Snake Eye (16 page)

All of which brought Dexter back to Rossi, because if it hadn’t been for her, the ex-naval officer would have been tempted to simply turn Pasco into the police, and to hell with the consequences. But that was impossible if he hoped to continue his relationship with the FBI agent—and protect her from negative publicity.

The whole thing was a mess and the businessman pushed it out of his mind as he crossed
Fourth Avenue and entered the mall. The Christmas carousel had been in operation for the better part of a week by then and a small crowd of adults and children were waiting to ride it. Music filled the air, lights whirled, and the steady clang, clang, clang of a nearby bell ringer could be heard as the businessman paused to survey the area.

Rossi had a tendency to be late, Dexter knew that, which was why he was surprised to see her standing not twenty feet away. She wore a long overcoat with the collar turned up and was facing the carousel. Colored lights played across her face as the merry-go-round turned and a girl about Missy’s age waved to her mother. Then the moment was over as the youngster laughed and rotated out of sight.

And it was during that brief moment that the businessman imagined a different life. One in which he had met Rossi rather than Kristen, been a banker instead of a SEAL, and never gone to Iraq.
How precious such a life would be
, Dexter thought to himself, and waved as the FBI agent turned.

Rossi had made use of the hour between getting off work and the appointment with Dexter to do some Christmas shopping. That made the ensuing hug awkward but enjoyable since every time the FBI agent saw Dexter her stomach went flip-flop. Which was silly given the fact that she was a grown woman rather than a lovestruck teenager. “Here,” Dexter said, “let me give you a hand with those.”

Rossi surrendered her shopping bags, slipped an arm through his, and thought how pleasant that was. The Westin was only a couple of blocks away—which meant it was a convenient place to have a drink and get a bite to eat. Once they were inside and seated, Dexter looked Rossi in the eye. “Okay, Christina. Let’s get the bad stuff over with. Tell me the worst.”

So Rossi did, and even though Dexter was expecting to hear bad news, it was disappointing nevertheless. In an effort to find out how long it would be before they could see each other again the businessman inquired about the Chow case. Although Rossi was understandably evasive, Dexter got the impression that things weren’t going as well as the authorities had hoped, a fact that didn’t bode well for their relationship. Unless something broke soon that is—and the possibility of that gave the ex-SEAL an idea. Something that Rossi wouldn’t approve of, but couldn’t do any harm, and might help. He filed the notion away.

The next couple of hours went by quickly, and it seemed like only minutes had passed before it was time for Rossi put her packages into the trunk of her car. She kissed Dexter on the lips. Nothing had been said, no commitments had been made, but the kiss was full of promise. And as the FBI agent made her way home she knew Dexter would be waiting when the SNAKE EYE team was disbanded.

But that was then—and this was now. And, rather than looking forward to going home, Rossi had come to dread it. The forensic team was done, which meant she could return, but to what? The thought of having to deal with bullet holes, blood-drenched walls, and violent memories was depressing to say the least.

The agent pulled into her rickety garage twenty minutes later, saw that some of her lights had been left on, and removed her packages from the trunk. The mish-mash of clothing that had seen her through the last few days would be brought in later.

The first sign that something was amiss came when Rossi noticed that all the recyclables that had piled up on her back porch had mysteriously disappeared. Then, as Rossi went to unlock the brand new backdoor, the smell of fresh paint assailed her nostrils. Not only that, but the faint strains of Christmas music could be heard, as if someone had left the stereo on. That was so unexpected that the FBI agent placed her packages on the floor and removed the Glock from her
purse.

With the weapon pointed at the ceiling, the FBI agent kicked off her shoes and tiptoed through the house. Two of the living room lights were on, and that was when Rossi realized that the bullet holes had miraculously disappeared under a fresh coat of paint. Not only that, but her front window had been replaced, and her Christmas decorations had been restored. Except better than before. But who would have done such a thing?

The agent lowered her weapon, spotted the envelope propped up on the mantle, and walked over to inspect it. Someone had written “Christina” across the front, and when Rossi tore it open, there was a card inside. It said, “Welcome Home,” in childish cursive, and had been signed by both Vanessa and Missy.

