Falling Down (25 page)

A
huge, sprawling million-dollar home in Ventana Canyon, sitting on two acres of foothill property. We pulled up behind Norman Don's car, parked on a road about a hundred feet higher and overlooking Carlin's backyard. A woman lay flat in a lounger, topless, face up to the sun.

“I don't have binoculars,” Norman said. “But I wouldn't want any reflected glare from them anyway. I've moved my car every twenty minutes or so, but there aren't many places nearby to park. Alex wants you to wait for backup.”

“Give me that,” I said. Reaching through his open window for some Watchtower pamphlets. “I'm going to witness for Jehovah.”

“What do we do?” Mary said.

“You're staying here.”

“Don't argue with me.” Reaching in her purse, she grabbed Ken's pistol, pulled it out.

“Whoa!” Norman said. “Easy, easy.”

“I'm going with you,” Mary said.

“All right,” I said finally. “All right, all right.”

“What do you want me to do?” Norman said.

“We're going up to her front door. We're Witnesses, working her neighborhood. Chances are, she won't even see us coming. We can take her at the swimming pool. Where's your cell?” He handed it to me, I called my own
phone, and when it rang I left the connection open. “We'll be at her door in ten minutes. If she gets up from that lounger, if she goes into the house, it'll be us at the front door. You tell me exactly what she does. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Put on your sunglasses,” I said to Mary. “Take these two pamphlets, make sure you walk tall, work your smile. Here.” I pulled a straw hat from the back seat, put it on her head, but she had too much hair so I wore it. Ready?”

 

“She just sat up,” Norman said. “She's looking around, waiting.”

“Ring the doorbell again,” I said. Mary pushed the ivory button, chimes rebounded somewhere far away from the front door.

“She stood up. She's chewing a fingernail, she's picked up a big towel, she's holding the towel like there's something underneath. She's going inside.”

“Ring it again. Smile.”

“God is with us,” Mary said.

A slot opened in the thick oak front door.

“Go away.” A woman's voice, husky, without much emphasis. “I don't want your kind around here.”

“Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry, I know you think we're Jehovah's Witnesses. But actually, we both live two blocks away. We're circulating a petition against one of the homeowners. He's, well, he's decided to plant grass, I mean,
grass
. Here, in this development. When it's been perfectly landscaped. A riparian habitat.”

“Grass?” the voice said.

“Yes. Actually, some of it won't even be real grass.”

“Plastic,” Mary said. “Like, say, on a football field. Plastic grass.”

“For Christ's sake,” the voice said. “Fake grass.”

“Exactly,” Mary said. “I've got a petition to the zoning commission, complaining about the grass. Most everybody on our blocks have signed, today we're trying
to get other signatures. It'll just take a minute, just print and sign your name, we'll fill in the address.”

“Shit. Sure, okay, sure.”

Two deadbolts released, the door opening about a foot, and I rammed against the door, knocking the woman backward, her towel flying up and out of her hand and dropping a small automatic pistol that gouged a chip in the entryway tiles.

“Down, down,” I shouted.

Kicked the automatic to one side as the woman lunged for it and I drew back my foot and kicked her on the right breast and that hurt, she grabbed the breast, rubbing it with one hand, sitting quietly now and looking for an edge. She cut her eyes between my face and Mary's and then she smiled.

“I know you,” she said. “I know you both.”

“And now we know you. At last.”

“We've seen each other before.”

“Yeah. You videotaped me and I videotaped you.”

“In your leather bra,” she said finally. “Should have thought of that.” She turned her face to Mary. “And how's that little girl?” she said.

“She's safe,” Mary said. “She's in God's hands.”

“Where we want to send all of you. Straight up to God.”

She made no effort to cover her naked breasts, she sat with both hands braced behind her, firm, large breasts hardly moving, but I saw muscles rippling in both arms and knew she'd launch herself at us if she saw any edge.

“Mary,” I said. “Move over near that chair. Put that .357 on her.”

