The Burning Man (9 page)

"I wish you wouldn't," Steve said.

"Are you kidding? He's a lunatic. He might hurt someone else."

"I don't think so. Gary says the first thing that comes into his head when he's angry. He doesn't mean what he says."

"You know him?"

"I'm getting married tomorrow and Gary is going to be my best man. He's my fiance's brother. Normally, he's a sweet kid, but he's retarded and ..

Nix's hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh, my God. That's why he got so angry."

Mancini looked uzzled.

p "I feel terrible," Nix said. "He wanted to buy me a drink. I thought he was hitting on me. I told him not to bother me a few times, but he persisted. Then, I called him an idiot. That's when he went crazy."

"That explains it," Mancini said. "Gary is very sensitive about his intelligence."

"I feel awful."

"Don't. You had no way of knowing and Gary should have known better, but he's like a little kid ..

"You don't have to say anything more. I'm not going to call the police. If I'd known I.. .

Nix paused. She looked toward the table where Mammon and Booth had been sitting.

"Is something wrong?" Mancini asked.

"Gary told me that a friend told him I wanted him to buy me a beer. He pointed to a table on the landing.

There were two men sitting there. They were laughingmaybe they put Gary up to this as a joke. You know, taking advantage of him."

"Are they still here?" Mancini asked.

"They're gone, but I'd know one of them anywhere.

He was gigantic, like a body builder. just huge. And he had tattoos on his arms."

Mancini scowled. "Did Gary mention any namesp, Nix thought for a moment. Then, she brightened.

"Chris! I'm certain that's what he called him."

A flicker of fear shaped Mancini's features for a moment. Then it was gone. Nix reached across the table and touched his forearm.

"Mr. Mancini, you don't have to worry. It looks like Gary was the butt of a practical joke. I shouldn't have called him an idiot, anyway. And I don't want to spoil your wedding day."

"Thanks a lot, Karen." Mancini looked at his watch.

"Look, if it's all right, I'll leave now. I have some work at my office I'm wrapping up."

"You go ahead."

"You're terrific. I'm leaving word with the bartenders.

Anytime you're in, the drinks are on me."

"Oh, that's not necessary."

Mancini held up his hand. "Not a word. You've been very understanding. Not everyone in your position would be."

At the other end of the Stallion, Dave Thorne was making up a drink order for a waitress. The blonde with the medallion was no longer on her stool. Thorne assumed she had left while he was up front, but he turned around to give the waitress her order and saw the blonde walking out of the front door behind Steve Mancini.

Christopher Mammon led Kevin Booth out of the Stallion while Gary Harmon was screaming at Karen Nix.

The muffled music from the bar rumbled in the night air. Fear tightened Booth's gut when Mammon stopped in the darkest part of the rear parking lot.

"It's great seeing you out, Chris," Booth said, trying to sound sincere. "What's your lawyer think will happen with your case, now?"

"Geary's an old drunk, but he seems to know his stuff. He's not too encouraging, though."

"That's too bad."

Mammon shrugged. "Shit happens."

"So, Chris, what did you want to talk about?"

"We have a problem, Kevin."

"What's that?"

"Rafael wants his thirty thousand dollars."

Thirty thousand was the amount that Mammon was supposed to pay for the two kilos of cocaine the police seized when Booth and Mammon were arrested.

"That's not my problem," Booth answered nervously.

"You made the deal with Rafael."

"I agree with you, but Vargas sees it differently. He says you set up the deal, so you're responsible for the money."

"That's not fair. I introduced you as a favor. You should have told him it wasn't my fault."

"Oh, I did, Kevin. Unfortunately, Vargas says you and I both owe him the money and he doesn't care who pays.

"You still have the money you were going to use to buy the dope. Give it to him."

"No can do. See, I represent people. These people put up the money, but they won't pay it over unless they get cocaine for it. These people I represent are not big on charity."

"Well, I don't have thirty thousand dollars. And I shouldn't have to come up with money your people owe. I'm gonna tell that to Rafael."

"I wouldn't do that. He was very angry with you, Kevin. He said for me to tell you not to call him unless you had the money. He seemed very serious. Of course, you know Vargas better than I do. Maybe he was just running."

