Parts Unknown (30 page)

“Bunch, goddamn it!”

He cut viciously at my outstretched hand, and I grabbed his wrist, spun to lever his elbow down across my shoulder, and yanked quick and hard. I wasn’t trying to flip him this time but to break the joint, and in the knotted and twisting flesh next to my ear I heard something give with a kind of pop. The hand splayed out in pain, and I stripped off the knife and turned in time to catch a solid punch on the forehead that made me feel ice-cold all over and drove me stumbling backward into a tangle of weeds.

A shadow blotted what was left of the sun and another heavy thud knocked the wind from my lungs. I didn’t really feel it with my body, but my mind told me that it was a hard one and that it should hurt. I rolled into a ball, hands clasped at the back of my neck, and tried to focus my strength into my legs, to get my legs under me and lever myself up and away from the stomping boots I knew would be coming.

“Dev—roll the other way!”

“What?”

“The other way—roll the other way!” The radio squawked. “You’re giving me a bad camera angle!”

“Damn your eyes, Bunch—”

A boot whistled past my ear to glance off my shoulder, and I grabbed the toe and heel and twisted sharply, the vague looming shape spinning out of vision. Another body flung itself on me and pummeled at my back.

“That’s it, Dev—hold it right there—it’s a good shot!”

“Bunch, you son—”

A fist caught my mouth and I felt the numbed flesh split against my teeth. I drove an elbow savagely back to crack against a skull, then looped an arm over enough body to fling Taylor across me with a hip throw and slash at his neck with the blade of my hand as he went past. Somewhere underneath the breathy grunts of the men and the insane barking and snarling of Sid, I heard a roar of motorcycle engines and glimpsed a cluster of bikes rounding the road below.

I saw a face hovering at my shoulder and gave it an elbow and spun to kick at another figure while the third man dived for my leg and began to sink his teeth into my calf.

“Goddamn!”

A kick freed me of that, but Taylor was up again and, head down and fists high, drove toward me in a bloody spew of curses. Crouching, I caught his fists on my forearms and jabbed the point of my knee into his groin. The man made a long squeak as he lifted his head back and fell slowly to one side, hands clutching the spot my knee had caressed. Benny, one arm dangling and the fighting knife clutched in his other hand, was coming at me again, grass roots and mud tangled with his fingers in the grip.

A loud rifle crack fired just over our heads and we stopped, frozen by the sound.

A second round exploded, and I saw the motorcycles slide to a dusty halt and scramble backward frantically, pulling over each other to find shelter behind the shoulder of cliff. A third round whacked into the torn mud and threw gobs of dirt across the beard and eyes of Taylor.

“That’s it—party’s over, people. Take your goddamn dog and haul ass while you still got one,” Bunch yelled.

From the tree line the rifle spoke again, and the three men stumbled down the hill toward the truck, the dog cage banging and barking between them. The pickup truck wheeled around, then dug through the grass and flowers, peeling the earth to bare mud as it fled. I looked at the crushed and torn ground and slowly gathered up the radio and binoculars. So much for peaceful meadows and mountain scenery.

“Not bad, Dev. Not bad at all. I think we got some good shots of Taylor proving he’s not disabled.”

“Why in hell didn’t you help me out?”

“Hey, I’m the cameraman. Besides, you didn’t need it.”

I rubbed a finger across my split lip, which was puffy and sore and had that metallic taste of torn skin. “The hell I didn’t.”

“I kind of wish you’d turned toward the camera more, though. The way Taylor was dancing around, I could have got better shots.”

I made it to the Bronco in exhausted silence. On the way down the mountain, Bunch said, “Jesus, I hope we don’t have to do it all over again.”

“What’s that?”

“The exposure meter. I had it set for the wrong kind of film.”

T
HE REST OF
the morning and well into the afternoon was spent with ice packs and Band-Aids and a long, slow soak in the club’s Jacuzzi. I limped back to the office by midafternoon to find Bunch sitting at the desk, which was littered with fresh photographs, and talking on the telephone to Kiefer.

“I don’t care if he didn’t leave a note, Dan. He killed himself because of Nestor and the two women. He confessed it to Dev.”

Bunch put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Kiefer says he still doesn’t have enough tangible evidence to move against Gilbert.”

