The Sentinel (28 page)

"No one is asking you to. All I want is some guidance on this. No one will know. You have my word."

"Feds lie."

"Yeah, and you are a donkey," Garrison said. "Either sing or put you hands on the truck so I can package you up."

"All I did was steer him to a guy."

"Who?"

"A guy named Timmons. That's who I put him together with. Timmons was looking for someone to handle a job. He asked for him by name. He knew that I knew him."

"Timmons. What's his game?"

Vincent stared blankly at the highway. "Explosives. He's with the Disciples."

Garrison took out a cell phone and offered him the cell phone.

"What's this for?"

"Call Timmons and tell him you have a buyer for C-4."

"Are you nuts?"

"Either you help me put a case on him or it's back to the pen."

"You're trying to put a twist on him, aren't you? You want to put him in a position where he will snitch for you."

"Duh."

Vincent stared at him for a moment, and then took the phone. During the next hour, Vincent made a number of telephone calls - leaving messages on answering machines and with bartenders. Finally he reached Timmons.

"Hello ... Spike. Who the hell do you think? I have a man I want you to meet. He's interested in buying some sewing machines.... What do you think? ... The river. We'll be there."

Vincent pressed OFF and handed the phone back to Garrison.

"What did he say?"

"He'll meet you but only if I come along."

"Let's go."

"He's gonna know it was me. He's gonna know I set him up. He'll kill me."

"Not if he's in the joint."

"Timmons is in with the Aryan Disciples. I can get killed over this."

"You wouldn't have set up the meeting if you were worried about him or them. So cut the sob story and let's get on with it."

The corners of Vincent's mouth elevated into a smile. "I like your moves."

Night fell as Garrison rode in the passenger seat of the tow truck and wondered if he had bitten off more than he could chew. Vincent was driving.

"Timmons will put us through some changes - security procedures - he's super-cautious when doing a deal. Particularly when he is selling explosives. He and some of his boys broke into an Army base down in Texas and stole the shit. He's been making a living off it ever since."

Garrison was driving to God knows where to attempt to buy explosives from a known terrorist and he had no buy money. He was alone and he didn't trust Vincent. Admittedly, Garrison was afraid. To him, fear was an emotion to be controlled, to utilize to his best advantage. He'd realized this for the first time in the Army, when he'd learned to disarm bombs. It was a matter of detaching oneself from the reality of fear. Overcoming the natural instinct to flee a perceived danger put one into another zone; one that he'd become accustomed to after years in the Secret Service.

Garrison recalled being in Cartagena, Colombia, riding on the running board of the Presidential convertible limousine as the President waved at the throngs of on-lookers lining the street. As the motorcade turned the corner, a man had emerged from the throng and sprinted toward the limousine. Without thinking, Garrison had jumped from the moving limousine and tackled him. Afterwards, Garrison realized that he hadn't been afraid, that he'd mastered the fear of dying for the Man. But tonight was different. He was in a strange place trying to investigate terrorists and he didn't trust Vincent. Garrison was over his head with no one on his side and he knew that he could get killed.

In northern Bakersfield, Vincent swerved the tow truck off Highway 99 onto an adjacent road and threaded his way to the tree-lined Kern River.

"What's this?" Garrison asked.

"Take it easy. I know what this looks like, but it's just part of Timmons's security act."

Vincent turned left and cruised slowly along the riverbank. They were out of sight of cars passing on the highway, and Garrison wondered if Vincent was leading him into an Aryan Disciples trap. Stopping at a boat shack, Vincent turned off the engine. The truck windows were down and the eucalyptus trees rustled with a warm breeze. A full moon mirrored itself on the shiny, black-glass water. The night heat reminded Garrison of the Persian Gulf War when he'd hiked ten miles at night to lay mines near an enemy fuel depot. Vincent's hands were shaking.

From behind the boat shack came the sound of a motorcycle engine turning over. Garrison pulled his automatic and touched it in Vincent's rib cage.

"If anything happens you'll be the first one to die."

"Easy, man."

A man wearing a cowboy hat drove a motorcycle from behind the shack, revving the engine. Moving to the passenger side of the tow truck, he turned on a flashlight and aimed its narrow beam at Garrison's face.

Garrison aimed his gun at him.

"Get the light out of my eyes."

"Everything okay, Spike?" the cowboy asked.

"We're cool."

"Your boy here has got the jumps, doesn't he?"

"He don't know you."

"Where'd you get that black eye?"

"My old lady threw a pan at me."

"You're lucky it wasn't full of hot grease. Follow me."

