No Man's Land (29 page)

Kenny waved him off. “You’re jamming with me, man. You can’t
stand it . . . I seen something and you didn’t.”

“No, man . . . I’m telling you . . . this is for real here . .
.”

“You was always like that, Ray Ray. Somebody’s family had a
baboon, yours had one too.”

“That’s cold, man.”

The door opened. Kenny leaned down to greet the customer. Corso
walked into the store. Kenny’s face lit up like it was Christmas.

“Man . . . you won’t believe what this retread’s been trying
to tell me,” Kenny said. “He’s been . . .”

Melanie Harris sat straight and rigid in the driver’s seat,
hoping some passing truck driver might notice her nakedness and call
the authorities. Then, of course, there was the matter of how she
looked in the nude. Bad enough to be kidnapped naked, let alone
slouching and allowing one’s attributes to tumble and sag into an
amorphous bag of flesh. No way that was going to happen. Bad enough
her Brazilian was partially grown out, leaving her mound with the
look of a sugarcane field after a typhoon. She had an appointment for
a waxing next Thursday. Sometime in the morning. The exact hour
escaped her at the moment. She wondered if she’d be charged for the
appointment even if she was dead.

Brian had liked the Brazilian at first. Later he came to see the
procedure as a California affectation and heaped upon it the same
degree of scorn he used for anything overtly Hollywood. Started out,
she’d done it as a lark. It was a couple of weeks after she’d had
her eyeliner tattooed on. Melanie figured, “What the hell. It’s a
week before Valentine’s Day; it’ll make a nice surprise.”

Go figure. She’d discovered she liked it. It made her feel not
G.M. Ford only cleaner, but in some odd way allowed her access to the
vestal maiden she’d left so far behind so many years before.
Allowed her to feel like a girl again, as it were.

She threw a quick glance over at Driver. He was reading the map
Corso had bought at that little store last night. The barrel of the
shotgun was pointed directly at her right breast. She felt the blood
rise in her cheeks. There she was . . . sitting stark naked, no more
than five feet from him and he wasn’t paying the slightest
attention to her. She again gave thanks to God. No matter what might
transpire here, at least she wasn’t going to be raped. Even if he
killed them both, at least she wouldn’t have to bear that frightful
indignity. She returned her eyes to the road and resumed her prayers.

“See,” Kenny said. “This is the dude right here.”

“Hey, man, I just saw you on the tube, ’cept you had long hair
in the picture they was showin’,” said Ray. “You was like
captured by those guys the heat are lookin’ all over for, huh. That
musta been a trip.”

Corso allowed as how the experience had indeed been “a trip.”
“You got another one of those tourist maps?” he asked Kenny.

Kenny shook his head. “Sold you the last one the other night.
Only one I got left is the one we use to order from.” He pointed at
Ray. “You know what Ray Ray here has been trying to tell me?”

“What’s that?”

“Ray Ray been trying to tell me he give one of those guys a ride
up the mountain this morning.”

Corso stiffened. “Which one?” he asked as calmly as he was
able.

“Big guy with a shaved head.”

“Was he carrying anything?” Corso held his breath.

“Couple big gym bags. Black Nike bags. Had the little swoosh on
the sides of them.”

Corso’s knees nearly buckled. He put a hand down on the counter
to steady himself. “Oh Jesus,” he whispered.

“You okay?” Ray asked.

“I been half-hoping I was wrong,” Corso said. He took a deep
breath, then pushed his way past Ray and out the door. He pulled
Marty’s cell phone from his pants pocket and waited impatiently for
it to come alive. When the little tone told him the phone was ready,
he dialed Rosen’s number.
Beep, beep.
Busy. Hoping maybe
he’d made a mistake in dialing, he tried again. Same,
beep,
beep,
busy. “Shit,” he screamed at the top of his lungs. He
ran back into the store.

“You callin’ the cops?” Ray asked.

“Where could you hide a motor home around here?” Corso asked.

“You mean here on the mountain?” Kenny asked.

“Why would anybody wanna do that?” Ray wanted to know. Corso
thought it over. “The RV is also a remote satellite rig. You can
broadcast from it. I think maybe he wants to broadcast something . .
. something where he gets to tell his story, then goes out in a blaze
of glory.” He slapped the side of his head. “I’m just guessing.
His motivations are mostly lost on me, but that’s as good a guess
as any.”

