Walk Away, page 6
“I know.”
There was more quiet.
“When do you want to leave?” Annabel asked finally.
“Soon.”
“I can’t convince you to stay?”
“There’s no way that would work,” Camaro said.
“I understand. But I’d like another chance to be sisters again. These last couple of years and then all the time you were in the service…it’s like you were on another planet. Getting pictures of you in Italy and Kuwait and Afghanistan wasn’t the same as having you around. You went and disappeared. I think Dad would want us to try.”
Camaro looked outside. In the autumn it would be absolutely beautiful under trees whose branches were bare now but would be a riot of color at the change of seasons. It was not the same in Florida. There were no real seasons there, only times when it was hot and times when it was less hot.
She thought of her father, of a twelve-hour flight from Japan and the quiet, oppressive stillness of the funeral home. He had not looked like himself. He was too thin, and his color was all wrong. She and Annabel barely spoke before the funeral, or after, and then Camaro was gone again. Another flight, and then the lights of Tokyo.
“I love you, Camaro,” Annabel said.
Camaro found it difficult to look at her. “You know I love you.”
“Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Can we come visit you at least? The door’s open now that everyone’s seen us together, so it’s not like it’s a secret anymore. Becca and I can come, and we’ll all go to Disney World together.”
“Disney World is in Orlando.”
“Then we’ll take the bus. Whatever. Don’t you understand that we’re a family, and families belong together? I’ve seen you three times in fifteen years. I don’t want us getting old like this.”
Camaro shook her head. “You don’t want what I’d bring into your world.”
“I’ve survived so far.”
“I know.”
Annabel placed her hands flat on the table. “Then that’s it. We’re going to see each other more, and we’re going to change things. And whenever you start to run away from me, I’m gonna run after you. Because it’s not just me anymore. It’s Becca, too. She deserves to have her aunt in her life.”
Camaro let the slightest of smiles crease her face. “You didn’t just get domestic. You got crazy, too.”
“We’re both crazy, Camaro. You and me. That’s why we need each other.”
“You have to do something for me,” Camaro said.
“What? Anything.”
“Work out your man issues. You’re no good at picking them, and you never have been. I can’t keep coming back to fix your troubles. If you want into my life, you keep your complications out of it. I have things the way I want them. I don’t need another Jake.”
The corners of Annabel’s mouth turned down. “Do you think he’ll come for me?”
“I won’t be here if he does.”
“Wait,” Annabel said. She got up from the table and left the room. Camaro toyed with her teacup.
Annabel returned with a plastic case and a paper bag. She put both of them on the table. They were heavy and thumped solidly. The side of the case was emblazoned with the name GLOCK.
“What are you doing?” Camaro asked.
“It’s…my gun.”
Camaro looked in the bag. Two boxes of .45-caliber ammunition lay inside. She shoved them away and popped open the case. Inside, laid out in foam rubber, was a Glock automatic pistol and two empty magazines. The trigger was equipped with a lock.
She lifted the gun out of the case. “Where did you get this?”
“I bought it online. It’s new.”
“You know how to use it?”
Annabel shook her head.
“Where’s the key?”
“I keep it with my others.”
“Bring it.”
Annabel went and brought them back. Camaro unlocked the gun and set the lock aside. “Tomorrow I want you to get a chain or a thong to hang the key on. Keep it around your neck all the time. You don’t ever put the gun away without making sure it’s secure first. You understand?”
“I understand.”
Camaro opened one of the boxes of ammunition. They were fully jacketed, their heads perfect brass circles buttoned with a primer, arranged in neat rows in their plastic case. She gave a magazine to Annabel. “Load it.”
“I don’t know how.”
“That’s why you’re going to load it now.”
Annabel accepted the magazine and took the first bullet from the case. She tried to put it in backward. Camaro corrected her. The next bullet loaded faster and the one after that. By the time she reached the tenth, she had it down. “What about the other one?”
“We’re going to use that one for practice.”
Camaro’s sister picked up the Glock with nervous fingers. She held it awkwardly. Camaro reached over and steadied her grip. She nodded toward the empty magazine. Annabel fed it into the well. It snapped together with a loud, metallic click. “Okay, now we pretend it’s loaded?”
“Yes, but you can’t make it fire just by putting in the magazine. You need to work the slide. Grab it with your other hand at the top and pull. Good. Now let it go.”
“It’s stuck.”
“That’s because the magazine is empty. When the slide locks back, you’re out of ammo. There’s a lever on the side called a slide stop. Push it with your thumb.”
Annabel jumped when the slide ratcheted forward. “Should I put on the safety?”
“There’s no safety on a Glock. The gun won’t fire unless you pull the trigger all the way through. It’s a good gun. Now stand up and I’ll show you how to hold it.”
They got up together, and Camaro molded Annabel’s form to her own. Annabel aimed out the window, hands together around the weapon, body braced. She put her finger on the trigger. Camaro told her to stop. The only time to touch the trigger was when it was time to fire.