The man revved the engine and slowly drove toward the highway. Vincent turned the ignition key.

"Who's he?"

"One of Timmons's people. He's taking us to Timmons. He has other people here. If any cops had followed us, they would have wasted us for sure."

They followed the motorcycle onto the highway.

"Where are we going?"

"To one of the three pads that Timmons uses for his deals. Don't forget. We knew each other from L.A. I told Timmons you had money and you wanted military-grade C-4. When I told him I wanted sewing machines, he knew I meant C-4."

"How can you be sure he has the stuff?"

"He didn't try to put off the
deal. So
he must have it. I've bought from him before."

They followed the motorcycle along Highway 99 for about a mile, and Garrison could feel sweat soaking through his
T-shirt. The
motorcycle swerved onto an off-ramp and got off at Bakersfield's Oildale section, comprised of run-down tract homes and apartment houses. He made a few turns, and ended up in a deserted area lined with abandoned factories and empty lots. Passing an automobile junkyard, the motorcycle turned left into a gravel-covered driveway and crossed an empty lot covered with weeds to a single-story, wood-frame house that was next to a chicken coop. There was a light next to the front porch. A handwritten sign on a post next to the door read: NO PEDDLERS - RING BUZZER. There was a Ford Thunderbird parked in front of the house.

"That's Timmons's car."

The motorcyclist pointed toward the door, then turned and drove past them, heading back toward the road. Vincent turned off the engine and they got out of the truck.

Garrison could sense someone watching them in the darkness, a lookout probably. But he figured that if they were going to kill him, they would have done it at the river.

Vincent knocked on the door. "Timmons?"

"Come in," a man shouted.

Vincent turned the handle and shoved the door open. Garrison followed him inside. A sofa and lounger were arranged around a large-screen television tuned to a talk show. The dingy living room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and beer. A bearded, overweight Timmons was sitting at a dinette table in front of a .38 revolver. He wore a black leather vest and white T-shirt. He had a leathery complexion. A splash of dark freckles extended from his cheeks upward across his baldness.

"You sure you weren't followed?"

"Positive," Vincent said.

Timmons smirked. "You must have eyes in the back of your head."

"This is my man," Vincent said to introduce Garrison. "Spike says you need some clay."

"Right."

"Who you going to blow up?"

"Your mom."

Timmons glared at Garrison, and then turned to Vincent.

"This cat is a friend of yours, right, Spike?"

"He's good people. And I've seen his buy money. Every dollar."

Timmons lit a cigarette and coughed. The walls were covered with what Garrison would describe as American fascist kitsch; racing flags, a luminous painting of John Wayne, a saddle, a hand-painted WHITE POWER sign and swastika, deer hooves, an antique rifle.

"Yeah, now I want to see it," said Timmons.

It was sweltering and Garrison felt like he needed air. "It's in town."

"So go get it."

"Not until I see the stuff."

Garrison had to give himself time. He could sense other people in the house. Garrison had to get Timmons away from this house. For all he knew, people were hiding in the other rooms. In a fight, he would be outnumbered.

"What's wrong, funnyman?" Timmons asked.

"I'm the one with the money. I went through your security games. Now it's my call. I don't know you."

"Spike does."

"For all I know, you and he might be planning to rip me off. Maybe you're planning to kill me and bury me in your chicken coop."

Timmons studied him with a practiced look of disdain. "If we could get away with it we probably would." He laughed, and Vincent joined in. "Where you from, man?"

"Beverly Hills."

"Yeah, and I'm from the wonderful land of dog dick."

"You look like it. So what's it gonna be? Do you want to sell some clay or should I head back over the grapevine

Timmons coughed richly and turned to Vincent.

"Okay. You pick the spot to do the deal. Call me in exactly one hour."

Garrison followed Vincent toward the door.

"What happened to you, Spike?"

"Huh?"

"Your eye."

"Oh, that-"

"I punched him because he talked back to me," Garrison said.

Vincent laughed. "My wife threw something at me."

Timmons smiled sardonically.

Garrison followed Vincent outside. They got back in the truck.

"You got a lot of balls," Vincent said as they drove off.

On Buck Owens Boulevard Garrison saw a neon sign:

MARTY'S BAKERSFIELD INN - CABLE TV, FREE ICE. He motioned to Vincent and they drove into the parking lot.

Garrison stared through the window down at a dimly lit Buck Owens Boulevard. He glanced at his Timex, and had the peculiar sensation that he was trapped in the motel room with its rattling air conditioner and cowboys-on-horseback-chasing-Indian s prints on the wall. Vincent had been pacing the room and it was getting on Garrison's nerves.