Storm Runners (19 page)

Push, pull.

HE TOOK HIS time putting on the uniform in the darkness beneath the oaks. He’d purchased it at a military clothing store in Oceanside shortly after getting the original information from Ampostela and the
assignment from El Jefe. Military uniforms were not exactly like law enforcement uniforms but this one was close enough—long-sleeved, summer-weight cotton/poly in tan. Matching trousers, plain front, hemmed not cuffed. They were an inch or two too long, like the cops in Mexico wore them.

He’d bought the police belt and holster from a Riverside leather smith he’d known for years. It was stiff, functional, reasonably priced, and provided a nice fit for the heavy .357 Magnum revolver.

His badge was from the police department in Fort Kent, Maine, and he’d bought it at a gun show in Ontario, California; the name-plate he’d found there too:
SGT.LITTLETON
.

He already owned a pair of black steel-toed construction boots and he had polished them for nearly an hour back home to bring out an impressive luster.

The cuffs were toys; the radio was nothing but a defunct walkie-talkie; the flashlight was a good four-battery Maglite he’d had for years.

He added a fake mustache that he’d bought at a costume store, which had a terrific selection with Halloween just a couple of weeks away. He’d chosen a brown one, full but neat, just like American cops wore.

Lejas stood in the darkness listening to the light crackle of the oak leaves in the breeze, and gathered his thoughts.

The weather lady’s last report was just before eight o’clock each week night, and Lejas knew from Cedros’s notes that she usually got home between 8:45 and 10:30.

He also knew it would be foolish to drive this counterfeit Sheriff cruiser any more than absolutely necessary—it was only a matter of time before a real deputy spotted him.

Lejas waited until 8:35 before he pulled his car onto the street and headed toward Trumpet Vine. It would take just three or four minutes to drive there, a minute to park and turn on the warning lights, set out the reflector flares, hop out of sight to the top of the embankment, and use his binoculars to spot them in the occasional oncoming traffic.

And when he spotted them, it would take just a few minutes more. Wave the security car through. Stop the Mustang. One in her heart and one in her head, then two shots into the grille of the yellow truck to put the fear of God into the Big Swine.

Then five steps back to his car, a U-turn and the brights heading back past the yellow truck, out of Fallbrook, and onto Interstate 15 for the short ride down to Escondido, where his ex-brother-in-law was waiting with an empty garage and friends who would scrap the Crown Victoria for parts in less than half a day.

The road unwound before him. The moon was low and stifled in the damp clouds, like a bulb covered by lint. The big Crown Vic swerved and swayed through the curves of the road. Lejas hadn’t noticed what a sloppy ride the car had until now, like he was riding on gelatin instead of steel-reinforced rubber.

He made the turn onto Trumpet Vine, went southeast for a mile to the spot he’d found earlier. He’d marked it with a boulder just off the road. He pulled onto the shoulder then reversed, leaving his car at a half-on, half-off angle in the right lane.

Lejas stepped from the car, shoulders back and head erect. He was law enforcement now. He turned on the yellow flashing lights on the light bar, then set out the triangle reflectors to slow the traffic. Then he stepped up the embankment, moved out of sight from the road below, tucked the Maglite under his left arm, and raised his night-vision binoculars with his right.

The night turned green, a muted but somehow light-filled color. The road was a pale ribbon, both blanched and detailed, winding back into the Fallbrook hills. The trumpet vines were darker patches along the embankments but the flowers themselves were dangling swatches of cool white.

A minivan approached, slowing when the driver saw the flashing lights and the reflectors. Lejas killed his light and moved to the edge and peeked over a fragrant trumpet vine. The van picked its way past the reflectors, stopped inquisitively at the flashing law enforcement car, then swung around it and accelerated on its way.

A station wagon followed a minute later. Then a motorcycle, then a battered old pickup truck.

Then Lejas saw through his nightscope the Birch Security cruiser slowly winding its way toward him.

He stepped down the embankment, tossed the binoculars into his car, turned on the flashlight, and assumed his stance on the road between his car and the reflectors.

The security cruiser dipped out of sight for a second and after this, Lejas knew, would quickly be upon him.

He glanced at his car, just one last check of the scene to make sure it was right.

But the cruiser didn’t look right at all.

It slouched noticeably toward the road. He’d seen this before, dozens of times in his life. It was always bad news but this was not just bad news—it was impossible news.

His eyes went quickly to the new left rear tire, which was flat. The rubber drooled onto the asphalt like something melted.

“Son of the fucked,” he muttered.

