Dragonfly Bones (26 page)

An hour later, I was driving through north of Tucson past Oro Valley, headed on 287 to the warehouse. I had no specific idea where it was, but I'd seen the road sign, knew it was just off 287, knew it had to be south of Coolidge.

I'd told the Avis clerk that I just got out of the hospital after my car had been blindsided by a drunk driver. “I feel much better than I look,” I said to the woman clerk, who seemed caught between wariness at my condition and concern that my face, a woman's face, might be scarred for life. But all the ID checked fine, the credit card went through, and I drove off in a metallic blue Pontiac Grand Am.

Somewhere south of Catalina I pulled over and called Brittles.

“Jesus, Laura! Where are you? I'm going out of my head. I've already been back to the Arizona Inn, trying to find out what happened to you. And we never found out what happened to your daughter.”

“I know where she is,” I said, “and I'm in a hurry to get to her.”

At any other time in my life I'd have wondered at the depth of love and concern in his voice.

“Where are you?” I said.

“At the camp. Don was here earlier, but when I went to get some food he'd left. Don't know where he went.”

“Just listen to me. Don't talk,” I said, pulling back on 287. “I'm just going through Catalina. On 287. Head south of Coolidge. Look for a large warehouse, on your left side. A
dirt road, maybe one hundred feet, to a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.”

“Is your daughter there?”

“I hope she's still there.”

“Who else?”

“Galeano.”

“Laura, Jesus Christ, Laura, just stop your car and wait for me.”

“Can't do that, Nathan.”

“I'll call the Florence and Coolidge Police Departments. The Pinal County Sheriff's Department.”

“Call them from the road,” I said. “And if I get there first, you'll see a metallic blue Pontiac Grand Am. I'll be inside the warehouse.”

“Laura, wait, I've got another call.”

But I hung up and turned the cell off. I didn't want him ringing me every minute. False dawn light slowly came up in the east as I passed Catalina, and I slowed down to forty, thirty in those places where it was all desert. Twenty minutes later, I saw a sign on the right.

PINAL COUNTY BRUSH CLEARANCE PROJECT

I drove past, recognized the warehouse. I made a U-turn, went down the dirt road, and stopped at the gate. It was unlocked and open a few inches, which solved a huge problem. Getting back in the Grand Am, I pulled back the Glock's hammer and stuck the gun in the small of my back. I ripped off all the bandages on my leg, rubbed several of the wounds to start them bleeding. I wanted Galeano to think I'd just come back from wherever somebody'd found me, that I was out of my mind, that I wasn't clear-headed enough to be anything but a woman come to collect Spider.

Ready, I backed up ten feet and accelerated ahead to ram the gate open, my hand on the horn button as I drove right up to the closed doorway. I kept blowing the horn until the elec
tric door started to rise. I left the motor running, got out, left the door open. Galeano's feet showed in the opening, and as the door went all the way up I first saw the Tek10 in his right hand and then the grin on his face.

“You're one helluva survivor, lady.”

I half unzipped the jacket, pushing the sleeves up, taking care as if by accident to pull the jacket so that my left breast fell out. But none of this distracted him as he beckoned me toward him. Dried blood stiffened the left side of the jacket. I held my arms at my sides, vibrating my fingers. Aware that I was overcompensating for my fatigue, I had to keep some part of my body moving. I staggered, recovered my balance, wanting to be alert, calm, in control and ready to consider anything Galeano asked of me.

“Zip that jacket up, Winslow. I could care less about forty-year-old tits. Just turn around. Slow.”

I tried to pull out the Glock, but the hammer snagged on the band of the sweatpants and he clamped his free hand around mine to take the Glock away from me. He clicked the release lever, the clip falling to the ground. Pointing the Glock to our left, he pulled the trigger and the slide locked open after firing. He flung the gun thirty feet away and led me inside, rolling the door down shut.

Spider stood behind Don's wheelchair. Don's hands and legs were bound to the chair with duct tape.

“Surprise,” Galeano said. “I know, I said I was leaving right away. But I thought I could take care of my boys, at the camp. This old guy was the only person there. He runs his mouth a lot, told me way too much before he found out I wasn't just another friendly dad coming to pick up a stepchild.

“So I had to take this guy. Maybe he's caused as much trouble as you or your boyfriend. I don't much know, but I'm hoping the boyfriend shows up also. I want to clean up everything. That's what this big woodchipper is good for. Run the four of you through the machine. No leg sticking out. Yeah, I saw that movie, too.”

