Infamous (12 page)

I’d been dead for decades, but even I recognized how ridiculous it would be for a couple in those clothes, with that car, not to have a cell phone and thus have to use the public one. In fact, they looked the type—early thirties and plugged in—to have cutting-edge technology. Maybe a satellite receiver wired right into their fillings.

My point being that they weren’t getting the job done when it came to inconspicuous. Not even close.

I was not the only one who slowed down to give them a
second look. I recognized Henry Logan’s redheaded assistant, Hugh, in his Jeep, giving them a once-over. And Lucy from continuity. And that AD fellow—the one whose sole job seemed to be to shout every now and then. “Settle!” And “Action!” And “Cut!”

I even saw Alison, catching a ride with the intern named Paula, her head thrown back in laughter. I raised my hand to wave before I remembered that she couldn’t see me. Which was just as well.

After that I lost track—there were so many people coming and going, up and back, from that old mine that still bore my name. Gallagher’s Claim.

As if I’d ever pulled enough silver out of that damn thing to make Mel more than the slenderest of rings.

But I’d tacked that sign up there to remind folks that I’d killed a man who’d tried to kill me after I’d won that worthless piece of crap land, fair and square. It was an announcement to all: I was a gambler by profession. I’d made that clear and anyone who played cards with me knew that going in, drunk or sober. I played to win, and would keep what I’d won, and I’d kill anyone who came after me.

I’d killed plenty of times, back in those days, but I’d never killed a man merely to send a message. Sometimes, though, I’d killed to keep myself from getting killed,
and
to send a message.

But nothing like what happened to headless Wayne, whose death, according to his tall killer with the ponytail, had made some nameless and unknown-to-me person crap his pants.

I was tempted to dumpster-dive throughout Jubilation, see if I found any crap-filled, urine-doused trousers, and see if I couldn’t figure out to whom they’d belonged.

I’d considered the possibility that Wayne had been killed back in L.A. or maybe Tucson. But there were closer stretches of desert near both of those cities. And having spent time in the unpleasant company of the recently deceased, it’s hard to believe that anyone would’ve gone farther than he’d absolutely had to with Wayne’s brains on the back windshield of that car.

I’d also spent a lot of time last night pondering whether or not this Loco person that the tall killer with the ponytail had been talking to was right here, beneath our noses, on this movie set. And who was the woman they were maybe going to target next?

It was making me fret, thinking someone’s life was in danger. Still, I was careful not to spend too much time bouncing my ideas off of A.J. since his “caped crusader” crack had made me aware that even though bullets could and would go right through me, A.J. had no such superpowers.

Part of the reason I’d come back was to change the kid’s life, not get his ass killed.

I was glad now that I’d been adamant about him using the bottom edge of his shirt to wipe both the push buttons and the receiver of that pay phone after he’d made that call. He’d rolled his eyes, but he’d left no prints behind.

Thank God.

Because my making him make that call had created waves and conjured up the obtrusive twins.

Which was a rather interesting turn of events—the fact that the investigation into poor headless Wayne’s murder wasn’t being run by the local or even the state guys. No, someone, for some reason, had called in the feds on this one.

I drifted close, hoping to overhear some private detail as they muttered to themselves.

Turns out they were arguing because the female agent had, apparently, gotten a little too friendly with the male agent’s brother.

“Don’t worry, Rob,” the woman said tartly. “I didn’t go into this thinking John was any less relationship-challenged than you are. I was just looking for a little help relaxing, a little fun.”

“With my brother?” Rob said incredulously. “He’s an idiot.”

Idiocy must’ve run in the family, because she was standing there, her body language screaming that she was crazy about him, not his stupid brother, but he didn’t see it.

“You can do far better than him, Lombardi,” Rob continued.
“Trust me on that one. Next time you want some fun, I’ll hook you up with my friend, Donny.”

It was then that I felt it. A.J. reaching out to me with his mind.
Jamie, where are you?

That was new.

Of course it was hard to say if it was something that he’d just figured out how to do, or if he’d never particularly wanted me around before this.

Either way, I realized I should at least pop in, see what he needed, and let him know that my time was probably best spent eavesdropping on Rob and Ms. Lombardi, because sooner or later they were going to start talking about headless Wayne and the murder investigation.