“When it’s loaded it’s going to be heavier than you expect. And it’s going to kick when you pull through,” Camaro said. “You hold it steady like that and keep a firm grip. Aim for the center of the body. Don’t try to hit an arm or a leg. Center of the body.”
“I don’t want to kill anyone.”
“If it’s down to this, you don’t have any choice. Do you want to die?”
“No.”
“What about Becca?”
“No!”
“Then put the shot right in the middle. Don’t hesitate.”
Annabel lowered the gun. “This is crazy. What am I trying to prove?”
“Is there a range around here?”
“In Carmel? Are you kidding?”
“Then we’ll find one. Somewhere you can get practice. Before I go, I want you to be able to draw and fire. You don’t own a gun to show off to people or to make noise. It’s for killing. You have to know how to kill with it.”
Annabel pushed the Glock into Camaro’s hands. “I feel sick.”
Her sister sank into her chair. Camaro sat down with the gun between them, its muzzle pointed in a neutral direction. “I need to know you’re safe when I go.”
Annabel covered her eyes with her hand and nodded. “I know.”
“I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
“I know.”
“Just promise me you’ll do what it takes. Now and when I’m gone.”
“I promise.”
Camaro put her hand on the gun. “Okay.”
Chapter Sixteen
JEREMY YATES DROVE the rented Hyundai Santa Fe from Monterey to Salinas in less than half an hour. The onboard GPS guided him expertly through the little streets of Jacob Collier’s neighborhood until he found the burnt-orange house. Weather that began as a drizzle when he left the airport turned into a full downpour by the time he reached the place. He drove by without slowing, noting the porch light burning but none in the windows.
Yates proceeded to the end of the block and pulled up to the curb. He killed the engine and drew the AMT from its holster to chamber a round. He laid the pistol on his thigh for a moment, breathing deeply and watching Collier’s little house in the side mirror.
The rain didn’t slow, and no one moved around the property. Most of the neighboring driveways were empty, the owners away at work. Once he was certain no one was headed in or out, Yates turned up the collar of his fleece-lined jacket and stepped out into the rain. Instantly his hair was plastered to his skull. His boots splashed in the little rivers streaming along the asphalt, the curb washed in a swirling current.
Yates walked down to the house and stopped at the driveway to survey the property. It was obvious no one was home, his initial impression confirmed. He let himself in through the front gate and braved the pools of rainwater to stand on the flooded porch and look inside.
He skirted the entire house, peeking through windows. Finally, he returned to the front door. He unbuttoned his jacket and produced a slim leather case from an interior pocket and flipped it open. The collection of picks was matte black.
Kneeling at the door, Yates engaged the lock with his picks. The lock itself was as old as the house and very loose. He tried the knob, and the door fell open in silence.
Yates took one last glance toward the street and went inside.
The front room was carpeted thinly, the furniture ramshackle and cheap. The television was the nicest thing in sight, along with the video game console.
He left soaking prints on the carpet as he closed the door. His jacket was sodden. Water dripped from the tips of his fingers and ran down the back of his neck from his scalp. Anyone who paid attention would know someone had been there.
In the kitchen he found a plate with the remains of a burrito stuck to it. The beans were still moist, though the burrito itself was cold. It had not been there more than a day. On impulse, Yates checked inside the refrigerator and found it empty of almost everything except bottle after bottle of Bud Light. The freezer was packed with microwavable meals. The microwave itself was filthy.
Yates went into the hallway that bisected the house and found a small table with a telephone on it and three different books of Yellow Pages. There was no answering machine. He moved on.
The bedroom was a mess and almost seemed as though it had been ransacked by searchers. Yates checked the drawers in the dresser for a gun or a knife, but there was nothing. His gaze alighted on the bed and a yellow piece of paper mostly covered by the sheet.
He pulled the sheet aside and found three pages of carbon copies. It was a police report, scrawled in an uneven hand that was difficult to read. A drop of water fell from Yates’s nose and landed on the topmost page. He brushed it off and kept reading. He made a mental note of two names: Camaro and Michelle Amado. There was an address given. After a moment’s hesitation, Yates folded up the carbon copies and stuffed them inside his jacket.
The bathroom smelled of mildew and body spray. On the closed toilet lid there were discharge papers from a local hospital. Yates flipped through them but found nothing as interesting as the two names in the police report. The report said Collier had been beaten. The hospital documents revealed how badly.
Yates abandoned the discharge papers and made his way deeper into the house. He found the cluttered back room and the laundry nook where Collier’s combination washer and dryer stood empty and quiet. There was nothing to find.
A car horn sounded outside. Yates froze. He put his hand on the .45 at his hip and waited thirty seconds. The horn did not sound again, and no one appeared at the front door. Noiselessly Yates retraced his steps to the front room. He stepped up to the living room window and stood to one side, peering out around the curtains. A car was parked in the street, its hazard lights blinking. As he watched, a woman came down from the apartment building directly across from Collier’s house, a sweater pulled out to shield her head. She dashed to the car and got inside. A moment later it pulled away.
