The Rivers Run Dry (18 page)

The view in the rectangular side mirrors showed an unhitched flat-bed trailer languishing next to a chain-link fence. I turned my body sideways, flattening the bulletproof vest, and pulled myself through the narrow opening between the seats, dropping on the passenger side palms first. I slouched against the door, my forehead aligned with the panel, and flicked open the dashboard air vent. The cab smelled of motor oil and vinyl, perfume compared to the odors in back.

Ngo stuck his head through the partition, his face above my left shoulder. “Don't blow our cover, Harmon.”

Several responses flickered through my mind. The wisest was,
Don
'
t answer a fool according to his folly
. The most practical was,
Don
'
t argue with agents in organized crime.
J. Edgar had grandfathered them into a secrecy that made the KGB look like it operated under the Sunshine Laws.

I smiled at Ngo, patting the MP5, the machine gun's muzzle pointed toward the floor. A white towel covered the gun's butt.

“We'll be fine,” I said. “Thanks for your concern.”

Ngo slammed the partition shut.

I closed my eyes, drawing several deep breaths, searching for the name tag. Ernie . . . Ernie . . . I saw an
S
. Then a vowel.
O
?
I
? When my cell phone vibrated on my hip, his name slipped away and I yanked the phone off my belt clip, cupping my left hand over the light emitted by the LCD.

Aunt Charlotte.

Last night at Kit Carson's I'd shut off the phone, and today I'd been too busy to check in with my family.

Sinking lower in the seat, I whispered into the phone, “Hi, Aunt Charlotte.”

“Raleigh, is that you?”

“Yes. Is this an emergency?”

“I can barely hear you!”

“I can hear you fine. Is Mom okay?”

“YOUR MOTHER WENT TO CHURCH!”

I clicked down the volume. “Please don't yell.”

“Claire is here! She needs to talk to you!”

“I can't—”

“Raleigh, Claire here. I had a dream last night. About this girl, the one missing? I saw fire again. Rocks on fire!”

“Claire, this is not a good time—”

“Big round rocks, all piled up. Flames, just burning them up.”

“Claire—”

“There's your clue. Fire. Can you hear me? You sound far away.”

The partition slid open, Ngo stuck his head out. “Harmon, off the phone.”

I closed the phone on Claire's voice.

“They just went on break,” Ngo said. “You need to hear this.”

I glanced at the side mirrors, then slid through the partition. The smell was worse. Tweedledata was waving me over. Jack cursed into his turtleneck.

“I got a digital copy for you to listen to,” Tweedledata said. “Listen, listen. Listen to this.”

While Tweedledump monitored the live transmission, Tweedledata handed me his headphones. The black plastic earpieces were slick with sweat. I leaned down, holding the piece near my right ear. I heard a rustle like crinoline. When I glanced at Tweedledata, he said, “That's her walking. Keep listening.”

I heard Lucia greet someone. She asked for club soda with lime. Ice cubes clinked into a glass. Fizzing sound of soda. She thanked the bartender in Italian. More rustling.

“Nice game.” A man's voice.

The rustling stopped. There was a brief exchange, and the man asked Lucia what brought her to Seattle. When she mentioned the wedding, his questions died on a dime.

She said, “How nice there was an opening for me tonight.”

The man grunted. “It'll be open for a while.”

“Oh? I can come back, yes?”

Another grunt. “You should. You're a better player.”

“Really?”

“She was way over her head.”

“Too bad. Though not for you.”

He laughed. “They let her in for the money. But she was trouble.”

“Was?”

“She's not coming back.”

Lucia started to speak, but the brush's voice interrupted. “Let's get back to yer seats.”

More rustling. Lucia walking. Then the sounds of cards sifting, thumps on the felt, the click of plastic chips. I glanced at Tweedledump, the twin listening live with Jack.

“Anything else?” I asked.

Tweedledump's blue eyes held a distracted expression. “Not yet. But I think Lutini's winning.”

I checked my watch. At least thirty minutes to the next break, and the stench had gone beyond the Tweedles. It was the oppressive odor of men hunting, the predatory scent that pervaded locker rooms at half-time.

“Suggs,” I said to Ngo.

“What?” He flinched.

