Warrior in the Shadows (18 page)

He stood up and stepped away from them, something dead inside him and something else springing to life, something he had never felt before, a pure clean surge of hot hatred, a dark brightness at his center focused on one thing and one thing only: killing the man who'd done this.

Where was he?

Charley went back into the hallway and listened carefully. His hearing was returning after the crash and bang of shots from earlier. His vision seemed even more acute than usual. Everything he looked at was recorded like a snapshot, framed in the viewfinder of his mind, never to be forgotten. At the end of the hallway was a door that led to the garage and then the last door, which opened into the backyard. The blood trail went that way.

Charley felt a sudden foreboding and he ran forward recklessly, his pistol extended, to the door that opened out into the yard. He quick peeked out the door, exited violently, and took cover behind the old unused propane tank beside the back steps.

Nothing.

He came out in the hunt, his pistol extended, its muzzle tracking wherever his eyes went.

Nothing beside the garage.

Nothing beside the big tree.

From a few houses away, he heard a motorcycle kick into life. And over it, a loud sound: "Wonk! Wonk!" and then the sound of the motorcycle revving into the distance.

Charley ran back into the house, picked up the phone.

Dead.

He ran back to the front room, knelt beside Bobby Lee.

Dead.

His pistol dangling limp in his hand, he heard the sound of sirens far off and growing, and he went outside to meet them.

Part 3

3.1

Charley sat slumped on the rear bumper of a squad car and watched the bodies being carried out now that the Forensics Unit had completed the crime scene survey. Tears welled in his eyes when he saw the final gurney come out, the one with a small body hidden by the big black bag, so tiny a shape. He spent more hours being interviewed by the other detectives, their intensity masking the rage they all felt at having two of their own go down. He had to give up his Glock and spare magazines to the investigators. But finally they let him go, and he got into his car.

He drove carefully, just under the speed limit, all the way to his apartment. It was almost dawn, and the light was glimmering in the east and thinning the dark that hung over the city. There was a faint fog in Linden Hills, and the streetlamps seemed to flicker and glow like candles in the damp haze. It reminded him of stories he'd read about old London, with the lamplighters and the foggy streets barely lit by the candle lamps.

He parked in the lot behind the building and slowly made his way up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps an indictment, and he was careful not to let any of the night's images come up from where he had carefully put them away. He didn't want to see those images anymore.

Charley let himself quietly into his apartment and locked the door behind him, then went into the kitchen and took down a bottle of Bushmill's Irish whiskey that Bobby Lee had bought him as a birthday present a few months back. They'd barely tapped it, and it became a joke between them as they laughed, remembering the time in their youth when they'd gone through a bottle of Bush a night.

They'd only shared a few drinks out of it that night, and none since then.

Charley took a tumbler and filled it with ice, blinking in the sudden harsh light of the refrigerator as he filled the tumbler to the brim with whiskey. He sat in his armchair, the bottle close at hand, and took a long hard swallow that burned its way into his gut. He concentrated on that feeling and nothing else, as though the fire of the whiskey would wash something clean inside him.

But he'd need more than whiskey for that. Charley took careful stock of himself, noting his huge anger, carefully banked, and just touched on the terrible sense of loss and sadness that lurked behind the anger. Anger was best put to use, and he'd have to think clearly how to put his to use. The dark man had gotten away for now.

But only for now.

Charley sat in his chair and drank himself to sleep as the early morning light burned away the lingering fog outside and cast long shadows in the street.

Deep in a whiskey sleep, Charley dreamed:

… walking, walking, in hilly country where the hills were the color of tan, marked out with dark barked trees whose branches reached like thin fingers toward the blue expanse of sky… the tan of the ground knife-edged dry grasses, the bark of the trees, close up, gnarled and worn like the skin of an old woman's breast and the trees evenly spaced like the ranks of a hidden army.

Charley walking, looking, but not alone… Kativa is with him, magnificent in her nakedness, her full breasts bouncing with each stride and Charley seized by a sudden pang of lust and an embarrassing erection that poked the front of his loincloth. He's carrying a spear in one hand, and they are hunting…

Hunting…

They are walking toward the hills where sandstone escarpments have tumbled like children's blocks and lay jumbled like small sticks after a storm. The crevices and caves between the rocks look small from a distance but they steadily grow larger as the two of them travel toward it, the silence between them seems natural, as though they are connected in some silent way.

There is a clearing where the trees don't go, and there are many chest-high pillars of mud, the nests of termites caulked and grown almost to the height of a man. One of them is directly in front of Charley and he is drawn toward it, stands before it. Slowly, bits of baked clay flake from the top of the termite's hill. Charley raised his spear, but not in fear— in recognition.

The clay flakes away and a big portion of the mound cracks in two and falls, one piece forward to land at Charley's feet, the other falling back behind the mound. The piece at Charley's feet looks like a mask, and when Charley looks up he sees Bobby Lee, his head and face covered with matted dried clay, his eyes closed…

But now they open, and they are black, blacker than the black of embalmed eyes, but Charley knows that he can see, his friend is dreaming on the other side of the Dreamtime and this is the message:

"He's here, Charley," Bobby Lee's voice whispers in Charley's head. The dead lips don't move, but the dead eyes seem to gleam as though something were inhabiting them. "In these hills in the Quinkin country. She can take you to them."

Charley is silent as he looks at Kativa, who stands with her back to the mound, shivering in fear.

"The two of you together," Bobby Lee's voice said. "Then you can kill him, Charley, strike him down. Strike him down first and you will save her and revenge me. Kill him for all of us."

