Spiral (54 page)

Haydon looked around at Aledo and Thomas, who were leaning against the railing with the freeway at their backs, looking at him as if they had had their breath knocked out of them.

"Jesus," Aledo said. "What a . .. what a deal." The old veteran had to say something.

The walkway of the cheaply constructed motel shook as other police officers ran up and down the stairs shouting at each other and at the ambulance attendants, herding people out of the way.

"Don't let anyone in there until a team of homicide detectives gets here," Haydon said to Aledo. He looked at the opened door of 325. "Or in here, either."

Aledo had to clear his throat. "Right," he said.

Haydon stepped into 325 and picked up the telephone, using his handkerchief. He stared at the night table, waiting for Dystal to answer. Outside the radios were bouncing off the motel walls and the pillars of the freeway.

"Lieutenant Dystal's office."

Haydon recognized Nunn's voice. "Robert, where's Dystal?"

"On his way over to Gamboa's. You at the motel? What in the hell's happening over there?"

Haydon told him briefly, then asked, "Who's coming out here?"

"Pete and Marshall, Singleton and Watts."xxx"And what's the situation at Gamboa's?"

"The old man's agreed to wait for Dystal, but he's going for sure. I don't know any of the details about how they're going to do it, but I know the lieutenant was going to have cars all around him."

"Okay, thanks," Haydon said, and hung up the telephone. He went outside onto the walkway and saw Lapierre and John Marshall working their way through the police cars in the courtyard, heading for the stairs. He turned to Thomas. "Let me borrow your radio," he said. The young patrolman undipped the radio from his belt and handed it over. He still hadn't regained his emotional equilibrium. Neither had Aledo, but his experience had taught him to hide at least the appearance of vulnerability; he was lighting a cigarette with an unsteady flame. "Thanks for your help in there," Haydon said to Thomas. He paused a second, wanting to ask the kid if he was all right, but then thought better of it. "I'll get this back to you."

He started down the walkway and met Lapierre at the stairs. They talked briefly, Haydon telling the two detectives what had happened, that Negrete was somewhere across the spur with a Mac-10, and that he would use it at the slightest provocation.

Haydon had already accepted the fact that he had made the wrong decision after shooting the man on the fence. Not knowing that Arizpe was already near death, he had bet that the Indian would be the quickest source of information about Medrano and had not pursued Negrete. Now that Arizpe was dead, as well as the other two men, he was once again in the position of having lost Negrete
and
the most recent information about Medrano. Assuming, of course, that Negrete's methods had succeeded in getting the information out of Arizpe in the first place. He didn't know what significance, if any, lay in the fact that Negrete and the other man had not been in the room with Arizpe.

"I guess nothing new has come in from the tips," Haydon said.

"No," Lapierre said tersely, looking past Haydon to Aledo and Thomas standing outside the doors at the end of the walkway.

"Okay. I'm going to try to meet Dystal and Gamboa at the heliport," Haydon said. "I'll be back over here after he's gone and help you finish it up."

Racing down the stairs, Haydon considered what this past week must have looked like through Lapierre's eyes. There was no doubt that he totally disapproved of the way Dystal had handled Haydon throughout. Haydon really couldn't blame him. The week had been a bloodbath, and Haydon had been bouncing around the edges of it the whole time. If you followed the rulebook, you wouldn't think the week's events had been a tidy way to handle things.

Instead of crawling over the fence again, Haydon walked through the jumble of patrol cars in the motel courtyard, past the office, where he chose not to look toward the people pressed against the plate glass of the lobby windows, and out the drive. He hurried along the edge of the street to the cement pavement that ran under the expressway, and turned into the shadows. It was not so dark now with the lights on the patrol cars throwing splinters of ruby and sapphire through the mangy hedge separating the underside of the expressway from the motel. He unlocked the car, got in, and backed between the rows of columns to the low curb at the street. In a few seconds he was ascending the first ramp to the Southwest Freeway, heading toward the West Loop.

