Day of Atonement (30 page)

They arrived at the car. Decker pulled out his keys and said, “I’m going to update Marge. Then I’m going to drive you to your car. You’re going home.”

At first, Rina didn’t reply. Then she said, “Fine. Take me to my car. I’ll go home.”

Decker didn’t like it. She was agreeing way too easily. Was she sincere or was she planning to do something stupid? Return to the terminals or—worse—follow him.

Goddamn it, if only he could trust her.

He hated to admit it, but he couldn’t. At least not with this case. It was probably better to have her near him so he could watch her.
Control
her. He despised his decision, but at the moment, he felt as if he had no choice.

He said, “This is what I’m going to do for you. You really want to come with me, come with me. Just don’t get into any trouble, okay?”

“Really?”

He opened the passenger door. “Really.”

“What’s up your sleeve, Detective?”

“I like your company,” Decker said. “Besides, if you’re next to me, I don’t have to worry about you, do I?”

“You’re giving me mixed messages,” Rina said.

Decker ignored the comment. “You can call in for backup if I need it.” That part was true. “I figure you can’t get hurt too bad locked in the unmarked with the keys.” He smiled. “Hop in.”

Rina smiled back, but knew something was amiss. Not that Peter’s face was offering her any hint as to what was up. He could be unreadable when he wanted to be. Rina didn’t believe him at all. But she kept her thoughts to herself.

After the phone
call, Nick-O seemed better.

But it was too late.

Hank had made up his mind. The last time, man, it’d taken him too fuckin’ long to react. Yeah, he did react, one of the reasons why Hank didn’t do him on the spot, but in Hank’s mind, Nick-O had blown it.

If Nick-O hadn’t been there, Hank would have planned it all differently. First off, he would have had the gun.
He
would have shot the mother himself, not waited for Nick-O to finally snap out of it and
do
something.

No, Hank didn’t like that at all. Nick-O was definitely more trouble than he was worth.

Still, Hank was glad that he had brought the kid along. The kid, without knowing it, helped him know what he
really
wanted. And the kid had done all the scut work. And he’d been someone to talk to in the beginning.

Too bad.

It could have worked out, if the kid had toughened up. Nick-O was a smart cookie, but he was too damn young. He was just too much responsibility.

And there was always the constant worry of the kid dropping a dime. Not that Hank thought he’d ever do that. Nick-O had been scared real bad, especially after what had happened.

You killed him, Nick-O. Make no mistake about that, buddy. I may have carved him up, but you killed him.

That’s what really pissed Hank off more than anything, what had proved to him that Nick-O would have to go.

The kid went ahead and killed the faggot—finally! And then, he became unglued when Hank started having a little fun. Dafuck difference did it make? The dude was
dead
.

Hank trembled with excitement when he thought about it. The gunshots had ripped several holes in the faggot’s stomach, but there was still plenty of skin left for that initial cut. He shivered when he thought of the knife slicing through warm flesh, the belly opening as easily as parting a pair of curtains. The metallic, sweet smell of freshly butchered meat: the oily, almost slimy feel of the innards, soothing blood washing over your fingers.

The one thing he regretted most in life—never having the pleasure of feeling the
dickhead’s
intestines, his body bursting like a bloody balloon in the explosion.

A big regret. Had to make up for it. Besides, just like he said, the faggot was already dead. Why
not
have some fun?

Nick-O bawling like a baby. Kid could be so
stupid
sometimes. Like a dead person could feel?

He was already dead. For the millionth time, asshole. You killed him. Don’t ever forget it.

Then they were quiet for a long, long time. Gave Hank the opportunity to think over what was really going down.

The decision was just so clear-cut. The kid had to go.

That’s when Hank suggested that the kid could make a carefully supervised phone call if he wanted to. Nick-O nearly kissed his feet. Hank felt pretty good about that. Hey, let the kid go with some last words, you know.

The original plan was to do the kid just as soon as they returned from the phone call, then hop a plane out the next day. But it was too weird to think about spending the rest of the night with a corpse.

And besides, Hank wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave L.A. just yet.

What was the hurry?

No one knew who they were, where they were. If there were any witnesses to the killings, cops would be looking for a duo. Soon, he’d be just an
uno
. No problem.

Still, he wanted to stay close to the airport just in case he felt like splitting. There was no real hurry to do Nick-O quick. And it would be more exciting to wait a little bit. After all, he’d just finished up with the faggot dude.