“Wow,” the woman said. “Tall lady. Big gun. Wow.”

“I only want one thing,” I said.

“Cockfighting is a misdemeanor. Small fine, no jail time.”

“This has nothing to do with cockfights.”

“I've nothing really to say. Really. Nothing.”

“Is Deb Carlin a real name?”

“It's a name.”

“But you've had other names.”

“So have you,” she said. “Really. This is a waste of time. I'm getting up.”

“Have you heard about Carlos?” I said. She blinked, lips twitched slightly, hardly noticeable if I weren't two feet from her face.

“Who's that?”

“Carlos Cañas.”

“Don't know him.”

“He's dead. Burned to death two days ago.”

“Is he with God?”

I backed off two feet, sighted my Beretta, calculated the angles, and fired, the bullet runneling a deep crack in three of the tiles. She flinched, regained her composure.

“Shoot up the house,” she said. “But you won't shoot me. I'm getting up.”

“Five days,” I said. She stopped, halfway from a hallway to the back of the house. “For five days, I've been wondering if I should stop carrying this Beretta.”

“Oh fuck that,” she said. “You're gonna shoot me, for Christ's sakes, shoot me. But I'm going to get dressed.”

“Please,” I said. “Don't move.”

“Oh, by all means,” Mary said. “Move.”

“That goddam girl of yours,” Carlin said. “The people I worked with, they've got these lists. When something goes wrong, they've got to take care of
every
body on those lists. And that girl saw too many people. A pity she didn't die in that crash. You're Catholic, aren't you?”

Mary nodded, the heavy .357 wobbling a bit in her hand.

“So let me ask you,” Carlin said. “Is the hand of Jesus on that gun?”

“No,” Mary said. “This is all on my own. Your future is between God and yourself. I'm just here to help arrange the meeting.”

“Wow,” Carlin said. Laughing. “Right out of a movie.
Listen, you two. I'm not somebody who stays in the shallow end of the pool. I'm gonna get dressed now.”

“Don't move,” I said.

She shrugged, started to turn her back.

I shot her in the left knee, blood spurting on the cream-colored tiles, and she writhed in agony. I stuck my shoe under her bathing towel, flicked it on her.

“Find the bathroom,” I said. Mary in shock, her pistol drooping. “Mary. Find a bathroom. Get more towels. Do it.”

“You shot her,” Mary said.

“And I might shoot the other knee. Get some more towels.”

Mary ran down a hallway and returned quickly with two huge terrycloth towels. She started to kneel at the woman's side, but I motioned her back.

“Throw her the towels,” I said. “Don't go near her.”

I expected curses, anger, anything, but the woman ground her teeth and wrapped two of the towels around the already swollen kneecap.

“Where's Carlos?” I said.

“I…don't…know.”

“Where's Carlos?”

“He's dead,” she said. “He was nothing.”

Another wave of pain twisted her face and she fell on her side, holding the towels over her leg, trying not to put pressure on her knee. She shook her head, grimaced, tried to speak, shook her head again.

“Where's E210?” I said.

Her eyes flared wide open, her mouth a perfect O of surprise. “If I tell you,
I'm
dead.”

“You'll have protection.”

She laughed, a loud, musical laugh that had no dark edges.

“Finish me yourself, or call an ambulance. I'm done talking.”

“Mary,” I said. “Cock the pistol.” She drew back the hammer with a double click. “Stay where you are, keep
the pistol right on these perfect silicone breasts. If she makes any move toward you, just shoot.”

“You can't do that,” the woman said. “God-lovers don't kill.”

“God doesn't roll dice,” Mary said. “But I will.”

“Let's make a deal. I give you E210, you forget about me.”

“Deal,” I said.

“You've got no proof I've done anything.”

“I don't need proof, I don't care what happens to you.”

“Yeah, well. What proof do I have you'll keep your word?”

“Do you believe in God?” Mary said.

“Hardly.”

“Then as God is your personal witness, we'll let you go.”

