Point of Impact (22 page)

His father had been thinking about it. He came back fast: "But they could have been. People unwittingly exposed to drugs are at risk. Somebody could have been injured. What if some of the agents or staff had been allergic to the drug? On medication that it might have interacted with? What if there had been some kind of emergency needing a prompt response? A fire in the building, maybe a bank robbery or a kidnapping, and they had been unable to respond properly? The idiot who thought it was funny to chemically assault an office of federal agents didn't think about those things, you may be sure. It was an irresponsible, criminal act, and he'll be caught and punished for it. I hope they lock him up and lose the key."

Drayne gritted his teeth. It would be a bad idea to say anything. Just let it go.
What did you expect? The old man was gonna express admiration for the cleverness of the stone job? C'mon, Bobby, you know how he is. Now is the time for all good men to shut the fuck up.

But he couldn't help himself. Drayne said, "Maybe not. From the reports, it didn't sound as if they had any leads. Maybe the guy was too smart for them."

The old man turned to look at Drayne, blinking at him as he might at seeing a dog turd dropped into a church social punch bowl. "If he had been
smart,
he would have known better than to assault agents of the FBI. They'll get him." He paused a second. "Do you
admire
this criminal, Robert? Is that what you are saying? Didn't you learn anything from your upbringing?"

Drayne flushed but finally realized it was time to keep silent. He just shook his head.

Yeah, Dad, I learned plenty. Much more than you will ever know.

But then the minister arrived, a guy who looked to be about a hundred years old, and it was time to get down to the business of burying Creepy.

Malibu, California

Tad was still up, though about to crash, watching the morning bunnies and studs jog along the beach. The early fog had mostly burned off by nine or ten A.M., showing the brilliant blue hiding behind the gray.

Man, he was wasted. As the chemicals of the Hammer faded and lost their grip on him, he felt a bone-deep weariness begin to claim him. This was gonna be a hard one to recover from, he knew. Best thing to do would be to take a shitload of downers and sleep for as long as he could, twenty-four, thirty-six hours, let his body get as much enforced rest as he could. Couple of the long-lasting phenobarb suppositories, some Triavil, maybe some Valium mixed in, to keep the muscles relaxed. Some Butazoladin for the joints, Decadron for the inflammation, Vicodin and little snort of heroin for pain, Zantac for his stomach, maybe even a little Haldol, just for the hell of it.

Bobby, off at his cousin's funeral, wasn't gonna be too happy with him when he found out about Tad busting up the gym. Probably they wouldn't want to be seen hanging together for a while, in case ole Steve the bodybuilder ran into them somewhere and made the connection. Tad didn't think the gym rats knew he was tight with Bobby, he was pretty sure they didn't know, but book it, they weren't gonna forget him after last night.

It would probably be in the papers and on the tube, about the gym, but Bobby wasn't plugged into the news, only what he caught on the radio when he was out driving, so maybe he wouldn't hear about it until Tad had a chance to break it to him, put a little spin on it.

He managed a grin, even though his face was sore from the drug rictus he'd worn for most of the night. Yeah, spin, right. How much spin could you put on trashing a place and beating the crap out of folks because you had suddenly gotten horny?

Well, at least there weren't any public recordings of the Zee-ster and Bobby floating around, Tad knew that. That was the important thing. Maybe Bobby was right. Maybe they should jet over to the islands and mellow out for a few weeks, come back when things settled down. Way he felt right now, the idea of swinging the Hammer again any time soon didn't really appeal. Of course, if he lived through the recovery and got to feeling better, the desire would come back pretty quick. It always did.

Being able to do what he had done last night when he looked like a male version of Olive Oyl? That was a big fucking draw.

Hell, after he'd left the gym, he'd lost interest in sex, but he had driven up to the Hollywood sign, hopped the fence, and climbed up to the top of the big
H.
Sat there watching the city for a while, climbed down, and driven to Griffith Park, where he'd roamed for hours, just enjoying the green. Hadn't gotten home until after Bobby left, which was a good thing, 'cause he'd probably have told him about the gym, being fearless at the time.

