Vertical Coffin (2004) (37 page)

I pulled in five minutes later, parked off the main road in a bombed out adobe structure, and turned off the motor. I grabbed the AR-15, jammed in another C-mag, then found a spot up on a roof where I had a clear view of the main street. I proned out on the cold corrugated metal, put the assault rifle to my shoulder, and waited.

Half an hour later I heard the sound of Royal's rail way off in the distance. He was roaring toward Cactus West, the straight pipes blaring faintly across the desert, changing pitch every time he shifted gears. Then slowly, an octave lower, I began to hear the distinctive sound of the black Dodge. I pulled the night vision glasses up and focused them in the direction of the noise. The sand rail was out front, jumping berms and ridges, goin
g a
bout forty, spewing rooster tails of sand from its rear tires. About two hundred yards behind him, the Dodge Ram growled loudly in four-wheel drive, going about thirty-five, trying to stay up. In the strange green hue of the night scope the scene appeared ghostly and surreal.

Then the truck stopped and Smiley jumped out, threw the Browning down across the front fender, and started firing. The Browning was winking death silently, then the chattering bark of the huge weapon reached me a few seconds later. But Royal was almost in town. Smiley jumped back in his truck and continued the chase. Royal flew past my position and drove right out of town, dragging the truck like a tail behind him, much the same way Smiley had dragged Sonny and me down into Jackrabbit Creek.

In a few seconds he would pass my firing position. I tromboned the slide, kicking a .223 out of the breech to make sure I wasn't jammed, then waited. The black truck sped toward me, the engine growling ominously. I had the Dodge in my sights as it sped past. Then I opened fire, shooting at the tires, squeezing off at least fifty of the hundred rounds in my C-mag.

The truck tires all exploded. The Dodge shuddered and spun to a stop. Even before it came to rest, Smiley was out with the .50-caliber cradled in both hands. He swung it around towards my position and fired, but I was already up and running, jumping down off the roof. As the exploding shells tracked me, I dodged between the disintegrating adobe buildings and quickly reached my sand rail. Royal Mortenson was in the driver's seat with the engine running.

"Where'd you leave it?" I asked.

"Right on the edge of town. Fecker can't miss it." He downshifted, popped the clutch, and the rail exploded forward, out of the bombed-out building and up the street. Royal turned right onto Main and powered out of town.

Smiley, on foot, saw us make the turn and started firing. The slugs blew holes in the last building on the street as we swerved around it and headed out into the desert. I turned around in the passenger seat with the AR-15 in both hands and squeezed off a short burst at him, aiming high.

Smiley was firing the Browning at us from the edge of town where Royal had stashed the other sand rail, but we were out of range. He finally spotted the second rail parked over to his right, and moved cautiously to check it out, not sure if it was booby
-
trapped. Then, without much delay, he was in the driver's seat and coming after us, the big .50-cal propped in the bucket seat next to him.

We vectored toward the north end of the gunnery range. I thought Sonny had been driving fast, but nothing like Royal was driving now. We had to be going at least sixty, maybe more, screaming across the desert. When we hit a berm or a gully, it seemed we catapulted at least five feet in the air.

"Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhh!" Royal screamed every time the rail flew. We headed toward two large fenced-off areas where it looked like they dragged the unusable bombed-out truck carcasses. The fenced lots were about fifty yards apart and filled with torched wrecks.

"There she blows," Royal screamed, slowing slightly. "Give the sidewinder a little encouragement."

I fired off another burst and saw him swerve, then speed up, closing fast. He had somehow managed to prop the Browning up on the dash and now he squeezed off a short burst. It was surprisingly accurate. The chain-link fence on the left side of us sparked with bullets.

"Keep down, wires ahead!" Royal shouted as we roared between the two fenced lockups.

Smiley was a hundred yards back. Royal had his head way down, almost between his knees. I was laid out, facing backward
,
holding the AR-15, the sand rail throwing sand out behind us on both sides. I could see the glint of a wire flash past inches over our heads.

Unexpectedly, Royal screamed a bad joke at nobody, yelling it into the night air: "Hey, Blackie, ever hear the one about the fecker who bought hisself a blow job but forgot his wallet so he lost his head?"

Almost as he yelled it, Vincent Smiley's head flew from his shoulders, cut off clean by a bridging wire. It sailed up into the air like a bloody jumpball and landed ten feet away. The headless torso now drove the dune buggy, which swerved wildly, crashing into the fence.

"Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhh!" Royal Mortenson yelled. He slowed to a stop. We got out and ran back toward the spot where Smiley's torso had landed when his sand rail crashed. We were careful to duck under the taut wires that EOD had strung between the fences. They were nearly invisible in the dark.

The second sand buggy was still upright. Royal reached in and shut off the engine. Then we walked over and looked down at Vincent Smiley's head lying on the sand. The final expression on his face was a terrible, ugly grimace.

Royal leaned down and stared into the lifeless eyes. He giggled, then looked up with mad eyes that revealed to me, in that instant, the landscape of his tortured soul.

Chapter
50

INHERITANCE

Royal mortenson helped me get Sonny back to the SWAT truck. He used his tractor to pull it out of the sand, but he didn't want to go with me.

"Towns're like a booger you can't shake off yer finger," he said, charming and understated to the end. We shook hands and that crazy bastard walked out of my life forever.

I raced to the hospital in Brawley with Sonny in the back of the SWAT truck. Like my other partner, Jo, he went right into ICU. I sat in the waiting room while doctors were paged and people ran back and forth. Too many nurses were running.

The two SWAT teams arrived an hour later and sat with me in the waiting room. They told me they had seen the Super Hornets bombing the desert from the mountain as they climbed down. I explained that we'd chased Smiley onto the gunnery range an
d t
hat Sonny was hit when Vincent opened up with the big Browning. I told them we'd been trying to get away with Smiley chasing us when he had unexpectedly hit the wire and decapitated himself. It fudged the truth but nobody had asked too many tough questions. At least not yet.

