Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (35 page)

“She’s not going to find out about Leon. She’s not going to go out there. And even if she did, what could she uncover?”

“Him … it. It’s still there under that sculpture I had Leon make.”

“For God’s sake, Brenda, get a grip. If you’re that worried, go out to Leon’s and tell him not to say anything if she comes
around.”

“You can’t
tell
Leon anything.”

“Well, try. And keep an eye on him. Call me back if there’re any problems.”

Walker called him back:

“Well, I think I got through to Leon. I handed him a story in that crazy jargon he’s always spouting, and he fell for it.
I
think
it’s going to be okay. But what if …?”

“Just keep an eye on him. That’s all you can do.”

Another call from Walker, the next day:

“Josh, she was out there! I saw her, and she took a picture of the sculpture on the … place.”

“How do you know that’s what she was taking?”

“Because I stole the film from her camera and had it developed, that’s how! And she was in the house with Leon for a while.
God knows what he told her.”

“You’d better get him away from there for a while. Take him on a camping trip or something. You know the desert; just go hide
out. If McCone does find out about … it, if she does, you’ll be safe till I can get to her and do some damage control.”

“But the sheriff’s deputy—”

“That deputy you’ve got there couldn’t find his ass with both hands, and he sure won’t be able to find you or anything else
in the desert.”

“Okay, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll throw my gear in the truck and go get Leon right away. But what about this McCone woman?”

“I’ll think of a way to take care of her.”

The next call was from Romanchek, telling Josh I’d gone to Monora:

“I don’t know if she’s found out anything. She was very closemouthed about what she’s doing there.”

“You’re pretty damn cool about this, Noah.”

“What do you want me to do, work myself up into a frenzy? Besides, what’s she going to do with the information? Implicate
her own client in a drug frame? She’s got to be sophisticated enough to know these things are done all the time.”

“Maybe, maybe not. And I get the feeling she goes her own way, just like T.J.”

“If she even tries, we’ll slap a multimillion-dollar defamation suit on her, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“If you say so. … You really think we should fly up to Mendo tomorrow?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. For some reason, McCone wants T.J. back here in the city. I want him back, too—it would make it easier
to keep tabs on him.”

“Then I’ll see you at Oakland at nine-thirty.”

There were no other calls until mine to Mick, Chuck Westerkamp, and Nate Evans on Sunday. If Josh had listened to all three,
he’d known Bodine’s body had been identified and that everything was falling apart. The pressure had made him desperate, sent
him after me.

Sometime after I’d left, Brenda Walker called again:

“My God, where’ve you been, Josh? Why don’t you at least leave your answering machine on?”

“Where are you?”

“Little town called Caliente; it’s way to hell and gone over by Utah. I had to come in for supplies. Did you hear what happened?”

“What happened where?”

“Lost Hope, you fool! They dug up the drifter.”

“I know. They’ve identified him, too.”

“Oh, God! And they’re looking for Leon and me; it was on the radio. We can’t go back there, but we can’t hold out in the desert
much longer. It’s getting cold, and anyway, Leon’s driving me crazy.”

“Okay, let me think a minute.”

“… Josh? Why can’t we just give ourselves up and tell them?”

“Leon
must’ve
driven you crazy.”

“No, I mean it. Leon didn’t do anything. All I did was help you bury a body. You didn’t do anything, not really. Anna’s dead.
And Gordon—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Seems simple to me.”

“You don’t know the background on the guy they dug up. It’s not a simple case of him assaulting Anna. But I think I’m getting
an idea that’ll get everybody but T.J. off the hook.”

“You’re forgetting about his detective.”

“I can take care of her.”

“That’s what you said before. How?”

“Just leave it to me.”

“You’re not talking about—”

“Brenda, get your supplies and go back to wherever you’re camped out. Call me in a couple of days. Once I take care of McCone,
I’ll go to the cops and make a painful confession about my employer.”

“Josh, you can’t—”

“Call me in a couple of days. Everything’ll be under control by then.”

I stopped the tape to think over what I’d heard so far. Josh had assumed he’d be on his way to having everything “under control”
by now. Meaning I would be dead and he would be prepared to go to the authorities and confess that Suits had killed Ed Bodine
and buried him in his desert grave.

