Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (23 page)

He held the torch pressed between his fingers and the kid’s body, the beam aimed downward to light the way through the building. But still he had to look straight down at his feet to see where he was going, avoid stumbling over something, and it was slow going. The dust clogged his sinuses; he was coughing, wheezing, by the time he reached the doorway at the far end, finally emerged into the bright dazzle of sunlight.

He was able to move a little more quickly then. Around the shed, across to the rear gates—pouring sweat, the muscles in his shoulders, arms, thighs, aching from the strain. At the Ford he lowered Belsize’s feet, holding on to him with his right arm while he opened the rear door. Eased the kid inside, stretched him out on his back across the seat. His respiration was so slow Runyon had to check to make sure he was still breathing. He got the blanket he
kept in the trunk, draped it over the inert form, arranged it so incoming sunlight wouldn’t lie hot on Belsize’s wounds. Before he slid in behind the wheel, he reset the padlock on the gates as he’d found it.

No question of calling 911 for an ambulance, waiting here until it arrived. Belsize could be dead by then. Make the hospital delivery himself, as fast as he could get to Red Bluff. And notify Rinniak on the way.

JAKE RUNYON

“Man, I hate this,” Rinniak said. “I hate stakeouts.”

Runyon stirred on the dark front seat of the county cruiser. Every time he shut himself down to make the waiting easier, Rinniak yanked him back. The man couldn’t seem to sit still or keep still for more than a few minutes at a time.

“I never met anybody who didn’t.”

“Some are worse than others. Like this one.”

“No argument there,” Runyon said.

“I’m still having a hard time believing it. The scenario you laid out, I mean.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Neither would I.”

“I still hope you’re wrong. Despite Jerry Belsize and the condition he’s in.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“About tonight you could be.”

Runyon said, “They keep getting bolder, taking more chances. Two days from the Silvera murder to the fire at the migrant camp. Two days from then until now. If not tonight, then tomorrow night.”

“We can’t risk another stakeout after this one. Word is bound to leak out about Belsize being alive, and if they get wind of it who knows what they’ll do. We’ll have to make the arrest tomorrow sometime and hope that Belsize doesn’t die before he talks. What time is it now?”

“Almost eleven. If they’re coming, it’ll be pretty soon.”

They’d been there since eight o’clock, pulled well back among the olive trees at the rear of the RipeOlive compound. A pair of Red Bluff deputies were in a second cruiser parked behind this one. The four of them had pulled brush up over the front ends to minimize the chance of headlight reflection off glass and metal, but if the firebugs did come, Runyon figured it would be with their lights off. A half-moon on the rise cast enough shine to drive by.

Both windows were down to let in a faint breeze that had kicked up an hour before. But the night was still hot, sultry, even at this hour. Crickets in the trees and dry grass made a singsong racket that rose and fell all around them. Through the windshield and down an avenue between shadowed tree trunks Runyon could see the rear gate and part of the chain-link fence on both sides. At an oblique angle, a section of the county blacktop to the north was also visible.

Rinniak said, “Games, for Christ’s sake. As if arson and murder and false imprisonment weren’t enough.”

“It’s all wrapped up together.”

“Yeah. I should have tumbled to it myself, some of it anyway, but it got by me. I just didn’t see any of it.”

“Too close to the situation.”

“That’s no excuse.” Rinniak shifted position, blew out his breath in a hissing sigh. “Sick thrills. People nowadays . . . so damn jaded.”

“That’s part of it. See how far they can push the envelope.”

“Devil’s work. You suppose that’s why they killed Silvera?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s not the reason they intended to kill Jerry Belsize.”

“Retribution. Revenge.”

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“What the hell could he have done to them?”

“I made you a guess earlier.”

“That’s not enough to torture him like that, kill him.”

“It might be to them.”

“So goddamn normal on the outside, and on the inside, lunatics out of control . . . Christ, I just can’t seem to get my head around it. Nothing like this ever happened in this county before.”

“And probably won’t again.”

“Take a long time for people to get over it,” Rinniak said grimly. “And some of them never will.”