Rossi took the card over to the couch and sat down. Then, with both the gun and the card laying on her lap, she cried. That was when Snowball emerged from the bedroom, performed a long deliberate stretch, and padded across the room. Her human was home—and all was right with the world.

It was cold outside the camper,
damned
cold, and Hank Stanton’s bladder was full. That meant the retired trucker had to choose between trying to hold it till morning, which was unlikely given the fact that daybreak was still a good eight hours away, peeing in his trusty 7-Up bottle, which was already half-full, or facing up to the fact that the time had come to haul his sorry old ass out into the cold. “Okay,” Stanton said out loud. “It looks like it’s time for EVA (extra-vehicular activity.)”

Petey, who was curled up on his bed next to the door, looked up at the sound of his master’s voice and barked approvingly. The fact that the human was pulling his boots on meant they were going outside, which from a doggie perspective was always a good thing to do.

Like the sleeper Stanton had spent so many years in back during his long-haul trucking days—the camper’s cheerful interior was neat as a pin. The amenities included a bookshelf filled with second-hand science fiction novels, a battery-powered radio, pictures of his family, a two-burner stove and stainless steel sink, the table he used for just about everything, some storage compartments, and his bunk up over the cab. Everything had a place, and everything was in its place, partly because of the fact that Stanton was a very disciplined man, but also because the seventy-six-year old ex-trucker had simplified his life. It might have been different had Carol survived her leukemia, but she hadn’t, and once she was gone it seemed natural to sell the house, let his daughter take what she wanted, and sell the rest. Getting rid of a lifetime’s worth of junk had been a liberating experience and one he didn’t regret.

So, outside of dropping in on his daughter once a month to catch up on what she was doing, Stanton was a nomad. Three nights in the camper, followed by one night in a cheap motel, was his routine. And Ebey’s Landing on Whidbey Island was only one of his haunts. There were at least two dozen more, some of which lay in sunnier climes and were on the calendar for late January.

There was a sudden rush of cold marine air as Stanton opened the door—followed by a joyful bark as Petey exploded out into the darkness. The waves made an insistent
swish, swish, swish
sound as they ran up onto the beach and a southbound freighter uttered a mournful moan as it churned its way through the off-shore fog.

The first step was a lulu, but the ex-trucker was used to that, and took his time. He used one hand to hold the 7-Up bottle and the other to steady himself. Once both feet were on the ground Stanton became aware of the light breeze that was coming in from the west, and gave thanks for his polar fleece-lined Gortex parka. It was practically bulletproof and his pride and joy.

Spacious pockets held his keys, a small flashlight, and a half-used roll of toilet paper. And a good thing, too, because the unisex restroom at Ebey’s Landing was locked to discourage overnighters like himself and therefore of no use to the ex-trucker. Of course such inconveniences were to be expected, especially if one chose to ignore the “No overnight camping” signs, and stay anyway. Stanton had been ticketed on a couple of occasions, but not often, and the retiree enjoyed playing hide and seek with the police.

But, outlaw though he was, the retiree didn’t think it was acceptable to do his business near the parking area, which was why he followed the flashlight’s glow north along the gravelly beach. Petey, his nose to the ground, cut back and forth through the oblong-shaped pattern of light as the ex-trucker made his way towards a tangle of sun-whitened driftwood. There had been mountains of the stuff back when he was a boy but it was a rare log that found its way onto a beach anymore. As for the smaller stuff, most of that was burned in campfires or hauled off to sit in front of someone’s tract home. A travesty in so far as Stanton was concerned.

The old man had just stepped behind the pile of driftwood and was in the process of emptying the 7-Up bottle down a crevice when a pair of headlights appeared up on the bluff. The beams disappeared momentarily as the vehicle they belonged to made its way down Ebey Road towards the beach, but were quickly followed by a second pair of lights, and then a
third as
what appeared to be a small convoy descended on Ebey’s Landing.

In spite of the fact that his daughter never stopped worrying about his safety, the ex-trucker always felt secure in the camper, especially since he had modified the back wall of the pick-up’s cab so he could crawl into the front and drive away without going outside. But now, separated from his vehicle, Stanton felt a sudden stab of fear. It was December for God’s sake, and colder than the bulldog perched on the front end of a Mack truck, so why would anyone other than a wacko like himself go to the beach in the dead of winter?

