Dead End Fix (18 page)

Spice's man lurched forward. Spice had his hand on the man's shoulder before he moved two inches.

Spice patted the man's shoulder and he settled back. “Three Pop got some different notion about that.” Spice pulled a garment from the back of his man's chair.

Kashawn's breath left him.

“What's this, now?” D'Loco asked.

“Three Pop here picked this up at the police station.” Spice put his hand back on his man's shoulder.

Kashawn heard the roar of his pulse pounding in his ears.

“This denim jacket belong to Three Pop here.” Spice laid it on the table. “See here? Sleeve's cut off. That sleeve is where Three Pop wears his colors. Like I say, Three Pop proud to be a Pico for ten years now.”

Kashawn saw the twitch in D'Loco's eyelid.

“Look like your man best learn how to take care of what's his. I'll tell you this. Ain't no 97 ever let something with his colors end up like this.”

D'Loco was protecting him in front of the Picos. Kashawn wondered what would happen once they left.

“I'ma let my man say what's next.” Spice took his hand off Three Pop's shoulder. “Then we'll talk about who started what.”

Kashawn shifted his attention to the man directly across from him.

“Some detective give me back my jacket.” Three Pop had a rage in his voice that Kashawn could almost smell. “Took it off a dead boy. My little brother. Everybody call him Banjo. Twelve years old. Walkin' to meet up with a church bus after doin' his good deed for the day. Gunned down.”

D'Loco didn't move. Kashawn kept his eyes on his leader, looking for some sign of what was to come.

“You sayin' a 97 did this?” D'Loco finally asked.

“You know it same as me,” Spice said. “Three Pop, tell these 97s when little Banjo got shot.”

“Been over a month ago now,” Three Pop said. “Couldn't be sure who at first. Cops say shots came from a car. Witnesses say maybe one color, maybe another. Too scared to be sure. But when they give me back Banjo's things, I know it was a 97.”

“A month now, you say?” D'Loco asked.

“That's right. Just about the time you added new blood to one of your corners.” Spice leaned back in his chair. “Three Pop just learn of the jacket and the stealin' of his colors. He adds that two plus two. Only answer he come up with is one of yours took out Banjo thinking he was Three Pop. Ain't no way Picos can let that go.”

D'Loco said nothing as he stared at Spice for several minutes. Kashawn thought about his room. He tried to taste the sausages Slow Time had cooked up for him and his brothers that morning. He remembered he'd eaten four. And two eggs to go with them.

Why didn't I have the toast? I still coulda made it to work on time. I shoulda had the toast.

“What's your terms?” D'Loco finally asked.

Spice lifted his palms. “Keep things simple. The killing stops. Right now. Tonight. We all go home and it's business as usual tomorrow. You feelin' that?”

D'Loco kept his eyes on Spice. “And?”

Three Pop leaned forward. He pointed to an outline of a tear tattooed on his cheek. “And I fill this in. Give me the sumbitch who gunned down a twelve-year-old church boy thinkin' he was hittin' me, and we call it done.”

“ 'Cept of course for a penalty,” Spice added.

“What might that be?” D'Loco asked.

Spice nodded toward Kashawn. “We been watching his corner. His spot's not far from Pico territory. You do good business there. But if you was to lose it, my thinking is your wallet won't be much thinner.”

“And Pico expands its territory.” D'Loco's voice was low with rage. “That your thinkin'?”

“Wasn't one of mine made the mistake and killed a kid.”

D'Loco said nothing. Kashawn looked at the menu behind the counter. He looked for the most expensive item listed. Then the next costliest. Then the next. He needed to keep his mind occupied. If he didn't, he was afraid he'd soil himself right there in the white people's McDonald's.

“That number I called,” D'Loco asked. “It still good?”

“For a time,” Spice replied. “Wanna say three days? Truce starts tonight. We see what three days bring.”

Kashawn felt suddenly light, like he was able to float above himself and watch the conversation from the ceiling.

“Sound about right,” D'Loco said. “I'ma call you.”