There were two smaller mounds nearby. Both of them flaked and broke open and one was Maxine and the other was Nicky. Maxine's eyes opened and she said, "I always loved you, Charley." Little Nicky's eyes rolled open and he said, "Please, Uncle Charley, I'm so cold… take me with you, I don't want to stay here…"

"This is where we are, Charley," Bobby Lee said. "Until you've killed the Quinkin."

Charley awoke with a shout, reaching for where his pistol would have been holstered, fumbling for a long moment until he remembered where he was and that his pistol was in the evidence locker downtown at Police Headquarters.

"God," he said. His voice trembled.

The whiskey bottle was almost done, and he had the foggiest of hangovers to deal with right now. He went into the bathroom and washed his face, brushed his teeth and gargled, then picked up the phone and called Kativa as he stared out the window at the busy street below.

"Hello?" Kativa said.

"It's Charley," he said. "You heard about last night?"

"It was on the news this morning," she said. "I'm so sorry, Charley. I tried calling but there was no answer and the machine didn't pick up."

"I didn't get in till about four this morning."

"Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Would you like me to bring something over?"

"That would be good," Charley said. "I need to talk to you."

"I can come right over."

"Do that. Maybe you could stop and pick up some sandwiches. Is your passport current?"

"Yes, why?"

"That's something I need to talk to you about."

"I'll be right over."

Charley hung up the phone, then went to the table that served as his desk and took out a battered address book. He flipped through several pages till he found the name he was looking for. He let his finger rest on the name for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed a number in northern Virginia. The phone rang twice and then was answered by a cool male voice that said, "Extension 3067."

"Is Walker there?" Charley said.

"Yes. May I tell him who's calling?"

"Charley Payne."

"One moment, Mr. Payne."

There was a long pause on hold, then the phone clicked and the slight southern drawl of Terry Walker's voice came through.

"This is Walker."

"Terry? It's Charley Payne."

"That's what I heard, Charley Payne, the one and only major pain himself. How you doing, Charley? Still in Minneapolis, I see."

"That's where I be, brother."

"So what's up? Come to your senses? Ready to return to the job you were born to do? Or you just want to borrow some money for more film?"

"I need a favor, Terry. A big one."

The other man's voice dropped a tone. "What are you talking about, Charley? You in some trouble?"

"No. I'm not. But I need help on something. Can you talk?"

"Sure, that's the advantage of being a big muckety muck. I can do whatever I want."

"I need a check on all noncommercial aircraft that departed from Minneapolis and any other airport within a fifty-mile radius. Private aircraft with a capability for transoceanic travel. Manifests, times of departure."

"That is a big favor, Charley. What do you need it for?"

"You remember my friend Bobby Lee?"

"Sure, the super-duper paratrooper you ran with. Good guy, we had beers together in Tyson's Corner once when he was out, remember?"

"Somebody murdered him and his family last night," Charley said. He cleared his throat. "That somebody is an Australian Aborigine with some operator training. I think he flew out of here last night. There's no way for a guy as distinctive-looking as this one to have slipped away unless he flew out."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"You say he's an Australian Aborigine," Walker said. "Trained as an operator, working in Minneapolis? How do you know all this?"

"I got some lead into him last night."

Another long silence and then Walker said, "Charley, I can see we need to talk. Stay at the phone you're at and I'll call you back shortly."

"Roger that, Terry."

"I'll be back to you in just a minute."

Charley replaced the phone in its cradle. Fifteen minutes passed and then the phone rang.

"Okay, Charles, listen up," Terry Walker said. "You're into something bigger than you may realize. What did your friend have to do with this Australian?"

"He was investigating the Australian as the prime suspect in a series of murders here… nutcase murders. The guy was eating people."

"Jesus, that's an MO you'll never forget. It fits into something else. You're not inside, Charley, and I can't give you all that I've got. But I'll tell you if you get anything on this guy, we'd be interested in what you have to say."

"I'm not going to be run, Terry. I told you what I need. If you can't do it, then don't jerk me around."

"I'm not jerking you around. It will take me a little longer to get that info for you. I'll tell you this, if he got to a plane, he'll be heading back down under, in Queensland."

"In the Laura bush country?"

Terry Walker said calmly, "You knew that?"

"I had a hunch."

"That's a damn sight more than a hunch. Who do I talk to about the investigation out there?"

Charley told him and Walker said, "I'll be talking to him. You still a contract photographer?"

"You're current on me, Terry. What are you not telling me?"

"I'm not telling you that we've had a long-time interest in a guy who fits your description and that it has to do with some controlled substances. I'm also not telling you that we have no record of him working in the States, but we've seen that unmistakable signature of his in some incidents overseas. And I'll tell you, straight out, that you're better off staying way the hell away from this character."

"The plane information?"

"I'm working on it with FAA."

"If I were to find something, say overseas, who would I call?"

"Call this number: 1-888-555-3214 and ask for me by name. That's good from overseas, night or day. All you got to do is ask for me by name."

"Thanks, Terry."

"I owe you for this one, Charley. Big time. Stay in touch and call me if you get anything. I'll have that FAA information for you shortly. Will you be at this number?"

"Standing by."

"I worry when you start in on that old military jargon, Charles. Means you're slipping on your game face. Don't try to run this alone— stay out of it. We've got people looking into it and you'll be contacted if you can help. You're not that far outside. You could probably use the money, right?"

"I'm through there and you know it," Charley said gently. "And I'd rather take pictures. Thanks for the brief, Terry. I'll wait for your call."

"I'm sorry about Bobby Lee, Charley."

"Thanks, Terry."

Charley replaced the telephone and settled back to wait.