Biker (29 page)

“Well that's refreshing. And that's where you found God?”

“That's where I welcomed Jesus Christ into my heart and soul.”

“That works for you?”

“Has so far. What about you? You religious?”

Munz sighed. “Hardly. I was raised Episcopalian but Sunday school didn't take. My folks dutifully dragged us to church every Sunday but I sensed that they didn't believe, and when you're a kid, you figure out the ropes. If my parents didn't believe, why should I? I understood they were doing it for appearances. My father was a Rotarian, an Elk and a Mason. I wish I believed, know what I mean?”

Pratt nodded. “We all need to believe in something bigger than ourselves or we're just passing time.”

Munz blew a smoke ring and nodded. “That's right. That's exactly right. I guess I've always believed in the endless opportunities of being an American. I like to think my homes are loved by generations.”

Pratt nodded. “A-hunh.”

“I wish I had your faith,” Munz said.

“Well faith's a gift. Prayer doesn't hurt.”

“What do my prayers matter? I'm not sincere. I don't believe in a God up in the heavens who made the universe in seven days. Christ. Try to get a permit in seven days!”

“You may not believe in God, but God believes in you. You want to pray with me right now?”

“No thanks. But we will have some bourbon.”

“Come on,” Pratt said. “It doesn't hurt. Give me your hand.”

Reluctantly Munz extended his hand. Pratt gripped it and looked down. “Dear Lord, please watch over our loved ones and keep them from harm, and please help Eric find peace and his family.”

“Amen,” Munz said choking.

CHAPTER 57

Munz excused himself. Business. He went into his den and shut the door.

Pratt went out front where he found Foucalt.

“What's up?” Foucalt said.

“I'm going for a walk. You might tell the others so they don't shoot me by mistake.”

“Well I can't tell you not to walk, but be careful, huh? If you're not back here in fifteen, someone will come looking.”

Pratt patted his fanny pack. “Make it thirty.” As he went back through the house to exit on the pool side, he ran into Cass carrying glasses into the kitchen. She didn't look at him.

“Look, baby, about last night,” Pratt said.

She stepped around him. “Forget it, Pratt.”

“I'm just scared, okay? I've never been in a serious relationship before.”

“And you're not in one now. You've made that perfectly clear.”

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry and I'll make it up to you.”

“Yeah. Right.” She turned her back and went into the kitchen.

Pratt watched her go with lustful regret. He toted up the pluses and minuses. The pluses: totally hot bod. She loved him. Knew how to fire a gun and drive, which in Pratt's limited experience was rare. Wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty.

The minuses: she seemed to have an animus toward Jews and blacks, and who knew who else. She seemed to have a teeny drinking problem. She apparently had no use for organized religion and Jesus in particular. Then there were the dogs.

“Jesus,” he said quietly, “I can't ask your guidance on this since you are involved. I'll just have to figure it out by myself.”

Pratt exited the first floor onto the rear deck. Bonner stood at the rail in camo fatigues surveying the woods through a pair of binocs. He put down the binocs and turned. “Ron says you're going for a walk.”

“You guys get any sleep?” Pratt said.

“Oh yeah. We spell each other, grab a couple hours here and there. We'll probably sleep some today.”

Pratt wore sunglasses to hide his tired eyes and a ball cap. “Omma walk around a little. I'll be back in thirty.”

“Well naturally we'd prefer you remain at the house and confine your outdoor activities to the deck, but I can't stop you. You going up near the road? I'll alert the deputy.”

“Nahh. I just want to stretch my limbs a little. I hear there's a lake over there.”

“There is. Well how's this? If I don't hear from you in thirty minutes we're going to start looking. What's your cell number?”

Pratt took out one of Bloom's cards and scribbled his number on the back. “You boys are reading from the same hymnal.”

“Bear in mind that we've set up an infrared perimeter, so you might get a call if you trip the line.”

“I wondered about that. What do you do at night?”

“We have night vision goggles.”