“Suggs, Ernie Suggs. His name just came to me. The brush's name is Ernie Suggs.”

He wrote it down. “You're sure?”

“Ninety percent. Let's see what Lutini says after the game.”

I climbed back through the partition, slouching into place. The Kevlar vest rose against my chin. I took a deep breath, and let it out.

chapter fourteen

T
he sky had the appearance of indigo lace. My eyes roamed over the dappled blues as languid as a cloud spotter. The shapes shifted and bled and twisted with the fluidity of wild horses, but when my eyes came to the center of the sky my heart suddenly skipped a beat. The color had deepened. It was magnetic blue, the hypnotic darkness of winter in the far north, and a cold breeze brushed my skin. I realized what I was seeing: the greatest of the great beyonds. The place where time and space emerged. The end to every mystery, the beginning of all love.

The voice I heard sounded more like wind than man.
Raleigh, open the rocks.

I looked down. At my feet, round granite rocks pillowed a dry river bed. The stones stretched up the mountainside, following the topography with supernatural rhythm. I reached down, picking up two rocks. The brown clay beneath was parched, webbed with drought cracks.

Open the rocks
.

The weight of the stones made my wrists ache as I tapped them against each other, chalking gray stripes on their black surfaces.

Harder. Open them.

I hit them against each other with a force that sent percussive waves into my elbows, into my shoulders. Again and again, I pounded the rocks, my ears ringing with the sound, sparks bursting between the stones, a flint that evaporated in the cold air like stray sulfur. My hands burned, my arms ached. And finally I gave up and dropped the rocks.

When they hit the ground, light flashed from the river bed and the fire erupted so quickly the heat singed my face. I stumbled back, scrabbling over the dry bank as the flames sliced through the emerald forest, the trees scorched and crimson. I looked down again, feeling the earth shake beneath my feet, the stones rumbling.

“Harmon!”

The gasp was mine—I heard it—and when my eyes flew open, I saw the vinyl dashboard, the windshield framing the night. My neck snapped. Jack's face, in the partition.

“Danato! She just said, ‘Danato'!”

I pulled myself over to the driver's side—the MP5 was gone—sharp briars tumbling down my right leg. I stepped on the brake with my left, shaking my right leg to wake up, and turned on the ignition. The van was rocking side to side, and in the rearview mirror a crouched figure flew through the red glow of the brake lights. Another dark figure stood by the back bumper pulling on a Kevlar helmet. I lowered the window, pain needling my shoulder.

“Who's still here?” I yelled.

“Tweedles!”

Jack raced across the street, heading for the alley.

I gripped the steering wheel, pulling myself higher. The van had the same rocking sensation as the dream. Only now I heard the van's shock absorbers squeaking like scared mice.

“Tweedles, sit down!” I called out.

The live tape was playing and I could hear the conversation, nothing to do with cards. The Meerkat was asking Lucia about the wedding. Friend of the groom or the bride? Lucia was pausing too long in her answers, and then the Meerkat said, “That's funny. I don't know no Danatos in Seattle. And I know everybody.”

I picked up the handheld radio, thumbing the volume high, catching SWAT in progress.

Basker's voice: “Get the flash bangs!”

I turned my head, pain stabbing my neck. “Tweedles, turn down the live feed! Now!”

I heard one of them say, “What is she talking about?”

“Cover your ears!” I yelled.

But it was too late. The first thud rolled through the van, followed by two more, the sound so close the grenades could've been sitting between the Tweedles. I clasped my hands over my ears, yelled at the Tweedles again, and heard a sound like thunder cracking over my shoulder. Then I heard a scream coming from the back of the van as the metal roof seemed to tear open. On instinct I squeezed my eyes shut for what came next. Light. Blinding light.

When I took my hands off my ears, I heard: “FBI! Everybody down! On the ground!”

I leaned to the right, glancing through the partition. The Tweedles were quivering like gelatin, their fleshy palms pressed against their ears. With one hand, I signaled for them to let go. But they refused. Basker hollered on the live tape, telling the poker players to hit the floor, and a wave of relief swept over me, the peace that prevailed after the shock-and-awe paralyzed the perps.