Only things were not under control—not for Josh, not for Suits, and certainly not for me. Instead, they were veering out of
control very badly, and there wasn’t much left of this tape.

I pressed the play button again. My voice, asking for Gerry Butler’s number in Garberville. Fast forward. Dottie Collier,
letting Josh know about Romanchek’s death.

And Suits’s voice, saying hello.

“Hey boss, where you been?”

“Around and about. Josh, I need you to pick me up in the bird.”

“Sure thing. But did you hear—”

“No time to talk now. Listen carefully. Is the bird ready to go?”

“It’ll need some servicing, might take a while.”

“Call the airport, get them started on it. I’ll phone you there at eleven, give you exact instructions on where to meet me.
Don’t tell anybody you’ve heard from me, okay?”

“Boss, I think you better tell me where you are now.”

“Can’t. This is too important. Remember that, Josh. This might be the most important flight of our lives. Are you with me?”

“… Roger.”

“I’ll call you at eleven sharp.”

One final segment on the tape—Josh calling the airport, asking that the JetRanger be serviced. Then nothing but a faint hiss
as the cassette spun out. When it stopped, I removed it from the machine, held it tightly in my hand.

I had my evidence. And I could foresee the tragedy that was about to happen.

I turned on the dome light and looked at my watch. Ten-forty. In twenty minutes Suits would call Josh at Oakland’s North Field.
He’d give him a destination, probably in some rural area where he was camping out. And Josh would board the JetRanger—the
bird, as Suits was fond of calling it.

I couldn’t get to the airport in twenty minutes. No way.

Josh would contact Ground Control, request clearance to hover-taxi to the helipad for takeoff. If air traffic was light tonight,
he’d be on his way in three to five minutes.

Dammit, I
couldn’t
get there on time.

The JetRanger would cut through the airspace between Oakland and its destination. Josh would be thinking about a final confrontation
with Suits. He’d plan how he’d help his boss aboard the copter … and then what? Kill him? Fake a suicide? It didn’t matter.

Suits wouldn’t board the helicopter. He wouldn’t even let it land. Instead, as he’d told Howie Tso, he’d go bird hunting.

He’d take the AR-15 he’d bought and blow the copter out of the sky.

I snatched up the car phone, called hangar 2C at Oakland Airport. Josh wasn’t there, although the JetRanger was being serviced.
I left a message: “Do not go to pick up Suits; call me immediately.”

I doubted Josh would respond. He’d be afraid it was a trap.

There might be something else I could do, though. If I could locate Suits. If I could convince someone at the law-enforcement
agency there that I wasn’t playing a prank or suffering from a substance-induced hallucination. There just might be a way.
…

* * *

Church Street was peaceful and dark. In my working-class neighborhood people go to bed early on weeknights. Even we baby boomers
who are gradually gentrifying it don’t go in for the wild life on Mondays.

At least not usually.

I shattered the silence by slamming the car door and running up my front steps. Cursed as I fumbled with my keys. The bulb
in the hallway fixture had burned out over a week ago, and both Mick and I had been too lazy to replace it. I groped along
to the sitting room, tripping over a pair of shoes that I’d left there and cursing some more. Snapped on the lamp next to
the archway.

Mick’s radio setup still sat on the card table by the window. I squatted down in front of it, flipped it on. Turned the MHz
transceiver’s tuning knob to 121.9, Oakland Ground Control. Looked at my watch.

Eleven-oh-four.

At first there was nothing but buzzing and crackling. I tuned more finely. Then the rhythms of the nighttime airwaves became
words, as clear as if I were in the cockpit of the Citabria. I listened as Ground Control directed a corporate jet to runway
two-seven right, told a Piper Cub it was cleared for takeoff on two-seven left.

“Ground Control, this is Cessna three-three-five-two-Delta. I’m VFR northbound for Santa Rosa with Bravo …”

“… Five-two-Delta, squawk is four-four-three-four, taxi to runway thirty-four left …”

“… Say again, Ground Control …”

I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, waiting for the familiar voice and aircraft identification number. My fingernails dug
into my palms.