“Yeah,” he said into the telephone again. “I do understand, Dan. But what happens if that bastard gets away with it? How many others is he going to cut up and sell?”

I glanced through the photographs; they showed Taylor grappling my head under his arm and flailing away with a fist, Taylor hauling back to kick me as I curled on the ground, Taylor using both hands as a club across my shoulders.

“No,” said Bunch, “I’m not blaming you. But Gilbert’s not going to close up shop just because Matheney’s dead. There’s too much money in it.” Kiefer said something and Bunch answered, “All right. We’ll see what we can find out. Tell fucking assistant DA Maddox we’ll give him a case so tight even he can’t screw it up. Right—good-bye.”

He hung up and heaved a long sigh. “They’re still not going to move against Gilbert. Nothing in Matheney’s suicide supports a warrant for Antibodies.”

“I didn’t think it would,” I said. “Tell me, Bunch, why couldn’t you take at least one shot with me on top?”

“Tell you the truth, Dev, you’re not very photogenic.” He held up one that showed me struggling to get back on my feet, a close-up from the rear. “That’s your best side.”

I chose half a dozen of Taylor’s most active poses. “Have you faxed these on to Schute yet?”

“No, just got them back from the lab.”

I dialed New York, hoping it wasn’t too late to catch the man in his office. He was there, his secretary said, waiting to hear from me. I noted the relief in her voice.

“Kirk? What’s the story?”

“We have the evidence. Hang on and I’ll fax you the stills so you can get started. I’ll send the videotape by Fed Ex as soon as it’s developed.”

“Fine—good work! Do the pictures show him pursuing a normal life?”

“Well, yeah—for a motorcycle gang.” I added, “They’ll convince a jury he’s able to move around.”

“Fine, fine! I’ll get your check to you in the morning.”

On that pleasant note we wished each other long life, the best of everything, and so on. When I hung up, Bunch was standing by the door. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“We. We’re going to talk to Gilbert’s two minions.” Bunch liked that word, minion. And there wasn’t much chance to use it.

It was almost quitting time when we made it across town through the afternoon traffic. Bunch drove and I held on, trying not to let the stiffly sprung vehicle stir up the twinges and the bruises that were now turning puffy and discolored. We parked down the block from Antibodies’ gate and waited until the Blazer and the Toyota pickup pulled out. One turned north, the other south.

“Which one?” asked Bunch.

“The little guy. I’ve had enough of big ones for today.”

Bunch swung into traffic behind the Toyota. “Hell, Dev, none of those guys were that big.”

“All together they were.”

We tailed the truck south on Santa Fe into Littleton and an ugly building on South Broadway. It had been converted from a storage shed into a country and western bar complete with sawdust on the floor and wormy barn siding on the walls. Rodeo posters were splotched here and there between wagon wheels, branding irons, and horse tack.

“Is this Vercher or Dunlap?”

“Earl Vercher. Toby Dunlap drives the Blazer.”

The short, pudgy man went to the bar instead of to a table and waved a familiar hand at the blonde serving drinks. She bobbed her head, stiff curls twanging. Bunch and I sat on each side of him. The jukebox moaned something about someone whose heart was hung over because it had chugalugged on love.

“Hello, Earl,” said Bunch. “How’s the shoulder?” I watched in the bar mirror as he turned a startled face toward the big man.

“I know you?”

“You do now. More important, I know you.”

The bartender brought Earl his Pabst and asked us what our pleasure was. “Same.”

“What you want with me?”

“We want to beat the shit out of you, Earl. Whether we do or not is up to you.”

“Hey—what—”

He tried to get up but I gripped the back of his neck and pushed him down onto the stool. Turning, he saw me, and his eyes widened. “Jesus—what happened to your face?”

“That’s his war paint, Earl. Always puts it on before he kills somebody.”

“Now listen, you people … .”

“Let’s step out back a couple minutes, Earl.”

“Hey, now, no—”

We each took an arm and lifted him a couple inches off the floor, striding quickly for the hallway that led past the Pointer and Setter doors to a fire door. It opened to the alley.

“You people, you hurt my shoulder! I’m going to call the—”

He didn’t get anything else out. Bunch’s fist caught Earl just below the sternum, and he doubled and fell knees first and then face flat onto the gritty tar beside the overfull trash can. A ragged figure poking through the garbage looked at him for an instant and then at us, and turned and hunched quickly away.

