Wicked Break (15 page)

We walked back down Mission to where Carolina had parked her car and she left a little before eleven, before either of us had time to say or do something stupid and ruin the evening. I told her I'd call her in a day or two. No hugs, no kisses, no stiff gestures or insincere affection between us. Just small smiles, quick nods, and the hope that maybe we could figure out how to be something close to mother and son again.

I slept well for what seemed like the first time in months—my need for sleep finally overruling any concerns I had about skinheads, gang members, or Plutos—and woke up early with a clear head. I hadn't checked in on Rachel in a while and called the hospital. She answered on the third ring. I was relieved to hear that she was doing fine—her shoulder was still sore, but she was healing. She told me that she was leaving later in the day—her parents were coming to pick her up and she was going to stay with them for a little while. I gave her my cell-phone number and told her to call me if she needed anything and then said goodbye.

I sat on my sofa for a few minutes, wondering if I could've done anything else for Rachel. I still didn't understand how she was connected to everything, what she'd done to make someone shoot her. The more I thought about it, the more confused I got. Frustrated by the lack of any concrete answers, I finally gave up, pulled on my trunks, grabbed the Ron Jon, and headed out for the water.

The water was smooth and the waves were solid, rolling in at regular intervals, letting me work up a rhythm of riding and paddling back out, my muscles loosening with each movement. I was sharp, gliding down the faces, snapping through the lips, floating on the tops. It was effortless and it felt good. I lasted for about an hour beneath a clear sky and a bright early morning sun and I couldn't help but smile as I walked back up the sand to my place.

I showered, dressed, and called Carter.

He answered with a grunt.

“You up?” I asked.

“Am now.”

“You missed good water this morning.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Dammit.”

“Definitely sucks for you. Can you be over here in about an hour?”

I heard him stifle a yawn. “For the right price.”

“Breakfast will do?”

“Affirmative.”

“I need you to bring a couple things,” I said.

I told him what they were.

The line buzzed for a moment, then he said, “I'm assuming you'll explain when I get there?”

“I will.”

“Breakfast better be hot.”

Forty-five minutes later I was wrapping the chorizo and scrambled eggs into tortillas when Carter strode in the door.

“I'll assume there are at least three of those for me,” he said, his electric-white hair still wet, a wrinkled yellow T-shirt and long cargo shorts covering his frame. “I could eat a fat man.”

“Fortunately, the fat men will be safe today,” I said, placing two of the burritos on a plate and sliding it across the counter. “Two more for you when you're ready.”

He sat down at the kitchen table, wolfed one down in three bites, and was halfway through the second when he asked, “How was last night?”

I sat down across from him. “Good.”

“Just good?”

I thought about it. “Yeah.”

The second burrito was gone and he walked into the kitchen to grab a third. “Yelling, screaming, any of that?”

“None.”

He came back and sat down again. “Wow. Sounds like you acted like an adult.”

“Shut up.”

He shrugged and started in on the burrito. I knew he was right, but I didn't want to discuss my mother. If I started talking and thinking more about her and our dinner, I knew I'd start second-guessing myself and doubting Carolina. I needed to just let it sit and see what happened.

Carter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks. That was good.”

I stared at his empty plate. “Did you even taste them?”

“A little bit,” he said, pushing back from the table and stretching out his legs. “So. Wanna tell me what we're doing today?”

“You bring everything?”

He nodded. “A couple of rifles, scopes, and a bunch of ammo. We going on some sort of man picnic?”

“You wish,” I said, standing up from the table and grabbing both of our plates.

“You aren't gonna break out a ring and propose to me, are you?” he asked, his eyebrows bouncing up and down.

I walked into the kitchen and dumped the plates in the sink. “I might propose you go screw yourself.”

“I've heard that before.”

“No doubt,” I said. “We're going out to Alpine.”

He made a face like I'd said we were going to go eat sewage instead of going to one of the outermost areas of San Diego County.

“Alpine?” he said, practically spitting the word out. “Why not just go to Kansas? Almost as far east.”

“I'm trying to expand your cultural horizons.”

“Gonna have to take me a lot fucking further than Alpine to do that.”

“Well, then, that's not a trip I ever wish to make.”

He shook his head, then twisted around in his chair to look at me as I walked by him out to the kitchen. “Why are we wasting a perfectly good day going to Alpine, Noah?”