“What are you saying?” Tweedledata asked, taking his hands off his ears.

“Turn down the live feed,” I said.

“What? I can't hear you.” He turned to his twin. “Can you hear what she's saying?”

They were deaf. I lifted the radio next to me and mimed the motion, raising my voice. “I've got the radio. You can turn down the live feed.”

But just as Tweedledata reached for the sound board, I heard: “He's running—he's running!”

“Hold it!” I said. “Don't touch that!”

The live feed sounded frantic: “You got him?”

“No, I don't have him! Radio—runner!”

Tweedledump cried, “What is going on?”

My radio squawked to life. “All units, we have a runner! Small build, black hair. We lost him!”

I cocked my head. On the live feed, somebody was yelling in the background. Then the radio blared, “All units—take the runner alive! Say again, alive!”

Across the street, headlights flashed. A dark sedan squealed off the curb. My radio squawked again.

“This is SE-14. We see the runner. Heading north. Say again: he's heading north. We're in pursuit.”

But just as suddenly, the car stopped, brake lights flashing, and a figure jumped from the side door, running on foot, disappearing in the dark.

I shoved the gearshift into Drive and stepped on the gas, bouncing over the curb. The Tweedles banged against the walls, yelling. The car stopped at the second intersection.

“This is SE-14,” the radio said. “Who's behind me?”

“SE-12, Harmon with Tweedles. Do you have a read on the runner?”

Pause. “No.”

Silence.

“We'll head west,” he said. “Take the east.”

“Roger.” I turned right, leaning out the open window, my foot riding the brake pedal.

“Why is she slowing down?” asked one of Tweedles.

“How should I know?” said the other.

“She was driving fast then—what's wrong?”

“Get off me!”

“You get off! I was here first.”

“Both of you, shut up!” I yelled.

The next intersection was a four-way stop. I took my flashlight off my belt and scanned the side roads. One was paved, painted with yellow lines, a through-way leading to a main artery. The other road was a narrow strip, pocked, veering off to the right. In the flashlight's beam, broken glass glinted below a crumbling curb. I turned down the road slowly, changing from headlights to parking lights, trying to read the shadowed sides of the road. When we hit a pothole, the undercarriage scraped, creating a long scar of metal.

“She hit something!” screamed a Tweedle.

“We're going to die!”

“She'll get us killed!”

I reached up, slamming shut the partition, then lifted the flashlight, aiming the beam just beyond the hood. The road disintegrated into chunks of black conglomerate, a gravel and tar mess that finally ended at an aluminum lathe fence. It was painted red and restrained rusted automobiles stacked like bodies in a morgue. Next to the dead cars, towers of rubber tires listed to one side. The painted white sign on the fence read SZAFRANSKI'S AUTO PARTS, NO TRESPASSING.

I raked the beam across the fence. Twelve feet high, capped with twisted razor wire, nobody was going over it without a pole vault. I shoved the gearshift into Reverse, backing into the junkyard's gravel lip. But when I tried to turn around, the steering wheel felt rubbery, bouncy, resisting. I let go but it didn't unwind. Leaning out the window again, I shined the flashlight at the ground.

Left front tire. Flat.

I heard the murmured dissonance of Tweedles in back and picked up the radio. How far could I drive without ruining the rim? I wondered whether to call for help now or wait for the dust to settle.

I clicked on the radio's talk button. “Anybody got a read on the runner?”

Four clicks came back. Acknowledged negatives.

Picking up the flashlight again, I raked it along the curb. A long garland of crushed aluminum cans. Greasy paper with yellow arches. Torn plastic bags billowing like ghosts. Lifting the beam, I followed the buckling sidewalk. But it disappeared. There was a steel rail, brown paint peeling like a mean sunburn, and nothing below that. I ran the beam across the black hole in the ground. Some kind of handicap adaptation. Except no entrance anywhere.

My first thought was that some animal was pinned in the corner. Raccoon, rat. I saw wiry fur in the shadows, and when the radio blared, “Anybody, read?” the animal jumped. Then it ducked deeper into the shadows.

Picking up the radio, I lowered my voice, “This is SE-12. I'm east of the warehouse. Worden Road. Send back up. Immediately. I think I have the runner.”