Deadlock (Ryan Lock 2) (27 page)

‘Yeah,’ the man said, ‘we did that already. Someone came out, said they couldn’t see anything.’

Maybe that’s because there is no pothole, you psychopath.
That was what Glenn felt like saying, but instead he said, ‘Well, I can see that it needs fixing. I can get my crew on it first thing.’

‘Good,’ said the man. He paused and looked at Glenn, and once again Glenn felt a stab of pure terror. ‘So what are you going to say to them?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well,’ said the man, ‘there ain’t no pothole here. Even a blind man can see that. So what you going to say to them?’

Glenn thought fast. ‘I’ll just say that we’ve had a burst water pipe underneath. That’s what has caused these cracks.’ He kicked the toe of his right boot at where the top layer of asphalt had puckered into two ridges. ‘Better to fix it now than let it get worse.’

It was a bunch of baloney but it sounded plausible. Plus, his guys wouldn’t really care too much anyway. They fixed roads. It didn’t really matter to them where or why.

‘Good,’ said the man, patting Glenn on the shoulder. ‘Now, I don’t want a patch job. I’m going to need you to go down a ways. And remember, you breathe a word of this and you’ll never see your family again.’

60

‘What’s the matter, man?’

Glenn stared at his supervisor, jolted by the question. ‘What?’

‘You’re an hour early.’

His supervisor seemed to study him for a moment.

‘I had some paperwork to catch up on.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said his supervisor, clearly not buying it. Which was bad news because the kidnappers had been as good as their word, ensuring he would do what he was told by wiring him with a tiny microphone.

Glenn searched for a more plausible excuse for showing up early. ‘Listen, don’t say anything to anyone, but I needed to get out of the house. Me and the wife have been going through a rough patch recently.’

The supervisor, who’d only been in the job a few months, having transferred from a different city department, wiped at a dried mustard stain on his tie. ‘Been there.’ Then he wandered back to his office, leaving Glenn on his own.

Glenn quickly grabbed his list of jobs and set to work. He’d have to fill in the repair request form himself, so he pulled one out and set to work. He inserted the address, the nature of the repair. In the section where the name of the person who’d requested the repair went, Glenn wrote what they’d told him to write – with one slight adjustment.

Once the form was completed, he lowered his head so that his chin was on his chest and his mouth was close to the microphone. ‘OK, the paperwork’s all done.’

He tore off his copy and took the original back to his supervisor. The supervisor took it without a word, then looked at it.

Glenn’s heart jumped. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘Nah. It’s just with it being outside Grace Cathedral.’

‘What about it?’ Glenn’s heart was racing.

‘Well, they got that big funeral there on Tuesday.’

‘They’ve always got funerals, ain’t they?’ Glenn said, knowing this wasn’t true. Funerals at the cathedral were a rare event, reserved only for the great and the good.

‘It’s the one for that judge – you know, Junius Holmes?’ said the supervisor. ‘So just make sure you get to this today.’

Glenn exhaled with relief. ‘Don’t worry. I will.’

An hour later, Glenn and his crew had signs set up, traffic diverted, and were busy at work excavating the road outside Grace Cathedral. He took comfort in the familiar routine although his mind kept slipping back to his home and his wife and children, and what might happen to them if something went wrong.

There had been a couple of questions from one of the guys in the crew when they set to work but Glenn passed it off easily enough. Yes, the cracks didn’t look too bad, but their job was to repair what they were asked to repair. The guys on the crew had shrugged and got on with it, using a mini excavator to tear up the existing road surface and deposit the contents into the back of a dumper truck.

Glenn’s heart leapt when a couple of cops on mountain bikes cruised to a stop next to him. He knew them both – not well, but in his job it was impossible not to get to know at least some of the cops. The older of them, a guy in his late fifties with greying hair, propped his bike against the truck and sauntered over.

‘Didn’t know you guys were working here today,’ he said.

Glenn could feel his face flush. ‘Kind of a last-minute thing.’

‘No surprise,’ said the cop, hands on hips. ‘Lot of bigwigs’ll be here for the funeral. Guess they’ll want everything looking good.’

‘That must be it,’ said Glenn.

‘OK, man, see you later.’

The cop took his leave and Glenn got back to work.

