California Girl (27 page)

Another ten minutes and the taillights of the Mercury appeared like red eyes in a mist. Nick slowed and turned left. Saw Cortazar wave, then his tires lift a fresh cloud as he accelerated toward Bonnett’s compound. The driver of the Mercury looked back at Nick with sleepy disinterest, then the back end of the black car jerked and threw a rooster tail of dust back at them.

“Prick,” said Lobdell.

Nick drove a few hundred yards, made a four-point U-turn, pulled to the right, killed the engine. Let the dust settle, then rolled down the windows. The plan was to wait for Cortazar to come back with Bonnett. Then follow them north to La Fonda. There, they would transfer the prisoner to a green and white Ensenada PM cruiser with a good safety screen and head for the border crossing in TJ. They would use the commercial vehicle gate, where Cortazar had friends who were expecting them. It would go smoothly. They’d actually push Bonnett through a chain-link gate, into the waiting arms of Orange and San Diego County sheriff’s deputies.

Happy ending, Cortazar had said.

Nick sat staring out at the dry hills. Warmer now, away from the beach. Lobdell smoked, flicked his butt into the middle of the road.

Then they heard the distant pop of gunfire. Fast and lots of it.

“What’s your call, Nick?”

“I want Bonnett.”

“You can get hurt or killed,” said Lobdell. “I can, too.”

“I can’t just sit here, Luck.”

“Me, neither. Cortazar’s a friend. Let’s dig our guns out of the back.”

THEY FOLLOWED
the tire tracks for a bouncing, swerving mile. A sliding right, a left, then another fishtail of a right. Nick hoped they were following the right ones.

The compound lurched into view. A sprawling low casa. Two casitas toward the back. Three smaller outbuildings, all adobe. A big wooden barn behind. The wall around them was adobe, too, not high but lined on top with broken bottles. A practice bullring stood outside the wall to the east. On the west side was a strip of weed-sprouted asphalt and a faded wind sock. A shining Cessna prop plane waited at the far end, pointed south for takeoff, tie lines swaying in the breeze.

Fifty yards out Nick could see the compound gate was open. Saw Cortazar’s Chevy and the black Mercury parked end to end, the Merc just inside the gate, doors open. Someone slumped from the driver’s-side door. Someone lay on the ground near him. Another body in the dirt on the other side of the car.

He slid to a dusty stop and cut the engine. Heard the pop of it under the hood but no shots. Nothing else but his own heart beating in his chest.

Then, a man groaned. Pure pain. Like something from a distant hell.

Again. One long syllable, like he was trying to say something.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“Let’s get to the wall,” said Lobdell.

Nick threw open the door. Zigzagged a crazy pattern like they did at football workouts in high school. Breathing hard by the time he shouldered down against the adobe. Watched Lobdell lumbering across the brown earth with breathtaking slowness.

They lay in the hot dirt under the wall. Guns out, panting like dogs.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“It’s coming from behind the house,” said Nick.

“We can use the cars for cover going in,” said Lobdell. “You first.”

Nick crawled along the wall. Bull thorns and broken glass. Came to the open gate and the back end of the black Mercury. Looked around the corner at the driver spilled half out of the car. Faceup, arms out, blood dripping from his mouth. The windshield was shot out. Safety glass glittering on the hood and in the dirt like tossed handfuls of diamonds. The man beside him was facedown, a revolver near one hand, patch of dark blood under his chest. Nick put his face to the ground and looked past the Merc’s rear tires to the body on the other side. A big man, on his back, face toward Nick and the breeze moving his hair.

That left one from the Merc maybe still alive, thought Nick. And maybe Cortazar and Marcello. And maybe this is just a bad dream.

He heard Lobdell brake. Came up and braced his piece on the adobe gate stanchion. The stanchion crumbled and his weapon slipped but Nick saw nothing over the sights and heard nothing but Lobdell heaving to a stop beside him.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

Out of his mind with pain, Nick thought.

“Get the door open but wait for me,” said Lobdell. “Wait a second, get your wind.”

Nick took a deep breath. Got a good grip on the sweaty handle of the automatic. Hustled onto the driveway, jumped the dead man, and weaved his way to the shaded front porch of the casa. Made the portico steps in one leap, flattened himself against the cool adobe. Reached out and turned the knob and pushed it open.

