"Come here." He walked out, Sam at his heels, and shoved open the door to Tess's room.
Walker reached the mass of clothes crowding the closet. Some of the items he recognized from his childhood. Tess had never been any good at giving away old clothes. Too many years being broke, too many times coming up short for a date, a job interview, an outing with a new friend. Some of her clothes from her teenage years had cycled back into style once or twice already, and some never would.
Walker turned, expecting Sam at his side, but Sam stood in the hall, two feet back from the threshold. "Come on. Come in here."
Sam's face was red, maybe from crying or maybe because he was going to again. He didn't move.
From the kitchen Kaitlin yelled, "Dinner in fifteen, Sammy!"
"Get over here," Walker said.
His lips trembling, Sam regarded the white patch of carpet, the neatly made bed. He took a cautious step forward, one shoulder raised nearly to his chin, half cowering. He kept his eyes on the floor and stepped quickly to Walker's side. His hand reached out and grabbed at one of the cargo pocket flaps on Walker's pants. He twisted, pulling at the fabric.
Walker pointed at the virtual wall of fabric. "What did she wear to the shoot?"
Sam raised a quaking hand and scratched his shoulder. "A yellow one, but it's not here."
Walker caught a haze of yellow through the window of a garment bag. He tugged the bag free, unzipped it, and laid it open, exposing a run of fabric. "This one?"
A nod.
"Okay. Get outta here."
Sam ran from the room. Walker pulled the sundress free. One thin cornflower blue strap had been torn. A rip extended the side slit.
Had Tess been raped in this dress? Just mauled? He thought of his sister, like all those skinny, scared kids hauled to Boss's cell.
The assailant had lent her the car to get home. Gentlemanly. She'd ridden away from the shoot, jacket zipped to her chin so Sam wouldn't know. And then, ever mindful, she'd stored the evidence, readying for a counterattack she hadn't lived to make.
Walker shouldered against one of the broken closet doors, clutching the puddle of fabric in both hands. His head hummed, the sound the power lines give off over a desert road where nobody lives important enough to complain.
He balled the dress and stuffed it back into the closet. It took his legs a moment to respond, and then he walked out.
For once Sam's TV was dark. He sat on the floor, knees poked up into his T-shirt like he was cold. Walker paused at his doorway. Looked back. Gave him a little nod.
Sam nodded back.
Chapter 45
Through the humid night air, Tim and Bear could hear the popping of ammo and the strained shouts of hunters stalking prey. Darkness had settled over the Ballona Wetlands, the largest habitat of its kind in Los Angeles. A decades-old struggle between developers and environmentalists had resolved for the time being with the city relinquishing a few scattered parcels to environmentally friendly businesses. Industry's encroachment was nothing new; the Spruce Goose had been constructed on these very wetlands back when Howard Hughes held the deed.
An Olds Cutlass Supreme from the seventies was parked by the awning, looking postcard pristine with its broad, smooth hood, a sparkling powder blue coat, and a restored white soft top devoid of bird shit-no small feat in the wetlands. The license plate inquired provocatively, RUGAME?
Behind the building, green netting enclosed the fifteen-acre preserve. Tim and Bear walked along the perimeter, peering in, their shoes sinking in mud. The hunt-zone motif was Disneyland jungle-wide fronds, pump waterfalls, mud wallows, camo-splattered boxing heavy bags feathered with leaves and swinging like mini-golf distractions. Tim caught a flash of flesh deep in the foliage, the frenzied run of the outgunned, and then the chuffing of four men, hunting in pairs, closing the distance.
By the time he and Bear retraced their steps to the entrance, his cuffs clung wetly to his ankles. They stepped into the lounge and took a moment getting their bearings, Bear readjusting the star on his belt like an old-school deppity. The roomful of men hummed with the locker-room and private-club glee of the unsupervised. A focused gentleman at the bar practiced a spin move into the holster, dropped his paintball gun, and patiently set up for another try. Thumbtacked to the bamboo wainscoting were flyers advertising used equipment, martial arts classes, and car pools to gun shows and paintball tournaments.
"Car pools?" Tim read incredulously.
Bear said, "Hard to get around when you live with your mom."
Three middle-aged guys with aggressive sideburns were oohing and aahing over a new scope, ignoring the woman with porn-star dimensions nestling into the lap of a self-satisfied gentleman. Evidently hard feelings didn't persist after the pursuit. Not when there was recompense for making nice.
One of the lap dancee's clean-cut cohorts did a double take at Tim.
Tim offered him a curt nod. "Your Honor."
The justice hastened for the exit, reseating his tie and frowning severely as if on to weighty matters. Tim and Bear pressed on past the tiki zone. An undulating gauze curtain led back to the preserve. In the rear office, which doubled as a staging area, a group of eager weeknight warriors, tacked up from camo socks to face paint, endured an orientation; their group hunt was about to kick off.
Someone was streaming an MPEG from Iraq on his PalmPilot, sharing the footage with a cluster of onlookers. Tim recognized the distinctive percussion of twenty mike-mike rounds, the whooping blades of either an Apache attack helo or a Cobra Gunship. "Check it out," the ringleader said. "The terrorist pops back into view and"-assorted cries and exclamations drowned him out-"just disintegrates."
From all sides carried snatches of other conversations, rife with buzzwords.
"— got a new Violent bolt for his Intimidator. The bad boy's Teflon, so the internal diameter stays nice and smooth-"
One voice, notable for its high tenor, stood out from the cacophony. The hefty presenter in the staging area paced in front of the rookie shooters like a drill sergeant. "No shooting under five meters. No head shots. Don't aim for the genitalia. Bouncers don't count-only bursts. Everyone sign your waivers?"
A price board behind the counter announced the fifteen-hundred-dollar entry fee. To the side a video tech gone bulky with elbow and knee pads adjusted the settings on his digital camera.
Tim knew before he saw the name on the speaker's nickel badge. Wes Dieter's discerning gaze snagged on one of his charges. "Get your barrel plug in, pal. This isn't a game."
Bear couldn't stifle a guffaw, and five pairs of night-vision goggles swiveled toward them. "Hey, man," one of the paintballers said, gesturing at Tim, "it's the Troubleshooter." A few of the guys offered waves, and one chucked Tim's shoulder. Tim caught Wes staring, too-that odd blend of reverence and disquiet.
Good to know his fame had reached such rarefied circles.
Wes returned his focus to the men before him. "You boys ready to hunt some pussy?" A chorus of cheers. "Candy Racer, you're on!"
A side door banged open, and out paraded an Asian woman with flawless tanned skin and breasts too high and hard to have been factory equipment. She wore goggles, low-cut tennis socks with lime-green poofs at the heels, black Pumas, and that was it.
Bear's mouth finally got the better of him. "Can't you at least give the girl a helmet?"
Wes cast a know-it-all gaze in his direction. "Deers don't wear helmets, do they?"
"I believe it's 'deer.'"
"What?"
"The plural of 'deer' is 'deer.'"
"I said 'deer.'"