So I sent myself to A.J.—and found myself instead on the sidewalk in front of one of Tucson’s police stations where, lo and behold, Wayne’s tall and ponytailed killer was coming out of the door, dialing his cell phone.

He was dressed in far nicer clothes than the blood-covered outfit he’d been wearing yesterday. A dark suit, dark shirt, dark tie. He dressed the way I imagined the devil would—assuming Satan wasn’t just a myth concocted to scare naughty children into good behavior.

He didn’t look happy, and I found out why when I moved closer, as he put his phone to his ear.

“I’ve just been released,” he told whoever was on the other end, his voice grim as he headed down the street. I had to double-time it to keep up. “They picked me up. I don’t know how the hell they knew, but they found Wayne’s body—and they knew it was him. I swore up and down that I hadn’t seen Wayne in months—not since he went to Pelican Bay. But if your witness puts me with him yesterday, I’m fucked. And if I’m fucked, you’re fucked, do you understand me?”

He was silent then, listening, and I crept cautiously closer, not wanting to touch the man and get that same bizarre hot/cold shock that I’d gotten yesterday. But as I shuffled along next to him, all I could hear was the electronic buzz of that other voice, going into whatever phone he was talking on, bouncing up to some satellite tens of thousands of miles above
the earth, and then back down to Tall-with-Ponytail’s phone and into the man’s ear.

“No, I don’t think she has,” he said, his voice doing the same in reverse and into Loco’s ear—and it had to be Loco he was talking to, “or I wouldn’t’ve been cut free.”

Jamie, where are you …?

I could feel A.J. out there, pulling me, but I didn’t want to go. I was about to get some answers.

The killer listened some more, looking mighty peeved at whatever Loco was telling him. “No,” he said. “Hell, no, asshole. You don’t think that’s going to raise eyebrows? That’s not an accident—Jesus, you’re incompetent. Just fucking sit tight. Don’t help again, you hear me?” Pause. “No, I’m not. It’s not going to be me. I’m not going anywhere near Jubilation if I can help it.”

“Hah!” I shouted aloud, and then quickly shut up, because he was still talking.

“I’m going to send someone.…” He made a disgusted sound. “I don’t know who it’s going to be, but even if I did, you don’t need to know anything more than the fact that he’ll do what he needs to do, you understand? You just keep your boy in line.” He shut his phone. “Fucking assholes, both of them.”

He dialed his phone again and waited. “Gene,” he said. “It’s me. I got a job for you. Meet me in two hours. Don’t be late.”

And with that he hung up.

JAMIE, WHERE ARE YOU … !?

Crap-hell. A.J. needed me, but I was afraid that once I jumped away from this man, I wouldn’t be able to find my way back.

And now I was thinking to hell with Rob and his FBI partner. I now wanted, desperately, to sit in on that meeting with Gene, whoever he was. Because I suspected that if I could be a fly on the wall—and I surely could be the equivalent of that—I would find out the name of this woman, this witness to Wayne’s murder, whose life was still in danger.

Although, chances are she already knew that. And if she’d seen Wayne’s murder, but hadn’t yet called the police, wasn’t she then responsible for her own impending demise?

GRAMPS!

I closed my eyes and went—not completely positive I’d find A.J. since that was two times now that I’d tried to join him and had ended up with Tall Ponytail Man instead.

But three was apparently a charm, because I popped in directly in front of my great-grandson. He had to stop short to keep from walking right through me as he paced back and forth in front of the row of little houses on River Street—which had been named optimistically, back in the early 1890s, after a heavy rain when an arroyo flooded. As far as I knew, that “river” hadn’t run since.

“Where,” A.J. said, “the fuck have you been?”

He normally doesn’t use that kind of language—or at least he’s tended not to in the recent past. But the kid spent a serious chunk of his formative years in the army, and he could let go a blue streak with the best of ’em.

“I was doing that caped crusader thing,” I admitted. “My killer’s been let out of jail. Apparently they don’t have enough evidence to hold him.” I could see that the kid was both frustrated and upset, and really wasn’t listening to what I was saying. “What’s going on?”