No, better he learns about it in a couple, three days, back when I'm straight again and it's all past tense. Bobby could go to World or Gold's or one of the other upscale places to work out, it was no big loss.

"Time to get the doc-in-a-box out, Tad m'man," he said aloud. "And settle down for long nap."

Chapter
22.

Quantico, Virginia

Michaels put a pair of dollar coins into the soft drink machine and pushed the button marked Coke. Change clattered into the return as the plastic bottle hit the bottom slot and rolled into view. He had pretty much given up drinking fizzy sugar water, but now and then he indulged. His father had liked the stuff; he drank three or four a day.

It brought back old, pleasant memories from his childhood to sit and sip one.

He took the Coke out, fed the change back into the machine, added another dollar coin, and looked at Jay Gridley.

"Club soda," Jay said.

Michaels pushed the button. Three bucks for two soft drinks. What a racket.

"So you can't come up with any history on Frick and Frack other than they were at a conference at the same time twenty years ago as teenagers?"

Jay took his bottled drink and popped the cap off, then swigged from it. "Nope. I know there's something there, but I haven't found it yet."

"Well, don't kill yourself looking. It probably doesn't mean anything anyway. Better you should concentrate on the drug thing. We find what they want, they are off our back. Any leads there?"

"Nothing to speak of. The local cops and the DEA are all over Zeigler's place like white on rice. He had to get the drug from somewhere, and they figure if they backtrack him enough, they might find something."

"You don't?" Michaels drank some of the Coke. Okay, so it was bad for you, but sometimes you just had to indulge. He didn't smoke, or drink more than the occasional beer or glass of wine. He ate pretty well; he worked out every day. A bottle of Coke now and then ought not to kill him.

Famous last words.

Jay said, "Maybe, but I wouldn't bet on it. Guy like that, big-time movie star, he probably didn't play golf with his connection. I'd be real surprised if he had a listing in his address book under Dope Dealer."

Michaels shrugged. "So how do we run the dealer? Wait for somebody else to go berserk and backtrack them?"

"Don't have to wait," Jay said. "Apparently some guy walked into a gym in Santa Monica last night and laid waste to the place. Threw some guys bigger 'n Hercules around like rag dolls when they objected to him feeling up the woman working the desk, who apparently was pretty well-built herself. Knocked doors down, punched holes in the walls, like that."

"The police have him?"

"Nope, he got away. We got the description--he sounds like a beatnik from what the witnesses said--and we have the police sketch."

Jay grinned, and Michaels joined him. Police sketches all seemed to look alike, and not very much like any of the guys they were supposed to represent. Plug a saint into an ID kit, he'd come out looking like a thug.

"According to the reports, after he got working, this guy went to the security cam setup, tore up the recording device, and made off with the disk drive medium."

Michaels considered that for a few seconds. "So he was not so stoned he couldn't think about covering his ass."

"Maybe. Or maybe there was something on the disk he wanted, though it probably wasn't him. According to the complaint, all the people involved swear they would have remembered this guy if he'd ever been in their place. Guy was built like a toothpick, bodybuilders notice such things. That he was the proverbial ninety-seven-pound weakling made his rampage all that much more amazing. The bodybuilders couldn't believe it. Got to be our friend Mr. Purple Cap responsible ... or a major number-busting coincidence."

"So what good does this do us?"

"Well, we know that three of the dealer's customers live in or around L.A. The rich woman, the dead movie star, and the live beatnik. I'm thinking maybe our dealer might like the sunny lifestyle. The shelf life of this mojo drug is pretty short, it rots in a day or so, and for the Zee-ster to get stuff himself, then to the rich girl, and for her to have time enough to use it? I'm thinking maybe the guy who supplied Zeigler is not halfway around the world. FedEx, or even a paid courier, are limited by the speed of a jet. The farther away he is, the narrower the window when the drug will still work."