A car noisily braked to a stop outside.

“And that'll be him.”

Somebody hammered on the roll-up door.

“We'll have to get ready.”

Galeano quickly wrapped a long string of duct tape around Don's neck and then around the barrel of an over-and-under shotgun. He ripped off another string of duct tape, wrapped it around Spider's neck, and used it as a leash, holding it in his left hand while he gently laid the muzzle of the Tek10 against Spider's neck.

“Push the wheelchair,” he said to Spider. “Winslow, you walk in front. When you get to the door, open it.”

The four of us moved slowly. I hesitated at the door, not wanting to open it.

“Now or later,” Galeano said to me. “I don't much care, as long as ‘later' isn't any more than two minutes.”

I punched the red button and the door rose. Brittles stood outside with an AK-47, moving the barrel from me to Galeano, freezing, the AK-47 drooping a few inches before he snapped it back up.

“Put it down,” Galeano said harshly. “Now!”

Hesitating just a few more seconds, Brittles bent over and laid the AK-47 on the ground, stepping back several paces.

“Take off your jacket,” Galeano said.

Brittles hesitated even longer, but removed the jacket and threw it on top of the AK-47, turning around to show he had no weapon stuck in back.

“Now the shirt.”

Brittles stripped off his shirt quickly, tossed it onto his jacket. He turned around again, faced Galeano, waiting.

“Drop your pants.”

This time Brittles really hesitated and Galeano immediately shifted the Tek10 from Spider's head to point it at Brittles. Undoing his belt, Brittles let his pants fall to his shoes, revealing an ankle holster. He removed a .32 revolver and tossed it on the pile with everything else.

“Pull up your pants. But take the belt out. I want you holding your pants.”

Brittles did this quickly, his face not moving at all, his eyes fixed on Galeano.

“Okay. Let's all go inside.”

“No, Nathan,” I shouted. “There's a woodchipper in there. That's where all the bones came from. He wants to put all four of us into the woodchipper.”

Sirens sounded from both the north and south. Galeano stiffened.

“Ah, geez,” Brittles said. “Now what you going to do?”

Three Tucson police cars pulled up from the south, swinging on the dirt road, cherry and blue lights revolving on the roof rack. Two cars came from the north, each with a single revolving red light on the roof. All cars fanned out around the entrance to the warehouse, policemen ducking behind open doors.

“Don't shoot!” Brittles shouted. “Everybody out there, don't shoot.”

Galeano seemed as calm as ever, but his eyes narrowed, I saw muscles flex in his cheeks as he clenched his jaws. His head moved slightly forward and he put the Tek10's muzzle back against Spider's head.

“Don't kill my daughter,” I shouted.

Brittles grimaced, slumped his head.

“Mother and daughter,” Galeano said. “I should have guessed. That just makes things all the easier. You men out there. Lay down all your weapons. Move away from your cars.”

“They won't do it,” Brittles said. “They'll kill you first.”

“No, they won't. And besides, I've been shot seven times and stabbed at least twice. I prepared myself to die a long time ago, that's why I'm still alive.”

Brittles turned to the officers.

“Do what the man says,” he shouted. Several of the officers put down their handguns and moved away from their
cruisers. One man stayed, the muzzle of his shotgun laid on the edge of a door. “You. Drop the shotgun.”

The officer rose up so his head was visible in the open window and without hesitation Galeano shifted the Tek10 and shot the officer in the shoulder.

“Now what?” Brittles asked.

“We're all going to move into that green SUV parked inside here. You'll drive. Winslow will get in the other front seat. You'll fold down the backseats, and I'll get in back with the cripple and the daughter.”

Brittles quickly came in the building, seeing the SUV. He worked fast at lowering the rear seats.

“It'll be easier to do this with the wheelchair if I drive the SUV outside.”

Since we were all standing by the door, and the SUV was in the back of the warehouse, Galeano nodded. Brittles started the engine, drove slowly and carefully out the door, and parked about ten feet past the concrete loading strip.

“Go to all those police cruisers. Rip out their microphones. Open the hoods, rip off the spark plug wires,” Galeano ordered.

I couldn't understand why Brittles jumped so eagerly to doing whatever Galeano said. He worked furiously, flinging the mikes off into the desert scrub and ripping ignition wires out viciously with both hands.

“Done,” he said finally.

“Okay, everybody. We're all going to get into the SUV.”

As we moved just outside the door, Galeano stopped our little parade and looked off into the distance in all directions.

