Fortunes of the Dead (40 page)

Christian gave a nod to Marian Windsor. “We went back through the records of unidentified Waco victims—as you know, many of them were children. We ran a comparison with Laura's DNA and got a hit. We've confirmed that a male victim, age approximately five years, died of asphyxiation at Waco.”

Wilson wanted very much to leave. He knew the others were studying him. Because his prefrontal cortex was in pretty good shape, and there was no interference with the feedback from his limbic system, he stayed put. He tried to think of Rugger, which he managed for a while, but it was not an image he was fond of, and he finally focused on Sel, and the way she looked that first day he saw her working the surf at Zuma Beach.

Wilson kept Sel in mind. She was the target. He just needed to get home.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
THREE

Joel had no idea that I was sitting in the Cracker Barrel in I Corbin, Kentucky waiting for Wilson McCoy, who had agreed to buy me a late breakfast. As usual, I was late, but Wilson was later, so I sat in the nonsmoking section at a table for four in front of the window. A vigorous stream of sunlight lit the room. I sipped my coffee and watched the parking lot. The waitress brought me a basket of biscuits, in case I got hungry waiting for Wilson, and I opened one up and ate the soft bread from the middle, plain, without jam or butter. It was very peaceful, arriving first and having a few moments to myself. I wondered if I had been missing out by arriving late everywhere I go. Maybe the reason some people were habitually early had more to do with peace and quiet than punctuality.

A spiffy new F-150 truck painted hot-rod red pulled into a prime parking space right in front of the restaurant—you couldn't get closer unless you had a handicapped sticker. I did a double take when I saw Wilson climb out of the truck—he looked so local, in blue jeans and a blue Kentucky Wildcats ball cap. And driving a pickup truck on purpose? But it had to be Wilson, because of the limp.

The waitress led him straight to my table, her cheeks newly flushed, and I could not hear what Wilson said to her, but she tossed a look at him over her shoulder, and I saw him grin. There was no hiding Wilson's West Coast flair—evident in the fit of the jeans, Ralph Lauren; the black sweater, a blend of silk and wool. He sat across from me, leaned across the table, and kissed my cheek.

“Hello, Lena.”

“Is that really you in the ball cap?”

He took the hat off for a moment to show me the dyed blond hair and dark roots, twirled it on one finger, and put it back on his head. “See my truck?”

“I did. With utter amazement. You better get back to Los Angeles, dude, or before you know it you'll be spending your retirement money on a tractor and forty acres. As it stands, you could almost pass for a native.”

“Sticks and stones, Lena.”

The waitress arrived with coffee for Wilson, and a warm-up for me. I ordered my usual breakfast, sourdough toast, hash brown casserole, and today, bacon, and fresh squeezed orange juice.

“How about you?” the waitress asked Wilson.

He closed his menu and looked at her. “You pick it put for me. You know what's good here, don't you?”

She chewed the end of her pen. “You hungry?”

He nodded.

“Stand by,” she said, and headed off.

Wilson took a gulp of coffee, black of course. I was glad he'd had the wisdom not to ask for espresso. “I was disappointed you wouldn't meet me back at the mountain. I wanted to see where you guys found Cheryl Dunkirk.”

“I will never set foot on that mountain again. And stop complaining. I drove an hour and a half to meet you here.”

“Only because I'm buying and it's Cracker Barrel.”

“To tell the truth, I figured you'd be in L.A. by now.”

“You're my last stop; then I'm free. I'm taking the red-eye out of Nashville tonight.”

“Seems to me I'm a little out of your way.”

“Well, hey, I wanted to thank you for all that help on the mountain. It didn't seem right not to talk to you again after you helped me out of the woods and dumped me on my ass in front of the barn.”

I laughed and put my glass down.

“Did orange juice go up your nose?”

“No, Wilson, it didn't.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin, striving for dignity.

Wilson looked over my shoulder, eyes growing wide.

“What?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. Our waitress was headed to the table with a tray heavy with food.