Yates locked the front door behind him and splashed back out to the sidewalk. He ran the rest of the way to the Hyundai and got in. His breath was short, and he coughed forcefully until he produced phlegm. He opened the driver’s door and spat into the street.
The police report was still dry as he unfolded it onto the steering wheel. The address for Michelle Amado was in Carmel, which the GPS said was thirty minutes away.
The house sat bereft of life in the side mirror, promising someone’s eventual return. The police report indicated Michelle Amado was Collier’s girlfriend. Yates looked from the paper to the mirror and back again. He chewed the corner of his mustache.
Yates tossed the police report onto the passenger seat and started the SUV. He twisted the knobs on the dash, and warm air spilled out of the lower vents over his wet legs. He looked at the house again, then put the vehicle into drive and pulled away from the curb.
Chapter Seventeen
HANNON DROVE THE U.S. Marshals Service’s Suburban while Way balanced a laptop on his knees. His phone was between them, sending out a middling Wi-Fi signal the computer could use while they were still in motion. They passed a sign declaring Salinas ten miles away. They had been on the road for thirteen hours without breaks, save to get gas or use the restroom. Way hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours, though Hannon had done better in that time.
“What do you have?” Hannon asked him.
“I have all the information on Jacob Collier, plus the latest off the line from the California Highway Patrol.”
“Any luck with the Ford?”
“No. Lukas has to have switched cars by now, otherwise we would have picked him up for sure. So until he pokes his head up on a camera where we can pull facial recognition, we’re stuck. He could be driving anything at this point. Car, truck, bike. Anything.”
Hannon peered out the windshield at the dark clouds gathering overhead. “This isn’t bike weather. We’re driving into something nasty.”
“I thought California was supposed to be dry.”
“Someone tell the weatherman,” Hannon said, turning on the headlights.
“Right now the only thing we have is the Jacob Collier lead. He was in the hospital yesterday, he checks out, and then he disappears off the face of the earth. Salinas PD says they’re doing drive-bys of Jacob’s place, but there’s nothing so far. He’s not at home, and he’s not at work. His car is exactly nowhere.”
“You think Lukas is already there?”
“I don’t know. He could be. Goddamn it. All I want is ten seconds. In ten seconds it’s all taken care of.”
“You’ll get it.”
Way chewed his thumbnail and watched the speedometer. “We have to pick it up.”
“We’re almost there, Keith.”
“We need to be there now!”
“We’re ten minutes out. There’s no reason to get crazy about it.”
“I’m not crazy about it. I’m thinking we don’t have time.”
“There’s time.”
Way’s knee jiggled as he sat, jostling the laptop like an earthquake. His flesh crawled with the urge to get up and move around.
“Deep breaths,” Hannon said.
“Funny,” Way returned.
A droplet hit the windshield. A second fell, but the real rain was still ahead of them. Way’s leg still jiggled. He put his hand on it to keep it still, but that only worked for a moment.
“Do you want to skip the cop shop completely?” Hannon asked him.
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re so hot to track down Lukas’s brother, we could go straight to the source. Sit on Jacob’s house and see where that leads us. We don’t need to check in with the locals first. There’s time to bring them up to speed.”
Way shook his head. “No. It’d be a waste of time. Lukas will never go to Jacob’s place. He may not know for sure we’re coming, but he has to know somebody’s going to keep an eye on Jacob just in case. No, they’re going to be somewhere else together. A friend’s house. A girlfriend’s place. Somewhere like that.”
“Did Salinas PD give a list of KAs?”
“Got it here. As soon as we’re on the scene, we need to draft some of the locals to hit the list, and while they’re at it they can canvas the whole neighborhood. No stone unturned. Someone has to know his habits, who his people are. We’ll dig it up and throw a net over the whole thing.”
The SUV’s GPS indicated that their exit was coming up. They passed into a sheeting rain, the gloomy skies finally giving up the deluge. Hannon put on the windshield wipers. Way stared out at the rain a moment, then grabbed his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“I’m going to let them know we’re almost there. I want them on their toes.”
Way dialed the chief of the Salinas Police Department, his private line. It rang a handful of times and then went to voice mail. Way cursed and cut the call without leaving a message.
“Local bullshit,” Way spat.
“What’s going on?”
“I tell the chief to be on his line and the asshole doesn’t even pick up,” Way said, his voice rising in the confines of the Suburban. “Does he not get it? Did I not explain it was important? I swear, this is the kind of shit that gets me every goddamned time. Every time!”
“It could be nothing,” Hannon offered, her tone even. “He might be in the bathroom. Call the main switchboard.”
“I shouldn’t have to call the main switchboard.”
“I’m only giving you options. I’m on your side, remember? All the way. That’s what I promised.”
Way rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. They felt gritty and dry, and the sensation had only gotten worse over the course of the drive from Salt Lake City. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right. You’re right.”
“It’ll all work out,” Hannon soothed. “Lukas just ran out of country to cross. We’re at the coast. He’s done.”
Way looked out the window and felt suddenly mournful. “It’ll be done when he’s dead,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
