on to another topic.
Babies.
Specifically, a baby. Karen’s and mine. Not a real baby, not yet, but a putative baby. A possible baby.
Baby, baby, baby, baby. Just the word was intimidating, and yet …
Maybe it was the very real prospect of imminent death that made me reconsider my timetable on the b-word thing. Two years was a long time and a lot of things could happen. And it would seem like a waste if Karen and I didn’t have a … a kid. Karen would be a terrific mother and I would be a—well, I could be an acceptable father.
There probably was something to all Karen’s psychobabble about unresolved rage at my absent father and inadequate mother. That didn’t necessarily mean that I couldn’t rise above it, though. A man plays the cards he’s dealt, right?
A man. Sigh. A father.
Now if there’s a scarier word than “baby”, it’s “father”.
I know it seems obvious to you, but I just then figured out that it wasn’t the kid I was so afraid of, it was being the kid’s father. I mean, what does a father actually do? I knew from watching old television shows that a father takes the kid into the study and says wise things to it, but that was about the extent of my knowledge. And I believe we’ve already pretty much established that I don’t exactly overflow with wisdom. What was I supposed to do, take the kid into the study and say petulant things to it?
Oh, man. A father. Sigh.
Okay, so I never knew my father. I never even knew who he was. For the longest time as a kid I thought he was Chinese or something, because when I asked my mother who my father was she answered “some John”.
In my childhood years, such as they were, Some John had loomed large in my imagination. He was variously a football player, a baseball player, an astronaut, a war hero—you get the pathetic idea—and in my imagination he was always coming back for me. Somehow he’d get the idea that he had a kid and would move heaven and earth to track me down, and one day I’d be sitting on the fire escape and see him coming down the alley and he’d look up and see me and just know, and in that deep, manly television voice he’d say, “Son, thank God I found you.”
Pathetic, huh?
When I got a little older, say ten, I gave that one up. By that time I figured out that my father was just another pathetic loser who had to pay a woman to be with him. The kind of guy that, even if he knew he had a kid out there somewhere, wouldn’t give a good goddamn.
So what does a father actually do? See, I can’t tell you. I can only tell you what my f
ather actually did.
Nothing, that’s what.
So what chilled me right then, more than even the freezing desert air, was the unavoidable fact that at least half of me was that guy, that bum. And I didn’t want to do to any kid what …
Man, talk about bathetic.
Next topic.
An old man. Nathan.
I was worried about him. He was shivering now, even by the fire, and I didn’t know how much more he could take, ornery as he was. He’d already been through a lot, and who knew what was coming up?
I snuck a glance at him. He was lying with his head propped against the log, his blue eyes were watery and tired-looking now. He seemed small and frail.
And quiet.
Not pouting-quiet, either, but really quiet. For the first time since I’d known Nathan, he was truly silent.
I guess old men look at death all the time.
“Hey, Nathan?”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s on first?”
We went through almost the whole routine before he fell asleep. Then I managed to slip an arm under him and hold him against my chest.
It was still cold but that might keep him a little warmer.
Me, too, I guess.
Chapter 24
One thing about the desert—you can hear a car coming from a long way off.
The sun was just up, a pale orange circle in a lavender sky. That wouldn’t last long. Soon the sun would be blazing, washing out the sky to a blue so pale it’s almost white.
Nathan and Sami were asleep. I eased my arm from under Nathan, got up, and peeked over the edge of the knoll. A car was coming up from the south. I figured we had about ten minutes.
When I came back to the fire, Nathan’s eyes were open.
For a second there I thought I saw Nathan smile.
I put an ungentle toe into Sami’s foot.
“Wake up,” I said. “What kind of car does Heinz have?”
“He has a Mercedes,” Sami mumbled.
That was good news. I wasn’t sure what a Mercedes was. I had in mind a sleek sedan, though. The car I saw looked more like a small truck.
“And a Porsche, a BMW, and a Land Rover,” Sami said.
That was bad news. The car I had seen looked like it could be a Land Rover.
“What color’s the Land Rover?” I asked.
“White.”
“I think Heinz is here,” I said. “Okay, friend Sami, you know what to do?”
Sami bobbed his head like one of those dogs in the back window of a car. “I tell Heinz your bodies are in the shack. I bring him in, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “And you do anything different, I’m going to put one in your back.”
I’d heard this line in a movie and thought it sounded pretty tough. Yeah, okay, I thought that Sami would think it was pretty tough. He didn’t exactly quake, though, so I added, “If you try to signal him in any way, any funny faces, any hand gestures, anything at all, I’ll blow your head off.”
“Okay, okay,” Sami said. “We’re the friends now.”
“Yeah, we’re the friends.”
Then I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. The car was coming up the dirt road.
“Places, please, gentlemen,” I said. I helped Nathan into the shack and sat him down on the floor in the back. Then I crouched under the window to the right of the door. The plan was that Sami would walk Heinz into the shack, I would stick the gun into Heinz’s back, and the good guys would win.
That was the plan, anyway.
I heard the car pull up and the car door open. Whoever it was didn’t plan on being there long because he left the motor running.
Of course, I told myself, it was still possible that this wasn’t Heinz but one of the legions of private eyes that Graham had doubtless sent to search for me. I mean, there had to be hundreds of white Land Rovers merrily off-roading the greater California-Nevada desert biome. It didn’t have to be Heinz.