About two hours later, all the prep work having been completed, Glenn looked up to see a man striding towards him wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and a hi-visibility vest. A construction worker’s hard hat rested on the man’s head and a red bandana shielded his mouth and nose from the dust. When the man pulled the bandana down, Glenn saw that it was Reaper.

He headed him off, worried that one of the guys on his crew might see him, but none of them even looked up. Nor did any of the hundred or so passers-by in the immediate area around the cathedral. But then, he reflected, guys doing their kind of jobs were pretty much invisible to the rest of the population.

‘Tell your guys to move on to the job you were supposed to be doing today,’ Reaper told him.

‘What?’

‘Just do it.’

Reaper stood in close to Glenn, who suddenly remembered the knife at Amy’s throat and her look of horror. ‘We’ll start work again at midnight.’

‘But the guys go home at six.’

‘You and me are going to finish up this job together,’ Reaper said. ‘You don’t mind doing some overtime, do you?’

61

Ty held the piece of paper up to his mouth and kissed it. Then he lowered it and studied the amount. They were waiting in line at the bank to deposit the cheques that had come through for services rendered to Uncle Sam.

‘That’s one hell of a lot of zeros,’ Ty said.

‘Yeah,’ said Lock.

Before she was killed, Jalicia must have pushed hard to make sure they got paid. Standing here now, with Reaper still on the loose, it felt like blood money.

Ty must have caught him staring somberly at the piece of paper. ‘Man, shouldn’t you be happy?’

‘Why? Because I have a lot of money?’

‘Well, yeah.’

Lock shifted his body so he was facing Ty. ‘Sometimes there are more important things in life than dollar bills.’

‘I’ll pretend I never heard you say that,’ Ty huffed, reaching over and grabbing a pen to endorse the cheque. ‘Look, I was shot and almost died for this, so, way I see it, I reckon I deserve every penny. I’m going to take that vacation I’ve been talking about. You should see if Carrie can get some more time off work, extend the romantic weekend you guys’ve been having.’

‘She’s busy covering the Junius Holmes funeral,’ Lock said, his eyes flicking to a TV in the corner of the bank where the ticker was announcing that the President would be in attendance.

‘When is it?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Then we could fly on Friday. Listen, Ryan, you need to chill the hell out.’

Lock squared his shoulders. ‘Not until I find Reaper.’

Back on the TV there was footage of the President at a press conference, the rolling banner reporting that he was making a statement about events in Asia and a new terrorist outrage in Pakistan.

Ty stepped up to the teller, a huge smile plastered over his face as he slid the deposit slip and cheque over the counter towards her. ‘Wanna come to Cancun this weekend?’ he asked her.

‘You are such an asshole,’ said Lock, as the teller smiled.

‘Hey, but at least I’m not a miserable asshole,’ Ty said, throwing the comment over his shoulder, then fixing his attention back on the teller. ‘My business partner thinks that somehow being unhappy all the time makes him deep.’

Sighing, Lock stepped up to the next teller and slid over the money he’d received. Something was nagging at him, though, as he glanced back at the TV screen to see the President departing the podium.

‘OK, I’ll speak to Carrie and see if she can take some time off – after the funeral.’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Ty. ‘What about you, baby?’

‘Thanks, but I’m engaged,’ the teller said sternly.

‘So you got one last chance to have some real fun,’ Ty protested, before Lock dragged him away.

They stood on the sidewalk outside the bank. It was a perfect day. Mid-seventies. No fog, just clear blue skies. On either side of them, office blocks sparkled in the late-fall sunshine.

‘Ty?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Reaper might not have been in that apartment, but he’s still here in the city.’

Ty put his hand over his eyes and made a show of looking around. ‘Where?’

Lock raised his hand to silence Ty. ‘What do you think it would take to really start a race war in this country?’

‘Right now? You refusing to shut the hell up.’

‘You kill a member of the Supreme Court, who cares, right?’ Lock said. ‘But you kill the President, our first black President… well, that’s like JFK and Martin Luther King all rolled into one.’

Ty turned to Lock, shock etched on his face. ‘Holy shit, man, are you crazy?’ He stepped back and spread his hands. ‘Say Reaper really does want to kill the President. There’s a world of difference between wanting to do something and being able to do it.’

‘That’s true,’ Lock conceded. ‘But say you want to assassinate someone specific. What’s the first thing you have to know?’