“Tell me that isn't for us.”

“You told her you were hungry.”

It was worth the drive down to watch Wilson's face as our waitress—Patty, according to the name tag—set country sausage patties, bacon strips, grits, pancakes, three eggs over easy, and another basket of biscuits in front of Wilson. She set a small bottle of maple syrup on the table, and a little dish with foil-wrapped pats of butter.

“Be sure and put some butter on those grits while they're hot,” she told him, patted his shoulder, and left.

“Is that all you're eating?” Wilson asked me.

“At the time I ordered I thought I was going all out. Until I saw what you were getting.”

“Do you people always eat like this?”

“You people?”

Wilson put his napkin in his lap. “I'm from California. We're afraid of food.”

“You're just afraid you'll like it.”

“Truer than you think.” He poured syrup on the pancakes, speared the butter pat, hesitated, then put it on the top pancake. But he didn't eat.

I chewed bacon and sipped coffee and got tired of waiting. “Come on, Wilson, old son. I know why we're here. Let's get it out in the open.”

He put his fork down. “So you
did
see.”

He meant did I see him aim his gun at Rodeo, see her hold up her hands, and see him shoot her anyway, three bullets one right after the other.

“No, Wilson, I didn't see a thing.”

His looked at me with a sad sort of summing up. “You better think about that.”

“I have thought about it, Wilson, you think I'm brain dead? You think being from Kentucky makes me the village idiot?”

Wilson tilted his head sideways. “I haven't been in this part of the country all that long, but I have noticed that where the West Coast has a Starbucks on every corner, you guys have a Baptist church. I always thought people were joking when they called this the Bible Belt. I can't help but think this thing might weigh on you, and that maybe one of these days you'll want to get it off your chest.” He glanced out the window. “I don't feel like waking up at night having to worry about that. If you think it's a possibility, let's just go to the S.A. here in Lexington, and let him know the whole thing.”

I thought of Jeff Hayes. “The truth is, Wilson, I've been in a similar situation myself, and I understand pretty well how you feel.”

“What's your story?”

“I don't have a story, Wilson. And neither do you.”

He didn't look at me, just kept staring out the window. “That sure is a pretty truck.”

“Eat your breakfast. You've only got twelve hours to make your flight.”

He grinned at me. “Hey, Lena, if you're ever in California—”

“I promise not to look you up.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
FOUR

Wilson felt almost otherworldly as he entered the elevator at the end of the parking garage. The smell of oil and exhaust stayed with him until he stepped into the lobby of the building on Sepulveda, and took yet another elevator to the ATF floor. He was feeling displaced by his time on the East Coast, and the things that happened while he was there. He walked through the heavy outer door that shielded the inner workings of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Southern California-style, passed the cameras, raised a hand to the receptionist. He threaded his way through the hallway and the cubicles, feeling nostalgic. Details caught his attention. How thin the carpet was beneath his feet. A scuff mark that had been on the wall ever since he could remember. Stupid stuff, all of it vivid.

Vaughn Chesterfield stood in the doorway of his office, waiting for him like always, and Wilson wondered if the man ever really intended Wilson to think he was late. Maybe Chesterfield just liked to stand there when he knew someone was on their way. For all Wilson knew, it could be some kind of Connecticut welcoming ritual. He was beginning to get an appreciation for the cultural differences from one part of the country to the next.

Today Chesterfield had a friendly smile and the kind of welcome where your superior officer shakes your hand with his right, while squeezing your forearm with his left. It is the kind of greeting given to a soldier who has done a difficult job, and done it well. Wilson looked Chesterfield in the eye, but the spark of resentment in his heart died before it was fully formed. Chesterfield was not grinning, he was not slapping Wilson on the back. He was not even smiling that big. Whatever anybody said about the ATF, Wilson was aware that the organization had managed to put some intelligence into the mix of management. Today, which was the last time he would see Vaughn Chesterfield, Wilson almost liked the guy.

