The Survivor Page 33

  Nate picked up the pace, just shy of a jog. “Ask you one more question?”

  “Course.”

  “I assume FBI’s handling the investigation. But who’s the detective liaison?”

  “Ken Nowak.”

  * * *

  By arriving unreasonably early, Nate hoped to dodge colleagues and complications. Even so, as he stepped out from the elevator with an empty duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he proceeded cautiously, unsure what he’d find. Sergeant Jen Brown’s office was dark and most of the cubicles empty. Unnoticed, he picked his way toward his desk.

  A loud voice startled him. “Surprised you’d show your face around here.”

  He turned, Ken Nowak drawing into sight around a partition wall. Leaning back in his chair, that hockey puck of a key ring resting next to his propped-up loafers.

  Ken lowered his feet and settled forward with a touch of menace. “After that whole airport-terrorist incident, I mean.”

  Nate released a breath as evenly as he could manage. “It was just a mix-up.”

  “I bet. What you doing here?”

  “Picking up my stuff.”

  “You don’t need that.” With a smirk, Ken gestured at the empty duffel hanging from Nate’s shoulder. “They already took care of your shit for you.”

  Nate glanced over at his desk. Sure enough, his personal things were boxed and waiting. His nonpersonal things—files, forms, research—appeared to be gone.

  “Oh,” he said, hoping he looked appropriately dismayed. “Well, I have to wait for Brown anyway. She had some stuff for me to sign, I’m guessing severance paperwork so I don’t sue anyone.”

  Ken elected not to take up the feigned attempt at worker camaraderie.

  Nate took a breath. “How ’bout you? Isn’t this a little early?”

  “I been here half the night. Big case, FBI agent iced out in Chatsworth. Literally. I’m waiting on print results from the lab.” Ken turned back to his desk and took a sip of coffee. “We get our hands on the piece of shit who did it, ain’t gonna be a pretty sight.”

  Nate managed a nod, staring at the phone just beyond Ken’s knuckles. As soon as it rang, he was dead. He moved swiftly to his desk and powered up the computer. What he needed, what he’d come for, were weapons. Real weapons, as in assault rifles, handguns, C4. A virtual armory. Like the one Danny Urban had collected, the one that had been seized by the cops and put into an evidence locker down the hall.

  The problem was, Nate didn’t know which evidence locker. But the database did.

  His muscles had gone tense, braced to hear the ring of Ken’s phone. Typing furiously, he called up the log-in screen and keyed in his user name and password.

  ACCESS DENIED.

  Of course.

  He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Plan B. Now.

  Rising, he crossed to Ken’s desk. “I meant to ask, you still driving that gold Chrysler?”

  “Champagne.”

  “Right. I parked near you. I think someone dinged you. Rear bumper’s half off.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Already Ken was up, digging for his car keys, hustling out. “You’d better be wrong, Overbay.”

  Nate waited for him to pass from sight, and then he swiped the thick ring of work keys Ken had left behind. As he moved to go, Ken’s phone rang, the caller ID screen lighting up: SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION DIVISION. The crime lab.

  Nate lunged to lower the volume on the ringer, not daring to breathe. A frozen instant. But Ken’s footsteps continued up the hall, and then the elevator car chimed its arrival. Nate blew out a shaky exhale. A moment later the voice-mail button blinked its red alert.

  He tore his eyes from the phone and ran down the hall, readjusting the empty duffel across his back. He had five minutes, seven tops.

  The evidence room was off the main corridor, just shy of the elevators. The reinforced door stood locked, the metal shutter rolled down behind the guard cage. Nate stared helplessly from the autolocking doorknob to the lump of keys sitting in his palm, maybe twenty of them. Had he hoped that one would have a big label on it reading EVIDENCE LOCKERS?

  With fumbling hands Nate tried one key after another. The dead bolt stood firm, unimpressed with his offerings.

  Another key failed. And the next. Sweat ran down Nate’s forehead, stung his eyes. A memory surfaced—had he read somewhere that LAPD had changed the rules after Rampart so cops no longer were allowed keys to the evidence room? Which meant that even if he did have time to check every—

  A voice from behind broke through his thoughts. “Help you there, Overbay?”

