The Slab (17 page)

“It’s not them,” Diego said. He spat onto the hot pavement. “Shit, it’s not even them.”

Jorge gave the couple a friendly wave. “Sorry,” he said. “Drive safely.”

As the couple sped away, Diego jabbed with the toe of his snakeskin boot at a strange-looking mushroom growing in the shade of a scraggly tree. He bent over it and examined it more closely, then picked it up for a closer look. “Check this out,” he said. The mushroom was that shade of sickly pale white reserved for things that never see the sun, but its surface was dotted with red spots, like it had measles or maybe like someone had dripped blood on it, Diego thought. Connecting the spots was a network of fine red lines that could have been capillaries.

“It’s a fucking mushroom, that’s all,” Jorge said. “Let’s go.”

Diego crushed the thing in his hands and tossed it to the side of the road, then got back in behind the wheel.

Chapter Eleven

“Well?” Colonel Wardlaw asked. He looked out his office window at the base’s dusty parade ground. Everything in Yuma is dusty, dry and hot, he thought. Some soldiers get Europe, some get Hawaii for Christ’s sake. Even Pendleton would be better than this. He was from Michigan originally, where nature was green unless it was covered with snow, and he couldn’t get used to how different the landscape was here.

Behind him, he knew, Captain Yato stood at attention. “Sir, we landed at each of the three target locations. The messages our aircraft had observed were written with rocks, so we erased them by moving the rocks.”

Wardlaw turned around to face the young officer. It was a different Corps when a Japanese-American could be a Captain. Wardlaw wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. “Did you find whoever wrote the messages?”

“No, sir. Not yet, sir.”

“At ease, Captain.” Yato spread his legs a little, but otherwise his posture remained rigid.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I want them, Captain,” Wardlaw said. He had seen photos of the messages. WAR NO MORE my ass, he thought. The Pentagon would almost certainly see photos within a matter of days. Probably only the fact that the brass back in Arlington was occupied with more important things had kept them from seeing satellite pictures already. He had to keep a lid on this, and the only way to do that was to get the perpetrators in custody before they could repeat themselves. Yuma was a shithole, but it was his shithole and he didn’t want to lose it. “There are traitors in my gunnery area. I want them in my brig instead, and I want them today.”

“We’re continuing to search for any parties who might have been involved, sir.”

“Will, I know we’re short-handed. There’s a Goddamn war effort going on out there, so we can’t be expected to commit a lot of man-hours into finding what could charitably be described as a few vandals, right?”

“Basically, sir.”

“Except for one thing.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“I want them!” Wardlaw roared. “Anyone writing messages like those in a time of war is guilty of treason, and I won’t have it on my land!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get back out there, William. And don’t come back until you can bring me some traitors.”

***

Ken finished his lunch and threw the wrappers in the metal wastebasket that stood at the end of his desk. He needed to get back up to the Slab, though so far no one he’d spoken to had known anything at all about the mystery skull. He didn’t have anything to go on in the way of forensic evidence, though, so he had to go with what he had, which was the hope that someone might have seen someone else put it in the fire pit.

Risa at the Coroner’s Office in El Centro had called with some more details on the skull during the morning. The victim was Mexican, from the interior, maybe Oaxaca, judging from the dental work. She was having a facial reconstruction done so they’d be able to get a reasonable likeness, though that kind of thing was always largely guesswork and didn’t take into account scars, piercings, tattoos, or any number of other ways people could alter their appearance without disfiguring their skulls. She believed the victim was fairly young—late teens, early twenties. She’d call again when she had more.

Ken was on his feet and halfway to the door when he saw his Bronco pull up outside. He went back to lean against his desk and wait for the deputy to enter.

Billy’s face was flushed and tense when he came in. “What’s up, boss?”

“Bad day?” Ken asked him.

“Now I know why Osama bin Laden’s so damn hard to find,” Billy said. “I can’t find one stinking Navigator in a county I know like my own back yard.”

“It’s a challenge,” Ken agreed.

“But I was thinking,” Billy went on. “With all that shit back East. Do you think we ought to come up with some kind of terrorist safety plan? Preparedness, and all that?”