The sentiment appeared to be mutual.

Vaughn waved Wilson to a seat, moved around the desk, and settled into his own chair. As always, Vaughn wore a tie and a pressed white shirt. For some reason. Wilson decided he liked that.

Vaughn studied Wilson for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair. That Vaughn would allow himself to relax with Wilson in the room meant a barrier had gone down.

“Tough job out there, Wilson. You did it well.”

Vaughn glanced at Wilson's bad leg like a man who cannot resist the compulsion, but he made no comment. Wilson was grateful. He knew that people were showing friendly concern when they boomed out
Hey, Wilson, how's the leg?
, but since it was clear exactly how the leg was,
bad
, Wilson would just as soon not include his daily dose of pain in the general social chitchat.

“You want some time off?” Vaughn asked.

Wilson had nothing to say to this question, though the offer didn't surprise him. The Nashville office, during their bout of debriefing slash counseling, let him know that in this kind of situation, a short leave of absence was recommended and offered with no strings. It was one of the few times the ATF would give you time off with a pat on the back.

“To tell you the truth, Wilson, I thought Rugger was going to put you on the fringe of this thing. Sort of ease you back into the field, see how things worked out. None of us saw how this thing would blow up on you like it did.”

Hearing Alex's name jarred Wilson. Chesterfield noticed.

“Son, I'm going to give you some advice. You sit in that chair and you wince when I say Alex Rugger's name. I don't blame you for feeling that way. I saw the photos. You saw the reality. Blood in a picture is a shadow on paper. Blood on your hands from a man you like, a man you respect and consider your friend … that's another thing.”

Wilson took a deep breath, but it did not relieve the ever-present heaviness in his chest, the weight that settled like darkness when he pointed his nine millimeter at Rodeo and shot her three times in the chest. Why couldn't Chesterfield have broken the ice with him before all this happened? He'd been a good enough agent then. He'd given a hundred and ten percent, tried to follow the rules, tried to please.

Too late
, he wanted to say.

Wilson had no illusions about how the ATF felt about rogue agents. He used to feel the same way himself. He probably had more in common with Rodeo now, than he did with the man across the desk.

“Don't second-guess yourself about this, Wilson. You made a decision out in the field, and in the moment. It's been looked at every which way by the investigative team, and you're in the clear. Don't judge yourself harshly.” Chesterfield rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“It's too easy to think back on these things, to come up with different outcomes, with other things you wish you'd done. And if you do, and you will, I want you to put yourself in the shoes of Janis Winters's next victim. I want you to think about how that wire would feel around your neck. I want you to think about this guy's funeral. I want you to picture a closed coffin, because nobody wants this guy's wife and kids to see how his head no longer fits on his neck. And I want you to think that you did what you had to do. And someday I want you to let it go.”

Wilson did not know what to say to all this, so he punted and said nothing at all.

“You're entitled to some time off here, Wilson. I think you should take it.”

Wilson pulled an envelope out of his pocket. Sel had beautiful stationery. Heavy linen paper, matching envelopes. Wilson had typed the letter on his personal computer, and used the white paper and cheap envelope he bought at Walgreens on his way home from LAX.

Chesterfield reached across the desk to take the envelope, and he frowned while he read the letter inside. He read it slowly, and he read it twice, then sighed and sat forward in his chair.

“Why?”

Wilson looked rueful and brave. “The leg, sir. I know you and Alex Rugger had some reservations about the limitations I might have. I know I've waited seven years to get back in the frame. But the truth is, and it's time I faced it, I'm no good out in the field.”

“There are other possibilities here, Wilson. Other kinds of assignments. All of them crucial to the job.”

“Not for me, sir.”

“I can't change your mind?”

“You can't, but I appreciate that you tried.”

Chesterfield stood up and shook Wilson's hand, and made the kind of noises that management makes.

“What are you going to do with yourself, Wilson?”

And Wilson gave him a genuine smile. “I think I'm going to open a restaurant.”