Michael Connelly (49 page)

“You don’t look so good, buddy,” Rourke said. “I’m thinking maybe I won’t have to do this after all. Maybe my man Delgado
did it right with the first shot.”

The pain had brought Bosch back. It pulsed through him, leaving him alert, albeit temporarily. He could already feel himself
fading. Rourke continued to lean over him, and he looked up and noticed the flaps hanging from the chest and waist of the
FBI agent’s jumpsuit. Pockets. He was wearing the jumpsuit inside out. Something clicked in Bosch’s brain. He remembered Sharkey
saying he saw an empty tool belt around the waist of the man who pulled the body into the pipe at the reservoir. That was
Rourke. He wore the jumpsuit inside out that night, too. Because it said FBI on the back. He didn’t want to risk that that
would be seen. It was a bit of information that was useless now, but for some reason it pleased Bosch to be able to put it
in place in the puzzle.

“What are you smiling at, dead man?” Rourke asked.

“Fuck you.”

Rourke raised his foot and kicked at Bosch’s shoulder but Bosch was ready for it. He grabbed the heel with his left hand and
pushed upward and out. Rourke’s other foot gave way on the slick bed of algae and slipped out from under him. He went down
on his back with a splash. But he didn’t drop the gun as Bosch had hoped. That was it. That was all there was. Bosch made
a halfhearted effort to grab the weapon, but Rourke easily peeled his fingers off the barrel and pushed him back against the
wall. Bosch leaned to his side and vomited into the water. He felt a new flow of blood coming from his shoulder, running down
his arm. That had been his play. There was nothing else.

Rourke got up out of the water. He moved in close and put the barrel of the gun against Bosch’s forehead. “You know, Meadows
used to tell me about all that black echo stuff. All that bullshit. Well, Harry, here you are. This is it.”

“Why’d he die?” Bosch whispered. “Meadows. Why?”

Rourke stepped back and looked up and down the tunnel before speaking.

“You know why. He was a fuckup over there, he was a fuckup here. That’s why he died.” Rourke seemed to be reviewing a memory
in his mind and he shook his head disgustedly. “It was all perfect except for him. He held back the bracelet. Little jade
dolphins on gold.”

Rourke stared off into the darkness of the tunnel. A wistful look played on his face. “That’s all it took,” he said. “See,
the plan relied on complete adherence for success. Meadows, goddammit — he didn’t do that.”

He shook his head, still angry at the dead man, and was quiet. It was at that moment that Bosch thought he could hear the
sound of steps somewhere off in the distance. He wasn’t sure if he had heard it or if it was what he hoped to hear. He moved
his left leg in the water. Not enough to cause Rourke to pull the trigger, but enough to make the water slosh and to cover
the sound of the steps. If they were even there.

“He kept the bracelet,” Bosch said. “That was it?”

“That was enough,” Rourke said angrily. “Nothing was to turn up. Don’t you see? That was the beauty of the thing. Nothing
would turn up. We’d get rid of everything except the diamonds. And those we’d keep until we were done with both jobs. But
that fool couldn’t wait until the second job was completed. He palms that cheap bracelet and pawns it to score dope.

“I saw it on the pawn reports. Yeah, after the WestLand job, we went to LAPD and asked them to send over their monthly pawn
lists so we could check ’em out, too. We started to get ’em at the bureau. The only reason I made the bracelet and your pawn
guys didn’t was I was looking for it. The pawn detail has to look for a thousand things. I only looked for that one thing.

“I knew somebody had held it back. There was a lot reported stolen from that first vault that wasn’t in the shit we took out
of there. Insurance scammers. But the dolphin bracelet I knew was legit. That old lady … crying. The story behind it with
her husband and all that sentimental value shit. Interviewed her myself. And I knew she wasn’t scamming. So I knew one of
my tunnel people had held the bracelet back.”

Keep him talking, Bosch thought. He keeps talking and you’ll end up walking. Out of here. Out of here. Someone’s coming, my
arm’s humming. He laughed in his delirium and that made him vomit again. Rourke just went on.