Ken made an effort not to laugh. “Billy, on the list of targets terrorists might have in mind, I think the Imperial Valley would come near the bottom.”

Billy mulled on that. “I guess so. But there is lots of agriculture here, you know? Someone could fly over with a crop duster full of anthrax gas or whatever and really cause some problems.”

Ken drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. “Anthrax is a biological agent, not a gas, to begin with. Maybe it could be spread with a crop duster, I don’t know.”

“Maybe I should check it out,” Billy suggested. “Go look at all the crop dusters in the area, make sure there’s no ragheads flyin’ ‘em.”

Ken came up off his desk and stood close to Billy, his expression no longer one of bemusement. “You check it out,” he said. “Then you report to me, and don’t approach anyone or take any action on your own. And don’t use terms like that—it’s disrespectful and it reflects badly on me and the entire Imperial County Sheriff’s Office. One more racial slur and you’re looking for a new job, do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy said. “Sorry, Ken.”

“I don’t think we have but a dozen or so Islamic families in the whole county, that I know about,” Ken said. “But those that are here are American citizens, and don’t forget that.”

“In World War Two we put Japanese-Americans in camps,” Billy reminded him.

A historical fact coming from Billy Cobb, Ken thought. That was kind of like watching a pig do math. It didn’t so much matter whether or not his answer was right, just watching him hold the pencil was impressive. “That’s right,” he said. “And it was a mistake. But we’ve learned better since then. Anyway, that was a different kind of war. I don’t think we’ll see an effort like that put in here.”

“You don’t think we’re really going to war?” Billy asked. He sounded surprised.

“We declared war on crime, on racism, on poverty and on drugs,” Ken said. “We haven’t won any of those yet.”

“But this is different,” Billy said. He took off his hat and scratched his sweaty scalp. “They attacked us.”

“Yes, they did,” Ken agreed. “And killed six thousand of us or so, and they need to be brought to justice for that. But remember, firearms kill thirty thousand Americans every year. Alcohol kills four hundred thousand. Is it really about how many people were killed?”

“Then what is it about?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Ken said. He went back to his desk, scooted out the chair and sat down. Trying to educate Billy might be a long process. “It’s partly that, and partly the fact that we believe we should be safe within our own borders. But as far as it being a real war—well, I don’t claim to be an expert, but as far as I’m concerned, there are three things any military action needs to be successful.”

“What are those?” Billy asked. He leaned forward, hands resting on the back of Ken’s guest chair.

Ken counted off on his fingers. “You need to know who the enemy is, that’s number one.”

“Bin Laden.”

“He’s one of many. Thousands, probably. He’s a target, but he’s not the only terrorist or even the king of all terrorists by any means. It’s a much bigger fight than that. And if you stretch it to cover everyone who’s ever provided his network aid and support, then do you launch strikes at Ronald Reagan and President Bush’s dad? William Casey’s already dead, but those three armed and trained bin Laden’s troops if anyone did.”

“No way,” Billy said.

“Way. Do a little outside reading. You might just learn something. But okay, second, you need to know to know where you’re going to fight this war. Again, Afghanistan is just the beginning. What about Libya, Somalia, Syria? What about the IRA—are they terrorists? Do we attack Ireland? What about some of our own activities in Latin America? A lot of people consider us terrorists.”

“What’s the third thing?” Billy asked.

“You need to be able to define success or failure. This is the trickiest one. How do you know if you’ve beaten terrorism? When they stop attacking us?”

“I guess you got a point there, Ken.”

“Damn right I have a point. You launch a military operation without answering those three questions, all you’re really doing is swinging your dick. Now, we may be good at swinging our dick, but this time people are going to die with every swing. We need to be a little careful.”

“Which comes back around to me checking out the crop dusters,” Billy observed. Proving once again that he’s smarter than I usually gave him credit for, Ken thought.

“That’s right. You go out and have a look. It’s not a bad idea. But don’t go arresting or accusing anybody before you check with me.”

“Got it, Ken.”

“Okay, Billy. I’m going back up to the Slab, see what more I can come up with on our dead lady. I’ll see you later on.”