For a split second he was over the Richmond intersection where it had all begun three days before, in the blistering afternoon sun. Then immediately he was in another city, the Post Oak district, where the Transco Tower loomed over everything, skewing the perspective as if to say that
it
was real, and all the rest was miniature.

He continued into the sparkling heart of the district and dropped down onto the San Felipe exit. He could see Post Oak Park where the heliport was located just ahead on his right, but he turned left on San Felipe and followed the gentle curve of the street, past the Steak 'N Egg Kitchen. It tantalized him that only a few hours earlier Medrano had walked in there for a thermos of coffee. Why had he been in this area so recently, and why had he been in that diner so often? Was the obedient son indeed capable of driving a suicide car packed with explosives? Haydon thought not. It would be an unheard-of act by a Latin group, a right-wing group at that, if only because the technique had become so thoroughly identified with Middle Eastern fanaticism.

Then why was Medrano constantly circulating in this area? He couldn't possibly have known Gamboa would decide to go to the heliport tonight. Gamboa probably hadn't even known it himself until maybe an hour ago, and yet even before that Medrano was in the area. Waiting.

Haydon pulled into the parking lot in Post Oak Plaza and parked among the cars of people dining at Tony's. To his right was Sak's across Post Oak Boulevard, and to his left at the end of Ambassador Way was 3D International, Tri-Corp Plaza, Con-Tex Tower, and dozens of other buildings lining the west side of the Loop. He turned on Thomas's radio and called Dystal. A patrolman came on and said Dystal was outside the car on the front portico of Gamboa's house, that they were just about ready to leave. There was static as Haydon waited, then he heard Dystal.

"Stu. Heard what happened over there. You all right, I guess."

"I'm fine."

"God a'mighty. I wonder how much the hell else can happen before we get this man outta here."

"How are you going to do it?"

"Hell, I couldn't make up my mind whether to sorta sneak him out or to go with all my parade lights on. I finally decided to do the parade. I'll have a coupla cars in front, couple in back, and every time we come to a cross street I'll run a car up ahead to block it in case they try to get at him from the side. We won't be wasting any time. Where're you at?"

Haydon told him. "I just couldn't get over the idea of him hanging around here."

"Yeah, I know," Dystal said. "Okay, they're coming down the stairs now. We're gonna be pulling outta here purty soon."

"Who's with him?" Haydon asked quickly.

"Uh, looks like his boy and some other guy carryin' a briefcase. Just the three of 'em."

Haydon visualized the long portico with softly lighted columns, and the distinguished Gamboa coming rapidly down the flight of illuminated steps with the two other men. Policemen milling around the lawn, the squad cars idling, the limousine sparkling black in the drive, its doors open until Gamboa gets in and then they'd close, solid and dark, like a coffin.

"I'll meet you at the heliport," Haydon said.

"Good enough," Dystal answered, and then he was off.

Haydon wondered where Medrano was sitting at that very moment, and whether or not Gamboa would still be alive in twenty minutes. Suddenly he was aware of the edgy energy of anticipation, a gradual realization of a change in the tempo of his emotions. He started the Vanden Plas and drove out of the lot onto Post Oak Boulevard.

It would be twenty minutes, or less, more like fifteen, before Gamboa would be airborne. Medrano didn't have much time.

After learning about the RDX from Cissy Farrell that morning, after all the speculation about how it might be used, it seemed to Haydon the only feasible method was remote-control detonation. It was the only way to get to Gamboa without approaching him. And since twenty-five kilos of anything was not easily carried around, the explosive itself would have to be stationary, detonated from a distance.