“… Roger, one-six-Yankee …”

“… Go ahead, three-four-niner …”

“… Stand by, Oakland Ground …”

Nine minutes after eleven.

“Come on,” I whispered, pounding my fists on my thighs. “Come on!”

“… One-six-Yankee, acknowledge …”

“… Four-one-Romeo, proceed to executive terminal …”

“… Ground Control, read back, please …”

Eleven-fourteen now.

How much longer?

“Come on, Josh, get into the copter and on the radio!”

“… Correction, Ground Control …”

“… VFR southbound to San Jose with Bravo …”

“… Oakland Ground, this is JetRanger Echo-six-two-two-Tango …”

I leaned forward, intent on the radio’s controls, as if they could bring Josh’s face into focus.

“… VFR westbound for Hunters Point with Bravo. Request permission to proceed to helipad B.”

“Two-two-Tango, squawk is …”

Hunters Point!

All the time I’d been thinking rural encampment, and Suits was practically in my backyard. Down Church to Army Street, a straight
shot east under the freeways, Third Street to—

Too far, too little time. And then there was the problem of getting past Security or over the fence.

The police. Call 911.

Sure, 911—you might as well send a letter through the Postal Service.

Take a chance, go yourself. You’re the only person Suits might listen to.

I jumped up, ran downstairs to the garage. On the cluttered workbench—
somewhere
on the damned bench—was a pair of bolt cutters left over from the house renovations. I switched on the dim overhead, batted
aside spiderwebs, pawed around until I found them. Rushed back upstairs.

“… Oakland Ground, do you hear me …”

I adjusted the tuning to 118.3, Oakland Control Tower.

“… this is one-six-Yankee …”

“… One-six-Yankee, clear for takeoff …”

“… this is two-two-Tango. What’s the holdup?”

“Two-two-Tango, hold for incoming medevac helicopter. I say again, hold for incoming medevac. Acknowledge.”

“Roger, Oakland Tower.”

Somebody’s medical emergency was buying me time. I wished the person well, flipped off the radio, and ran out to the car.

* * *

Church Street to Army. East on Army.

Signal out at Mission. Yield to a Muni bus, then shoot through the uncontrolled intersection.

Past Bernal Heights. Under the freeways. Right on Third, tires squealing.

Over Islais Creek Channel to Evans. Iron-barred storefronts, deep shadows where drug deals were likely going down.

Industrial park, security lights blazing. Quick jog down Innes. Something going on at the leased arts-and-crafts buildings:
lights, voices, hammering—probably setting up for an exhibit. But beyond them, mostly darkness.

I drove along the potholed street, past the buildings. A new extra-high chain-link fence topped with coils of barbed wire
blocked access to the dry docks and the acreage where Suits envisioned his container freight station. Trust his paranoia to
prompt him to replace the old fence with a state-of-the-art model; it had probably gone up the instant he signed the final
papers.

My headlights picked out the rusted Southern Pacific trunk line where it branched off to the west. A new guard shack sat outside
a gate, light glowing in its windows. I cut my own lights, peered at the shack. No one inside.

No guard at night? Even if one was making rounds, another should man the shack.

Electrified fence? Didn’t look like it.

Dogs? No, their presence would be posted. The same for any kind of alarm system.

So why …?

Of course. Suits had sent the guards away. He wouldn’t want witnesses who might interfere with his plan.

I pulled onto the shoulder and stopped the car. Looked at my watch. Thirteen minutes since I’d left my house.

I got out, stuck the bolt cutters in the back pocket of my jeans, reached into my purse for my .38. Locked the purse in the
car and stood on the shoulder, listening.

Distant traffic sounds. Voices drifting from the arts-and-crafts buildings. Sirens, also distant.

No drone of a jet engine, no flap of a rotor. And no lights in the sky overhead.

I ran across the pavement to the fence. Touched it gingerly. Not electrified. The coils of barbed wire at the top made it
nearly impossible to climb. I squatted down and attacked the chain links with the bolt cutters.

Snap-snap-snap.

How long before Josh gets here?

Snap-snap.

A quick trip across the Bay, even though the copter will be diverted up around the Bay Bridge to avoid the most sensitive
part of the terminal control area.