The Pressure of Darkness (38 page)

But where is she? Have they taken her to a local hospital? Why, what sense would that make?

"Good afternoon. Are you hungry?"

Indira feels her flesh swarm with goose bumps. There is no sense continuing to pretend she is not yet awake. She removes her sore arm and opens her eyes. The bright light hurts. "What the hell have you done to me?" Her attempt to sound brave is feeble and she knows it.

"All in good time, Mrs. Pal," the voice soothes. Indira remembers:
they told me Mo sent them
. "I have permission to offer you some yogurt if you are hungry. Although you have ample water in your cell, there is no food at present. This may be your last opportunity to eat."

"Before what?"

No answer.

Indira uses her hands to brace herself against the mirrored wall. She pulls herself upright. Her temples throb.
Buy some time.
"Yes. I would like to eat something. Thank you."

"Of course."

"And may I have some aspirin, please?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Pal. No medicinal items are allowed."

Indira looks around the sterile room. She is sophisticated enough to sense that the mirrored walls are two-way. She is being observed. She becomes even more conscious of her naked behind, and pushes her back against the pillow. She hugs herself against the cool air.

Something rattles and rumbles in the wall behind the tiny sink. After a ludicrous amount of whirring, a panel opens to reveal a lightweight plastic container about the size of a cigar box. The container extends into the room on a shelf made of thick paper, which then drops to the floor. The container, which is clear, contains a small, sealed package of store-bought yogurt and a white picnic spoon.

The surface of the wall is completely flat mere seconds later, and the mechanical noises fade away.

"Hello?"

Indira feels tightness in her chest and her breathing becomes ever more shallow and rapid. The extensive medical precautions and cold, impersonal treatment are working to create a stark, lonely terror. She wonders what has been done to her, and what is to come.

"I know you're watching me," she ventures. "Can't we talk about this?"

FIFTY-FIVE

Biff Gerber is a sour-faced condo of a man who is easily twice as athletic as he seems. Thick arms strain the fabric of his blue uniform. He raises the cigarette to his veal-colored lips, jerks his head, indicating the passenger door of the patrol car. "Get in."

Scott Bowden goes around behind the back of the car. He gives a few seconds of serious thought to pulling his throw down and putting two in the back of Gerber's head, but the man's piggy eyes watch him too carefully in the rearview mirror.

Bowden takes a quick look around the quiet Van Nuys neighborhood. An ancient Oriental man is mowing a yellowing yard four doors down. He doesn't look up. The street seems virtually deserted. Bowden reluctantly opens the door, gets in. The first thing he notices is that Gerber has a cocked Colt MK4 series .45 sitting in his lap. The handle and trigger are taped to obscure fingerprints.

"You wanted to see me."

Gerber takes a deep drag on the cigarette and throws it out into the street. He exhales a plume of smoky bad breath heavy with garlic and onions, then rolls over onto one immense ham and farts.

Bowden waves his hand in the air. "Thanks for sharing."

Gerber slaps a broad hand against Bowden's chest. He runs it up and down, gropes his crotch. Bowden allows the search because of the .45 but his temper is close to flaring. He fantasizes about cutting off one of the fat man's ears just to hear him scream. "I'm taking over for Grace where you're concerned," Gerber says, finally. "You take orders from me from now on."

"How come?"

Gerber shrugs to indicate his lack of enthusiasm for the topic. "Grace did himself."

Bowden, hesitantly: "Anybody know why?"

"Maybe his wife finally found out he was laying pipe in them gay bars or something. I don't know and I don't give a shit."

"You always were a caring individual, Biff."

"Save the smartass routine."

Bowden looks down at the gun. "You going to use that on me or yourself, Biff?"

Gerber does not smile. "Depends."

Bowden sees a pack of unfiltered Camels on the dash. He takes one and lights up. The radio squawks for a second, but is turned down so low it sounds like static. Bowden inhales deeply, feels the nicotine rush to his brain. Meanwhile, Biff Gerber sits perfectly still except for the slow lift and fall of his huge chest. His mind seems far away.