  His hands froze. Hiding the keys, he lowered them into his pocket. Slowly, he turned.

  Bernice Daniels, the evidence custodian, loomed behind him, holding up a gleaming silver key connected by a plastic clip coil to the front pocket of her overburdened polyester pants. She was a dense, squat woman, boulderlike buttocks providing a counterweight to a sturdy bosom. She was lovely and cheery, an oversize heart to match her proportions.

  Flustered, he scratched at his head, feigning casual. “Yeah, actually. I was just waiting for you. Sergeant Brown assigned me to the Danny Urban case. And I like to … you know—”

  “Look through every last piece of evidence. I know. But it’s been a while since Homeboy Hit Man caught a bullet barrage. Why you serving the death notification now?”

  Less than ten yards away, a set of elevator doors peeled open and Ken Nowak stepped forth.

  Nate cleared his throat, regained his focus. “They just located a son. So I have to go let him know.”

  “Oh, dear.” Bernice opened the door, stepping inside and hoisting the metal shutter behind the guard cage.

  Annoyed, Ken walked briskly by. “The hell, Overbay? My car’s fine.”

  “That’s good. I must’ve had the wrong car.”

  “I’m surprised there’s another. It’s a rare color.”

  Ken continued past, heading toward his desk and the waiting voice-mail message identifying Nate as Abara’s killer. Nate watched him walking away, every step one more tick of the countdown.

  He turned back, debated making a break for the elevator.

  Bernice’s voice pulled him from his trance. “I believe the Urban case is locker 78B. Here. You’ll need to sign the evidence log—”

  “Of course.”

  The metal door swung open, revealing the promised armory. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward and started grabbing whatever he could, raking items from shelves and hooks into the open duffel. Assault rifle, handguns, magazines, boxes of ammo, blocks of C4, electric blasting caps, even a grenade. How much time until Ken charged through the door behind him? Ten seconds? Five?

  He sensed Bernice hovering at his back, troubled.

  “Nate?” She spoke slowly, as if to an insane person. “What are you doing?”

  He zipped the bag and stood. Bernice’s mouth was literally agape. No sound of footsteps coming up the hall.

  “Can you give me a hand with this?” He slid a heavy evidence box from a wall rack straight across into Bernice’s arms. She received its weight, cradling it against her chest.

  Reaching down, he snapped the coil clip with the key from her pant pocket, stepped outside, and swung the autolocking door shut, trapping her inside.

  He stared at her through the metal cage. “I’m sorry, Bernice.”

  Shouldering the hefty duffel, he ran for the elevator and thumbed the DOWN button. At the end of the hall, Ken appeared, wheeling around the last row of cubicles. He paused, his broad shoulders rotating as he scanned and locked onto Nate.

  Between them Bernice began shouting and banging on the cage.

  Ken started sprinting up the corridor.

  Nate jabbed at the elevator’s DOWN button again and again.

  Ken hurtled at him, shoes slapping tile, a running back sensing the end zone. Bernice was hollering now, maximizing those impressive lungs.

  The doors parted. Nate slid through, ta
pped the ground-floor button, holding it in so hard that his finger bent back. Though Ken was out of sight, his labored breaths and furious footfalls came through the closing doors and seemed to reverberate around the car.

  Ken’s fingertips flew into view just as the doors clamped shut, and then Nate staggered back a step, pulled by the weight of the duffel, and coughed out a chunk of air. Arming sweat off his brow and reconsidering his route, he clicked the button for the second floor so as to dodge security in the lobby.

  He slid out at the first crack of light, letting the doors scrape him from either side, and then he hustled down two corridors to a rear stairwell, his left foot slightly sluggish. He took the stairs two at a time and shoved through an emergency door, setting off a shrill alarm. Stepping around a decorative hedge, he jogged for his Jeep, the weaponry clanking reassuringly against his back.

  Chapter 57

  Nate sat in his Jeep at the curb, staring up the steps of the front walk. Through the kitchen window, he watched her. Though it was almost noon, she still wore a bathrobe, and she fussed about the coffeemaker, her movements slowed by age. Even from here he could see she’d lost a good amount of weight, and he hoped that she wasn’t ill.