All he could do was turn his official attention to the oncoming
security cruiser and use his flashlight to wave it through. He used the steady, almost bored motion of law enforcers everywhere. He didn’t look at Red Hair or Gun Girl but he didn’t look away either—just gave them the same noncommittal but alert gaze that a thousand cops and guards had used on him in his lifetime.

Then the Mustang.

Then the yellow pickup truck.

Then their exhaust reached his nose and their lights proceeded away and Lejas stood for a moment in the flashing light of his own fake cop car, staring at the flat tire and shaking his head.

He walked up closer, used the flashlight, and saw the shiny nail head flush against the sidewall.

Son of the fucked.

He collected the reflectors, set them in the trunk, then got in and killed the warning lights. He slammed the door. Then he angrily fishtailed a U-turn in the loose shoulder gravel, throwing up a spray of dust and dirt.

He limped back to the grove of oaks off the dirt road, cursing his luck and the God that made him, but also working on a plan for tomorrow.

L
ate Saturday afternoon the rain began to fall. It was light, just sprinkling the windshield of the pickup as Stromsoe headed out of Fallbrook toward the Bonsall barn.

Frankie was behind him in her Mustang, with Alex and Janet bringing up the rear in the cruiser. Stromsoe led the way because they’d never been to the barn. He had decided to keep the three-car formation because he liked the mobility and the general heft of a column.

If they’re going to get the weather lady and the PI,
he thought, they’ll have four people and three cars to deal with. Plus Ted, who would be waiting for them at the barn. Another body, another truck.

He still didn’t like the sound of that caller’s voice. You could hear the truth and fear in it. It didn’t sound familiar to him in any way. Choat’s receptionist came to mind. She had looked like a decent sort, someone who wouldn’t approve of things like this, but you couldn’t tell for sure. Cedros’s wife came to mind too. It was possible that Cedros told her such things, or that she had found out accidentally somehow. Why warn him now? No one had warned anybody before. Maybe Choat had escalated things, as Birch had said.

He pulled to the side of the dirt road and held open the gate. Frankie came through and pulled over too, then Janet brought the cruiser across and continued up the road to where Stromsoe was pointing.

Frankie waited for the cruiser to top the rise then got out of her car, crunched across the road, and kissed Stromsoe unquestioningly. Her hat fell off. The kiss went longer than he thought it should.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing at all.”

“If they’re going to get the PI, they’ll have to get through me to do it.”

“Let’s not make light of things.”

“I’m not—I’ve got the gun. The revolver I can’t hit much with.”

He handed her the hat and she got back into her car.

Ted met them with good cheer and coffee. They loaded Ted’s white truck as they had the week before. Ace and Sadie chased each other through the damp brush then fought it out in the dirt by the barn. Alex and Janet, still dressed in their Birch Security uniforms, sat in their car out of the drizzle, but they kept hitting the windshield wipers to see what was going on.

Twenty minutes later they were parked by tower one. Ted climbed
up to check the instruments and when he was ready Stromsoe handed up the drums of unactivated potion. Again he smelled the copper-chlorine aroma of the solution.

Then Frankie dispatched Ted to stand up close to the Birch cruiser, between the window and tower one, so she could climb the tower and work her magic on the formula. Stromsoe wondered what Alex and Janet could have possibly seen through a window dripping with water.

Up on the tower now, Frankie set down her heavy red toolbox and made a little orbit with her finger.

He turned his back to her, smiling.

Again he heard the sound of liquid hitting liquid, of something hard sloshing through the containers, hitting their sides. Then the click of the propane lighter. Then he heard tools clanging back into the red toolbox, the lid coming into place, the latches snapping shut. A moment later the same faint, ethereal odor as before wafted down to him.

When he heard Frankie’s feet on the ladder he finally turned to see the gentle blue glow at the tops of the two drums. Vapor rose into the sky.

She walked by him and put her hand on his shoulder for just a second and looked at him through the rain dripping off her hat.

Thirty-five minutes later they finished up at tower four, then they unfolded their beach chairs in the bed of Ted’s truck and waited for the drizzle to turn to rain.

Ted produced the Scoresby and took an inaugural swig. Frankie sipped. Stromsoe passed. The dogs, again wearing the plastic rain ponchos that Frankie had tailored for them, lay on the pickup bed panting lightly, arguably alert. Alex and Janet sat in the idling cruiser
with the wipers cycling occasionally and the defroster on to keep down the condensation.

