The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (94 page)

The smell of his vomit was strong, acrid and cloying.

Crawford took out a gun with a silencer and pointed it at Robinson.

“Arlen—”

“I’m sorry it’s come to this, sir, but I don’t see any other way.”

MR. CRAWFORD HAD SAID to meet her at a lookout point in Crissy Field. He had arranged for her to take a temporary leave of absence from the campaign, saying that she had contracted glandular fever and would be out of action for at least a month. That, he said, would be enough time for them to come up with something better, but she knew that she would never be going back. In the meantime, he had promised that he would see to the money, and the rendezvous was so that he could deliver her the first instalment. She had driven up to the park and sat in her car and watched as the sun went down over the bay. It had been a bright day, and as the sun slipped slowly beneath the horizon, the rusty red metal of the bridge glowed brightly in its dying rays. The lights of Treasure Island and, beyond that, Oakland began to flicker, twinkling in the gloaming, growing brighter.

Karly wound down the window and let the air into the car. She took a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard, held them to her mouth, and pulled one out with her lips. She lit it, sucking the smoke into her lungs, closing her eyes and enjoying the hit of the nicotine. The park was empty save for a couple of joggers who were descending the hill back towards the city. The night grew darker. The last ferry headed back to the mainland from Alcatraz. A jet laid down grey vapour trails as it cut through the star-sprinkled sky overhead. Gulls wheeled on lazy thermals. It was a spectacular view.

She saw the high beams of a car as it turned up the steep road that ended in the vantage point. Karly finished the cigarette and flicked the butt out the window. The car was an old Cadillac, and it was struggling with the incline. As it drew closer, she could see that it was dented on the front-right wing and the number plate was attached to the chassis with duct tape. It slowed and swung into the bay next to her. She squinted through the glare of the headlights, but they were bright, and she couldn’t make out anything about the driver or the passenger. The door opened, and the driver came over to her side of the car.

JULIUS HAD A SMALL TV SET on a shelf above the door, and he was flicking between channels; they were all running with the same story. Joseph Jack Robinson II, the presumptive candidate as Republican nomination for president, had been found dead in his hotel room. Details were still sketchy, but the early indications were that he had taken his own life. Suicide. There was unconfirmed speculation that he had been found on his bed next to a bottle of scotch and empty bottles of prescription sleeping tablets. The anchors on all of the channels were reporting the news with the same breathless, stunned sense of disbelief. A major piece in the political life of the country had been swiped from the board. Friends and colleagues were interviewed, some of them fighting back tears. No one could believe that Robinson had killed himself. It didn’t make sense, they said. He had been full of life. He had been determined to win the nomination, and now that he had almost achieved that, he was gearing up for election year. To do this, now, to end it all when he had so much to look forward to? It didn’t make any sense at all.

There were four other customers in the place today. They were all watching the television.

“Unbelievable,” Julius said as he slid a spatula beneath a burger and deftly flipped it. “Someone like that just topping himself? Don’t make no sense.”

“Goes to show,” said one of the others. “You never know what’s in a man’s head.”

The coverage switched to an outside broadcast. It was a hotel. Flashbulbs flashed as a figure emerged from the lobby of the hotel and descended until he was halfway down the steps, a thicket of microphones quickly thrust into his face.

“Turn it up, would you?” Milton said.

Julius punched the volume up.

Milton recognised the man. It was Robinson’s chief of staff, Arlen Crawford.

“Mr. Crawford,” a reporter shouted above the hubbub, “can you tell us what you know?”

“The governor was found in his room this afternoon by a member of the election team. Paramedics were called, but it was too late—they say he had been dead for several hours. We have no idea why he would have done something like this. I saw him last night to talk about the excellent progress we were making with the campaign. I saw nothing to make me think that this could be possible. The governor was a loud, enthusiastic, colourful man. This is completely out of character.” He looked away for a moment, swallowing, and then passed a hand over his face. “More than just being my boss, Jack Robinson was my friend. He’s the reason I’m in politics. He’s the godfather to my son. He was a good man. The best.” His voice quavered, almost broke. “What happened this morning is a disaster for this country and a tragedy for everyone who knew him. Thank you. Good day.”