Pratt stepped down off the wide redwood steps and headed into the woods. Cass had told him that the estate contained six acres including waterfront property for a small lake. He could smell the lake but not see it. The day was overcast with a hint of rain. Dark cumulus clouds stacked up over the western horizon. Pratt had always loved walking in the woods with summer in his nose.

The wind whistled through the trees. Birds chirped. Squirrels scuttled through the ground cover. He saw a gleam of green through the trees. The lake. Pratt moved silently from rock to root, taking care not to step in crackly leaves. As a child he'd spent endless hours in the woods playing Indian. He could creep with the best of them.

Pratt thought he saw movement off to his right but when he looked there was nothing. Maybe it was Stuart. Pratt froze and listened. The woods felt empty of humans, the birds unperturbed in their search for bugs and berries. Pratt pressed on Injun style. The lake grew until he stood on its rocky shore watching the whitecaps whipped up by a sudden wind. The lake comprised about twenty acres with two baronial mansions visible, each extending a pier from the opposite side, each pier festooned with a boat lift holding a buttoned-down speedboat.

Pratt stood at six. The houses were at eleven and twelve. At three was a county park indicated by open space and a concrete ramp leading into the water. A fisherman was pulling out an aluminum skiff ahead of the rain. Woods came right up to the water except for these three features.

Suppose Moon wanted to sneak up on them. He'd put in a boat at the park and get out here, Pratt thought. Nothing to stop him but three Flintstone guys.

And Munz and Pratt. The builder suffered from Big Man syndrome, the need to assert himself, to lead, to solve the problem. He got a kick parading around the property with a pistol on his hip. Made him feel dangerous. Pratt worried that Munz might yank that gun out and blow his foot off. Or Pratt's head.

He imagined the Flintstone boys felt the same way about him.

Pratt was at a turning point. With the exception of Lowry's dogs and Ginger's son, every job he'd taken had come through Danny Bloom. The lawyer had been his friend and champion. Pratt wasn't a natural entrepreneur. He could do the job but he was lousy at selling himself. He was too blunt. He didn't know how to schmooze. A lot of people didn't like the Jesus thing.

He might advertise. Take out an ad in the Yellow Pages. Go on Craig's List. Go on Angie's List. Maybe he should take one of those business classes on how to be a better executive. He did not want to serve summonses and repo cars forever.

If he ever found the boy. Try as he might to steer clear of that dark star, the image of Eric had burned itself into his retina and was always there, just over the horizon, waiting to overwhelm him with its tidal force. He nourished a hatred so profound it could burn a hole in steel plate. Maybe Moon was just a surrogate for Duane.

Dear Lord let him come. And let me kill him
.

Was it right to pray for another man's death? Pratt wished he knew someone he could ask.

His cell phone tickled his thigh. He pulled it out. “Pratt.”

“Stuart here. Looks like they got your boy. Come on back to the house.”

CHAPTER 58

Pratt found them all in the living room: Cass, Ginger, Munz and the three Flintstone ops. A television the size of a card table showed police vehicles and fire trucks gathered around the remains of a smoking farmhouse. Stuart stood, hands on hips.

“DEA agents found Moon this morning by following a stolen vehicle to this rural Lake County property. Sheriff's deputies said shots were fired from the house. They returned fire and the house burst into flames. They found his body in the kitchen.”

Cass leaned forward from the sofa. “Holy shit. That's my place.”

Stuart looked at Cass. “They've tentatively identified Moon from some body ink but they're sending in the fingerprints just to be sure.”

Munz sat with an arm around his wife. “Looks like your job here is through.”

“Up to you, Mr. Munz. You may want us to stick around until we get a positive confirmation.”

“How many crazed fucking Indians are there? They know what he looks like. That's it. It's over. Good job.”

It didn't feel right to Pratt. “It's a fake-out.”

Stuart looked at him. “What makes you think so?”

“This guy's a ninja. He's not going to get caught in a shoot-out with cops. I don't think he even uses guns. Check his rap sheet. No guns.” Pratt turned to Munz.

“Nate. You need to keep these guys around for a few days.”

“Do you know what Flintstone charges? Come on. He's toast.”

Ginger put her hand on her husband's arm. “Nate. One more day.”