They lapsed into silence again. That suited Runyon. He’d been over it and over it with Rinniak and the sheriff, Macon, after he left the hospital and then again on the drive down here and during the long wait since. Rinniak couldn’t seem to let go of the concept. Just kept picking at it verbally, often enough to indicate that he was doing the same inside his head. Runyon didn’t blame him. He’d done enough thinking about it himself. Too much. He tried to turn himself off again, didn’t have as much success this time.

Eleven fifteen by the luminous dial of his watch.

The night breeze sharpened, then just as suddenly died. The cricket sound seemed to grow steadily louder, as if it were building toward some kind of crescendo.

Eleven thirty.

Eleven forty.

Rinniak said, “Headlights coming,” as he had each of the other few times a set had appeared from the direction of Gray’s Landing.

“I see them.”

The beams threw a sheen of brightness on the dark sky, made silhouette shapes of the RipeOlive buildings as they drew closer. The previous headlights had been hidden as the vehicles passed by, then reappeared briefly on the far side before they vanished. Not these. The car slowed as it came past the water tower, made a quick, sharp turn onto the plant road. As soon as it bounced up over the railroad right-of-way, the headlamps went dark.

“By God, Runyon, you were right. It’s them.”

“Looks like it.”

They watched the car swing over onto the dirt road, raise dust as it followed the fence line around. Pale moonlight put a sleek gleam on its metal surfaces. It rolled along slow to the rear gates, stopped close to it on the near side; the engine noise died. Nothing happened for a time, long enough to cause Rinniak to say, “What the hell are they waiting for?” Then both doors opened at once and the two of them got out. Both wore dark clothing, dark caps of some kind. One opened the trunk, handed out a pair of rectangular objects that had to be gallon tins of kerosene. The other things that came out were small, unidentifiable blobs. Timing device and flashlights, probably.

The shorter one carrying both tins, they went to the gate and inside at an angle to the far corner of the shed. Blended into the deep shadows cast by the building.

Rinniak was already out of the cruiser by then. Runyon and the two deputies joined him. Nobody said anything; they’d already worked out the logistics. Single file, each with a six-cell torch, the four of them picked their way out of the grove, across the road, and through the open gate. The deputies took up positions along the near side of the shed. Runyon followed Rinniak to the far end, into the heavy darkness along the sidewall. You couldn’t see the unlocked warehouse door from the front corner, but it wouldn’t matter unless the firebugs went the other way when they came out, and it didn’t figure they would.

It wasn’t a long wait. Voices drifted out of the shadows first, one louder than the other, angry. Shapes, then, the
leader moving fast across the moonlit yard, the other one lugging the kerosene tins. Still talking to each other, the words distinguishable now.

“. . . how he could’ve gotten free.”

“Pulled the handcuffs loose somehow, damn him.”

“Oh God, he’ll tell on us. What if he already has?”

“Don’t get excited. He couldn’t’ve been gone long. Or got far after five days in there.”

“You think he might still be around here somewhere?”

“Dead, I hope. We’ll look before we set the timer.”

“We’re not going ahead with the fire . . . ?”

“Like hell we’re not.”

Rinniak murmured, “Like hell you are,” and touched Runyon’s arm, and they stepped out together and put the lights on.

“County sheriff’s officers. Stand where you are.”

The stabbing glare brought them up short; the command rooted them in place. Sandra Parnell dropped both kerosene tins, one arm lifting to shield her eyes; she stood in a terrified freeze, like a jacklit deer. Ashley Kelso’s bugeyed stare held a mix of fury and disbelief.

The two deputies came pounding up, their lights joining the others. “Kelso’s daughter, all right,” one of them said. Another one having trouble coming to terms with it.

Rinniak started forward, saying, “You’re under arrest—”

The rest of it got lost in a sudden shrieked “No!” from the Kelso girl. She threw her flashlight at Rinniak, missing him, and bolted—a stumbling headlong charge toward the back fence.

Runyon was closest to her flight path. He cut her off, chased her down, managed to catch hold of her arm. She rounded on him, cursing, spitting like a cat, and clawed stinging furrows into the back of his hand, tried to get at his face with those flashing nails, tried to kick him in the groin. He threw the six-cell down and fastened grips on both arms, jerked her around, and bent her back hard against an upthrust knee. She kept on fighting him, screaming obscenities. One of the deputies was there by then and she fought him, too, tried to bite him. It took both men to wrestle her to the ground, Runyon to hold her down while the deputy shackled her hands behind her back.