Ty shrugged an ‘I dunno’.

‘First you have to know where they’re going to be. And tomorrow, the President’s going to be right here, at Grace Cathedral, with his family.’

Ty was silent as he thought it through. ‘OK,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But how are they gonna do it? You know what security’s like around the President. He carries the biggest, most advanced security detail in the world. Killing a Federal Prosecutor, that one thing. Running over some little old judge who’s already a bazillion years old, that’s something else. But taking out the President?’ He clapped Lock on the shoulder. ‘Maybe you don’t need a vacation. You’re already tripping.’

62

‘Do you know how many threats against his life a President of the United States receives on a weekly basis?’ Coburn asked, kneeling down to tie an errant shoelace as Lock took in the ongoing work to the Federal Building where he had first met Jalicia.

‘A couple hundred?’ said Lock.

‘Times that by ten and you’re getting close. Now, you want to take a stab at how many threats
this
President gets on a weekly basis? Times that by ten. You want me to go on?’

‘Sure,’ said Lock. ‘This is an education.’

Coburn sighed. ‘Ever since we got our first black President, gun ownership has gone through the roof. So have sales of ammunition. The Secret Service and other federal agencies have identified over three hundred domestic groups who would love to take a shot at him. Plots have been uncovered and thwarted to kill not only him but the First Lady and their daughters. There have also been threats to kidnap the kids and execute them. The Secret Service deal with this shit every day. What makes tomorrow so different?’

‘You gonna allow me the right of reply?’

‘Sure. But as soon as I hear the word “hunch” or “feeling” or any other guesswork bullshit, this conversation is done.’

Lock took a breath. ‘There are threats and then there are credible threats from individuals and groups who can action them. You with me so far?’

‘You going to keep stating the obvious?’ Coburn asked.

‘Maybe someone should. Now, Reaper and the people who sprang him—’

‘At least one of whom is dead,’ Coburn interrupted.

Lock gave him a ‘yeah, I kinda know that’ look before continuing. ‘This group is not only highly motivated and determined, as proved by not one but two attempts to free their de facto leader, they are also highly trained. Not to mention ingenious. They appear to have the resources required. And here’s the kicker: their leader is still at large and active.’

‘Agreed,’ said Coburn, not exactly softening but finally seeming to listen to what Lock was trying to say.

‘We know Reaper is in town. And it’s a fair guess that he—’

‘Guess? You’re getting close to saying you have a hunch here, Lock.’

Lock changed tack, a trick he’d picked up from Jalicia. He wished she was here with them now. ‘Why would Reaper and his buddies go to the trouble of killing Junius Holmes?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Not to me.’

‘Then go back and read the files. He went up against them. This was payback.’

‘Not good enough, Coburn. If I’m guessing here, then so are you.’

‘OK. So let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re right, that Reaper is here in San Francisco lying in wait to kill the President. How’s he going to do it?’

Lock scuffed a shoe against the sidewalk. ‘That I don’t know. But I think you should have some people there as well.’

‘Oh, you mean in addition to the two hundred or so Secret Service men and half of the San Francisco Police Department?’

‘What about the route? Where’s he coming in from?’

‘Listen, Lock, I’m going to be nice about this, because although you’re a major pain in the ass, you’re either crazier than a crackhead or you’ve just got way bigger balls than anyone I’ve ever met. Take your money and go take that long vacation. We’ll catch up with Reaper, and the President will be just fine. We don’t need you.’

‘At least pass on my concerns to the Secret Service,’ Lock said, walking away.

Coburn cupped his hands in a cone to his mouth. ‘Take that vacation, Lock. You hear me?’

Still feeling uneasy, Lock walked back to his car, pulled out on to Golden Gate Avenue and headed east towards Grace Cathedral. Traffic was already being diverted ahead of the funeral, so he had to park five blocks away.

Heading back towards the cathedral, he tried to approach it as Reaper would. The first thing he noticed was that all the mail boxes and trash cans had been removed. Manhole covers had been sealed. All standard practice for a presidential visit. As was the case protecting any other VIP, there were certain points where they were more vulnerable than others. Lock looked around him. The cathedral would have undergone a detailed search. Once this was completed, those who could gain access would be strictly controlled. The same went for the guest list.