So let the kid have his phone call. He’d do him right before dawn, while it was still dark enough to get away with it, but there was enough light for him to see what he was doing.

Yeah, he had it all figured out. The kid couldn’t keep awake too much longer. Hank would have fallen asleep much sooner if the faggot last night hadn’t given him that magical cellophane envelope.

It had been up to Hank. Did he want coke or money for his services? Knowing he was going to get money anyway, Hank figured, why not take the coke? He had snorted the last of it around an hour ago.

Blastoff. Instant energy for the brain.

When the kid dropped off, he’d get the gun.

One quick blast.

If
he had time and
if
he felt like it, he’d finish the kid off like he did the faggot. Like he should have done the dickhead.

If only he’d known better.

He looked over at Nick-O. Kid still wasn’t asleep, he was praying again. Let’s face it, the kid had to know his time was up. He didn’t even seem to care.

It was almost like he was putting the kid out of his misery.

That was a good way to think about it, putting the kid out of his misery. A quick blast to the head and it would be over. Then he’d do the kid if he wanted to. Yeah, he’d probably do the kid, ’cause hell, the kid would be dead anyway. Thinking about it, he began to get excited.

But the kid would
definitely
be dead first. Hank was no
monster, he’d never do the kid while he was alive. It was like Nick-O wasn’t a bad sort.

Just too young.

Just too green.

Just not tough enough.

The next kid would have to do better.

One quick blast.

Why make him suffer?

Sitting like a postmodern Stonehenge, the unfinished Century Freeway coursed along a stretch of dirt that hugged Imperial Highway. Four-story concrete pillars supported disjointed slabs of to-be highway that abruptly ended in exposed grids of rusted-metal spikes, the gray mist softening sharp edges like hairspray on a camera lens.

Under the freeway sat two-story mountains of gravel and clusters of heavy construction machinery. Directly south of the highway, looking like a Hollywood movie backdrop, were groves of palm trees completely out of place in the industrial area. That was Los Angeles, Decker thought. Nothing matched. Beyond the groves was a housing development and a complex of yet-to-be-rented office buildings.

Decker drove parallel with the construction. No signs of life, but that was to be expected. If the boys were camping out, they’d be hidden. He told Rina to look for any phone booth. As they drove west, the embryonic freeway came to a sudden halt at Aviation Boulevard. Decker crossed the intersection, passing over railroad tracks, and continued in the same direction. The construction resumed on the north side of Imperial Highway, the south side taken up for blocks by Hughes Aircraft and office structures.

As he drove west, Decker was coming closer to the airport, but distancing himself from the 405 freeway—the only thoroughfare that hosted a number of motor vehicles at this time of night. Surface streets were deserted, blacktop reflecting converging lines of Christmas-colored traffic lights. Neither he nor Rina spotted any phone booths. He back
tracked to Aviation. There were no through streets that paralleled the other side of the construction, so he was forced to detour through a working-class residential area, a neighborhood filled with trucks, vans, and decade-old American cars.

“What are you looking for?” Rina finally asked.

“Me and the chicken that crossed the road,” Decker said. “We’re trying to get to the other side.”

His voice was tense.

“Aren’t we near that outcall service place?” Rina asked.

“You’ve got a good sense of direction, honey.”

He wove through streets lined by small stucco homes until he came to Tropical Island Biway. He swung left, passing the palm groves sprouting from an expanse of newly planted sod. In front was a waterfall gushing down a Mediterranean basin; above it black script letters scrolled on white tile identifying the development as the Tropical Island Business Park. A long driveway led to a group of white stone buildings striped with green windows.

The business park was within walking distance of the construction and across the street from the 405 freeway. But there didn’t appear to be any phone booths near the offices. He continued on the Biway, slowing down the unmarked, hoping he’d see something.

As he approached 116th Street, he noticed a small unpaved service road that ran along the south side of Century Freeway.

He slowed, then stopped.

“What are we doing now?” Rina asked.

“I’m trying to decide whether I should park here or turn,” Decker answered. “Tires on an unpaved road would make a lot of noise.”

“I don’t see a phone booth,” Rina said.

Decker said, “I don’t see one either, but it’s dark. I don’t think I should chance it. I’ll stop here.” He turned off the motor and looked at her. “You’re going to stay put?”

“Of course,” Rina said. “What do you think? I’m going to follow you?”