“Hello, Heinz!” Sami yelled.
Of course, it had to be Heinz. It had been that kind of “a errand.” I resisted the urge to peek out the window as I heard footsteps coming our way. I did sneak a glance to Nathan.
He shrugged.
“Sami,” Heinz said. “Where are—”
“In the shack,” Sami said.
Very good, Sami. So far, so good.
“Heinz, they’re in the shack and they have the gun!” Sami yelled.
Very bad, Sami. So far, so bad.
Sami having somewhat compromised the old element of surprise, I stood up and risked a peek out the window. Sami was bolting toward Heinz like a lost puppy toward his master. I could have indeed put one in his back except for three things: I’m a terrible shot with a pistol, I didn’t have it in me, and Heinz had a forearm around Karen’s throat and a gun to her head.
Talk about your element of surprise.
What the hell was she doing here? And what was Hope White doing in the passenger seat?
Using Karen as a shield, Heinz advanced toward the shack and yelled, “Put the gun down, Jew! Or I kill the girl!”
Did you ever wish you were Clint Eastwood? The issue of looks aside, did you ever wish you were Clint Eastwood so you could do the things he does in the movies?
See, Heinz was considerably taller than Karen so his whole big flat head was exposed. Clint Eastwood would have raised that old magnum and blown Heinz’s head clear off his shoulders.
But I didn’t feel that lucky. I really am a terrible shot and my hand was shaking anyway. I just didn’t feel up to making a snap shot just above the head of the woman I love, the potential mother of my child.
“Drop the gun!” Heinz yelled. “Come out with your hands up!”
No kidding, he really said that.
And no kidding, I really did it. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I tossed the pistol out the window then stepped into the doorway.
I looked at Karen. She looked scared, of course, but by no means terrified.
“Hi,” I said.
I don’t do quips well in the face of danger.
“Hi,” she answered. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine. How are you?”
“Ovulating.”
How can you not want to make a baby with a woman who says things like that?
“Is the old Jew in there?” Heinz asked.
“What old Jew?” I answered.
“Nazi bastard!”
“I guess he is,” I said.
“Then he’s next,” said Heinz. He smiled, raised the gun and pointed it right at my chest.
My heart stopped.
“Look out, sweetie!”
I hadn’t even seen Hope slide into the driver’s seat but now she was plowing straight toward Heinz’s back.
Karen slipped out from under his arm and dove to the side. I flung myself sideways as the gun went off.
Twice.
I can’t tell you what happened next. All I can tell you is that when the dust cleared—literally—the Land Rover was inside the shack, Karen was beating the crap out of Sami, and Heinz and I were on our hands and knees looking at each other.
And his gun was on the ground between us.
We went for each other instead of the gun. I was angry, and desperate to save Karen, whom I loved, and Nathan and Hope, whom I had come to like, and—to tell the truth—my own life. So I had a surge of adrenaline that I knew would carry me through. I knew I could take Heinz.
Because I had to.
He beat the hell out of me.
I almost went out when his first punch smashed into the side of my head. I punched back, though, and felt my fist smack into his jaw. I hit him three more times in the back of the neck before he lifted me over his shoulders and slammed me into the ground.
I thought my back was broken. I couldn’t breathe and felt like there was a knife stabbing into my lungs. My eyes watered and I could barely see Heinz standing above me, grinning.
He pressed his boot onto
my throat, leaned down, and started to pick up the gun.
Karen lunged for it.
Heinz whirled around and kicked her in the stomach. She doubled up and dropped to her knees.
I dove for the back of his legs and tackled him. I climbed up his back, got a forearm around his thick neck and started to choke him. The big son of a bitch got up, grabbed the back of my shirt and threw me over his shoulder. He held on to my hand, though, and as I flew through the air he twisted my arm and jerked.
I guess I screamed when my shoulder popped out of its socket.
I guess it was me. It might have been Karen, it might have been Hope, it could even have been Sami.
As I tried to get up I saw Sami grab the gun and hold it on Karen. I tried to push up with my feet but the ground was rolling around and the air was pressing down on my shoulders. It didn’t help that I could see my shoulder muscle sitting like a lump in the vicinity of my elbow.
I aimed a punch at where I thought Heinz might be.
The next thing I saw was the flash of his boot in front of my face, and then the world went black.
Chapter 25
When I started to come to, heinz was carrying me on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Which aptly described me: I was lumpy, bumpy, beat, whipped, mashed, and about as useful in a fight.
So I was looking at the world upside-down and backward as we headed up the dirt road up and behind the opposite knoll.
I didn’t much care, though. I was sick, dizzy and hurting in body and soul. I was a miserable failure who couldn’t protect myself, the people I was supposed to look out for, or the person I loved more than anyone in the world.
Why Heinz hadn’t done me the favor of just shooting me back by the shack, I didn’t know.
I was going to find out, because a few minutes later he stopped and dropped me to the ground.
It took all of what little I had left to swallow the scream.
“Ja, this will do,” I heard Heinz say.
He grabbed me under the arms and picked me up like a rag doll.
He stuck his face into my mine and said casually, “Sorry to do this, but I have only so many bullets, ja? And you made me waste two, so …”