Nick looked back toward Lucky. Lobdell charged up the driveway, stepped around the dead man and onto the porch.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

Nick swung his gun toward the nearest casita. Held steady on the front door but nothing moved. A bullet hole in the window glass, halo of blood around it. A curtain lilting.

Lobdell burst into the main house with his weapon up in both hands.
Nick followed close behind him, scanning the dark interior. Big room. Big house. Smell of blood and gunpowder. Marcello dead on the tile floor right under them, gun out. Looked like he’d been shot eight or ten times. Two guys dead across from him Nick didn’t recognize. In the far end of the room Cortazar slouched dead on a big steerhide couch. Hands at his sides and no weapon out. Like he’d come in, sat on the couch, and been slaughtered. Another man on the kitchen floor Nick didn’t recognize. Marcello had taken down three but not enough.

Nick put his fingers to Marcello’s neck and got nothing. Lobdell tried Cortazar, then set his hand on Cortazar’s shoulder like he was consoling him. In the silence Nick heard eternity.

“We’re down to one,” he said.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“Maybe that’s him,” said Lobdell. “Go careful now, Nick.”

They checked the rest of the house. Nothing moving but the hands of a clock in the bedroom.

Out a back door then, toward the moan. Nick first and down low, Lobdell behind. The first outbuilding was full of marijuana bricks wrapped in brown paper. Stacked high as Nick’s head. A couple of industrial scales. Two small humidifiers misting away. Smell so strong Nick wondered if you could get high off it.

The second outbuilding was full of surfboards and wet suits, butane stoves, sleeping bags, tents. A rat scampered along the floor and whipped behind a surfboard.

The third building had a bloody drag mark on the front steps and an open front door. A revolver lay in the dirt. Nick could hear the fast breathing inside. He backed against the front wall.

“United States police! Come out.”

Again in Spanish.

“Can’t.”

“Bonnett?”

“Shot. Bad. Help. Ahhhhhhh…”

Cory Bonnett lay on his back, head up against the wall. Arms and legs spread. Breathing rapid and shallow. Face white and bloody, eyes
heavy. His left knee was shot through from the back. Bones flaring outward, splinters and gristle and blood. Right palm blown apart where he’d tried to block a bullet and his right shoulder oozing blood where it had gone through.

Nick held steady on him. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Janelle Vonn.”

“I didn’t do it. Water?”

“I’ll get it,” said Lobdell. “If he jumps up all of a sudden, shoot him again.”

Nick saw Bonnett’s blue eyes open wider to see who had spoken, then nearly close again. Breathing faster now.

“Followed her to Tustin.”

“Why?”

“Worried.”

“Followed her but didn’t kill her?”

“Yeah.”

“Just looking out for her, like a big brother?”

Bonnett nodded and shivered.

“Stop talking, Cory, or you’re going to die right here.”

Lobdell came back with a pot full of water. Nick knelt and steadied it for Bonnett to drink.

Bonnett shivered again. Nick heard a clicking sound—Bonnett’s teeth on the pot rim. Then Bonnett jerked and drove a fist into Nick’s stomach. Hard and low. When Nick looked down he saw the switchblade in him.

“Fuck you, pig.”

Nick jumped up and back. “Lucky, this guy just stabbed me.”

Lucky kicked Bonnett in the face and pressed his gun against his forehead.

Nick couldn’t figure what to do with the knife so he just stood there and looked at it. White handle. Just like the narco jacket said. Touched it. Pulled. It came out pretty easy. Didn’t really hurt. Hardly any blood. Wasn’t sure what to do with the thing now. Pushed the button, folded the blade in, put it in his pocket.

“Sit down, Nick,” said Lobdell. “Sit down and breathe easy and apply pressure. I got this guy.”

Nick saw the violence in Lobdell’s eyes and Nick thought for a second that he’d shoot. Instead he yanked Bonnett over by his hair and got the cuffs out.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“Yeah.”

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, go fuck yourself, you long-haired fairy.”

“Ahhhhhhh.”

Nick looked down at the floor under him but didn’t see any blood. It still didn’t really hurt, either. Figured that was about the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him, the blade just hitting muscle. Was mostly muscle down there, anyway.

“If we take you to a hospital in Ensenada, we’ll lose Bonnett to the Mexicans,” said Lobdell.