Stromsoe, Frankie, and Ted sat with the uneasy contentment of teammates with a small lead at the half. Stromsoe accepted a smoke from Ted, which got him poked in the ribs by Frankie. This briefly interested Ace. Frankie pinged the back of a fingernail against the Scoresby bottle but didn’t drink.

The drizzle stopped.

Stromsoe saw it decelerate and heard the slowing patter of it on the brim of his hat, then it simply ended with a puff of cold wind out of the northwest.

Ted took a long thoughtful look up into the sky. “Stars,” he said. “Not what I wanted to see.”

Frankie was looking up too.

Stromsoe saw the clouds thinning and the pinprick clarity of stars against a clear black sky.

“It’s blowing through,” said Ted.

“Damn,” said Frankie. “Damn. All my calcs had half an inch. Weather Service, NOAA, everybody agreed.”

“Hills make pockets,” Ted said uncertainly.

The driver’s window of the Birch cruiser went down.

They gave it an hour but the system kept moving through. In its wake blew a cold north wind that riled the sage and chaparral and filled the air with their clean green smell. The stars twinkled in the newly scrubbed sky.

“Let’s do what athletes do,” said Ted.

“They make adjustments,” said Frankie.

“Always makes me think of knobs,” said Ted. “They go back home, sit on the couch, lift their shirts, and adjust the knobs on their stomachs.”

“Wish I had one,” said Frankie. “I’d make some adjustments. All right. Okay. Not the end of the world.”

“Maybe this is the exception that proves the rule,” said Ted.

“I never understood that sentence,” said Frankie. “I never liked it. Let’s go. I’m cold.” They drove back to the barn, unloaded the drums and ladder, tools and chairs.

“This doesn’t mean anything about the formula or the mode of delivery,” said Ted. “There wasn’t anything for our stuff to hold on to. You can’t accelerate what isn’t up there to start with.”

“I understand that,” said Frankie. “But I wonder if our catalytic matter is too dense. If it couldn’t rise through the moisture.”

“It rose last time.”

“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.”

THEY CARAVANNED OUT with the Birch cruiser in the lead, then Frankie in her Mustang, followed by Stromsoe. Ted stayed behind to pull the weather stats off the Santa Margarita Web site and see what happened elsewhere in the area.

Stromsoe never thought he’d feel so bad about rain not falling. Never thought of rain at all until he’d met Frankie Hatfield, and her passion had gotten into him. So had her disappointment tonight.

The blacktop road was wet but not dripping. Stromsoe saw the tight fans of water kicked up by the Mustang’s rear tires. The breeze swayed the roadside oaks and their leaf-held rain dropped onto his windshield.

When Stromsoe turned onto Trumpet Vine he saw the disturbance half a mile ahead, the yellow lights flashing. He went around a curve and they disappeared from his sight.

He thought of the Sheriff cruiser he’d seen in roughly the same
place the night before, wondered again what exactly the deputy was doing there except slowing traffic and waving the motorists along. Last night, from a distance, he’d figured a sobriety checkpoint, but the deputy had been sleepily efficient and never even talked to the drivers. Then he thought a registration or safety check of some kind, but the guy didn’t check anything. Then Stromsoe had figured a fugitive alert, or maybe the cool end of a hot pursuit. Maybe even something with INS or Border Patrol—Fallbrook was filled with illegals doing cheap labor.

Regardless, somebody was at it again. He didn’t think that CHP, sheriffs, and cops would set up checkpoints or speed traps the same place two nights running.

INS? Who knew.

Stromsoe thought it telling that a Mexican-American Sheriff ’s deputy, like the guy who had waved him through last night, would be out there looking for illegal Mexicans.

He followed Frankie’s Mustang out of the curve. The Birch cruiser was a hundred yards ahead of Frankie, just now heading into the dip before the straight that would lead to the flashing lights.

The cruiser slowed, then headed up the little grade and over. The Mustang followed a moment later, then Stromsoe was cresting the rise that Frankie had just made and he saw clearly the black-and-white patrol car and the lights and I’ll be damned, he thought, it looks like the same guy as last night.

He braked, gave Frankie some room to slow. He saw the security cruiser slow and bend slightly into the left lane, following the red reflectors. The cop stepped out, took a look at Janet at the wheel, then swung his flashlight in the same desultory arc as the night before. The brake lights on the Birch cruiser darkened.

Frankie, no doubt upset about the rain, punched the Mustang quickly to the reflectors, then braked and crept forward.