“Get up, Vercher. Get up or stay down for good. It’s your choice.”

“Goddamn, my shoulder!”

“Better make that choice, Earl. Or we’ll make it for you.”

“What you people want? For God’s sake, I ain’t done nothing—what you people want?”

“We want you to tell us about Gilbert and Antibodies.”

“Oh, man. Oh, no—no, I can’t—”

I lifted him by the collar and belt; Bunch hit him again—nothing hard, just scientifically placed. After a while the man stopped retching and looked up from the ground. “I ain’t got but one good arm. You people think you’re real tough beating up on a man got only one good arm.”

I explained things to him. “You’re not going to have any good arms in about two seconds.”

“Honest to God, I don’t know what goes on there, I just work there, that’s all!”

“You broke into my office.”

He hesitated, peering at me. I hauled him up so he could get a good look. “Yes—yes—we broke in! Gilbert told us to! He wanted us to look for anything you had on the company. Anything in your files.”

“You didn’t find anything.”

“No. But you came by asking questions. Gilbert wanted to know what you were up to.”

“You snatched Nestor Calamaro too, didn’t you?”

“Who?”

“The guy who worked at the Apple Valley Turkeys plant—you and Dunlap, you grabbed him when he was walking home from work.”

“No—nothing like that. We give him a ride, is all. Doc Matheney wanted to talk to him and he asked us to go out and give him a ride over. That’s all.” He looked from Bunch to me. “You guys ain’t the cops. You can’t get the law on me.”

“We don’t need to get the law,” Bunch said with a smile. “We’ve got you.”

I leaned over the sweating man, whose skin was now slightly green. “You’re going to wish we were cops. We do things cops can’t.”

“Steady, Dev. Don’t get excited, now.” Bunch explained to Vercher: “My friend’s streak of mean comes out when he really gets mad. You don’t want to see that.”

“I told you already I only work at that place. I don’t know what Gilbert and that other doctor’s up to. I swear to God!”

“He protesteth too much, don’t he, Dev?”

I nodded. “You know enough to be worried about it.”

Vercher’s mouth tightened above the bone of his long jaw and the sweat popped out again in the lines of his brow. “I’m gonna be sick.”

He was. We waited. Finally, Bunch hauled the soggy face up from the tar. “Gawd, you stink.”

“Well, I just been sick!”

“You’re going to be a hell of a lot sicker real soon,” I said. “In fact, you might get sick enough to die.”

“Oh Jesus—don’t, fellas.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can control this rabid animal, Earl.”

“What is it you people want?”

“A written statement for the cops.”

He looked from Bunch to me. “About what?”

“Just tell the truth about what you do for Gilbert. About picking up Nestor Calamaro in the van. About taking him to the plant. And about what happened to him and the two women.”

“I ain’t … I didn’t see them do nothing. We clean up, is all. We help get things ready and then we clean up when the … the operation’s done.”

“You don’t help out with the operations?”

“No! Dr. Gilbert and Dr. Matheney, they do the technical stuff. Toby and me, we take care of the shipping and supplies and stock and the janitorial stuff—you know.”

“That includes the burner? Putting parts in the burner?”

“Well, yeah … .”

“Write it down.”

He didn’t want to, but we convinced him. He wrote it out right there, using a garbage can lid as a desk and our presence as inspiration. It wouldn’t be worth a thing in court, but it would provide Kiefer with ammunition to get the assistant DA involved.

“I wasn’t around when … I mean, they—Gilbert and Matheney and Miss Whortley—they wouldn’t let us in the operating room, you know?”

“Just put down everything you know about it. And cheer up,” said Bunch. “The first liar always has an edge.”

“I ain’t lying!”

“You ain’t writing, either,” I said. “And you’d better.”

When he had it down, he signed and dated it, and we drove him to a small tavern near police headquarters and called Kiefer to meet us. The detective slid into the booth and stared at my face. “That something I better know about?”

“Something you’d better not know about.”

He grunted and turned his attention to Vercher, and sniffed the sour air around the man. “You’re doing this of your own free will?”

“Tell him yes, Earl.”

“Yes.”

“Earl knows the game is over,” I said. “He wants to get a break by making a statement.”