He turned back and made his way into the hotel.

“It might be a personal tragedy,” Julius opined, “but a national one? Nah. Not for me. Boy had some pretty strident views on things, you know what I’m saying? He wouldn’t have got my vote.”

Milton’s phone rang.

It was Eva.

“Afternoon,” Milton said. “Are you watching this?”

There was no reply.

Milton checked the phone’s display; it was definitely her. “Eva?”

“Mr. Smith,” a male voice said. “You’ve caused us a whole heap of trouble, you know that? And now you’re gonna have to pay.”

“Who is this?”

“My name’s not important.”

It was a Southern accent. A low and lazy drawl. A smokey rasp.

“Where’s Eva?”

“She’s with us.”

“If you hurt her—”

“You ain’t in no position to make threats, Mr. Smith.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“About?”

“You know what about. We need to be sure you won’t mention”—there was a pause—“recent events.”

“The governor.”

“That’s right.”

“And if I persuade you that I won’t say anything, you’ll let her go?”

“Perhaps.”

“Right. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

There was a rasping laugh. “Perhaps and perhaps not, but if you don’t play ball with us now, well then, it’s a definite no for her, ain’t it? How much does she know?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“Gonna have to speak to her to make sure about that.”

Milton’s voice was cold and hard. “Listen to me—she doesn’t know anything.”

“Then maybe we just need you.”

“Where are you?”

“Nah, partner, it ain’t gonna happen like that. We know where you are. We’ll come to you. You stay right there, all right? Finish your meal. We’ll be along presently.”

THEY ARRIVED IN AN OLD Cadillac Eldorado. Milton was sat in the back, in the middle, a large man on either side of him. He had checked the joint out after he had finished speaking to the man on the phone and could guess which of the other four patrons had followed him inside: a scrawny, weasely man with three days’ worth of stubble and a face that had been badly scarred by acne. Milton stared at him, and the man had eventually found the guts to make a sly nod, emboldened, no doubt, by the prospect of imminent reinforcements and his opinion that they had the advantage. That knowledge wasn’t enough to stiffen his resolve completely, and as Milton stared at him, his confidence folded and he looked away. Milton had wondered if there was some way he could use the man to even the odds, but he knew that there would not be. What could he have done? They had Eva, and that, he knew, eliminated almost all of his options.

The others had arrived outside the restaurant ten minutes after the call. Milton finished his burger, wiped his mouth, laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and went to the car. He got into the back without complaint. There was no point in making things difficult for them.

That would come later.

There were four of them in the car, each of them wearing a biker’s leather jacket and each, helpfully, following the biker habit of having a nickname badge sewn onto the left shoulder lapel. The man in the passenger seat was Smokey. It looked like he was in charge. He was tall and slender, all knees and elbows, and Milton saw a tattoo of a swastika on the back of his neck. The driver was bigger, wearing a denim jacket with cut-off sleeves that revealed heavy muscle. His badge identified him as Dog. The men flanking him both had long hair, like the others, and they smelled of stale sweat, pot and booze. There wasn’t much space in the back, and they were pressed up against him. The one on his right was flabby, Milton’s elbow pressing into the side of his doughy gut, with a full red beard and shoulder-length red hair. His badge identified him as Orangutan. The one on his left was different, solid slabs of muscle, hard and unyielding. If it came down to it, he would be the one to put down first. His nickname was Tiny.

They had a radio on; it was a news channel, and the show was dominated by talk of the governor’s death. They discussed it with animation, and Milton quickly got the impression that they considered it a tragedy.