Stromsoe closed the distance as the deputy walked around to the driver’s side of her car. Stromsoe saw something that at first seemed funny: the guy had the same baggy too-long trousers he was wearing the night before. The funny part was that cops down in Mexico often wore their pants this way because their uniforms weren’t cut like ours and this guy was a Mexican-American, so he looked just like some of the
policía municipal
guys the task force had used to stake out Mike Tavarez’s apartments in the Colonia.

Funny.

But the kicker was, he also looked just like the
policía municipal
cops who were
guarding
Mike’s apartments in the Colonia.

Good guys, bad guys. Bad guys, good guys.

All mixed up.

Stromsoe got a charge of adrenaline he wasn’t expecting. It hit him everywhere at once: suddenly his vision was extra clear and things were happening more slowly than usual, his muscles were tight and ready, and his breath was coming fast.

The deputy shuffled to Frankie’s window and Stromsoe saw the glass go down.

Stromsoe pulled up tight on the Mustang’s tail and the deputy shined the flashlight in his face. Stromsoe’s one good eye fought the light but before he had to squint away he got a good look at the man.

Skinny face, fat mustache.

Pants pooling down over his boots.

A brand-new duty belt, and not a Sam Browne, but a shiny, showy knockoff.

A big revolver that deputies never carried anymore.

Alone—a checkpoint with one deputy.

Stromsoe’s vision returned as the deputy turned his light and attention back to Frankie.

The deputy said something and popped his holster strap free.

He drew the big revolver and in an instant Stromsoe understood that Frankie was about to get shot. He also understood that he could never get out of his truck and draw his weapon in time to help her. He was trapped.

Instinct told him to lift his right foot off the brake and that is what he did, coming down hard on the gas and lining up the side of his truck with the deputy, who turned at the shriek of rubber and tried to lean back against the Mustang for space. His head vanished in an explosion of glass when the big side mirror hit him.

Stromsoe slammed the brakes and threw the shifter into park and was out in a second with his .380 up.

Frankie rounded the front of the Mustang, her own weapon wobbling in her hand, but at least she had it out in front of her like it should be and she was plainly terrified but not screaming.

“Down!”
Stromsoe yelled.
“Get down!”

Frankie dropped and Stromsoe scrambled around his truck, charging the unconscious deputy, who lay flat out on the road. The revolver had landed eight feet away and Stromsoe put himself between it and the man down. Alex burst through the flashing yellow lights, holstered his gun, pulled the deputy over, and put a knee to his back. Janet cuffed him, rolled him onto his back, and got two fingers up to his carotid. The man’s head was bleeding and his jaw was clenched and his eyes were closed.

Frankie came around the front of her car, one hand on the hood for support, her gun shaking in her other outstretched hand. Stromsoe took it.

“I’ll call,” said Janet.

“Wait,” said Stromsoe. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the revolver.

“His gun,” said Alex.

“Frankie, Janet—what is that?” Stromsoe asked again. His hands were shaking and his legs felt flimsy and his heart was pounding in his throat.

“His gun.”

“His gun, Matt.”

“You’re damn right that’s what it is,” said Stromsoe. “Make the call, Janet. Good job, people. Really good job.”

He looked down on the unmoving deputy, saw the man and his gun and the scene chopped into frames by the flashing lights.

“Frankie,” he said. “The police will want to interview you at home. You and Janet can leave now if you want, get yourself together. It’s going to be a long night.”

“What am I going to tell the police?”

“Everything you know.”

“I’ll stay here. I’m with you.”

Stromsoe went to the bogus sheriff ’s cruiser and turned off the flashing lights.

“Hey, look at this guy,” called Alex. He was standing over the deputy, holding up the man’s cuffed arms at a painful-looking angle. Alex had pulled down the right sleeve of the duty shirt.

In the headlights from the Birch cruiser Stromsoe could see the totem pole of black prison tattoos climbing from wrist to biceps and beyond. Alex let go and the arms slapped back into place. The man still didn’t stir.

“Deputy, my ass,” Alex said. “Isn’t the ‘M-13’ La Eme?”

A bright and terrible light suddenly went on in Stromsoe’s head.
He walked over to where the man lay and looked first at his face, then at the tattoos.

He didn’t recognize the face but the tats were all La Eme.

Stromsoe pulled the man’s wallet from his trouser pocket, then stepped away from the cars and used his cell phone to wake up Dan Birch at home.

“We just had a close one,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

He told Birch what had happened, patiently repeating several of the details out of deference to friendship and Birch’s training as a law enforcement officer. He heard a keyboard tapping as he talked. He wondered if Birch slept with it next to his bed or if he’d quietly wandered into the den.