Munz looked at her and caved. “What the hell. It's only money! We'll give it another twenty-four, see what the situation is tomorrow.”

Stuart nodded minutely as if Munz had just confirmed something he'd suspected. Bonner and Foucalt were indifferent. They were getting top dollar. It was a sweet gig compared to keeping American civilians alive in Baghdad.

“How do you people feel about staying in the house or on the deck for the rest of the day?” Stuart said. “Better safe than sorry.”

A far-off rumble rolled through the still air. Munz shrugged. “Going to rain anyway.”

Stuart nodded to his boys. Bonner and Foucalt left via the front door exuding confidence. Munz headed toward the stair. “Might as well try to work.”

Cass and Ginger went back to the breezeway, leaving Pratt alone in the living room. Cass wasn't going to make it easy for him.

His woody had taken on a life of its own. He could hide in a bathroom and jerk off or make up with Cass. Pratt didn't know whether to shit or go blind. The last thing he needed was a distraction. But it wasn't up to him—not any more. The Flintstone boys had relieved him of responsibility. Too bad they couldn't relieve of him of his hatred or fear.

He went out onto the deck via the kitchen so he wouldn't have to pass through the breezeway and phoned Calloway.

He got the detective's machine and left a message. From the upper deck, the lake was just visible through the trees. The forest thrummed with the wind and there was a cool nip in the air. Fall was coming. A lone drop flew through the canopy of trees and smacked him coldly on the cheek.

Pratt folded his hands and looked down. “Dear Lord …” He stopped. He'd been tugging on God's ear a lot lately, and called in some big favors. He was in no position to implore the Lord. Rather he thanked him.

Pratt could hear the ladies in the breezeway. At least they were laughing although God knew, neither one had much to laugh about. Like a compass needle in the grip of a powerful magnetic force, Pratt's imagination returned to Eric and the concentrated evil of what had been done to him.

The scope of it never ceased to take his breath away. Since Pratt had gotten religion he'd accepted the idea of pure evil in the world. But he had never imagined he would encounter someone who was pure evil.

Pratt leaned against the rail. He was exhausted. He'd had hardly any sleep for two nights running. It was all he could do to drag his tired ass downstairs, flop on the sofa and pull the Afghans over his head. He was instantly asleep, a sweet, dreamless, velvet-lined plunge into oblivion.

Thunder woke him and the sudden dash of rain on the patio glass like a bucket of gravel. Pratt sat up momentarily bewildered. Lightning illuminated the tiki-themed rec room and he remembered. It was dark outside. He looked at his watch. He'd been out for ten hours. It was seven pm. Normally it would still be light outside but the summer storm that had been brewing all day had arrived, cutting off the sun with an iron curtain.

It took him a second to realize the pool was dark. The lights were out. Pratt made his way upstairs and found Ginger, Cass, and Munz in the dining room eating cold cuts by the light of candles. Pratt sat at the table. Cass didn't look at him. No doubt she'd spilled her guts to Ginger and they were seated in judgment against him, a worthless rat.

“How long has it been raining?” Pratt said, blinking.

“About fifteen minutes,” Munz said, holding a seeded bun in one hand. “One minute the air was still, the next like we were in a tunnel with a freight train and wham, a wall of water.”

Ginger used her arm rests to get to her feet. “I'm going to take a nap.”

Munz rose next to her. “Let me help you, dear.” Ginger took Munz' hand and they headed toward the stairs. Cass remained, staring into a cup of coffee.

“You're right,” she said. “I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

“I just need a little more time, is all,” Pratt said, hating himself. He'd been through this shit before although never with a woman of Cass' class. Sexually speaking. He wasn't talking to Jesus now.

“Come on,” he said extending his hand. The hand would lead to the hug, the hug would lead to bed.

Cass looked at his hand for a minute and took it, as he knew she would. Her scent drove him wild. Something named after an
American Idol
winner.

They went out on that part of the deck that had a roof over it. Water cascaded over the rim like a curtain. The air had taken on a slight chill. They leaned against the rail and Pratt put his arm around Cass as she snuggled into him.