Spice and his man got up and left the restaurant. D'Loco sat silently for a few minutes more.

“Let's go,” he finally said.

Not another word was exchanged the entire ride back to the clubhouse.

Lydia walked her last patient of the day out of her suite of offices, went back to her desk, and stretched. It had been too long since she'd sat hour after hour in her therapist's chair. She promised herself a hard workout and a long, hot shower once she got home. Just one last chart to write and she could call it a day.

Sad,
she thought as she recapped the symptoms, interventions, and progress of her last patient. People came to her looking for a way out of their misery. More often than not their pain was self-inflicted. Somewhere along the line, typically decades ago, someone—a parent or a person they had once loved—had hurt them. Whether intentional or not, a psychic wound had been inflicted. Such is the nature of things. To love is to expose oneself to heartache. But by keeping the pain alive years after the initial hurt, Lydia's patients nurtured their depression and anxiety. They came to her so convinced they were doomed to a lifetime of wretched despair because of what had been done to them. It was her job to help her patients see and embrace their own power. To show them a way to accept what had happened, no matter how horrific at the time, and to know it need have nothing to do with the life available for them to live now. It was okay to
want
things to have been different, but the key to living well was not
needing
them to be.

A wave of her own painful history rose up. She had once been powerless. Abused and abandoned. There was nothing she could do to change the then and there of her biography. But she was determined to build the here and now of her life from different material. No one would hurt her again.

But what cost am I paying?
she wondered.
Oliver told me I was the one he needed protection from. I've become the source of his pain. Oh, Oliver. I'm so sorry. Live long and well. If things had been different, I might have built a life with you.

She refocused her attention on finishing the chart.
Practice what you preach, doctor. You can wish all you want, but it's the needing that brings you pain. Protect yourself. No one else is going to do it for you.

She added her final chart, now complete, to the stack from patients she'd seen earlier. She locked them away, promising to file them tomorrow. It was nearly four o'clock. Working out the strain from her muscles seemed a higher priority than paperwork.

She backed her Volvo out of the parking lot and waited at a red light for the chance to turn north onto Capitol Boulevard. Traffic was light. It would be another hour before the crush of state employees fleeing their cubicles clogged Olympia's streets.

Soft jazz drifted from her stereo speakers. The kind of music that reminded her of Mort. Lydia hadn't heard from him in over a week.

No news needs to be good news.

There were four cars in front of her. She took a deep breath and distracted herself from her impatience by focusing on her surroundings. The sky was heavy with low, dark clouds threatening rain. On the sidewalk to her left a woman walked two French bulldogs. The restaurant on the corner had a sign bragging its corned beef was the best in the city. A brown Toyota was behind her. Behind that was a silver car. She couldn't make out the model.

The light switched to green. The lead car made the turn, followed by two more. Lydia, however, was stymied by the car in front of her. She could see the driver. A man talking on his cellphone, oblivious to the fact that it was his turn to move. She took another deep breath and pretended to be thankful for yet another opportunity to practice her patience.

The brown Toyota behind her was less tolerant. The driver honked his horn. Lydia glanced in her rearview mirror and saw him signaling her to move forward. But the car in front of her still hadn't moved. She was wondering where Brown Toyota was so frantic to be when he maneuvered his way around her, one hand on the steering wheel and the other flipping the bird, as he drove on to make the light. The silver car behind her pulled forward. She could see now it was a Buick.

Finally the driver of the car in front realized his folly. He made his left after the light turned yellow, leaving Lydia and the cars behind her stuck for another round. Lydia stemmed her irritation by focusing on the music. Wynton Marsalis was leading his band through a haunting, reflective number, the perfect soundtrack for the weather.

At last the light was green again. She made her turn and headed north. Half a block up she saw a bicyclist in her lane. She glanced in the side mirror, saw the left lane was free, and switched over.

The silver Buick did the same.

She continued north, passing through the heart of the capitol campus. The car behind her made no turn into any building's parking lot. The same was true as she passed side streets leading to residential areas. Through the downtown district, where any number of stores and restaurants might cause a person to pull off, the silver Buick stayed right behind her.