The four of them seemed pretty secure in themselves and their ability to keep Milton in line. He noticed that they didn’t blindfold him or do anything to prevent him from seeing where he was being taken. Not a good sign. They didn’t plan on him making a return trip, and so, they reckoned, it made no difference what he found out. They were right about one thing: Milton wasn’t planning on going back to wherever it was they were going. There would be no need after he was through. He would be leaving, though, and he would be taking Eva with him. And if they thought he would be as pliant as this once they had him wherever they were taking him?

Well, if they thought that, then more fool them.

They drove out to Potrero Hill, the gritty industrial belt on the eastern boundary facing the bay and, on the other side of the water, Oakland. There were warehouses, some old, others cheaply and quickly assembled prefabs. They navigated the streets to the water’s edge, prickling with jetties and piers, and then drew up to a gate in a tall mesh wire fence. The compound contained a warehouse, and Milton saw stacks of beer barrels and trucks with the logo of a local brewhouse that he thought he recognised.

There were four big motorcycles parked under cover next to the warehouse.

Dog hooted the horn, and the gates parted for them.

They took him into the warehouse through a side door. He paid everything careful attention: ways in and out of the building, the number of windows, the internal layout. The place smelt powerfully of hops and old beer and sweat and marijuana. He watched the four men, assessing and reassessing them, confirming again which were the most dangerous and which he could leave until last when it came time to take them out.

They followed a corridor to a door, opened it, and pushed him inside.

It was empty, just a few bits and pieces. It looked like it was used as a basic kitchen and dining area. A trestle table with one broken leg. Rubbish strewn across the table. Three wooden chairs. Several trays with beer bottles stacked up against the wall. A dirty microwave oven on the floor next to a handful of ready meals. A metal bin overflowing with empty food packaging. Breeze block walls painted white. A single naked light bulb overhead. A pin-up calendar from three years ago. No windows. No natural light. No other way in or out.

Eva was standing at the end of the room, as far away from the door as she could get. There was another woman with her.

The skinny guy stepped forwards and shoved Milton in the back so that he stumbled further into the room.

Eva stepped forwards.

“Are you all right?” Milton asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

He kept looking at her. “They haven’t hurt you?”

“No,” she said. She gestured to the other girl. “This is Karly.”

“Hello, Karly,” Milton said. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. There was no colour in her face. She was terrified.

“Don’t worry,” Milton told her. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

“That right?” Smokey said from behind him, his words edged by a braying laugh.

Milton turned back to him.

“All right then, partner. We got a few questions for you.”

“You should let us leave.”

“You’ll go when I say you can go.”

“It’ll end badly for you otherwise.”

Smokey snorted. “You’re something, boy. You got some balls—but it’s time for you to pay attention.”

“Don’t worry. I am.”

“My questions, you gonna answer ’em, one way or another. No doubt you’re gonna get slapped around some, don’t really matter if you co-operate or not. Only issue is whether we do it the hard way or the fucking hard way. Your choice.”

Milton glanced over. The three men were all inside the room. Smokey was just out of reach, but the big guy, Tiny, was close. The stack of beer bottles was waist high. The cellophane wrapper on the top tray had been torn away, some of the bottles had been removed, and the necks of those that remained were exposed.

“Who are you working for?” Milton asked.

“See, you say you’re paying attention, but you ain’t. I’m asking, you’re answering.”

“Is it Crawford?”

Smokey spat at his feet. “You gonna have to learn. Tiny—give him a little something to think about.”

Tiny—the big man—balled his right hand into a fist and balanced his weight to fire out a punch. Milton saw and moved faster, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around a bottle, feeling it nestle in his palm, pulling it out of the tray and swinging it, striking the guy on the side of the head, just above his ear. He staggered a little, more from shock than from anything else, and Milton struck the bottle against the wall and smashed it apart, beer splashing up his arm, and then closed in and jabbed the jagged end of the bottle into the man’s shoulder, then stabbed it into his cheek, twisting it, chewing up the flesh. He dropped the bloodied shards, grabbed Tiny by the shoulders and pulled him in close, driving his knee into his groin, then dropped him down onto the floor.