I stared past him out the glass door at the water. He was right. It was a perfectly good day. The light blue sky over the dark blue water made for a pretty picture.

I didn't know if it was because of my renewed optimism over my relationship with Carolina, but I was feeling more of a sense of urgency to solve the whole Pluto thing. Linc was the one who could thread all of it together. I'd agreed to his aunt's request to continue looking for him, but in truth, I was doing it more for me than for her. Mo and Lonnie had already made one visit to my home. I didn't want another where someone other than me might have to face their wrath. And I refused to be glancing behind me, watching for them.

I reached for my gun on the counter. I checked the chamber and racked the slide, the noise echoing off the living room walls.

“We are going to Alpine,” I said, staring hard at the door, the brand-new glass door that had replaced the old one. “Because it's time to go visit Lonnie and Mo.”

Brochures handed out by the Chamber of Commerce would have you believe that all of San Diego looks out upon sparkling blue ocean or a harbor dotted with sailboats. A carefree place to visit where everyone has a view of the ocean.

While that is true for the fortunate few who live on the coastline, most of San Diego County is made up of communities set in canyons, hills, and brush that can't get a sniff of the ocean even on the best day. Thirty miles to the east, Alpine is one of those places.

Interstate 8 snaked us through Mission Valley, north of San Diego State and then out to La Mesa and El Cajon. The highway then elevated up into the small mountain communities near Descanso and Julian, areas that were regularly singed with brush fires every summer, but managed to make comebacks as soon as the flames were extinguished.

The map that Professor Famazio had given me led us to an area just east of Alpine, on the western edge of Cleveland National Forest, before the interstate dropped again and made its way out to El Centro and the scorched desert of Arizona.

“We should let Arizona annex this part of San Diego,” Carter observed, shaking his head. “Tell 'em to send over a few fine-looking ladies from the U of A with a case of beer and it's theirs.”

“Type that up and send it to the governor,” I said, pulling off the highway and heading north. “Never know what might happen.”

He nodded, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “I think I'll do that.”

The two-lane asphalt road took us higher into the dense forest, the tall green pines hovering over the road and smothering the air with their aroma. We crested the highest point and started to descend through a series of S-curves. Famazio's directions indicated a turnoff at the middle of the curves and I found it on our right, easing the Jeep into it, the tires crunching on the gravel.

“We gotta walk a little from here,” I said, opening my door.

“I better get to shoot someone,” Carter grumbled.

I walked around to the back of the Jeep. “No promises.”

He came around to meet me. “I wasn't asking for permission.”

“You shoot anybody without my permission and it is a long walk back to Mission Beach.”

He stuck his tongue out at me.

We pulled his gear out of the back of the Jeep. The rifles were Ruger Mini-30s. Each had a scope attached to it. I noticed a selector switch on each receiver.

“I thought these were semiautomatics,” I said.

“They were,” he said, laying his on his shoulder. “Originally.”

“You had them converted to fully automatic? That legal?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Sorta. I don't know.”

I shook my head.

We divvied up the magazines and walked down a dirt path that led from the turnout. It was steep and narrow and uncomfortable, our feet sliding forward on the loose rocks and uneven terrain every few steps. After ten minutes of walking and sliding, the path leveled off and then disappeared amid a cluster of pines.

“Now where?” Carter asked.

I looked at the map. “Should be right here.”

I moved forward to the trees and saw that about four trees in, the earth dropped away. I heard muffled voices down below.

“This is it,” I said, lowering my voice. I motioned to our right. “Let's move up here, off the end of the trail.”

We went about ten yards off the trail and found a wider spot between two of the pines at the edge and lay down on our stomachs, putting the guns between us. We inched carefully toward the edge of the landing and looked down.

The area was a hundred feet below us, maybe twenty square yards of dirt and trodden grass. A concrete fire ring was the center of the circular patch. A boom box sat next to the ring, speed metal blaring from the speakers. At the farthest edge of the circle, the front ends of a couple of pickup trucks poked out from just behind the trees. A cache of assault rifles was spread out on the ground near the trucks. A thin trail disappeared into the trees next to the trucks, indicating another entry point.

About a dozen guys lounged in various acts of slackerdom—several in low-slung lawn chairs, a couple shaking their heads to the music, a few more standing, holding cans of beer. They all wore some variation of camouflage pants, white T-shirts, army jackets, and black leather boots.