Michaels nodded. "Okay. So hypothetically speaking,
maybe
he lives within spitting distance of SoCal. Does that help us much?"

"Narrows down the search. I can start checking chemical companies, drug supply houses, running lists of convicted dealers, like that. And maybe the cops will turn up something on the late Mr. Zeigler's travels."

Michaels said, "Good a direction as any, I suppose."

Jay took another long swallow of the club soda. "Anything new on the drug itself? How'd that cap assay out?"

Michaels frowned.
Crap!
He'd tucked the thing into his pocket and forgotten about it. Those trousers were in a heap on the floor in his closet. He hoped Toni hadn't sent them to the laundry yet.

He smiled at that thought. The only way Toni was going to do his laundry was if he specifically asked her to, and he hadn't done that. The pants would still be there when he got home. She hadn't signed on to be his maid, he'd found that out pretty quickly. Nor had he expected that.

"Boss?"

"Nothing. I mean, nothing on the capsule. I haven't had a chance to get by the lab yet."

It was Jay's turn to shrug. "I got the DEA's breakdown of what ingredients they could find. I'll use those for a starting point. If the guy is smart, he'll buy his chem for cash, and far away from home, but you never know. Sometimes it's the little things that trip you up. Remember Morrison, the HAARP guy?"

Michaels nodded. How could he forget that? "Yeah, I remember."

"He had all the big stuff worked out but slipped up on something as simple as a night watchman. Him and the Watergate guys."

"Well, do what you can do, Jay. Keep me in the loop."

"Sure thing, boss."

Michaels looked at his watch. Getting close to noon. Maybe he'd stroll on down to the gym and do a little workout. That way he could take a break when he got home without Toni making him practice his
silat
first. She'd work him harder than he'd work himself, but if he'd already done his
djurus
for the day, she'd let him slide.

Newport Beach, California

Drayne came away from the funeral experience pretty depressed.

The church service had been fairly saccharine, like he'd expected. The old minister, if he remembered Creepy at all, couldn't speak in anything other than platitudes and generalities, and he put in a pitch to save souls while he did it. Neither Edwina nor Pat could bring themselves to get up and say anything, and Creepy's sisters and ex-wife managed some personal stuff that was touching and surprising. Drayne never knew that Creepy had a collection of Star Wars cards, nor that he coached a boy's soccer team in Utah.

The procession to the graveyard and the internment service at the family plot was no more fun. While he was standing there, a sudden flash of deja vu hit Drayne. Another funeral he'd gone to when he'd been ten or eleven popped up in his mind, something he had completely forgotten about. A kid a year or so younger than Drayne who lived across the street and down a couple of houses, Rowland, his name was, had been killed in a gruesome freak accident. Rowlie's father had worked at a small private airport somewhere. Rowlie and his two brothers had gone with their father one Saturday to the airport. The boys had been playing chase in and around the hangars. Somehow, Rowlie had run in front of a small plane that was about to taxi out for takeoff. The plane's propeller had hit him. He'd been killed instantly. The coffin had been kept closed because he'd been almost decapitated and chopped up pretty good; at least that was what Drayne had heard.

Jesus. He didn't need another reminder of death, not with Creepy just lowered into the ground.

There wasn't an official wake, though family and friends were welcome to stop by Pat and Edwina's, so of course Drayne had to do that. What did you say at such times? People standing around, drinking coffee or tea, talking about the recently departed as if he'd gone on some kind of trip?

Drayne got out of there as soon as he could. His old man was busy, taking charge, making sure everything was shipshape, and they didn't really have much to say to each other, Drayne and his old man. They never really had. The old man had never thought much of his only son, never seemed interested in what he did, always expected perfection. He brought home a report card with five As and a B, the old man didn't say, "Hey, good job! Congratulations!" No, he said, "Why the
B?
You need to apply yourself more."