Billy replaced his hat, touched the brim in salute, and walked out.

***

Lucy knew that a twenty-minute head start was virtually meaningless when comparing the speed she could travel through the desert on platform-soled sandals with that of men in real hiking boots, carrying water. So she did the best she could to increase her lead. Initially, she took her sandals off, knowing that she would be able to move faster barefoot, and also knowing that her feet would cut and bleed fairly quickly. Convinced that she was leaving obvious footprints, she tore some strips from her shirt and bound the wounds on her feet, then backtracked down the path she had taken and chose a different route. Her hope was that they’d follow the bloody prints down a canyon she had no intention of taking, and when the footprints stopped they’d continue on that path.

That bit of misinformation planted, she put the sandals back on and scrambled over a series of sandstone boulders. She had no idea where she was, except that the desert was Mojave, not the Sonoran to which she was accustomed. The same creosote bushes were omnipresent, but there were Joshua trees, which didn’t grow at home, and other yuccas with which she wasn’t familiar. Which put her north of home, probably by a couple of hours, given the length of the car ride. Spying a range of low mountains to the south, she headed for those. She’d be thirsty soon enough, and if there was water to be found anywhere, it’d be among the hills.

Lucy worked as a file clerk in an insurance office up in Coachella, where she had to know the alphabet but not necessarily the ins and outs of risk versus benefit calculations. But she heard those terms bandied about, and understood the basic concepts. She knew enough to know that, while just being out in the desert by herself was dangerous, the risk of letting those guys catch her was pretty much identical to the risk of doing it without water. Both would be equally fatal.

Coming down from the rocks, she found a narrow canyon heading in the right direction, so she allowed herself the luxury of moving along its relatively smooth, soft floor for a while. She left footprints in the sand, but she made good time and counted on having thrown off her pursuers for long enough.

As the sun rose higher and began to beat down between the canyon walls, she started to wonder if this had been a good idea. The walls rose higher and higher, effectively trapping her there, and the air inside the canyon seemed superheated, bouncing off the sandy floor and the slick walls like microwaves in an oven. She had to slow to a walk or risk heatstroke. But she was committed now, so she continued, the canyon’s smooth walls coming closer and closer together until it was a slot canyon. Extending her arms, Lucy’s fingertips could touch both sides at once. The advantage was that as the canyon narrowed to the extreme, the upper lip overhung the floor and blocked some of the sun. Now it was like a furnace, but not a furnace with a huge ball of flaming gas attached.

Finally, the two walls met, creating a barrier about waist-high. Lucy didn’t hesitate, but pressed her palms against the edge and hoisted herself up and into the next, slightly more elevated branch of the slot canyon. She repeated the process twice more; it was like a boat working through a canal by shunting from lock to lock.

With each rise, the canyon got narrower—but, as she was counting on, the top edge of the wall grew closer as well. At the point where she needed to turn sideways and edge through the canyon, the lip of the wall was less than ten feet above her. Time to go up. Her back against one wall and feet on the opposite, she pushed herself up to the top of the wall. Breaking out into the sun again, she learned that she had made real progress toward the hills, and that the other side of the canyon was a gentle slope that ended at a broad Joshua trees forest. She left the canyon behind and struck out across the plain, its floor shimmering in the day’s heat and casting mirage greenery several feet above the actual brush. The hills were close enough now to make out details.

Forty minutes or so later, Lucy guessed, she reached the hills. Every step now was agony. The skin on her arms and face was burned. She knew she needed water soon—she was dehydrated, and heatstroke would follow soon if she couldn’t get water and some shade.

But from halfway across the plain she’d seen a dark streak on a cliff wall, and now, closer, she could see a leafy green plant at the base of the cliff, and she knew what that meant. She pointed herself at that spot, and a few minutes later she was there, in front of a tall sandstone face with a narrow black mark running down it from a point midway up. A spring. She couldn’t even see the water, just where it had discolored the stone over the years. But it was there, nonetheless. She pressed her mouth to the stone and held it there, letting the moisture seep into her. Not nearly as satisfying as a mouthful of water, or the long drink she craved, but it would be enough to save her life, she knew.