Booth knew Rafael Vargas well enough to know that he was only rational part of the time and that he was very violent all of the time. If Rafael said "don't call" "Booth was not going to risk it.

"There is a solution to our problem," Mammon said.

"What?"

"My people are still interested in buying a very large shipment from Vargas and Vargas wants to deal with them. I'm too hot to be involved because of the arrest, so I thought up a plan that helps my people and helps you make it up to Rafael."

A wave of nausea passed over Booth. Christopher Mammon was a sadist and a bully. Since Mammon arrived in Whitaker six months ago, Booth had never seen him do anything for anyone without an ulterior motive.

Whatever Mammon had in mind, it could only mean trouble for Kevin Booth.

"You're going to do a favor for my people and Rafael.

If everything works out, we'll both be off the hook for the thirty thousand."

"I don't want to be involved, Chris. I was lucky to beat my case. You heard what that judge said he'd do if I was arrested again."

The smile left Mammon's face and a wall of ice formed behind his eyes. Booth stopped talking and licked his lips.

"This is my ass, too," Mammon said in a voice heavy with the threat of dire consequences. Booth felt like a small child in the presence of a stern and punitive father.

"I just ... "Kevin," Mammon said softly, "don't be afraid. You can handle it."

"I'm not the right guy, Chris. The cops are gonna be watching me."

"You're small potatoes, Kevin. The cops lost interest in you the minute your case was dismissed. Besides, there's no risk. All you have to do is hold some product."

"Chris, please. I don't want to go to jail," Booth pleaded.

Mammon stared hard at Booth. Then, in a low, slow voice, he said, "There are worse things than jail, Kevin.

Besides, you don't have a choice. I've already assured Vargas that he can count on you."

"Aw, Jesus. Call him back."

Mammon placed a hand on Booth's shoulder near his neck and applied a little bit of pressure. Booth turned white.

"if you do as you're told, you won't go to jail and you'll be off the hook for the thirty grand."

Mammon squeezed a little harder. Booth dropped to his knees on the asphalt. He tried to pry Mammon's hand off his neck, but the iron fingers would not budge.

"On the other hand," Mammon said quietly, "if you fuck this up for me, you'll wish you were in jail."

Booth gritted his teeth and twitched and wriggled in pain.

"Please, Chris."

Mammon released Booth and he tumbled onto the asphalt. Mammon let him lie there for a moment. Then, he reached down and pulled Booth to his feet as easily as if he were a child.

"I'm sorry I had to do that, but I'd rather hurt you a little now than have to hurt you a lot later, because you failed to understand how serious I am.

My people and I want this done and Vargas wants it done. I don't vxant to have to pay out any of my money to square this.

Now, do I have your promise that you'll be a good boy?"

"Sure, Chris. I'll do what you say."

Mammon smiled. "I know you will."

"What ... what do I have to do?"

"Just sit tight. You'll be contacted soon. I don't think it's a good idea for us to be seen together from now on, so don't call me or try to see me."

"Okay," Booth assured Mammon, eternally grateful that he would be rid of Mammon.

Mammon started toward his car. Then, he stopped just as a man walked by the far end of the Stallion heading toward the side parking lot. Mammon turned toward Booth, who was only a few feet from him.

"One more thing, Kevin. Don't even think of running."

Booth did not answer. He was shaking from fright.

Mammon turned back toward the lot. A light at the far end of the building illuminated a slender blonde in a Whitaker tee shirt and jeans. The blonde paused under the light and headed toward the side lot. She called to the man Mammon had just seen. Mammon squinted.

He knew that girl. He wondered what she was doing.

Chapter EIGHT.

Two stone pillars at the end of High Street farthest from the courthouse marked the main entrance to Wishing Well Park. A wide path between the pillars led to the wishing well, which had been built in 1972 as a memorial to the men of Whitaker County who had given their lives in the Vietnam War.

From the wishing well, the park expanded into a large recreational area with a marina, baseball diamonds, a playground, a band shell and a series of hiking trails.