  He climbed out, making sure to lock the Jeep given what was in the cargo hold, then mounted the stairs and rang the bell. A delay. The shuffle of footsteps.

  Grace Brightbill answered, one frail hand resting on the knob. She looked much older than Nate would have thought, but living alone could do that to a person. A whorl of puzzlement appeared in the wrinkles of her forehead.

  “It’s—” Nate had to clear his throat and start over. “It’s Nate Overbay, Mrs. Brightbill. Charles’s old college roommate.”

  Her face lightened with recognition. “Nate, of course. Come in, come in.”

  Thanking her, he entered, enveloped by warm air and the scent of cinnamon. Though it was barely November, a Christmas tray on the coffee table held a raft of desiccated brownies.

  She followed his gaze. “Would you like one?”

  “No,” he said, too quickly. “No, thank you. I just ate.”

  A voice said, “Yup. She’s still at it,” and Nate looked up to see Charles reclining, one ankle hooked over a knee, arms spread on the couch back. Black, dried blood caked his hands, and sand dusted his hair. Through the hole blown in his stomach, Nate could make out the plaid upholstery behind him.

  Grace gestured Nate toward the couch, then sat in a worn denim chair draped with a crocheted blanket. He took the cushion next to Charles, who watched him with keen interest. A dusty upright piano in the background held countless framed pictures of Charles, many from his boyhood. That dopey, optimistic smile.

  “I’m happy for the visit,” Grace said.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier.” Nate laced his fingers, staring down, working up the courage. “I was with Charles. When he died.”

  She looked up and away, the skin loose at her neck. Her ankles shifted below the hem of the robe, the skin dry and white.

  “I was afraid to see you,” he continued slowly. “To talk to you. Because of what that might bring up for me. And that wasn’t right.”

  She nodded a few times. “I’d like to know,” she said. “Everything. I’ve been living in a haze of government-issue obfuscation for almost a decade now. And that’s been the worst part of the grieving. Not knowing.”

  He’d forgotten her razor clarity, perhaps because it always seemed at odds with her chipper demeanor. A former teacher, she used her words precisely.

  “Are you sure you want the details?”

  “I think I’m entitled.” She readjusted the blanket across her legs. “I’ve certainly had enough time to think about it.”

  Nate glanced across at Charles, who for once didn’t say anything. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple jerking.

  Nate began, starting with Abibas and the little girl with the paddleball. How Charles had found the skinny man they were seeking, hiding behind a generator. The roasting walk out to the sand dunes. Abibas forgetting his notebook. Nate’s moment of indecision and how Charles leaped on the rucksack.

  At this, Grace’s eyes moistened, and she lifted a tissue, produced from thin air, to her cheeks. Her eyes closed, a glow coming up beneath her grief-stricken face, altering her expression. It took a moment for Nate to identify it. Pride.

  He kept on. How he recalled seeing the rotor blades kiss the sand and then not much of the minutes after. McGuire screaming, holding his severed leg. And Charles’s gut, the morass of dark blood. How Nate had carried him over his back, running to get help, and how he couldn’t let go even when the sergeant asked him to.

  Somewhere in the telling, Nate realized he’d gone hoarse with emotion, the words a rush at his mouth. “‘Don’t leave me.’ He kept telling me, ‘Don’t leave me.’”

  At long last she rose with difficulty. She crossed and laid a fragile hand on his shoulder, light as a feather. “You never did.”

  The words went straight to the core of him, the simplest truth and yet one that redrew the lines of a picture he’d thought was carved in stone.

  She walked slowly from the room, heading toward the rear of the house, and Nate understood somehow that she wouldn’t be back.

  When he rose, he saw that Charles was standing in the front doorway, forearms pressed to the frame on either side, a cowboy’s lean. A playful enough posture, but it was clear that he was moved by what had preceded and was doing his best to cover up. He screwed on his crooked grin. “What next?”

  “Sorry, podnah,” Nate said. “From here I walk alone.”

  He brushed through him heading out the door.