I called to check on Jo and was told that she'd taken a turn for the worse. She was having a lot of secondary problems, low blood oxygen and a troublesome infection that was slowly taking her resistance down.

After Sonny was out of surgery the doc came back and told us that he was going to make it. The good news was they had been able to save his knee so he would eventually be able to walk with a prosthesis. I left Sonny with his fellow sheriffs, Scott Cook and Rick Manos, then caught a ride back to L
. A
. with SRT.

"The military really strings cable out there to stop these guys from scrapping metal at night?" Gordon Grundy asked, having trouble believing it. "Why would they want to decapitate people?"

"Because of the C-four," I explained. "They don't want terrorists to get their hands on it. The whole place is posted. You enter at your own risk."

"Well, if somebody had to lose his head, I guess Smiley's a good choice," Rosano said, putting the best spin on it.

The news treated the story and me very kindly. ATF was in charge of all investigations involving stolen C-4. That gave Brady Cagel control of the case. A good break for yours truly. Nobody seemed inclined to question EOD's description of the event. The way they told it, Smiley had been scrapping out there for months. They had tried to run him off, even got him on a radio frequency once and warned him about the wires, but he had cut off the transmission.

They had tried to apprehend him, but he worked mainly at night and had always been able to escape. EOD said Smiley ha
d s
tolen the sand rail he'd been driving when he died. It belonged to a local Coachella Valley resident named Royal Mortenson, who the newspaper said was a Vietnam vet and recipient of the Silver Star.

When Smiley's truck was finally found in Cactus West, all four of the tires that I'd shot out had been miraculously replaced. I'd been worried about what questions would be asked when that Dodge was found full of .223s.

Who had done that little piece of cleanup for mef Royal? EOD? The gunnery range good fairy?

I'm not asking, so I'll never know.

Life settled, more or less, back to normal. My overweight partner, Zack Farrell, returned from Miami. He was wearing a new dark green outfit, and he filled his swivel chair across the desk from me, looking like three hundred pounds of gristle wrapped in a GLAD bag.

"Man, I leave town for a minute and all the action starts," he groused. His mother had made a miraculous recovery, so Zack was back in my life.

Jo Brickhouse continued to lose ground. I spent most of my spare time at the hospital, looking across a chipped linoleum table into the worried eyes of Bridget Bollinger.

"I know she's going to get better," Bridget said. "She just has to."

"We're not in charge," I told her. "It's in God's hands."

Platitudes. Why do people think they have to say stuff like that? I've been on the receiving end of those same remarks, and they never help.

Bridget looked more frightened every day. " Y'know, Jo really liked you," she said one afternoon, unexpectedly. "She said you were attractive. We even had a fight about it."

"You never had anything to worry about there," I told her. "Our friendship worked on different levels."

Every evening after visiting hours Bridget and I went down into the little chapel at the hospital and said prayers for Jo's recovery.

She lingered like that for days, sometimes rallying before taking a turn for the worse. And then, slowly, we started to lose her.

Two days later she was gone.

Bridget and I were sitting in the waiting room, playing Gin, when Jo's surgeon came in and told us she had passed on. Bridget started to cry and I held her, feeling the huge, wrackin
g s
obs, realizing my own tears were mixing with hers.

# # #

The Rams' first game with Chooch as a coach was against the Chargers. Sonny Lopez was on the sidelines in a wheelchair with a blanket over his lap. Alexa and I wheeled him onto the field. The sheriffs who were there, and all the players, came over and shook his hand.

Darren Zook had taken over for Sonny and was coaching the defense. He and Chooch had the Rams in pretty good shape, but they were behind by seven points at the half. I walked over to the end zone where the team had their helmets off, sitting on the grass eating oranges and getting instructions from the coaches for the second half.

"Who has that middle linebacker on the inside blitz?" Chooch was saying as I joined them. "He's killing us."

"I do, Coach," a tall Mexican kid said. "But the guy's been using his hands and the refs don't call it."

"Forget that. Knock this guy on his butt. He can't sack our QB if he's seeing sunshine."

Chooch made the halftime speech. "You guys are playing great. But they have a good team, some great athletes, so we gotta dig a little deeper. Emo's up there watching," he said simply. "He'll give us the plays. He knows the game plan, and his offense rocks."

"Coach," Deshawn Zook said, and Chooch looked over a
t h
im. "Thanks for sticking with us," the boy said softly. "We're gonna win this for Emo, but we're also gonna win it for you."

An hour later, with ten seconds left on the clock, they did.

A week after the game, on Sunday morning, we were sitting around after breakfast looking for something to do with the day. Delfina and Chooch decided to go to the park to study under the trees. I went out to the backyard with Franco and sat looking at the Venice Canal. So much had happened. So many people had died, and I had to figure out how to accept my part in it. What could I have done differently? I had prayed for Jo and Sonny until my knees were sore, but one had died and the other was in a wheelchair, and the answers still hadn't come. I felt culpable and out of touch with myself. I was in an emotional echo chamber--a moral cul-de-sac.

Alexa came out to join me and handed over a beer. We clinked bottles.

"Chooch was really happy about winning the game," Alexa said, smiling. "With three college coaching visits scheduled this week, his cast coming off on Tuesday, and Delfina's play about to open, things are definitely looking up in the kid department."

"Yep." I was trying to feel the upper, but not getting there.

"And Tony--yesterday he actually called me in and apologized."

"Really?"

"Yep. He said he knew that he was acting like a jerk, that he was just passing his misery down, and that it was lousy command tactics. He promised he'd never do it to me again."