Bowden exhales. "What they got on you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Gerber grunts. "I mind you asking." But then, after a pause, he speaks quietly through tightly compressed teeth. "Hey, I have a thing for the horses. I got in over my head. Borrowed from guys I shouldn't have."

"Yeah, the bent nose bunch."

"No, the Russian version."

"Damn."

"Grace came and bailed me out, so long as I worked for him. It was no biggie at first, a little bag detail here and there or some enforcement. I was still a good cop."

There is genuine pain in the man's gruff voice. A new silence hangs heavy as fog. "Yeah," Bowden replies. "So was I."

Gerber warms to it, the words bumping together like a five-car pileup on the freeway, spilling out of his mouth in a pressured whisper. "Somewhere along the way I lost track of what I was doing and why I was doing it." He looked down at the gun. "Now, I've done some things I wouldn't tell a priest about. Here comes another one."

Bowden wonders if he is about to die, eyes the gun nervously, knows he could never reach his own in time. "What are we talking about, here?"

Biff Gerber sighs dramatically. The stench of garlic and onions permeates the car. "I ever tell you about my ex-wife, Bowden?"

"Can't say you have."

"Name is Betty. She's a little redheaded twist with big tits, man. You know the kind, a real spinner. We split up maybe eight years ago, before I put on all this weight. I never got over her."

Completely lost, Bowden takes another drag on his Camel. He lets his other hand slide a little closer to the holster clipped on his belt. "I'm listening."

"So Betty had this kid, a real looker herself, kind of a stepdaughter to me, you know? One day last fall I tell Paul Grace I don't want to do this shit no more. He can stick it up his ass, take my badge, whatever. You want to know what happened the very next day?"

Bowden is shocked to see one solitary tear roll down Gerber's pudgy cheek. He edges his hand closer his own gun, takes another drag on the cigarette, and waits things out.

Gerber finally continues. "Kelly, the stepdaughter, she's walking home from school. Three gang bangers pull over and yank her into the car. They shoot her up with dope and do her six ways from Sunday, but they finally let her go." Gerber looks up, eyes black with rage. "They tell her to say hello to her mom's ex, the cop."

"Jesus," Bowden murmurs. He is picturing his own daughter now, and his stomach churns. "I'm sorry, man."

"That's who we're working for, you see." Gerber forces a chipper quality into his voice, and somehow that makes his statement all the more chilling. "All we have to do is play ball and do what we're told and things are cool. We get little bundles of cash and promotions and things roll our way. Just don't ask too many questions, and never turn them down." He looks away. "Never."

Bowden feels the cool, reassuring metal of the gun beneath his fingers. He flips the cigarette out through the passenger window. He changes position in the car so he will have quicker access to the weapon. "Can I ask you something, Gerber?"

"Sure."

"Who the fuck
are
we working for? Who are 'they'?"

Gerber picks his teeth with a yellowing fingernail. "Bowden, if you try to pull that weapon I will blow your guts to ribbons. Just so we're on the same page."

"Okay." Bowden lets his hand slide back into plain view. "Like I said before, I'm listening."

"The people we work for are rich and well-connected," Gerber says, quite calmly. "They all know each other, but none of us know who they are. One time I got curious and tried to find out."

"And?"

"I followed one broad, a woman I saw leaving Grace's house one night. She goes into the ladies room of a bar with a small suitcase, okay? So I'm standing down the hall pretending to be on the pay phone. A couple of minutes later the door opens and a fucking man walks out, plain as day. I only know it's her because this guy is carrying the same suitcase."

"You followed him."

"Damn straight I did. All the way across town and up into the hills. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. So I make a note of the address. Know who it was?"

"This a fucking game show? Tell me."

"It was a big, hot-shot writer name of Peter Stryker. You know that dude who wrote all those horror novels. I tailed him a couple other times, always the same story. He meets somebody in drag and goes home as a man."

"So?

"Hey, I'd write it off as kinky sex, but I know a couple of the people he's meeting, and they ain't into trannies."

"Then it was just to keep things cool. And now Stryker is dead."

