Shockwave (9 page)

“How do you know that?”

“Those gashes on the body,” I said, moving the cursor over the screen to blow up each of them as I spoke, “they’re from the razor rocks. Not deep enough to keep internal gas buildup from pushing him to the surface. The killers would have known that—they’d have opened him up if they’d had the time.

“If there was a river or a lake to dump the body in, they could have
taken
the time. But who knows when some early riser is going to come strolling down the beach? And the ocean—they couldn’t have known how deep it was, or where the body might float to. It might never come up at all. Orcas hunt out there, too, right?”

“What are you saying, Dell? I thought you and Mack were going to—”

“We still are. But that’s only to see if Homer said anything to anybody. And even if he did, so what? A crazy man talking to some runaway kids, that’s no kind of evidence.”

“But Homer’s still in jail.”

“I don’t think he’ll be there long.”

“Even on a murder charge?”

“Come on, Dolly. How many times have you heard your friends say that this weasel of a DA we got here isn’t going to even
think
about putting someone on trial unless he’s got a case that can’t be lost? ‘Soft as warm custard,’ that’s what they say about him. And that was
before
the whole town turned on him after his office managed to lose a murder case where they had security-camera tape of the whole thing.”

“It wasn’t that he lost the case, Dell. It was that he shouldn’t even have brought it to trial. If he’d known about that Tiger Ko Khai bunch, it—what MaryLou did, I mean—it wouldn’t have happened at all. But he didn’t know. Or didn’t care. I mean, the
cops knew, but even
they’d
stopped arresting the leader—they knew he’d never go on trial.”

“Okay. You’re right. But it doesn’t change anything. This Homer guy, no way he killed a man, especially one that size. The dead guy sure didn’t turn into any ‘flab bucket,’ did he? That autopsy said he weighed in at two twelve. Probably still hitting the weights. And he was off a prison-food diet, too.

“So how are they saying he got killed? A crazy man half his size and double his age leaped straight into the air, hit him from behind, and wrenched out a piece of his skull on the way down, like in one of those flying kung-fu movies? And that
same
man couldn’t wait to show the cops the dead guy’s watch?”

“Still …”

“I know. Crazy people don’t need a reason for anything they do. But where’s the weapon? The cops must’ve already searched Homer’s room at that ‘residency’ place.”

“Sure. I know, Dell. But you’re—?”

“Still going out with Mack? Jesus, Dolly. How many times are you going to get me to say it?”

“Y
ou carrying a gun?”

“Yes,” I told Mack.

“I couldn’t tell by looking at you.”

“They won’t, either, right?”

“Yeah, I get it. Let’s go.”

M
ack’s car must have been fueled with miracle juice.

The rust bucket was way past “old.” Both sides had been keyed a hundred times, the right quarter panel looked like a
saber-toothed tiger had tried to chew it off, one of the back windows was duct-taped plastic instead of glass, and the engine sounded like a prolonged death rattle. But it ran okay. And we didn’t have far to go.

Mack pulled in under a bridge. If the average person looked through the windshield from where I was sitting, he wouldn’t see anything but tangles of brush, a couple of dead trees, and various machine parts that looked as if a wrecker had just tossed them out randomly.

I saw the flickering movements right away. I figured whoever was back there must have seen the car … and then I realized why Mack had never gotten it fixed. Or junked it. I don’t know much about the kind of people he said he worked with, but I knew enough to understand that any visual change might spook them. And that death-rattle sound would reassure them that it was a friendly approaching.

We got out at the same time. Mack leaned against the front end of his car, standing square. I didn’t try to imitate his stance, but I kept my hands in sight.

He lit a cigarette without offering me one. If that was supposed to be a message, I didn’t get it.

“I usually bring a few packs,” he said, as if he’d just seen into my mind. “If I light up, they know it’s okay to come out. If they want the smokes, that is.”

“And they always do.”

“Sure. You’ll see them—”

“I saw them already. Two on my right, three on my left.”

“Huh!” he grunted. Dolly had told me he was from Chicago. So, doing the kind of work he did, he would have been hard to ambush in a big city. But in this kind of place, he couldn’t read trail signs.

