The Other Side of Silence (14 page)

FOUR

U
P CLOSE, IN A lighted room, Bobby J. was pretty much what Fallon had expected. Squat and blocky in slacks and a white T-shirt that showed off his pecs and the fire-breathing dragon tattoo that covered his right wrist and extended a couple of inches up his hairy forearm. Ice-blue eyes, empty except for a predatory cunning—the eyes of a man who cared about no one but himself, who was capable of any act that benefited or protected Bobby Jablonsky. Flat, hard features. The kind of aggressive, tough-guy look and manner that attracted women like Candy.

Outwardly he reminded Fallon of a kick-ass drill sergeant he’d known at Fort Benning, a career soldier who had been in Nam and talked about killing men as casually and dispassionately as an exterminator talked about killing bugs. Every grunt who’d encountered him feared his wrath and hated his guts. The difference between the sergeant and Jablonsky was on the inside. The sergeant had discipline, moral fiber, the stones and steel it took to lead men and fight battles. Bobby J. was all hardshell belligerence, powerful only when he had the upper hand; down deep where it counted, he was a coward. You could break him if you handled him right. You couldn’t have broken the sergeant with a sledgehammer.

The Ruger didn’t seem to scare Jablonsky, but he respected it enough not to make any stupid moves. He stood flatfooted, hating Fallon with those empty eyes. Fallon gave it back to him, just as hard and implacable.

“What the fuck you doing in my house?” Growly tough-guy voice to go with the tough-guy demeanor.

“It’s not your house.”

Candy said from the couch, “I couldn’t help it, Bobby. He just came busting in with that gun—”

“How long’s he been here?”

“I don’t know, three hours. More.”

“He do anything to you?”

“No. Just looked around and made me call you.”

Jablonsky said to Fallon, “How’d you find out where I live?”

“It wasn’t hard. I know a lot about you.”

“Yeah? What do you know?”

“I know about your deal with Court Spicer, for one thing. I know you were down in Laughlin and Bullhead City last night.”

“Wrong, man. I ain’t been down there in months.”

“He said you raped somebody,” Candy said. “Is that right? Did you?”

“No. What’d you tell him about me?”

“Nothing. He wanted to know where you were last night, I told him I don’t have a clue. Out raping somebody else, for all I know.”

“Shut your mouth,” Bobby J. said to her, and then to Fallon, “You’re not a cop. Who the hell are you? What you want with me?”

“Payback for what you did to Spicer’s ex-wife and son—”

“I never done nothing to that kid.”

“—and for what you and Clem Vinson were planning to do to me Sunday night.”

“How’d you know—” The shape of his expression changed; he rotated the cat’s-eye ring on his finger, closed the hand into a fist. “Yeah. That stupid Arbogast.”

Fallon let him believe it.

Candy said, “What’s this about you and Clem?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

“Fuck you, Bobby.”

“Say that once more and I’ll kick your face in.”

Fallon said, “You like to beat up on women, don’t you? Makes you feel like a big man.”

“Yeah, the way you feel with that gun in your hand. Put it down, then we’ll find out who’s the big man.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Fallon glanced at Candy. “You keep a flashlight in the house?”

“. . . Flashlight? Why?”

“Go get it. And don’t come back with anything else.”

She got up, glared at Bobby J., and disappeared into the kitchen.

Jablonsky said, “You want to run your mouth to me, all right, but don’t say nothing more in front of her.”

“I don’t intend to.”

In half a minute Candy was back with a short, stubby flashlight. He motioned for her to come around behind the couch, took the light from her, motioned for her to sit down again. The beam was strong and steady when he switched it on to test it. He shoved it into his empty jacket pocket.

“Okay,” he said to Bobby J. “Now we go for a ride.”

“What the hell you mean, a ride? Where?”

“You’ll find out.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, man.”

“Yes, you are. Give me any trouble, I’ll blow a hole in your kneecap. You can’t even imagine the pain.”

“You wouldn’t do that. Not with a cannon like that, in this neighborhood.”

No, he wouldn’t, but Bobby J. didn’t know that. “Try me,” he said.

Poker player, Jablonsky, but that didn’t mean he was good at reading bluffs. And even if he had been, he wouldn’t take the risk. He ran his will up against Fallon’s for less than a minute before backing down. He shrugged and said sullenly, trying to save face, “You’re calling the shots—for now.”