“Where’d he get a motor home? When I left him off, he was
hoofin’ it.”

“He stole it from some friends of mine. Kidnapped them and I’m
guessing at some point he’s going to kill them.”

“This the guy shot them guards?” Kenny asked.

“The very same. That’s why we gotta find him. Right now.
Yesterday.”

“Best place to hide something that big would be”—Kenny waved
a hand—“you know, other than in somebody’s yard or something .
. . the best place would hafta be somewhere on the old highway.”

“Where’s that?”

“Everywhere,” said Ray. “It’s old route 180. It winds
around the mountain about six times before it gets to the top. Then
winds back down.”

“Crosses the new highway . . . what . . . a dozen times or so on
each side.”

“ ’Cept they try to keep it all blocked off, of course,” Ray
added.

“Who tries to keep it blocked off?” Corso asked. Kenny
shrugged. “You know . . . the Forest Service, the Road Department.
It’s like a game of cat and mouse. They lock ’em up. The locals
bust ’em open. Mostly they’re open, cause there’s way more of
us than there are of them,” he said with a grin.

“He’s got that map you sold me last night.”

“Then you’re just gonna have to check all the gates . . . see
if you can’t find where they went through.”

“That’s presuming they’re still up on the mountain,” Kenny
said.

Corso shook his head. “If they’d gone down either side, the
FBI would have had them by now. And if the feds had them, it would be
all over the tube.” He pointed up at the TV where Montel Williams
was massaging the forearm of an enormously overweight woman in a
wildflower print dress. “The feds never miss a chance to look
good,” Corso said. “Never.”

“Everybody around here knows about the old highway. It’s where
most of them hunt during deer and elk seasons.”

“It’s where most of us used to take girls back in high
school,”

Kenny said.

“Two things everybody up here owns are a snowmobile and an ATV,”
Ray said. “Both of which work just fine all over the old highway.”

“Thanks for the info,” Corso said, reaching for the door
handle.

“You ain’t gonna find ’em all on your own,” Kenny said. A
glum silence settled over the room.

“I’d show you where to look, but I gotta finish my route. I
don’t finish . . . my ass is grass and the company’s the lawn
mower,” Ray said.

“He’s going to kill them. Just as sure as God made little
green apples, he’s going to kill them.”

With that, Corso yanked open the door and strode outside. He had
the rental car open and one foot inside when Kenny appeared. “I’ll
show you where,” he said. “Gimme a minute to close up.” He
inclined his head toward the truck. “We probably better take my
rig.”

Corso slammed the door and pulled out his phone.
Beep,
beep,
busy.

Rosen’s ear was beginning to sweat. “Okay . . . okay . . .
thanks,”

he said before breaking the connection. He ran both hands over his
face. “Nothing,” he said.

“Really?” Westerman was genuinely surprised. “Not a peep?”

Rosen first pursed his lips, then covered them with his rigid
index finger.

This gesture was one of the few Rosenisms Westerman was yet to
interpret reliably. Sometimes it meant “Be quiet; I’m thinking.”
Other times it meant she was supposed to come up with an alternative.
At that moment, she was hoping like crazy it was the former rather
than the latter, because the only thing she had to say was almost
guaranteed to piss Rosen off to the nth degree. It had bothered her
for most of the past hour. Nothing in the facts. Mostly, it was just
her read on Corso. Aside from his adolescent rebellious streak, she’d
been quite impressed. Not only was he about as good-looking as guys
got, but there was no denying this was one smart cookie. Ruthless . .
. to be sure . . . even uncaring . . . to a fault perhaps, but
nonetheless, one sharp cookie. What if Corso was right? What if
Timothy Driver had indeed kidnapped a well-known TV personality and
her producer, stolen them right from beneath the FBI’s nose . . .
in a big old motor home . . . one the Bureau had a bug on but now
can’t locate, because they never factored mountains into the
surveillance equation? “Jumpin Jesus,” she thought. Mercifully,
today the gesture meant “Be quiet; I’m thinking.”

“Alright . . . ,” Rosen began, “. . . let’s start with the
obvious. The motor home and its occupants are, in all probability,
still up here in the mountains somewhere.” He counted off on his
fingers. One “I’ve got units on either end of Route 196 as it
crosses what’s generally known as Jenner Peak. The RV hasn’t come
past either of them.” Finger two. “Electronic surveillance is
picking up nothing. Ground surveillance reports the RV is nowhere
obvious.”