“I bet on Meadows right from the start. Once on the needle …you know how that goes. So when the bracelet turned up he was
the first one I went to.”

Rourke drifted off then, and Bosch made more water noise with his legs. The water now seemed warm to him and it was the blood
that ran down his side that was cold.

Rourke finally said, “You know, I really don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you, Bosch. You cost us millions on this job,
but then again my share of the first one sure has gone up now that three of my guys are dead. Probably even out in the end.”

Bosch did not think he could stay awake much longer. He felt tired, helpless and resigned. The alertness had run out of him.
Even now when he managed to reach his hand up and throw it against his torn shoulder, there was no pain. He couldn’t get it
back. He lapsed into contemplation of the water moving slowly around his legs. It felt so warm and he felt so cold. He wanted
to lie down and pull it over him like a blanket. He wanted to sleep in it. But from somewhere a voice told him to hang in.
He thought of Clarke clutching his throat. The blood. He looked at the beam of light in Rourke’s hand and tried one more time.

“Why so long?” he asked in a voice no louder than a whisper. “All these years. Tran and Binh. Why now?”

“No answer, Bosch. Things just come together sometimes. Like Halley’s comet. It comes around every seventy-two or whatever
years. Things come together. I helped them bring their diamonds across. Set the whole thing up for them. I was paid well and
never thought otherwise. And then one day the seed planted all those years ago came out of the ground, man. It was there for
the taking and, man, we took it. I took it! That’s why now.”

A gloating smile played across Rourke’s face. He brought the muzzle of the weapon back to a point in front of Bosch’s face.
All Bosch could do was watch.

“I’m out of time, Bosch, and so are you.”

Rourke braced the gun with both hands and spread his feet to the width of his shoulders. At that final moment Bosch closed
his eyes. He cleared his mind of all thought but of the water. So warm, like a blanket. He heard two gunshots, echoing like
thunder through the concrete tunnel. He fought to open his eyes and saw Rourke leaning against the other wall, both his hands
up in the air. One held the M-16, the other the penlight. The gun dropped and clattered into the water, then the penlight.
It bobbed on the surface, its bulb still on. It cast a swirling pattern on the roof and walls of the tunnel as it slowly moved
away with the current.

Rourke never said a word. He slowly sagged down the wall, staring off to his right — the direction Bosch thought the shots
had come from — and leaving a smear of blood that followed him down. In the dimming light, Bosch could see surprise on his
face and then a look of resolve in his eyes. Pretty soon he sat like Bosch against the wall, the water moving around his legs,
his dead eyes no longer staring at anything.

Things went out of focus for Bosch then. He wanted to ask a question but couldn’t form the words. There was another light
in the tunnel and he thought he heard a voice, a woman’s voice, telling him everything was okay. Then he thought he saw Eleanor
Wish’s face, floating in and out of focus. And then it sank away into inky blackness. That blackness was finally all he saw.

SUNDAY, MAY 27

Bosch dreamed of the jungle. Meadows was there, and all the soldiers from Harry’s photo album. They stood around the hole
at the bottom of a leaf-covered trench. Above them a gray mist clung to the top of the jungle canopy. The air was still and
warm. Bosch took photographs of the other rats with his camera. Meadows was going into the ground, he said. Out of the blue
and into the black. He looked at Bosch through the camera and said, “Remember the promise, Hieronymus.”

“Rhymes with anonymous,” Bosch said.

But before he could tell him not to go, Meadows promptly jumped feet first into the hole and disappeared. Bosch rushed to
the edge and looked down but saw nothing, just darkness like ink. Faces came into focus, then slipped back into the blackness.
There was Meadows and Rourke and Lewis and Clarke. From behind him, he heard a voice he recognized but couldn’t place with
a face.

“Harry, c’mon, man. I need to talk to you.”

Then Bosch became aware of a deep pain in his shoulder, throbbing from elbow to neck. Someone was tapping his left hand, lightly
patting it. He opened his eyes. It was Jerry Edgar.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Edgar said. “I don’t have much time. This guy on the door says they’ll be here anytime now. Plus he’s due
to go off watch. I wanted to try to talk to you before the brass did. Would’ve been by yesterday but this place was crawling
with silk. Besides, I heard you were out most of the day. Too delirious.”