Candy said, “What about me?”

“You stay here,” Fallon said.

“What, tied up, locked in a closet?”

“Neither one. You could go to one of the neighbors and call the police, but if that was an option you’d’ve done it when I sent you for the flashlight. So you’ll just stay here.”

“Why won’t I call the cops?”

“Tell her why, Bobby J.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jablonsky said to the woman. “Do what he says. I’ll take care of Slick here.”

“Couple of macho jerks,” she said contemptuously. She wasn’t afraid for herself any longer, or for Bobby J. She didn’t even look at him as he went out into the cool night with Fallon behind him.

“We’ll take your Mustang. You drive. Keep to the legal speed limit.”

“Where the hell we going?”

“Head over to West Charleston.”

The Mustang was in good shape. Refurbished interior to match the original upholstery, engine tuned, clutch tight, four-speed transmission in perfect sync. Jablonsky handled it with a kind of fierce, angry pride, slamming through the gears but not popping the clutch to make the tires squeal.

When they reached Charleston, Fallon told him to turn west and keep going. Bobby J. wanted to know how far. He didn’t get an answer.

Neither of them had anything to say until they neared the outer rim of the city. From there, you could see distant black cut-out shapes jutting high and ragged across the clear night sky—the Spring Mountains. Between the mountains and the Vegas perimeter was open desert, the Mojave outback.

“What the hell?” Bobby J. said.

“Just keep on toward Red Rock Canyon.”

“You can’t get in there this time of night—”

“That’s not where we’re going.”

When they’d gone a few miles into the outback, there was almost no traffic. They rolled past thick stands of Joshua trees backdropped by the sheer Spring Mountain walls. There was a three-quarter moon on the rise and in its pale light the misshapen trees had a grotesque, otherworldly aspect.

Bobby J. said, “How much farther, for Chrissake?” For the first time there was an undertone of scare in his voice.

“Not far. There’s an old mining road that angles off to the north.” Fallon remembered it from one of his hiking trips out here. “Take that when we get to it.”

“What for? What’re you gonna do?”

“Maybe the same thing you and Clem Vinson were planning at the slot machine repair place.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Wasn’t anybody there but me.”

“You’re a lousy liar, Bobby. I was there, I followed you when you left in Vinson’s SUV. That’s how I found out where you live.”

“Jesus.” Then, “We weren’t gonna do anything to you. Just talk, that’s all. Private talk.”

“That’s what we’re going to have, a private talk.”

“Didn’t have to come out in the desert for that.”

“Sure we did.”

“Why?”

Fallon didn’t answer that.

After a few seconds Jablonsky said, “Who the hell are you, Slick? What’s your connection with the Dunbar woman?”

“What’s yours with Court Spicer?”

“Spicer. Listen—”

“There’s the road. Make the turn.”

It was more of a rutted track than a road, barely discernible, snaking off toward the looming black mountains and the remains of a long-abandoned gold mine. The Mustang jounced and rattled, making the headlights dance eerily over the deformed shapes of the Joshuas and clusters of creosote bushes and crawls of cholla cactus that flanked both sides of the track. Bobby J. said once, “Car’s too low-slung for this kind of road. We’ll blow a tire, tear up the undercarriage.” Fallon said nothing, alternately watching Jablonsky and the terrain, waiting for the right spot.

They’d gone between two and three miles when the track hooked sharply up over a sandhill and down into another dense Joshua thicket. Good a place as any. The Mustang’s headlights seemed smothered by the branches and their bayonet-shaped leaves; they weren’t likely to be seen by anyone passing on the Red Rock Canyon highway.

“Stop here,” he said.

Jablonsky muttered something unintelligible, but he did as he was told. The car settled and the beams held steady on the narrow ruts ahead.

“Shut off the engine but leave the lights on. Then get out and stand in front of the car where I can see you.”

“This is bullshit.”

“You heard me. Do it.”

Bobby J. silenced the engine, but instead of getting out he eased around on the seat, both hands opening and closing around the steering wheel. Fallon could feel the shrewd measuring look, could almost hear the wheels turning inside the man’s head.

He was on the verge of a warning when Jablonsky made his move. Hit the light switch, swaddling the Mustang in a blanket of darkness, and lunged sideways, clawing at the Ruger.