Finger three. “Ms. Harris and Mr. Wells are not in contact with
their colleagues in Los Angeles, which I am led to believe is a most
unusual circumstance.” He paused and snuck a glance her way. He
closed his mouth. The muscles along his jawline tensed. He started to
speak but stopped himself.

“So?” she said.

Rosen heaved a sigh. “So . . . perhaps we give a little
consideration to the possibility . . .” He waved a hand. “. . .
to the possibility that Mr. Corso was correct. To the possibility
that Driver is indeed here.”

“How much consideration?” Westerman asked.

“To start with, let’s get everyone we’ve got up here looking
for that motor home,” he said. “Then get me the Forest Service on
the line.”

“Get your TV camera out,” Driver ordered.

Marty pulled his head from between his knees. “Me? You mean . .
.”

“The camera . . . now,” Driver growled.

When Marty failed to move, Driver started his way. Melanie reached
out and grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t hurt him,” she pleaded.

“He’s lucky I need him,” Driver said, pulling his arm from
her grasp.

Marty was on his feet now and shuffling forward. Driver watched
impatiently as Marty pulled the steel case from the closet and set it
on the table.

“Open it,” Driver said.

Marty fumbled with the snaps a bit but managed it. Driver pushed
him aside, peered down into the case. He pulled out the satellite
phone and handed it to Marty.

“You call that network of yours. You tell them we need a half
hour of airtime.” He looked up at the clock over the cockpit. “In
an hour. Thirty minutes. Two to two-thirty.”

Marty started to babble. “They can’t just . . .”

Driver brought the gun butt crashing down on Marty’s toes,
sending Marty to the floor clutching his foot, his throat emitting a
high, keening sound as he rolled around on his hip. Driver bent at
the waist. “You listen to me, little man,” he intoned. “You
tell those friends of yours . . . we don’t get our airtime, I’m
going to off ONE OF YOU out there. On national television . . . big
as life, for everybody to see.” He kicked Marty in the side. “I
get through with the first one and it’s going to be the other. You
hear me?”

Marty nodded and got to his knees. He dialed the phone and waited
three rings for an answer. “Let me have Ellen Huls,” he said.
“Martin Wells,” he said a question later. He quickly lost
patience. “Phyllis,” he croaked. “It’s Marty. It’s an
emergency. Just put her on the goddamn phone.”

A frozen moment later. “Ellen, it’s Marty.” His face was
etched with exhaustion. His hand shook. “No . . . no . . . no,”
he said. “Just listen to me.” He listened again. “I know, Ellen
. . . he’s standing right here, Ellen.” Marty massaged his
throat. “Yes . . . he’s got Melanie and me. Right. Just listen.
He says he’s going to kill one of us if we don’t put together a
half hour of network airtime.” He listened again. When he spoke
again, his voice took on a pleading tone. “Call whoever you need to
call, Ellen. He’s not kidding. This is the same guy . . . yes . . .
yes . . . Meza Azul, that’s right.”

Driver grabbed the phone away from Marty. “Listen to me, whoever
you are. I want a call back on this line within thirty minutes
guaranteeing me thirty minutes of airtime. If I don’t get it, I’m
going to start doing things to these people you won’t believe. Do
you hear me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He hung up, dropped
the phone on the desk and lifted Marty from the floor by the hair.

“Get the satellite ready,” he said.

Marty limped noticeably as he scrambled to obey. He opened the
dish’s control panel and pulled the lever down. The whine of
hydraulics sounded as the dish began to move into place. He watched
her pocket her phone. “Something?” Rosen asked. She shrugged and
made a pained face. “Nothing to help us here,” she said sadly.

“So?”

“Local authorities in some place called Drake, Nevada, found a
body in a ditch this morning. Prints came up Harry Delano Gibbs.”

“They’re sure?”

“We had the file flagged, so the minute they got the match, they
called.”

“What else?”

“Guess what they found in Doris Green’s house.”

“Tell me.”

“Passports. Birth certificates, California driver’s licenses,
social security cards. Two or three each for Doris and Driver.” She
held up a finger. “Here’s the thing,” she said. “They’re
all real. Run them through the system and they come up valid. Where
do you get something like that?”