A sensation she'd learned to trust sizzled deep inside her. It was the same feeling that had warned her as a child to hide when certain foster fathers were around.

She clicked her turn indicator, moved into the far lane, and watched the Buick mimic her move. She turned right onto Fourth Avenue. The Buick did the same. She caught the red light at the corner of Fourth and East Bay. Though it was her plan to turn left, she kept her indicator off, hoping the Buick would assume she was continuing east. When the light changed, she made the turn.

So did the silver car.

The low clouds combined with the prelude to dusk made it difficult for her to make out anything more detailed than two men in the Buick. She continued north on East Bay Drive, past condominiums and marinas. She considered turning into Priest Point Park. But her gut told her not to waste the effort. She knew she had a tail.

Was it a patient? As a clinical psychologist Lydia had been trained to firmly set her boundaries. But patients were often curious to learn more about the therapist who knew their darkest secrets. It was common for them to ask personal questions to try to balance the power in the relationship. Sometimes she encountered patients waiting for her in the parking lot. They mistook the intimacy of therapy for friendship and suggested meeting for coffee or a drink.

But the last male patient she'd seen that day had been at eleven o'clock. And there were two men in the car. One man wouldn't bring another along as he tried to get friendly with his psychologist.

It could be the FBI
. Mort had told her the special agent leading the investigation into Hadley's kidnapping was still asking questions. Mort had promised to handle him, but he wasn't as good a liar as Lydia. If the FBI had suspicions Mort's friend Lydia was the “Sheila” who had escorted Hadley home, they might have assigned a team to watch her.

But her gut still sizzled its warning. If the FBI were tailing her, they wouldn't be so obvious.

Lydia kept her speed within the posted limit and reviewed her options as she made her way down Boston Harbor Road. She had no weapons in the car. Cars could be stolen. She kept two guns at her office. But a return now ran the risk of tipping off the tail. She could drive home and have her entire arsenal available. But if the two men following her meant her harm, would she have enough time to get into the house and down to her basement before they got to her?

She reached over and opened her glove box. There was nothing but an owner's manual, a box of tissues, and a flashlight. She popped open the console separating the two front seats. Two tins of mints and a hairbrush. Her jacket was lightweight, offering protection only against rain. There was nothing in her backseat but the camera she kept handy for shooting photographs of her beloved hawks, eagles, and owls.

Lydia passed the road that would take her home and continued on toward the hamlet of Boston Harbor. She slowed as she approached the entrance to Burfoot State Park. On impulse she made the left turn into the parking lot, the Buick no more than ten car lengths behind.

There was only one other vehicle in the lot. A bronze minivan surrounded by five young girls in matching scout outfits and two arm-waving women trying to herd them into their seats. Lydia parked her Volvo next to them. She pulled the flashlight from the glove box and slid it into her jacket pocket. She got out of the car, paying no attention to the Buick, now parked fifty feet away. She made a show of eyeing the tall cedars and fir trees before she opened the rear door and pulled out her camera. She took a few shots there in the parking lot, looking like nothing more than a woman capturing the beauty of late autumn in the Pacific Northwest. She panned her camera toward the Buick, using her zoom lens for a closer look at the men inside.

She recognized them. The sound of thick Cockney accents tugged at her memory. These were Allie's men. The same two she had encountered in Virgin Gorda.

Lydia draped the camera strap around her neck and headed into the park.

The entrance to Burfoot Park sits high above Budd Inlet, an arm of Puget Sound. Giant evergreens stand rugged and tall, dense enough to block any view of the water two hundred feet below. A series of switchback trails wind through a miniature rain forest. Branches of cedar and fir offer a fragrant canopy; ferns and bushes grow underneath. The trails meander down and down. Where they end depends on the tide cycle. At low tide the end is a wide, rocky beach. It disappears at high tide, and the trails run straight into frigid salt water.