Bosch just stared at him.

“On these things,” Edgar said, “I’ve always heard it’s best to say you can’t remember a thing. Let them put it whatever way
they want. I mean, when you catch a round, there’s no way they can say you’re lying about remembering. The mind shuts down,
man, when there is traumatic insult to the body. I’ve read that.”

By now Bosch realized he was in a hospital room and he began to look about. He noticed five or six vases of flowers, and the
room smelled putridly sweet. He also noticed he had restraining belts across his chest and waist.

“You’re at MLK, Harry. Um, doctors say you’ll be all right. They still have some work to do on your arm, though.” Edgar lowered
his voice to a whisper. “I snuck in. Think the nurses have a change of shift or something. Cop on the door, he’s over from
Wilshire patrol, let me in ’cause he’s selling and he musta heard that’s my gig. I told him I’d take his listing for two points
if he gave me five minutes in here.”

Bosch still hadn’t spoken. He wasn’t sure he could. He felt like he was floating on a layer of air. He had trouble concentrating
on Edgar’s words. What did he mean about points? And why was he at Martin Luther King-Drew Medical Center near Watts? Last
he remembered, he had been in Beverly Hills. In the tunnel. UCLA Med Center or Cedars would have been closer.

“Anyway,” Edgar was saying, “I’m just trying to let you know what’s going on as much as possible before the silks get here
and try to fuck you over. Rourke is dead. Lewis is dead. Clarke is bad, he’s on the machine, and I heard they were just keeping
him going for parts. As soon as they line up people that need ’em, they’ll pull the plug. How’d you like to end up with that
asshole’s heart or eyeball or something? Anyway, like I said, you should come out of this all right. Either way, with that
arm, you can get your eighty percent, no questions asked. Line of duty. You’re a made man.”

He smiled at Bosch, who just looked at him blankly. Harry’s throat was dry and cracked when he finally tried to speak.

“MLK?”

It came out a little weak but okay. Edgar poured a cup of water from a pitcher on the bedside table and handed it to him.
Bosch unbuckled the restraints, sat himself up to drink it and immediately felt a wave of nausea hit him. Edgar didn’t notice.

“It’s a gun-and-knife club, man. This is where they take the gangbangers after the drive-bys. No better place to go with a
gunshot in the county, least-wise those yuppie doctors over at UCLA. They train military doctors here. So they’ll be ready
for war casualties. They brought you in on a chopper.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s a little after seven, Sunday morning. You lost a day.”

Then Bosch remembered Eleanor. Was she the one in the tunnel at the end? What had happened? Edgar seemed to read him. Everybody
had been doing that lately.

“Your lady partner is fine. She and you are in the spotlight, man, heroes.”

Heroes. Bosch thought about that. After a while, Edgar said, “I gotta book on out of here. If they know I talked to you first,
I’ll get shipped out to Newton.”

Bosch nodded. Most cops wouldn’t mind Newton Division. Nonstop action in Shootin’ Newton. But not Jerry Edgar, real estate
agent.

“Who’s coming?”

“Usual crew, I guess. IAD, Officer Involved Shooting team, the FBI is in on the act. Bev Hills, too. I think everybody’s still
figurin’ out what the fuck happened down there. And they only got you and Wish to tell ’em. They probly want to make sure
you two have the same story. That’s why I’m saying, tell ’em you don’t remember dick. You’re shot, man. You are an injured
officer. Line of duty. It’s your right not to remember what happened.”

“What do you know about what happened?”

“The department isn’t saying shit. No scut going around on this at all. When I heard it went down I went out to the scene
and Pounds was already there. He saw me and ordered me back. Fuckin’ Ninety-eight, he wouldn’t say shit. So I only know what’s
in the press. The usual load of bullshit. TV last night didn’t know shit. The
Times
this morning doesn’t have much, either. The department and the bureau, they look like they joined up to make everybody a
valiant soldier.”