  Chapter 58

  NEW ODESSA. The scrolled letters on the glowing yellow sign were visible from a block away. The parking lot sat empty until Nate pulled the Jeep in and slotted it into a front space. The vast bouncer—the one who’d shoved his face to the table—preened beneath the awning, peering at the dark glass inset in the oak door and making imperceptible changes to his cropped hair.

  He turned as Nate approached and grinned broadly, showing off a gap between his front teeth. “You come back for more—”

  Removing a handgun from the waistband of his jeans, Nate walked right past him, firing down through his thigh. As the big man grunted and began a slow-motion collapse, Nate pushed through the big door, never breaking stride.

  The waitstaff flitted between the empty tables, changing linens and flatware, making the most of the pre-dinner break. They paused at Nate’s entrance, the memory of the gunshot hanging in the dim air. In the TV mounted above the bar, he caught a picture of himself and a snip of a newscaster’s chirpy declaration: “—in a startling reversal, the former bank hero now wanted in connection with the murder of a federal officer—” He kept on, pistol low at his side, weaving through workers. In the rear banquet hall, a band dressed in costumes suited to a medieval fair tuned their instruments, the shrill cacophony amplified off the brick walls.

  Nate beelined for the VIP table encircled by pillars. Sure enough, the Georgian was there, poring over paperwork, one jaundiced hand poking at an accountant’s calculator as the other groped blindly between a platter of pickled fish and a wineglass. He lifted his head at the sound of Nate’s approach, his meaty lips twitching with disdain.

  Nate kicked the chair straight out from under him, the hefty man toppling forward, his face smashing into the platter. The wineglass went sideways, his hands groping at the tablecloth, pulling himself up even as the cloth lost traction. Wheezing, he collapsed into the neighboring chair, hand cupped beneath his mouth, drooling blood through his fingers onto the starched linen. Red wine blotted his shirt. A piece of herring clung to the bulge beneath his chin. His eyes were wide, rolling, and his vast chest heaved. The lock of dyed black hair swooped up and away from his forehead as if aspiring to flight.

  With his strong hand, Nate slammed the big head to the table, pressed Danny Urban’s Glock 19 to his temple, and brought his cle
nched teeth to just above the man’s ear. “Tell him I’m coming for him. Tonight. Understand?”

  The Georgian’s frantic nod against the tablecloth rattled the shards of the shattered platter.

  Nate left him in the mess. The workers stood frozen between the tables. As he walked past, they lowered their eyes with respect.

  Under the awning the bouncer was slumped back against the wall, each short breath blowing a string of saliva from his mouth. Bone glinted deep in the wound. His pant leg was lifted, snared on the ankle holster, and he leaned forward a few inches, reaching vainly for the gun. His trembling fingers were feet away and not getting any closer.

  Nate stepped over his legs on his way out.

  * * *

  Yuri and Misha had taken the replacement Jaguar because the Town Car looked too conspicuous. A sheet of paper wedged on the dashboard and reflected up onto the windshield held numerous addresses, each a secondary residence of one of the Overbays’ relatives or friends. The top two addresses were crossed out. Next up was the cabin belonging to Nate’s father.

  Flicking a cigarette out the window, Yuri turned off at the base of Bouquet Canyon and headed upslope. Wearing a sport coat and jeans bleached to within a shade of white, Misha reclined in the passenger seat, turning the map this way and that.

  Blue and red lights flashed behind them, and Yuri lifted his eyes to the rearview, cursing under his breath. A Chevy Tahoe, raised on big knobby tires, with a light bar and a big black bumper guard like a shark’s mouth. A Forest Service ranger. As Yuri signaled and pulled over, Misha removed a pistol from beneath his sport coat and racked the slide to chamber a round.

  Yuri waved at him. “Not yet.”

  As the ranger approached in his pressed green uniform and the silly broad-brimmed hat, Misha slid the pistol beneath his leg and smoothed his hands down his thighs.

  The ranger tapped the glass, and Yuri rolled down the window.

  “Whoa there, pal. What happened to your face?”

  “I haff climbing accident. The rope, it…” Yuri made a snapping noise.

  The ranger whistled. “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I pulled you over.”