That’s exactly what Decker thought. He explained to her how to use the radio. “Give me a half hour to look around. If you don’t hear from me or I haven’t returned, call for backup.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to lock the doors and leave you keys to the car. Keep your eyes open. If anyone approaches, take off. Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t try to contact me on my radio. Your voice will echo and the noise might alert them if they’re nearby.”

“Okay.”

“Remember, if I’m not back in a half hour, don’t start looking for me. Just call for backup and stay put.”

“I understand.”

Decker paused, gauging her responses. She seemed sincere, but as much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t trust her judgment.

“What is it?” Rina asked.

“I’m sorry, Rina,” Decker said. “I’m really sorry to do this, but it’s for your own good.”

Rina stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

Decker pulled out a set of cuffs and quickly encircled her left hand with a ring of metal. The other cuff was clamped to the steering wheel. Rina stared at him, aghast.

Keeping her voice in check, she said, “You take these off me now and I’ll pretend this was a joke.”

Decker said, “You can reach the car radio, you can reach the ignition key, you can reach the door lock.” He picked up her purse and put it on her lap. “You can even reach your gun. The only thing you can’t do is get out of the car and try to come after me—”

“Take these off me now!”

“Rina, I’m truly sorry, but I can’t.”

“This is extremely low, Peter,” Rina said. “A civilized man would not do something this
low
!”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need
your
protection!” Rina fumed. “I will never forgive you for this, Peter. You’re doing irreparable harm!”

“So be mad at me. You do reckless things and I want assurance that you’re going to be out of the way.”

“There’s no marriage if there’s no trust!”

“Have you given me reason to trust you?”

She didn’t answer.

Decker opened the door, told her to slide into the driver’s seat.

Rina didn’t respond.

“Okay, be like that. It just shows me my judgment was right because you’re acting like a baby.”

Rina looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. Decker felt like an ogre who had kidnapped the princess. It was a despicable thing to do, but what was his alternative? He wanted her safe and
out
of the way. He took the car key off his ring and stuck it in the ignition. “I’m going to lock the door now, Rina. I’ll check in with you in thirty minutes. Don’t answer any of my calls unless I tell you to, all right?”

His words were met with silence.

Decker raised his voice. “All right?”

“I heard you.”

Decker said, “You can be mad at me all you want later. But I have to be able to count on you. Can I?”

Rina wiped away tears with her free hand and gave him a stony look. “Yes.”

Decker came out of the car, depressed the car lock and shut the door. Her face staring out of the glass. Her beautiful forlorn face: He had clipped the wings of an exotic bird. He went to the trunk, took out the flashlight, then gently closed it.

One last look at Rina. He tapped on the window; she looked up. He mouthed an “I love you.”

Rina paused, then mouthed back a “Be careful, Peter.” Decker would have preferred an “I love you” but that was too much to ask for.

It was damp outside, the fog hovering over the barren
stretch of land. The service road was almost indistinguishable from the construction site—both full of loose gravel and dirt. Decker tried to walk as quietly as he could, but his shoes stirred up plumes of dust, his soles scraped against loose pebbles.

Decker hooked the flashlight onto his belt. It was still dark, dawn at least two hours away, but there was enough light from streetlamps. One less thing to carry. Droplets nipped at his cheeks. He rolled up his collar, stuck his hands in his pockets. He walked slowly, scanning the area for anything significant.

Strolling, observing.

He looked down, then looked up.

If he hadn’t looked up, he would have missed it.

A serpentine rise of black cable line connecting to the T-grid of a telephone pole. The line arced down, stopped at a wooden pole one hundred feet in front of him. Decker walked over. A black rotary phone was fastened to wood by metal rings.

Having worked construction in his teens, Decker had seen this kind of thing before. At major sites, the project owner often installed a temporary line for the foreman’s outgoing calls. The line was disconnected as soon as the work was completed. But this one had no lock on the dial. Unusual. Maybe it had never had one, maybe someone had jimmied it off. Decker wrapped his jacket sleeve around the receiver and picked it up.

A dial tone.

He called Brooklyn information. As soon as the operator answered, he hung up. He had just wanted to see if the line was capable of connecting long-distance calls.

It was.

At the sound of footsteps. Noam jerked his head up, his dreams of his family dissipating instantly. He saw Hersh standing over him, his hand behind his back. Fully awake, Noam grabbed his bag, stood up, and stepped back.