Lydia made her way down the switchback, wishing she'd chosen different shoes that morning. The smooth leather soles of her flats were designed to negotiate nothing more rugged than carpet. They were no match for the damp dirt and slick pine needles carpeting Burfoot's trails. She walked as quickly as she dared, covering at least two hundred yards before stopping at a bend to check behind her.

There was no trace of either man. They had probably stayed in their car until the minivan pulled away. She trained her zoom lens over the trail she had just walked, scanning the forest left and right, seeing nothing.

She continued on, negotiating the steep descent toward the water, hearing waves she could not yet see. The nearness of their roar told her the tide was reaching its high point.

The vegetation was thick, brushing against the sleeve of her jacket at the trail's narrower points. She looked over her shoulder, again hearing nothing but the incoming tide and the wind driving through the dense green canopy above her.

To her left, on the uphill side of the trail, a massive cedar trunk rested on the ground. From the state of the vines and bushes growing over and around it, it had fallen decades ago. Bark was worn away the entirety of its length, either by the gnawing of generations of beavers and woodchucks or by the force of mighty storm winds that could roar through with gale force. Lydia climbed over the remains of the fallen cedar, crouched behind it, and hid herself in the dense vegetation.

A minute later a drop of rain spattered on the giant ferns she'd pulled over her head. Then another. Then another. In less than thirty seconds the steady percussion of a light rain drummed around her. She pushed the natural music out of her awareness and listened for human sounds.

A twig snapped. Behind and above her. She listened for approaching footsteps but heard none. She crouched even lower, allowing the ferns and vines to drape onto her shoulders.

“Watch it!” a man's low voice called out. “This is damn near a kiddie slide, now, innit? Mind yourself not to fall down. You'll knock me right on me arse if you do.”

The man was no more than fifty feet from where she hid.

Lydia dared to shift enough to pull the camera from around her neck. She looped it over her right wrist and pulled the heavy body and lens through, forming a makeshift bolo.

She took shallow breaths, remained motionless, and trained her eyes on the trail in front of her. Less than two minutes later a man passed. Tall. Hair the color of freshly baked bread. Wearing a sport coat and dress trousers.

With a semiautomatic weapon in a two-hand hold.

Lydia recognized the gun. A stripped-down Hi-Point Smith & Wesson, .40 caliber. She had three herself. She liked the simplicity of it. The gun was powerful enough to do what was needed without the weight of needless accessories.

She also liked its ten-round capacity.

The man passed by, making his way farther down the switchback, which grew ever more difficult to maneuver in the rain. In another minute the second man stutter-stepped his way in front of her. Dark hair under a gray stocking cap. Beige raincoat over denim jeans. Holding his own gun in his left hand.

Lydia knew that weapon too. A nine-millimeter Glock 43. Not as powerful a gun as his partner's, but more than capable of killing in quarters as close as these. The Glock had a six-shot capacity, as well as one bullet in the chamber.

Assuming each man was fully loaded, seventeen bullets stood between Lydia and her hot shower.

Beige Raincoat was one step away from being dead center in front of her when a hawk called overhead. Startled, acting on instinct, he raised his Glock and fired two shots toward the sound. Lydia leaped from her crouch, surprising him further. She swung her right hand hard and fast, landing the camera and lens square in the center of his face. Blood erupted from his nose and forehead. He let out a loud, angry groan, grabbing his injury with his right hand. Lydia leaped over the downed cedar, leaned against it, and brought her full might into a right-leg kick at the man's groin. He doubled over, still holding his Glock. Lydia swung her camera again, smashing it into the back of his skull. The man dropped to the forest floor. Lydia grabbed his gun and dove headfirst into a thicket of ferns.

“Rick?” The other man's voice called out from the trail below. “What's brewin' up there? Remember the rules, now, mate.”

Lydia couldn't see him. She kept her eyes trained on Beige Raincoat, bleeding and lying across the trail.

“Rick-O?” Lydia could see his face now. Handsome. Holding his weapon by his side and fighting to maintain his balance as the rain made the already slippery switchback even more treacherous. He made his way to his partner and grabbed the man he called Rick by the lapels. Lydia watched the man come to. He struggled to raise his hand.