“That was too easy,” the woman said. “There's no proof in what you said, that you'll actually let me go.”

“There's no real proof of God's existence,” Mary said. “But I know He's there.”

“No deal,” the woman said finally. “Go to hell.”

“Mary. Keep your gun on her,” I said. “While I look for something.”

 

I didn't have to look far. A Tucson Yellow Pages lay open on the kitchen counter, between the sink and a portable phone and open to a page.

In red ink, a business name and address circled, with numbers in the margin of the page: 9-26-56. I ripped the page out of the book, rummaged through drawers and cabinets, and finally found what I wanted in the garage. I went back inside.

“Mary,” I said. “We've got to do this carefully, so we
don't give this bitch an edge. Take this electrical tape and unroll four or five feet. I'll stand away from you, while you wrap this around her ankles. Then more tape around her arms, tape her arms so she can hold the towel over her knee.”

Now the woman cursed, but we paid no attention. I wrapped the last towel around her mouth and taped it securely to her head. Furious, her eyes followed every move, but there was no edge for her, none at all.

 

Back inside our car, driving out of Ventana Canyon.

“Where are we going?” Mary said.

“E210,” I said. Handed her the page of advertisements, bloody fingerprints and all. Mary looked at it, shook her head.

“E210,” she said. “What is it?”

“A self-storage locker.”

“What's in it?”

“If we're lucky, something that will lead to who's doing all this to us.”

U
Store.

The digital name itself a clue of sorts, the storage company owned by somebody with an eye to advertising on the Internet. Approximately fifty or so individual units, each fronted by padlocked, pull-down steel doors. uStore was southwest of Tucson, off Rincon and past the state prison, the pavement ending in a roundabout and a few other anonymous buildings. A graded dirt road ran to the south. I parked behind one of the other buildings, out of line-of-sight from uStore.

“Something in there,” I said, “something will give us answers.”

“There's no front office,” Mary said. “It looks empty.”

“Probably is. These self-storage places often don't have an office on the premises, there's a lot of money in this business, probably handled by a central office in Tucson. Lots of military people, from the Air Force base, they use these temporary storage units when they're not assigned adequate housing.”

“E210,” she said.

“And if I'm right, I've got the combination to a padlock. You ready?”

She touched her Mother Teresa medal. “Forgive me, Lord, for what I am about to do.”

And the next ten minutes answered all my questions.

 

We walked quickly to uStore, no windows in sight, no cars, no vehicles of any kind until we rounded the C and D sections of the units and saw a Chevy Cavalier parked midway down the last aisle.

“This is E,” Mary whispered. Her shoes clattered on the asphalt.

“Take off your shoes,” I said. Removing mine, racking the Beretta's slide. “I know that car, why do I know that car?”

I stopped, thinking, couldn't recall where I'd seen the car.

Moving again slowly down the E side of uStore, number two-forty, two-thirty, two-twenty, and stopped in front of two-ten. A huge padlock hooked through matching slots between quarter-inch-thick metal bars.

“The combination,” I said. “Read it to me.”

“Nine.” I set the padlock at zero, rotated the dial right to nine. “Twenty-eight.” Right again. “Fifty-six.” Right again, Beretta shifted to my right hand, tugging on the padlock. It wouldn't open.

“Doesn't it go right, left, right?” Mary said. “Like a gym locker.”

Zero. Right to nine. Left to twenty-eight. Right to fifty-six.

It still wouldn't open.

“Gym locker,” Mary said. “Umm, ummm, go left a full turn, then stop.”

Zero. Right to nine. Left, full turn past twenty-eight, then twenty-eight again. Right to fifty-six. Our eyes locked, I pulled gently on the padlock, and it slid open without a sound. I stood two feet back from the door, motioned Mary to grasp the handle, and nodded. She jerked the door up, it rolled open on oiled tracks but still made a clatter, and we were inside the unit.

Open doorways on both the left and right walls.

“Deb?” a voice said in the distance.