There was no obvious answer, not one the old man was comfortable with, so rather than return to the camper and thereby reveal his presence, Stanton whistled for Petey. Once the terrier appeared out of the darkness the old man took hold of the dog’s collar and fumbled for his belt. Once freed from its loops the leather strap made a serviceable leash. The ex-trucker had just secured one end to the terrier when a pair of extremely bright headlights swept across the parking area. The boxy vehicle pulled up about ten yards away from Stanton’s camper and came to a stop. The ex-trucker, who had extinguished the flashlight by then, wrapped his fingers around Petey’s muzzle. “Quiet boy,” the old man whispered, and watched to see what would happen.

Joe Chow was seated in the front passenger seat as Paco brought the Hummer to a stop. The pick-up with the piggyback camper was both a surprise and an annoyance. “Look at that old piece of shit,” the snakehead said disparagingly. “Just what we don’t need…. Some guy humping his best friend’s wife. Give the bastard fifty bucks and tell him to find another place to drill her.”

“And if he refuses?” Paco asked, as he ran the zipper up his coat.

“Then offer him a hundred,” Chow answered. “We’re only a fifteen-minute drive from the old man’s house. He’ll go ballistic if we pop some bozo right in his own backyard. Not to mention the fact that the holding tank is right offshore.”

Paco nodded, opened the door, and made his way over to the camper. What Little Chow said made sense—but what if the guy who owned the camper was armed? With that possibility in mind Paco removed the 9mm from the waistband of his pants and held the flashlight well away from his body before he thumbed the device on. The other vehicles had pulled into the lot by then and the knowledge that there was plenty of back-up helped ease the snakehead’s mind as he approached the camper. While it was old, and the paint was faded, Paco noticed that the vehicle
had been well cared for. “Hello there!” the gang member shouted. “Is anyone home?”

But there was no answer other than the continual rush of the wind. A quick check confirmed that the truck’s cab was empty and the doors were locked. Then, having made his way to the rear of the vehicle, Paco knocked on the door. There was no response. He brought the pistol up, turned the latch, and felt the door swing open. The beam from his flashlight swung across the tidy interior and stabbed into the darker corners.

Paco pushed the door closed, put the pistol back where it belonged, and felt a sense of relief as he made his way back to the Hummer. There was a whirring sound as Chow lowered the passenger side window. “So? What’s up?”

“There’s nobody home,” Paco replied. “Probably a dead battery or something.”

“Okay,” Little Chow replied, “Let’s get on with it. Our friends should be topside by now. Tell them to come on in.”

Paco’s fingers were starting to get numb as he fumbled the two-way out of a pocket and brought the radio up to his lips. The response was nearly instantaneous as a cold diver heard the code phrase and made the appropriate reply.

Then, as Stanton continued to watch from concealment, the distant roar of an outboard motor was heard. Minutes passed as the sound grew louder, until a fully loaded Zodiac appeared in the glare of the combined headlights and nosed its way in through the surf. Then the motor came up and the old man watched in amazement as two dry-suit clad divers jumped into the water and held the inflatable in place so that six individuals could scramble out of the boat and splash their way up onto the rocky beach.

The first thing that came to mind was some sort of drug-smuggling operation, but while the newly arrived people were busy removing their rubber suits, there was no sign of any contraband. Bundles of clothes were provided to the shivering men who hurried to put them on. Meanwhile two of what the ex-driver assumed to be their comrades struggled to turn the Zodiac around and push it back out. One of them positioned himself in the stern. The outboard came back to life, the second man rolled into the boat, and water churned as the Zodiac got underway. The operation was complete.

Stanton pressed a button on his Timex, saw the time appear, and was surprised to learn that the entire sequence had taken no more than fifteen minutes. But to what end? There was no way to know as the newly landed individuals were herded into various vehicles, engines roared, and the convoy departed. Their headlights disappeared over the top of the bluff a few minutes later, but Stanton waited long enough to be sure they weren’t coming back before allowing himself to relax.