All of them had one thing in common.

A shaved head.

“Cool,” Carter whispered. “A party.”

“And we didn't get invites.”

“Probably 'cause we go to the wrong barber.”

We were too high up to make out any of the words in the muffled conversations below us. An occasional laugh drifted up to us, but that was it.

“Can I just pick 'em off?” Carter asked. “One by one?”

“That would probably be Plan Z.”

“What's Plan A?”

“We lie here and see what happens.”

He glanced at me. “You are so boring.”

“One of my best qualities.”

“Said the really boring guy.”

“Shut up.”

Carter scanned the area. “See your guys anywhere?”

“Nope.”

“How much am I getting paid for this?”

“Same as always.”

He paused. “You've never paid me before.”

“Exactly.”

He dropped his head to the tarp and closed his eyes. “Wake me when I can turn this place into a shooting gallery.”

Ten minutes later, he was snoring softly, earning every cent of what I wasn't paying him.

I watched what went on down below. They stuck together in groups of two or three, talking, laughing, occasionally goofing off with a shove or a fake punch. Most of them appeared to be in their early twenties and it easily could've been mistaken for a frat party.

Except for their cue-ball heads and the pile of guns.

After an hour of squinting to make out their tattoos, counting the empty beer cans, and stacking close to a hundred pine needles on Carter's cheek, I was ready to give up.

I pushed back from the ledge and sat up, stretching the numb muscles in my back and arms. I started to stand up to unkink my legs when I heard a couple of shouts down below and what sounded like the hum of a car engine.

I dropped down to my stomach and slid back to the ledge.

The group was moving slowly over to the area of trees where the trucks were parked. The front end of another vehicle nosed up next to the ones I'd seen before.

My shoulders stiffened as Lonnie emerged from the truck and walked into the circle.

He high-fived several of the guys as a greeting, smiling and nodding confidently.

I pulled one of the Ruger rifles closer to me.

I reached over and punched Carter in the arm. “Hey.”

He lifted his head up with a start, then frowned as the pile of pine needles fell off his face and down around his shirt collar.

He started brushing them off. “What?”

I nodded down at the campground. “Guy in the black T-shirt. That's one of them.”

The anger that had visited me twice before when I'd encountered Lonnie was knocking in my stomach.

Carter stared down below for a moment. “Where's the other guy?”

My fingers tingled. “Haven't seen Mo yet.”

The way Lonnie interacted with his buddies, the way he moved among them, the way they all wanted to say hello to him, it was clear that he was a leader.

I reached out and placed my hand on the rifle.

“Hang on,” Carter said, now fully awake, reacting to my movement. “Let's see what goes down.”

Lonnie threw his head back, his laugh working into the air and up to us. I could see black stitching across his nose, courtesy of my having slammed it into the floor at my house.

My hand closed around the rifle's stock.

Lonnie turned back toward the trucks and the trees.

“Dude,” he yelled. “Come on.” There was more laughter in the group.

Carter glanced at me. I looked at him and shrugged. Then I focused back to the trees as a movement caught my attention.

Mo emerged from the pines, a sort of neo-Nazi Bigfoot. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt, his arms bulging with muscle. A bandage poked out of the shirt near his shoulder where I'd shot him. The canvas pants on his lower half hugged his tree-trunk-like legs.

“Fuck,” Carter said. “He is big.”

Mo was pulling a rope. It was taut and angled down toward the ground as if it were tied to something.

Lonnie motioned for him to hurry up, excitedly, to keep pulling the rope.

“He go deer hunting or something?” Carter asked. “What the hell's he got on the end of that?”

I watched.

Mo tugged on the rope and glanced behind him. Then he looked back toward the group, leaned forward a little, and started pulling the rope like a trained mule.

I could make out something at the end, sliding heavily through the tree trunks and pine needles.

The group started whooping and hollering, celebrating like a team that had just won a championship.

The end of the rope came into view and I felt myself rising up on my elbows, my mind not believing what it was seeing, my hand clamping down on the rifle.

“Motherfucker,” Carter whispered.

They had gone hunting, alright.

Hands bound, gagged at the mouth, Mo's rope tied tightly around her ankles, Malia Moreno was their trophy.