Once over the first rise, McCaleb could see that the drive led to a trailer home set on the next rise. The ticking of anticipation began in his chest when he saw the small dish mounted on the flat roof. As he got closer, he could see there was no car parked under the aluminum carport. He also noticed a small Quonset-style storage shed at the back of the property near an old fence. Sitting on top of several of the fence posts were bottles and jars, as if set out for shooting practice.
The sound of the Cherokee’s tires turning on the crushed shells obliterated any possibility of a quiet approach. It also robbed McCaleb of the chance to listen until he stopped the car.
He pulled into the carport and stopped. He turned the key off and sat frozen still and listened. There was only silence for two seconds and then he heard it. The sound was muffled by the trailer’s aluminum siding, but he heard it. The ringing of a telephone inside the trailer. McCaleb held his breath and listened to it ring over and over until he was sure. He blew out his breath and felt a jolt go through his heart. He knew he had found them.
He got out and approached the trailer’s door. The phone kept ringing, at least ten times now since he had stopped the car. He knew it would keep ringing until he got inside and answered it or somebody ventured into the phone booth at the Pemex station and hung up the receiver.
He tried the door and found it locked. Using the ring of keys he had taken from Crimmins’s pants, he tried several in the knob until he had the door open. He stepped into the quiet and warm trailer and looked around what seemed to be a small living room. The shades had been drawn and it was dark except for the glow of a computer screen that sat on a table against the wall to the right. McCaleb reached to the wall to the left of the door and found a light switch. He flicked it and the room was illuminated.
It was much like the warehouse he had discovered in L.A., crowded with computers and other equipment. There was a small sitting area apparently reserved for relaxation. None of it meant anything to McCaleb. He didn’t care anymore. He had come for only two reasons.
He stepped into the trailer and called out.
“Graciela? Raymond?”
He heard nothing in reply. He thought about what Crimmins had said, about them being in a black hole. He turned and looked out the door, his eyes scanning the desolate landscape. He saw the Quonset shed and started that way.
With the heel of his palm he banged on the padlocked door and the noise echoed loudly inside but there was no answer. He fumbled as he got the keys out again and quickly jammed the small key with the Master Lock logo on it into the lock. Finally, he swung the door open and stepped into the darkness. The shed was empty and McCaleb felt a great tearing inside.
He turned and braced himself in the doorway, his eyes downcast as his mind filled with a vision of Graciela and Raymond, their arms around each other, in complete darkness somewhere.
That was when he saw it. On the crushed-shell drive in front of him there was a clear depression pattern crossing the two patterns made by a vehicle’s tires. There was a trail across the drive, heading in the direction of the sloping hill’s crest. It looked to McCaleb as if there was nothing out that way, yet someone had walked there enough times to leave the trail across the drive.
His strides increased to a full run as he headed in the direction the trail led. He came over the crest and in the drop-off below he saw the flat concrete foundation of a structure that had never been built. He slowed to a walk as he approached, wondering what he had found. Rusted iron rebars and plumbing pipes protruded from the concrete. An old pick and a shovel had been left lying on it. There was a step up onto the slab at the spot where a door obviously was to be placed but never was. McCaleb stepped up and looked around. There were no doors to a basement, nothing he saw that matched what Crimmins had said.
He kicked at one of the brass water pipes and looked down into the four-inch main pipe upon which a toilet was supposed to have been placed. In that moment he knew where they were.
He spun around and his eyes covered the ground around the slab. Noting that the step would be the front of the structure, he concentrated on the ground to the rear, looking for the spot where the plumbing would lead; a septic tank. His eyes immediately picked up an area of dirt and rock that he could tell had recently been turned. He grabbed the shovel and ran.
It took him five minutes to clear the dirt and rock off the top of the tank. He knew they had air; the pipes up to the slab would provide it. But he worked as if they were suffocating below him. As he finally opened the manhole-sized cover of the tank, the sky’s dying light swept in and he saw their faces. They were scared but alive. McCaleb felt a great lifting of weight off him as he reached down to them.
He helped them out of the darkness, their eyes crinkled against even the weak early-evening light. Then he held them so tight he thought that he might hurt them. Graciela was crying, her body shaking against his.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s over now.”
She pulled her head back and looked in his eyes.
“It’s over now,” he repeated. “He won’t hurt anybody ever again.”
THE BILGE WAS a claustrophobic crawl space full of the dizzying fumes of gasoline. McCaleb had an old T-shirt wrapped around his face like a bandit but still the fumes filled his lungs. There were nine bolts that held the fuel filter he was changing in place. He had three in and tightened down. He was struggling with the fourth, angling his face forward in a vain effort to keep the sweat from running into his eyes, when he heard her voice above him.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
McCaleb dropped what he was doing and jerked the shirt from around his face. He crawled to the open hatch and came up. Jaye Winston was standing on the dock waiting for him.
“Jaye. Hey, what’s up? Come on aboard.”
“No, I’m on the run. I just wanted to stop by and let you know they found him. I’m on my way down to Mexico.”
McCaleb raised his eyebrows.
“He’s not alive. He killed himself.”
“Really?”
“We’re dealing with the Baja Judicial Police so nothing is for sure until I get down there, but they found him washed up on the beach in a place called Playa Grande. Down on the coast. Shot himself in the heart. A boy who takes care of horses on the beach found him. That was two days ago. We just got the news.”
McCaleb looked around. He saw a man in a white shirt and tie loitering near the gate to the gangway. Her partner, he assumed.
“Are they sure it was him?”
“They say so. The description is close. Plus they tracked him back to a trailer off the beach. They found computers, photos, all kinds of stuff. Looks like our guy. Plus he left a good-bye note on the computer screen.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, this is all secondhand, but essentially he took responsibility for his actions and said he deserved to die for them. It was short and sweet.”
“They find a weapon?”
“Not yet but they’re sweeping the beach with metal detectors today. If they find it, it will probably be our HK P7. The bullet taken during the autopsy was a Federal FMJ. We’ll see if we can borrow it for comparison to our cases up here.”
McCaleb nodded.
“So how are they playing it out?”
“Pretty simple. The guy knows we’re on to him, gets an attack of remorse, writes his note and goes down to the beach, where he puts one in his heart. The tide took him into the rocks there and the body got hung up. That’s why it wasn’t carried out to sea. We’re going down to have a look at things. And to get prints. Probably won’t get gunshot residue because the body was in the water. But one thing’s for sure, were not going to close it unless we’re absolutely sure it was Crimmins.”