The fight went out of her. But not the viciousness. She rolled over, sat up glaring at Runyon. “You!” she said. “You son of a bitch,
you
did this!”

He ignored her. Blood ran from the scratches on his hand, trickling between the fingers. He wrapped his handkerchief around it.

“I should’ve killed you in the barn!” Ashley screamed. “I should’ve hung you up with Manny like I wanted to!”

The deputy said, “You better be quiet, kid—”

“Fuck you!”

He took her arm, roughly, and lifted her to her feet.

“Leave me alone!” She looked at Runyon again. “Jerry’s dead, isn’t he? Tell me he’s dead.”

“He’s not.”

“You’re lying.”

“He’s in the hospital in Red Bluff. Expected to live.”

“Shit!” She squinted past him, to where the other deputy was putting handcuffs on Sandra Parnell while Rinniak recited her rights. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”

Ashley wasn’t asking about Jerry Belsize now. Runyon knew who she meant, but the deputy said, “You heard him. In the hospital.”

“Not him, my father. Don Kelso, the big tough cop. Didn’t anybody tell him? I wish he could see me right now. Pay
him
back, the son of a bitch. No more telling me what to do, what not to do, how to live my life. No more orders, no more bullshit, no more Daddy’s good little girl!”

“Jesus,” the deputy said.

Sandra Parnell began to cry.

R
inniak finished helping the deputies load the two women into the caged backseat of their cruiser, came over to where Runyon stood waiting. “Okay,” he said wearily. “How’s your hand?”

“It’ll be all right.”

“You should have it looked at.”

“A little iodine’s all it needs. I’ve had enough of doctors and hospitals.”

They got into Rinniak’s car. Before he started the engine he said, “I keep thinking I should’ve let Kelso know before we came here. I’ve worked with the man off and on for ten years, I owed him that much.”

“He wouldn’t have gone along with this.”

“No. He wouldn’t.”

“Even if he had, you heard what she said. Twice as bad for him if he’d been here.”

“You’re right. Spared him that much, at least. But he’s got to know now and it’s my job to tell him. And it should be in person.”

“You can drop me off somewhere first.”

“I said should be in person. Truth is, I don’t think I can face him right now. So I’ll do it the coward’s way and call him from Red Bluff.” Rinniak put the cruiser in gear, eased it forward. “I have kids of my own,” he said. “One of my daughters is about Ashley’s age.”

“So’s my son.”

“Then you know why I can’t face Kelso right now.”

“Yes,” Runyon said, “I know why.”

I
spent that night going over facts and suppositions, by myself and with Tamara and Kerry. Tamara had dug up two more pieces of connected, corroborating, circumstantial evidence—all there was left to find. On Wednesday morning I went to see Irv Blaustein at Pacific Rim Insurance and had a long talk with him.

Same conclusion, down the line.

There was nothing to do then but make an appointment with Celeste Ogden and deliver the news to her.

I
f anyone killed your sister, Mrs. Ogden, it was Anthony Drax.”

No visible reaction. She sat on the tufted velvet couch in her living room, her back straight, her hands palms up in the lap of her black slacks—the same posture as on my previous visit and in Dr. Prince’s office yesterday. Same expressionless demeanor, too.

“If?” she said.

“He was there the night she died and his actions indicate a certain amount of guilt, but whether he was directly responsible is open to question. If he was, it probably wasn’t a premeditated act.”

“Of course it was premeditated. On
his
orders.”

“If a crime was committed, it’s not likely Mathias was complicit except as a catalyst.”

“You’re not making sense. Why do you keep saying ‘if ‘?”

On the table in front of her was the file printout Tamara and I had put together, but Mrs. Ogden hadn’t opened the envelope. She wanted a verbal report first, which made this even more difficult for me.

I said, “It’s also possible your sister’s death was just what it was ruled to be, an accident.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I’m sorry, but the facts support more than one theory.”