It was only one mile from Oscar Watts's house to the wishing well, but Oscar was a neophyte in the world of physical fitness and the two-mile round trip of alternate jogging and walking was pure agony. Oscar worked as a bookkeeper at the JCPENNEY on Broad. Though his doctor was always chiding him about his weight, Oscar was never troubled b the fact that his belt was lost in y overlapping rolls of fat. He loved to eat, and he didn't really need to be physically fit to add up columns of numbers. Then, Oscar had a stroke and his doctor gave him a solemn lecture about blocked arteries, sky-high cholesterol counts and saturated fats. Now, instead of spending each morning consuming stacks of his wife's fabulous maple-syrup-and-butter-soaked hotcakes, Oscar spent his mornings gasping in agony as he struggled along the hiking trails of Wishing Well Park.

Head down, feet dragging, mouth open and gulping for air, Oscar trudged ahead on legs of lead. When he looked up, the wheezing jogger saw the wishing well wavering like a ghostly beacon in the half light of dawn, reminding Oscar that his self-inflicted torture was half over. He was one hundred yards from the well when he spotted the object at its base. He was fifty yards away when he realized it might be human. Oscar stopped running and leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, straining for a better look. Sweat obscured his vision.

He ran his forearm across his eyes. Could that be a woman? It was hard to tell. Whatever sex it was, the person was curled around the base of the well, knees almost touching the red brick and hands and arms tucked out of sight, as if the person was sleeping. She could be sleeping, Oscar thought hopefully, as he crept toward the well.

At twenty-five yards, Oscar started to make out the dark stains that had soaked into the long blond hair and puddled at the base of the well. He wondered if he should call a cop now or take a closer look. Oscar didn't want to jump to conclusions and look like a fool. He decided to check things out. It was the last time Oscar thought about food for a long time.

Earl Ridgely could hear the gentle rush of the river from where he was standing. The summer air smelled of fresh-cut grass and roses. Morning dew shined his scuffed, black leather shoes. It was the type of balmy JU y t -tat made Ridgely wish he were lazing in a hammock sipping from a cold glass of sangria. Instead, he was sweating in a business suit, just inside the perimeter set up by the forensic experts from the Oregon State Crime Lab as they studied the body huddled next to the red brick wishing well.

Ridgely was a slender man with thinning strawcolored hair, tortoiseshell glasses and a thick mustache.

A local boy who graduated with distinction from Stanford, but was smart enough to attend an in-state law school because he wanted a career in politics. Ridgely was forty and at the tall end of his second term as Whitaker County D.A. A spot on the circuit court bench would be opening up soon. A good friend from law school was the governor's legal adviser and Earl had been assured that he would soon be taking his first step up a ladder that he hoped would end at the Oregon Supreme Court.

As he approached the body, a young policeman wearing latex gloves was delicately holding up for Sergeant Dennis Downes's inspection a thin metal chain at the end of which dangled a medallion. Downes had been selected by the Major Crime Team to be the officer in charge because the crime being investigated was within the Whitaker city limits. The team was composed of the same men who had viewed the body found several weeks ago in a gully in the wastelands at the border of Whitaker County. The method of murder and the type of victim were sufficiently similar to put every one of these seasoned professionals on edge.

"Should I bag this?" the officer asked.

"Where'd you find it?"

"In the bushes by the entrance."

"Better do it," Downes decided, even though the bushes were a distance from the wishing well. The officer walked away with his find.

"Morning, Dennis," the district attorney said.

"Mornin', Earl."

"Any idea who she is?"

"Not yet, but she's got to be from the college. Looks the age and she's wearing a Whitaker tee shirt."

"Does she have any ID?"

"If she had a purse or wallet, we haven't found it."

"Then, let's get her picture on TV and ask the Clarion to run it on the front page of the afternoon edition."

Downes jerked his head toward the body. "Like that?" he asked, wanting to be certain he understood Ridgely.

"Of course not. If she can't be cleaned up, have King make a sketch."

Downes looked relieved. Ridgely didn't blame him.

He had taken only one quick look at the corpse, but it was enough to leave him light-headed. People died unnatural deaths in Whitaker County, but the dead were usually the victims of auto accidents and farming mishaps. This girl's skull had been split, exposing the brain and drenching her long blond hair with blood that had soaked into her clothes and spilled onto the ground in such quantities that even the careful forensic experts were stained by it.