“Alison’s missing,” he told me. “She was supposed to meet me at her office at one o’clock.”

I could see from the watch he wore around his wrist that it was barely 2:15.

“Son, she’s not missing,” I tried to say as gently as I could, “she’s just standing you up. It happens—”

“No.” A.J. was adamant. “Hugh can’t find her either. He was sure she left the mine hours ago, but no one’s seen her since. She didn’t have a hat, and with the sun as hot as it is—”

“Whoa,” I said, holding up a hand.

But his brain and mouth were on a fear-induced stampede and he didn’t stop. “—if she somehow left the trail or fell or fainted from the heat—”

“I’ve
seen her since,” I said, interrupting him and then repeating myself because he still wasn’t listening. “I saw her, A.J. She was driving back from the mine with that little intern. Paula. Maybe you should check with her.” I looked
around. Why were we here? “Or you might want to hang out over at her trailer, just in case she was late. She does have an important job. Maybe something came up.”

“This is where she lives,” he told me, pointing to the little house that, back in the early 1890s, a young miner named Frank Fortiblanc had adorned with gingerbread trim. He’d slaved over that thing, cutting the wood by hand, painting it in bright, pretty colors that made him a bit of a local joke—until he stole the heart of beautiful Esther McCormick, who’d come to town in a gospel wagon with her parents, to preach against drinking and whoring and killing and sinning. She’d married him without her father’s permission and brought music and laughter to Frank’s life, until she died two years later in childbirth.

I met Frank and his son a few times, back in ’98. Unlike some men, who might’ve let their grief destroy them, he’d stepped up to the challenge, and raised that child that Essie had died delivering into this world. And he did it as carefully and patiently and lovingly as he’d transformed his house into a thing of beauty.

I’d thought of him often and prayed for his strength, that awful winter of 1944.

But I digress.

“Hugh went to find the landlord,” A.J. was telling me. “To get the spare key. Sheriff’s office won’t start a search until we’ve checked to make sure she’s not in there, asleep.”

“Well, there you go,” I said. “She was up awfully early. Maybe she figured she’d put her head down for a few minutes before your meeting. If she was on set, she probably turned her phone off and forgot to turn it back on. Have you tried hammering on the door?”

“Hugh said he knocked,” A.J. reported.

“Hugh probably weighs in at one-thirty, soaking wet,” I pointed. “But never mind. I’m here now, and I don’t need a key.”

And with that, I stepped through the wall and into Frank Fortiblanc’s old house. The front parlor had been transformed into a kitchen and, unlike most of the buildings in
Jubilation, it had been given an additional update, post-1950. Someone had actually installed built-in cabinets and Formica counters. The Frigidaire and stove were both a faded yet awful shade of green.

Alison had brought one of those microwave things with her and, because she was tall, had stuck it up on top of the refrigerator. It beeped at me, and I saw that some kind of burrito was still inside—as if she’d made herself lunch but forgotten to eat it.

And I just knew I was going to find her sprawled out on her sofa. But her living room—a cheap-wood-paneled cave of a room with a bookcase that, among all the knickknacks, had only one book on it, the Bible—was empty. Okay then, that meant she was going to be fast asleep in her bed, but when I peeked into the bedroom, she wasn’t in there, either. The second bedroom—a little lean-to that Frank had added on when his boy got old enough to want some privacy—held only a chair and a desk, upon which Alison’s portable computer was out and open. The thing was quiet—no flashing icons or dizzying fields of stars zooming across the screen.

But a glass of what looked like iced tea—sans the ice—was on a soaking wet coaster near that computer.

I was still a novice at the caped crusader super-sleuth thing, but it didn’t take a degree from the Sherlock Holmes Detective School to see exactly what had happened here. Alison had come home, put her lunch in the zapper, poured herself a beverage, turned on her computer and …

Vanished off the face of the planet.

I was starting to get paranoid myself and wonder if maybe Alison was the woman that Loco and my killer were looking to disappear on a permanent basis, when I realized there was still one room that I hadn’t checked.

The bathroom.

The door was shut, and I didn’t do more than poke my head through it when I saw her. Naked, through the glass of the shower stall, curled up on the tile floor.