Working quickly, Tim defused the booby trap in the hall, cutting the trip wire and writing an immense warning on the floor with the Sharpie. He resisted the urge to spend time figuring out how to reach Bear through a secure line. Whatever chance he’d have of bringing this conflict to a nonviolent resolution-admittedly slim-would be lost with flashing lights and a marshals-LAPD barricade. A stealth approach was likely necessary to save Kindell’s life.
On his way out, Tim stopped to retrieve his jacket. The Doberman approached him and nuzzled his hand shyly, its eyes red and submissive.
44
Tim eased down the tiled corridor and slid into Room 17, checking the door numerals against the crumpled slip of paper in his hand. Bowrick sat cross-legged in bed, blanket drawn around his shoulders like an Indian chieftain. He started, then pressed his hand to his chest, relief washing across his face. “Can’t you ever knock like a normal person?”
Tim tapped his lips with his index figure and gestured for Bowrick to follow. They made their way out the back entrance, the silence broken only by the admitting nurse’s humming in the lobby.
They’d driven two blocks before Bowrick spoke. “Man, you’re just in time. Nurse Needlestick’s been foaming at the mouth, wanting insurance cards, asking billing questions, all kinds of crap. For the forty-eight-hour hold, you’re free and clear, then they Grand Inquisition your ass.” He glanced up as a green freeway sign floated overhead. “Where we going?”
“You still have your Monument Hill access-control card?”
Bowrick fumbled his key chain out of his pocket and held up the card.
“The two guys who tried to kill you are there. They’ve got a hostage, who they’re planning to hang from the tree. I’m gonna surprise them. I need you to brief me on the monument.”
Bowrick let out a pensive whistle, then chewed his bottom lip and picked at the scab on his arm. “Only way in is the front gate, ’cause the fence is high and they run an electric current across the top. That’s the bad news. The good news is, the gate’s out of view from the monument and quiet when it opens. Steer clear of the dirt path-you can see it pretty well from up top. Just east of it is the most brush cover, and it’s a steeper approach, so it’ll keep you pretty well hidden.”
“How about the monument? How do you get up on it? Platform elevator or anything?”
“Nope. Climb the scaffolding, that’s all. On the back side, there’s some two-by-fours in place like a ladder. They use pulleys to hoist shit up, drop-tubes to junk stuff from up high.”
“What kind of equipment is available? That can be used as weapons?”
“Mostly locked up at night. Probably a few hammers lying around. Oh-and a sandblaster. That fucker’ll strafe your ass, lift skin. Then there’s the usual suspects-steel plates, boards, nails. I’ll show you as we go.”
“You’re gonna stay down the hill. I’ve gone through too much effort for you to get killed now.”
“Why would you care?” His tone, sharp and little-boy bitter, cut through the collaborative mood they’d briefly established. He shifted in his seat, his face taking on a reddish hue Tim usually associated with crying. “Answer me. You’ve dragged me into enough because of all this. I’ve gone along with all your crazy shit. I want to know.”
Tim fought away the first responses that came, knowing Bowrick deserved something more. “Look.” He moistened his lips. “When I got to your house to kill you, when I saw you, I felt like I was looking into a mirror.”
Bowrick’s eyes shifted across the dash. “A mirror. Right.”
“Look at me. Don’t look down, away. That’s just arrogance.”
Bowrick held his gaze, though his face paled and his hands fidgeted in his lap.
“You think you’re so bad nobody else can look you in the eye. Well, I can. We’ve both killed people for the same reasons. And I see that you’re at the beginning of a process that just might be redemption. And I’m betting on that.”
“What if I don’t want that responsibility?”
“If you screw up, I can always come back and shoot you later.”
Bowrick let out a short stutter of a laugh. His grin faded when he saw Tim wasn’t smiling. “Okay.” He nodded, his pale face flecked red with acne. “Redemption. Hell. I never had anything like this I’m supposed to carry until now.”
“And?”
“That’s fine by me. But you better keep studying it, too. Redemption. Because if you’re just gonna look at me and think, ‘Hell, that kid ain’t as bad as I’ve been convincing myself, so maybe I’m not either,’ then, shit, you haven’t learned a damn thing. It’s a path not a status.” He let out a jerky breath. “And I don’t know shit about redemption, but I been walking that path long enough to know you gotta keep walking.”
They came around a bank in the freeway, and there it was, its dark silhouette visible even against the black sky, overlooking both downtown and the 101 like a guardian angel. They reached the base of Monument Hill within minutes, left the car on the street, and crept to the gate. Bowrick flashed his access-control card at the pad, and the gate whirred slowly open. They slipped inside and vectored east of the path, Bowrick leading, Tim clutching his binoculars so they wouldn’t make noise brushing against his chest. He’d taken Betty from the collection of tech treats in the Stork’s dining room, and he held her respectfully at his side, the earpiece coiled around her handle. The Stork had been correct about one thing: There was a good line of sight down the hill on all sides.
Bowrick extended his hand like a shark fin, tracing the route Tim should take up the rugged hillside. Tim nodded, then handed him the car keys and the Nokia, catching his eye so his meaning was conveyed. Gesturing Bowrick to stay put, he began his cautious approach. After a while he bellied back toward the path, forging through a stand of chaparral that blocked his vantage, the speedloaders in his pocket digging into his thigh.
He emerged about a hundred yards from the hilltop. Up ahead loomed the monument, now a complete tree, the metal hide having been laid over the skeletal supports of the tree’s final branches. It remained ensconced within the web of scaffolding, a harmony of primitive planes and angles, a rudimentary form eager to emerge and shake off its shell. On the plateau at the monument’s base sat a Ford Expedition and a Lincoln, parked nose to nose, visible between stacks of metal sheets. Though no one was in evidence, Tim discerned the faint murmur of voices. The uphill breeze quickened, just slightly, but enough to overpower any sound from the hilltop. He aimed Betty up-slope in the direction of the cars, but she picked up little aside from the rumbling of wind across the parabola.
One of the Mastersons stepped into view between two tall piles of metal, and then the other. The dark figures were unmistakable, the swollen chests, the hard taper of the sides, all top-heavy muscle and bellicose posture. The first put his foot up on a sawhorse and lit a cigarette, arm bent across the raised knee. Through the binoculars Tim watched the ribbon of smoke unspool from the dark face. The glowing point of the butt lowered; the mouths moved in conversation. The mood of the twin shadows was stern, focused, decisive.
One pulled open the trunk of the Expedition and yanked a bound man to the edge of the tailgate.
Kindell.
Gripping him with a fistful of fabric at the shoulder blades and a clench of the belt, the man steeled his muscles. Kindell remained limp and contracted, hands bound behind his back, knees curled to his stomach. His captor tugged him hard from the tailgate, letting him drop the four feet to the dirt, doing nothing to break his fall.
Kindell landed flat on his chest and face. Despite the breeze, Betty picked up his pained gasping.
Robert and Mitchell were discussing something. Beneath their voices Tim made out a few spats of radioed correspondence from the service desk officer, in all likelihood issuing from a portable radio that was a counterpart to the one in the Stork’s kitchen.