The guy who came out first moved up on my side. Hard to tell his age, but he was some kind of young. Tall, narrow shoulders,
thick reddish hair. Wearing a field jacket that didn’t look so different from mine. It fit him way too loose, so I figured it was scavenged, or pulled from one of the donation bins they have all over this area.

Either he didn’t know enough to keep his hands in sight—which would explain why he hadn’t read my gesture for anything special—or he did, and thought he’d look more menacing with his own in the outside pockets of his jacket. Maybe that worked on some people.

The sleeves of my jacket were cut wide: the left held my stubby, carried butt-down in a pouch held closed only with a thin piece of Velcro. I knew I could pull it and empty the magazine before anyone I was likely to come across in daytime would see my hand move. The black-bladed Tanto was clipped inside the top of my right boot—one of the first lessons I’d learned in the jungle. Learned by listening to my … I don’t have the right word for what Patrice had been to me, but I can still hear him speak, inside my head:

“If you get hit, drop! If the shooter was working single, he’ll probably try and get to you while you’re still alive. Curl up, like men do when they’re hit bad enough so they feel the pain but not bad enough to put them out. Always keep a dagger inside the top of your boots, both sides. If it’s only one man who approaches, and he bends down to admire his work, you strike! Right here,” the Irishman who would never again see his treasured homeland told me, tapping his groin to make sure I understood the target area.

“Always aim there. No matter where you plant your spike, you’ve got a good chance at hitting an artery. And a shorter distance to reach, too.”

“What if it’s more than one?”

“Ah, it’s always the same move, lad. With more than one of them, it’s got little chance, but it’s better than none at all. Probably
won’t work, but it’ll make the bastards pull their triggers. That way, you die fast. That’s a damn sight better than the way they’d want to handle it.”

“H
ey, Mack,” the young guy said, making the words into a greeting. “Who’d you bring with you?”

“A friend of mine. Dell.”

“Dell what?”

“Stop playing to the crowd, Timmy. I ever ask
you
your last name?”

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.”

“You don’t like the way anyone looks at you.”

“I got a responsibility—”

“Me, too,” Mack said. He didn’t say anything more, but all kinds of kids started to come out into the open. He handed the redhead a full carton of smokes, leaving it up to him to dole them out, doing it the same way I would have with a tribal leader—giving him the best way to keep face.

The redhead dropped the carton into the side pocket of his jacket, like dealing with the cigarettes was something he’d get around to. But, for now …

“So. Your friend. Your friend ‘Dell.’ Why’s he here?”

“He’s trying to get Homer out of jail.”

“This guy’s a lawyer?”

“No, he’s an astrologer.”

“Okay …” the redhead said, thoughtfully, as if my appearance was starting to make sense to him. “What d’you want?” he said to me.

“Just to ask some questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“The kind of questions I ask. You don’t want to answer
them, don’t. But if you’re for real, if you want to help your friend, you will.”

“Just me?”

“Anyone who was around Homer when the cops took him.”

“That was just about all of us. Homer started out with us that night, but after a while he took off. By the time he came back, it was real late, so most of us were asleep when the cops crashed in. But Homer, he was awake.”

“How do you know?”

“Heard him shouting. Even before they lit us up.”

I gave him my full attention, as if I didn’t see other kids crowding closer and closer. If that bothered Mack, he didn’t show it. I don’t mean show it on his face—I was turned away from him. But his body didn’t shift, and his breathing didn’t change; I could even hear the whistle through his nose.

“They’ve done that before, the cops?”

“Oh, yeah,” the redhead said. “Anytime a tourist makes a complaint, they do their ‘Don’t be here when the sun comes up!’ thing. That’s just for show—they know we don’t mess with dope, and we don’t steal, either. Only thing different was, this time they took Homer.”

“That was the first time they ever did that?”

“Yeah, it was. They know the dude wasn’t wasted on anything—he’s just not right, you know what I mean?”

“Yes. Is he the only one?”

“The only guy who hears voices? Around here? You’ve got to be a stranger in town.”

“I meant the only one you let hang with you.”