“These units are connected,” I whispered. “This
whole area of the storage units, they're all connected on the inside.”

“Deb? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” I said. My huskiest voice.

“What are you doing here?”

I waggled the Beretta to the left, moved to the edge of the open doorway, looked at Mary with the .357 out in front of her, the gun steady in both hands. I stepped into the doorway, saw a figure five units away.

“Freeze,” I said. But the figure lurched sideways, more of a fall than a jump. I ran through three more units to find a man, crawling on the floor, trying to reach an AK-47.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Not, no. Not you.”

Christopher Kyle scowled at me from the floor, the AK-47 still six feet away. He dragged himself a foot closer, but I didn't even hurry, I went to the AK-47 and tossed it aside.

“Ah,” I said. “Oh, God. Not you.”

He licked his lips, propped himself against a desk. Four computer monitors set up on a shelf along one wall, on the other wall a rack of computers, the web servers, the entire ChupaLuck online gambling casino.

“Who is he?” Mary said.

“A Tucson homicide detective.”

“A detective?”

“Over the hill,” I said. “And dirty.”

“Why?” Mary said. “Why?” she said again, looking at Kyle.

Kyle reached behind his back.

“Don't do that,” I said quickly. “Christopher, do
not
do that. Trust me this one last time, Christopher. You move, you die.”

He slowly withdrew his hand, his muscular hands around a Glock nine.

“I'll shoot you,” I said. “I've already shot that woman today. That Carlin woman, whatever her name is, I shot her in the knee. I'll do the same to you.”

Kyle kept the muzzle away from me, moved it across his chest.

“Don't, don't don't
don't do that,
” I shouted.

But he swiftly tucked the muzzle under his chin and pulled the trigger. Except the gun misfired. I kicked the gun, before he could try again, kicked the gun so hard it crushed his lips and broke several teeth.

“You always told me,” I said. “You told me that killing was random and easy. Not gonna be your way out, though.”

Mary knelt in front of him. She pulled off her shirt, wiped Kyle's bloody mouth, staring at him as he cursed.

“My girl,” Mary said. “You threatened my girl's life. You used up a lot of young lives. I could not imagine anybody using a young woman's body like you've done, stuffing her intestines with poison.”

Kyle snarled, moaned, an utterly wordless cry.

“I forgive you,” Mary said. “I'm glad that you're going to live. I will pray for you every day of my life. Whatever horrible, terrible place they'll send you to, where you'll live, hopefully, you'll live a long, long time.

“For the rest of your life,” Mary said. “I will pray for you. And may God forgive you.”

“You would forgive him?” I said. Disbelief, shock.

“Yes.”

“After everything he's done?”

“Yes.”

“Will God ever forgive
me
?” I said.

“Of course.”

“Then God help me,” I said. “Because I understand so little of this.”

Seeing a large roll of duct tape, I wound the entire roll around his body and the chair and desk and everything close enough to secure him even tighter. I looked at all the computer equipment, all of it familiar, its purpose familiar, everything about it not much different than my own office, Kyle himself not so different from me in his technical abilities.

“I don't understand this,” I said.

I looked at the blood on his face, I looked for curses and defiance but all I saw was an old man's spirit and purpose sagging in defeat. Nobody moved, no sounds came from outside, the silence so profound I heard my heart beat. I held my Beretta in both my hands, I racked the slide, ejecting all the cartridges and they tinkled to the floor, one by one until the magazine was empty and I hit the magazine button and the magazine dropped to the floor.

“I don't understand this,” I said. “There's no meaning in what you've done.”

“You're marked women.” Kyle finally spoke. “
La Bruja
's curse is on your heads, on your daughters' heads.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “It's all you. When you go away, nobody will care about any of us. And you will go away for a long time.”

“Kill me now,” he said.

“We're going to leave,” I said. “I'm going to call Bob Gates, I'm going to tell him where to find you.”

“Kill me,” he said. “Finish me now.”

I set my Beretta on the floor.

I walked away from it.