“Can he make it back to California?” asked Nick.

“I don’t care one way or another. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Nick looked down again and saw one drop of blood fall from his crotch to the floor.

“It’s only an hour,” he said. “I can make it.”

“I’m going to go get a car.”

“We’ll need a trunk and a gag for Bonnett.”

“I understand that, Nick.”

THEY ENDED UP
in a blue Buick Electra that Lobdell had found in the barn. Cal plates, he said, helping Nick into the passenger seat, and a valid reg in the glove box. Bonnett’s Baja car.

On the way to the highway Lucky stopped and stripped the plates and registration off the Country Squire. Took a couple of minutes to swap the plates with the Electra in case Bonnett’s car was hot with customs. Grabbed some food and water just in case. Tossed the Buick plates in the bushes a mile down the road.

Then held a steady seventy miles an hour on Mexico State Highway 1 up past Ensenada and La Fonda and Puerto Nuevo and Santini Las Gaviotas.

Nick pushed the towel harder against his gut. Figured he had a nicked vessel down there after all because the blood wasn’t stopping. Not fast, just steady. His throat was dry and he could feel the dust in his mouth. Looked down at his bloody, filthy hands.

“I can’t believe this is happening, Lucky.”

“I’d trade it in for just about anything, Nick.”

“Cortazar and all those men,” said Nick.

“Nice wife. Her name is Ynez. I’ll come back down and try to explain.”

“Fuck, man, I’m so sorry.”

“We’re going to get you to a good American doctor. You’re going to be okay and they’re going to convict that shithead in the trunk if he lives. All we can do for Cortazar now is help his wife and family. Forget what happened. There’s nothing we can do. Not one goddamned thing. You feeling okay, Nick?”

“It’s been hurting good since La Fonda.”

“It ought to.”

“I’m going to need a blanket.”

“You getting cold, Nick?”

“Not that, just to hide this mess from customs.”

Nick felt the car accelerate.

“I threw some blankets and towels in the back,” said Lobdell. “Don’t worry, Nick. Your job right now is to close your eyes and think about Katy and the family and let me get us to TJ. Try to keep your pulse down.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Try.”

Nick closed his eyes and let his head loll against the window. Road five feet from his head and vibration steady. Sun warm on his face. Thought of Katy and how she felt and knew she’d be furious at him for
this but she’d forgive him so long as he lived through it. And Katherine and Willie and Stevie. What a really wonderful family.

“Think my dick nerve got cut?”

“Beats me,” said Lobdell. “Eleven kliks to TJ.”

“Man, it hurts.”

Nick tried to ease off the pain by moving. Felt his butt slide on the vinyl seat. Felt the sticky wet on his hands. Held out the towel and shook his head. Goddamned thing was heavy.

“Toss it out the window when we get past this car,” said Lobdell.

Nick did.

Lobdell gave him a ghastly smile as he reached behind his seat and came up with a clean towel.

“Take it easy, Nick. Think of something good.”

Nick closed his eyes again, leaned his head against the warm glass. Thought of Katy leading cheers for the Tillers in fifty-five and fifty-six. Thought she was the prettiest girl in the world then until she came down the aisle on their wedding day, April sixth, a year later. Remembered the class smartass telling him in the locker room back then that any guy who married right out of high school was gypping himself out of tons of good young pussy. Odd the way this had struck Nick. Probably truthful but a slap at Katy so Nick had grabbed the guy’s hair and pulled his head into the toilet and given it a flush.

“Yeah, Luck. I just shoved his head in there and flushed it. I remember the way his voice echoed. Like he was gargling in a tunnel or something.”

“That’s interesting, Nick. Quiet now.”

“Do you think there’s really any truth at all to astrology?”

“You mean that age of Aquarius horseshit?”

“Or it could be not even related. In a direct way.”

“True. Close your eyes again, Nick. Don’t talk so much. Just think about the first time Willie caught a fish.”

“Well—”

“Nicky, I don’t want to hear about it, I just want you to be quiet.”

“It was at the county fair. He tossed a Ping-Pong ball in a little bowl with a fish in it. I got Stevie a turtle painted blue and Katherine a chameleon on a string. Kids sat in the back of the Red Rocket on the way home and watched it turn colors.”