“No surprises,” he said finally. “You should have warned these hicks not to play all their cards together. How far away, how long before more police come?”

Brittles shook his head.

“That probably means they're close. Okay, let's do this quickly. Brittles and Winslow, in the front seats. You, the
daughter. Wheel the cripple up to the back and dump him in there somehow.”

Galeano kept his fingers on both triggers until Don lay on the floor. Galeano gave a sharp tug on the shotgun, ripping the duct tape off Don's neck. Spider stood near the hatch. Brittles nudged my knee with his hand, starting silently counting.

One.

Two.

“
Spider!”
he shouted. “Get down,
get down
!”

Spider dropped to the concrete, Galeano triggering the Tek10. He started to lower the weapon, but his head exploded like a pumpkin hit with a sledgehammer. Three seconds later I heard a
crack
reverberate across the desert floor.

Brittles flung himself out the door, kicked the Tek10 away from Galeano's hand before kneeling to feel his pulse, but most of his face was gone and I knew he was dead.

“Seventeen hundred yards,” Brittles said to me. “I've never seen a shot like that. I don't know how Justin Wong ever fit into your past, but he's the guy responsible for being way out there to keep your future going.”

Numb, probably about to go into shock, I just stared blankly at him. He pointed off North.

“Up there,” he said. “In that little notch, between two hills. Justin Wong is up there with that long range sniper rifle. We counted on some luck, getting Galeano out into the open. Justin said it would only take one bullet.”

He shrugged out of his windbreaker, laid it over Galeano's pulped face.

“Just over there…”

Brittles pointed again to the notch, mouth slightly open, frown lines deep in his forehead, and I saw he was crying. He stood like that for a long time, until I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around his chest and pulled myself up tight against his body.

“What's wrong, Nathan?”

“Dead people,” he said finally. “Too many, too many…I can't deal with dead people anymore.”

Policemen and ambulance drivers spent ten minutes trying to get our attention, gently working at pulling our bodies apart.

“F
inal call for American Airlines Flight 9492 to Las Vegas. Now boarding at Gate Twenty-eight. Final call.”

Brittles stood at least twenty feet away, hands crossed in front of him, head bowed so low his chin touched his chest.

“I don't want to lose you now,” I said.

“You never really had me,” Spider said, her eyes bright with tears. “Well. Not since I was two. And I hardly remember that.”

“You'll call me?”

“I don't think so.”

“Email. You've got my email address. Fax number.”

“Don't wait for anything,” she said

“You've got Nathan's number. I'll be living with him. You can call or email or do anything, any way you want. Just talk to me.”

“Spider.”

I waited, expecting her to rebel against my use of the name. Nothing.

“You're my daughter. I've been looking for you for twenty years.”

“I forgot you twenty years ago.”

“Isn't there any way?” I sobbed.

“For god's sakes, don't make this any more melodramatic than it is already.”

“You don't know me,” I pleaded. “At least give me some
time so you get to know me. So I get to know you.”

The boarding agent came over to us. I tried to turn my back on her, turn my back on the other boarding agent who was waiting to shut the door to the ramp.

“Please, ma'am. You'll have to board now or we'll have to close the door.”

A bright-faced young Asian girl, a broad smile with teeth as white and straight as dominos, a small bronze plaque pinned to her shirt with the name
TEQUILA
.

“Tequila.” I laughed, a hard thing to do while I was sobbing. “Your dad and I, we had this thing for Cuervo Gold.”

“Good-bye. Mom.”

“After twenty years, is that all I'm going to get? A single word? Mom?”

“It's just too late, mom. Way way too late.”

She turned abruptly and went through the ramp door and the agent quickly closed it behind her. I slumped into a bank of chairs, sobbing. I felt Brittles's hand on my shoulder. The boarding agents started to move to another counter for a flight to Los Angeles. Somebody thumped on the ramp door. The agents exchanged looks. One of them opened the door and Spider ran through to put a hand on my cheek.

“Well, maybe not,” she said. “Maybe not too late. I'll think about it.”

She ran back down the ramp. The door closed again.

I wanted to see the plane take off, wanted to see her face at a window, but Brittles took my hands, pulled me to my feet, turned me around, held my hand as we walked away. I turned back once as the tug started pushing the plane back from the loading ramp, but Brittles cradled my head in his hands, held my hand against his shirt for a long, long time until I heard the engines roar and the plane move away.

“Come on, sweet pea,” Brittles said. “Let's go home.”