"Very badly dead, man. Anyway, so Peter Stryker and Grace I knew about, of course, and as best I can tell, Grace was the biggest swinging dick in city government, other than a fucking councilman or two."

"Any idea how many there are in the whole group?"

"I don't think it's all that large, but they have balls like watermelons. There are some people in the government involved, but I think they're mostly spooks."

"Spooks? You're kidding."

"Most likely CIA or Homeland Security dudes, you know? The ones who never show up on anybody's payroll but still seem to be involved in all the heavy shit."

"So we're working for the government?"

Gerber chuckles in a dirge. "No government you or I would recognize. Jesus, man, they've had me knock around guys who work for the FBI. Whatever they are, it's not that simple." He turns to his right, looks straight at Bowden, who does not like the expression on his face. "I have your next assignment."

Bowden nods carefully. "Okay."

Gerber raises the gun, aims it at Bowden's belly. "Do I need to spell out what's going to happen to your daughter if you don't follow orders?"

"No." Bowden grimaces. He grinds his teeth.

Gerber shrugs. "They told me I should."

Bowden feels flush with rage but cannot move. His daughter's life is on the line, hanging on the way he responds. He shakes his head. "No need for the rough stuff." He forces himself to sound confident. "I hear you loud and clear."

"I've been told a guy name of Jack Burke is your asshole buddy and that you can get next to him pretty easily."

"I suppose so."

"Well, some out of town talent got assigned to take him out but still hasn't gotten the job done. So now it's yours."

"He's my friend," Bowden says, weakly.

"We don't have friends."

"Christ, Biff, he was a cop in Vegas. He's one of us."

Biff Gerber nods quietly. "Well, then this really sucks." He almost seems sympathetic. Almost. "But from now on, think of it this way. It's him or your kid."

FIFTY-SIX

SATURDAY

"I-I-I don't fucking believe this," Cary Ryan sputtered. His chiseled features were engorged and frustration rendered him nearly inarticulate. He already knew he would lose the argument, but could not let it rest. "Rising international tension? Threats of terrorism?"

"That's what the man said."

Cary slapped his hand on the computer keyboard and spilled hot coffee on a case file. "What the hell are we talking about?"

"What are we talking about?" The balding case officer, Garth Burwell, outranked Cary. He was annoyingly calm, even a bit smug. The fact that he was on a video conference and not in the room was almost as irritating as his message. "I don't know about you, Major Ryan, but I'm talking about the government of a sovereign nation having asked us to stay out of the way for the next few days."

"Sovereign nation? Who's kidding who? This is
Mexico
for Chrissakes!"

Burwell fought down a smile. "You have a point there."

"Back me on this, Garth. Please."

"Sorry, Major. No can do."

Ryan rubbed his face. "What about an overland op, maybe with a tour bus or something? I might have time to get it together that way."

A shrug, a tilt of the head. "'Stay out of the way' indicates that there are to be no ops at all until they get things straightened out down there."

"This is a set-up. Whatever or whoever we're after must have some people in Mexico in their pocket. This is the property of a drug lord, for Chrissakes, you know that!"

"Cary, I have been instructed to ask you to shut things down for the duration of the crisis."

"Damn it, that's my point," Ryan bellowed. "There is no crisis! Someone has drummed this up to keep us out of the way."

"Aren't we being just a bit paranoid?"

Ryan decided to put it all on the line. He tapped the screen with a finger. The case officer flinched as if touched. "I want to speak directly to the Secretary."

"He's fishing in Montana," Burwell replied. "You can try him on the secure line tomorrow, maybe you'll get lucky."

"That's too fucking late and you know it."

"No, I don't know it. That's the point. We have nothing to go on but your suspicions."

"I have to talk to him."

Burwell opened his palms as if to say 'what can you do?' "Well, none of the powers that be are willing to send a plane into the canyon and piss him off over evidence as flimsy as what you've provided us with so far."

"One or more of the powers that be are in this bastard's pocket. Believe me, I'm going to find out who it is when this is all over. Even if it turns out to be you."

"Major," Burwell snapped. "That had better not be a threat."

"If you're a mole for Buey or this fucking cult, then you're damned right it is."