But how would Medrano bring together Gamboa and the RDX? Haydon thought back to the beginning, Tuesday morning, Ireno Lopez. He had been in Houston three weeks observing Gamboa's movements, and would have gathered information about where, when, and how Gamboa traveled. That was the kind of intelligence that had enabled them to hit the limousine only minutes after it left a restaurant where Gamboa often dined. Only Negrete's cunning had saved the older Mexican. Would that data gathered by Lopez be useless after a failed attempt? Not unless Gamboa completely changed travel patterns and habits, which he had not done. In fact, unless he changed residences, Gamboa was like every other person in the city, he had to travel certain streets to get to certain places. That could not be avoided. Since he went often to the Post Oak area, what were his route choices? Without going ridiculously out of the way, there was only San Felipe, Westheimer, Richmond, Southwest Freeway. Actually, once he passed up San Felipe, he was going out of the way, San Felipe was the closest, most direct route from Inverness to the Post Oak District. It was also the closest, most direct route to the heliport, which was why Gamboa had chosen it. The less time he was exposed, the less risk of being ambushed.

San Felipe. Haydon reached its intersection with Post Oak Boulevard and looked to his right at the Steak 'N Egg diner where Medrano had appeared only a couple of hours earlier. How would he know when to detonate the RDX? Unless the
tecos
had managed to attach a directional beeper to the limousine—which was highl) unlikely, since Gamboa was no longer using Valverde limousines— Medrano would only know when to detonate by visual confirmatior that the limousine was in close proximity to the explosive. The RDX would have to be planted somewhere along San Felipe, somewhere in the area of the West Loop intersection with San Felipe. And Medrano could be in any of the dozens of buildings.

Haydon wheeled onto San Felipe. He headed toward the Loof underpass, scanning the street for trash bins, mailboxes, traffic signa junction boxes, anything situated close to the street and large enougl to conceal the explosive, before he realized he didn't have to. The heliport sat in a park area just off the access road on the
other
side, the east side, of the freeway. Gamboa wouldn't even come as far as the freeway itself. In fact, it was more than likely Gamboa's chauffeur would turn off on Park Drive, which formed the eastern boundary of the park, a couple of blocks before reaching the freeway.

Gunning the Jaguar, Haydon flew into the curve and shot under the freeway as the amber light turned red. At this point the street formed a boulevard divided by a grassy median. If the explosive was to be effective against Gamboa within the next few minutes, it would have to be located on the other side of the median, in the westbound lane.

Braking, slowing the Jaguar, Haydon stared across the median. Even under the dim lighting of the streetlamps, he could see it was the cleanest strip for a dozen blocks in either direction. He must have passed here a million times, but never really noticed the details of the layout. The trees from the park were set back a hundred yards or so. A block farther on there was a traffic light, and then the street shrank to two lanes as it crossed the railroad tracks and entered the narrow and heavily wooded section of San Felipe that went into River Oaks. Hearing the faint thumping of helicopter rotors, Haydon looked back and saw the blinking lights of the helicopter approaching from the north. The ship came in low over the expressway and hovered a moment over the park trees before it settled into them, out of sight.

Haydon couldn't understand it. It wasn't what he had expected. Maybe the explosives
were
behind him, on the other side of the freeway. Maybe Medrano was going to miss his target by a matter of a few blocks. Maybe the witless Gamboa had been lucky once again. He looked through the windshield and saw the patrol-unit flashers emerging from the tree-covered stretch of San Felipe approaching the railroad crossing. Dystal hadn't been exaggerating about the protection. They were practically commandeering the entire street. The headlights of the first two patrol cars tilted upward as they crossed the slightly raised tracks side by side, and then separated to opposite sides to block the intersecting streets of Briar Hollow on the right and St. Regis on the left. The third patrol car bounced onto the tracks, followed by the limousine.In the first instant of the explosion, the limousine did not move, but glowed a phosphorescent white. An orange, solar brilliance lighted its windows from the inside so that Haydon saw into the car, saw the silhouetted figures sitting perfectly upright as if nothing were happening to them at all, saw the solar fire come out the windows. And then there was the explosion. That infinitesimal space of time in which Haydon's brain registered what he saw was already long past, even as it happened.xxx