“If they act right—no grabbing at the girls, no trying to snatch our stuff, none of that tough-guy crap—anyone’s welcome. But we’re not a branch of Goodwill, if you get what I’m saying.”

“Sharing, that’s expected. Begging’s not allowed.”

“On the nose. We’ll share with anyone, but not more than
once. One time, they might just stumble over us. If they’re hungry—hungry for food, I’m saying—we’ve always got something. But if they come back, they better be bringing something to share with us.”

“What could Homer bring?”

“Hey, you’d be surprised. Homer likes the beach late at night, when there’s no one else around. You’re not supposed to take driftwood, but that’s just a stupid rule some ‘I’m
soooo
Green’ made up. And tourists, that’s
exactly
the kind of thing they want.

“One of the women at the art gallery, she comes by every once in a while. If we’ve got driftwood—specially if it’s all dried out—she’ll buy it from us. And sometimes Homer brings ambergris—little lumps of rock that the whales throw up, or dump out some other way. It’s got this pink center, looks real pretty. This woman, she’ll buy that, too.”

“Homer tries to sleep through the day,” Mack said. “Not many people are going to walk around after dark looking for driftwood. And if you try and take a piece in daylight, some environmentalist will call the cops.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Homer’s no sponge,” the kid added, just to make sure I understood. “He always tries to bring something, even if it’s just old magazines.”

“Sounds fair to me.”

“It
is
fair,” the redhead said, a little more strength in his voice. “He comes here because he knows it’s safe. There aren’t that many safe places for a guy like Homer to be around after it gets dark.”

“That’s why you’re all here, right? I don’t mean for the same reason, but for the same
kind
of reason.”

The redhead took a small step back, like he wanted to get a better look at me. “You ever go on the run?” he finally asked.

“A long time ago. When I was a lot younger than you.”

“You ever find—?”

“All I found was a way out. Nothing like what you have here.”

“How would you know what we have here?” he said, quick-glancing over at Mack.

“You stand by each other,” I said. “You share what you have. You stick together as best you can.”

“That’s all you know, and
that’s
enough for you to say—?”

“That’s all there
is
,” I cut him short. “All there ever is.”

The redhead nodded. I couldn’t see the others, but I could feel they were nodding along with him.

“Come on,” he said, turning his back and walking into the deeper brush.

M
ack took his own pack of smokes from a side pocket of his cargo pants.

He shook one out for himself and then placed the pack on a flat rock, together with a black metal tube. Without hesitation, the redhead tapped out a smoke for himself and gave Mack a questioning look. When Mack moved his head just enough to show he was nodding an okay, the redhead pulled the metal tube apart, stuck the tip of his smoke inside, took in a breath, turned his cigarette to assure himself it was glowing, let the smoke drift slowly out of his nose, then recapped the tube.

I hadn’t seen one of those no-flash lighters in years—they were once standard issue for soldiers all over the world, especially freelancers working in places where no government would ever acknowledge them, and no family would ever claim their body. We all knew it would be closer to “when” than “if,” but that’s why we got paid what we did.

If any of us had a family, they never said so—those pictures
of women some carried, they might claim it was a girlfriend, but never a wife. More likely, a whore they paid to pose with them while they were on leave.

Mack’s gesture was clear to the redhead. Whether I smoked or not wasn’t important—what was important was that I was as welcome to the cigarettes as he was. Sharing tobacco was an Indian thing. How it got to be so, I don’t know. But no Indian casually passes a pack around. I took a cigarette for myself, lit it the same way the redhead had, took a single drag, then put the filter-tipped smoke flat on the rock, still burning.

“You know how Homer is,” the redhead said to Mack. “When he rolls up on us, it’s always before daylight comes. A lot of us, we sleep pretty late, specially if we’ve got a good spot. But someone always has to stay awake—that’s the rule.”

“Only way to work it,” Mack said.

“The cops don’t roust us. Not anymore, anyway. They know they’d just be wasting their time. We’d hear them coming way in front. Everybody’d be awake, waiting. If we had some dope—weed, I mean; we don’t allow nothing else—they’d never find it. No guns, either. Allowed, I mean, not stashed.