Fallon did the opposite of what he’d been expected to do. He moved into the lunge instead of away from it, jabbing his bent and stiffened left arm upward, at the same time bringing the gun in under the groping hand. His elbow caught Bobby J. squarely in the middle of his face; the Ruger’s muzzle slammed into his body just below the breastbone. He heard cartilage break mushily, felt a thin spray of blood against the back of his hand. Jablonsky shrieked and jackknifed forward into the wheel, his chin cracking against the horn and unleashing a brief racket.

Fallon said, “Try that again, you’re a dead man,” and jabbed harder with the gun barrel.

“My nose!” Strangled voice, thick with pain. “You broke my fucking nose!”

“Put the lights back on.”

Bobby J. fumbled for the switch. Headlight beams cut through the darkness again, dashboard lights let Fallon see the blocky shape next to him. Jablonsky was still bent forward around the gun, his right hand splayed tight against his face. Blood gleamed black as oil in the dash glow.

“Get out of the car. Now!”

No argument, no hesitation. Bobby J. did some more fumbling, got the door open. He was halfway out when Fallon pulled the Ruger away from his midsection and shoved him, hard, with the other hand. Jablonsky staggered out, lost his balance and slid down on all fours. In less than five seconds, Fallon was out on the passenger side, leaning across the hood with the revolver extended.

But there was no more fight in Bobby J. He kept on kneeling on the hardpan, supporting himself with his left hand, his right once more pressed tight against his fractured nose. The sound of his breathing was loud, ragged, punctuated by little whistling grunts.

“Get up. Walk out on the road and stand in the headlights.”

Jablonsky struggled to follow the order. It was ten seconds before he could lift himself upright; his steps were wobbly as he moved into the headlight glare.

“That’s far enough. Face the car and stay put.”

Watching him, Fallon leaned back into the car long enough to take the keys from the ignition and wipe the blood-spray from his hand on the seat-back. Then he moved ahead to stand next to the front bumper. The night was soundless now, that sweet desert stillness; the fast-cooling air smelled of sage, creosote, ancient earth and rock. Above, the sky was powdered with moonlight and flecked with stars bright as crystal. On the track ahead Bobby J. stood swaying, fingering his nose, his face drawn in, tight and blood-smeared, around his shielding hand.

Fallon said, “Take off your clothes.”

“. . . What?”

“You heard me. Strip. Everything off.”

“You’re crazy, man. You’re fucking nuts.”

He extended the Ruger in the radius of light from the headlamps. “You think a busted nose hurts? A shattered kneecap’s ten times worse.”

Jablonsky lowered his hand; splotches of blood glistened on the tattoo as if it was the dragon that had been wounded. Angrily he ripped off his jacket and shirt, threw them down. Pants next. Boots, socks. Underwear. He stood glaring and whitely naked in the yellow-white cones.

“Kick everything over this way except your undershirt. You can keep that for your nose.”

“Goddamn faggot, huh? Like looking at a big hunk of meat?” The words were meant to be cutting and defiant; they came out sounding like a pathetic schoolyard taunt.

“Do what you’re told. All right, now back up a few more steps.”

“What’s the idea?” Jablonsky said, backing.

The idea was simple. An old military tactic that had been used for centuries before Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib. Strip a prisoner naked in front of a fully dressed interrogator, make him feel defenseless and humiliated, and you gain a strong psychological advantage: a naked man doesn’t lie easily or well, particularly one with an injury that he’d brought on himself. Fallon didn’t believe in torture on principle, but these were special circumstances. And Bobby J. was a pig.

“That’s far enough. Now we’ll have our talk.”

“Talk? Like this?”

“Why did you kill Court Spicer?”

Jablonsky stopped mopping blood with the undershirt. “Why did I— Jesus Christ! Spicer’s
dead
?”

“You know he is.”

“Like hell I do. When? What happened?”

“Last night. Shot in his rented house in Bullhead City.”

“And you think I did it?”

“Pretty good bet.”

“No way! I done a lot of things, but I never shot nobody. I don’t even own a gun.”

“I’ll say it again, Jablonsky: you’re a lousy liar. I found the Saturday night special under your mattress.”

“. . . Yeah, all right, but I never fired it, not one time.”