China Lake (40 page)

Brian said, ‘‘These Remnant girls, their loyalty is phenomenal. I mean, Shiloh took a beating just to set up the scenario. That’s intense.’’

‘‘She didn’t. Jesse gave her that black eye with the Club.’’

He looked over. ‘‘No shit?’’

‘‘No shit.’’

‘‘Good for him.’’

Low buildings flashed past, hunkering in the heat.

Brian said, ‘‘He’ll hang tough, Ev.’’

Damn straight he would. Jesse’s whole life was about hanging tough. Had Brian just now seen that? ‘‘Yeah, I know.’’

He was quiet for a moment. ‘‘One thing. Where’d Chenille go?’’

I had wondered that myself. ‘‘She lets other people do the dirty work, so she won’t be implicated. She’s cagey.’’

‘‘Big Mama, pulling the strings offstage.’’

I watched the heat shimmering off the asphalt. ‘‘It’s your strings she’s pulling. She has been all along.’’

He raced along. Being in China Lake seemed to turn us both into adolescent drivers, lead-footed with the gas pedal.

I said, ‘‘Her animosity toward you apparently goes way back. What happened between you in high school? Did you insult her, cold-shoulder her, stand her up, what?’’

‘‘It’s irrelevant. She’s a hostile person. She hates everything.’’

‘‘It’s relevant if it helps predict her behavior.’’

‘‘She’s after me because she wants weapons. End of story.’’

I didn’t think it was. Brian’s eyes were black and colder than a snake’s. But he wasn’t going to say more about it.

‘‘The wild card here is Paxton,’’ he said. ‘‘He gets a hard-on just thinking about bloodshed.’’

‘‘You don’t think he’s going to follow the script?’’

‘‘He’ll write his own script.’’ He ran through a red light. ‘‘What’s the idea behind leaderless resistance? The power of a dedicated individual to carry out cataclysmic acts of violence. That’s Paxton. He has his own ideas, and I don’t think they involve following a woman into battle. Not after seeing how he treated Tabitha . . .’’

He braked, swearing hotly. He had driven past his own street. He jammed the Explorer in reverse.

‘‘By the way.’’ He nodded toward my gold crucifix, shining in the sun. ‘‘I know that was Grandma’s, but how can you wear that thing?’’

‘‘It’s a cross. Don’t confuse the Remnant with Christianity.’’

His stare was bitter. ‘‘There isn’t any God, Evan. Up there beyond the atmosphere there’s nothing but a howling vacuum.’’

I had never seen him openly afraid before. All his supports were gone, his whole life hauled out from under him. He swung around onto his street, pulled into his driveway, slammed the door getting out. Halfway up the front walk I stopped him.

‘‘Luke prays for you, Bri. Give him credit for knowing when something’s worthwhile.’’

The skin around his eyes stretched tight. He stared at his boots, blinked, gathered it back. ‘‘Thanks. But Luke believes in Santa Claus, too.’’

Inside, Brian threw the car keys on the kitchen counter. The house smelled like paint and antiseptic floor cleanser. I’d had it cleaned by a company that specialized in mopping up bloody crime scenes, people I’d found in the Yellow Pages. Sign of the times.

It couldn’t have been a minute later that the phone rang. We looked at each other, and I picked it up.

‘‘Put your brother on.’’

It was Ice Paxton. Brian took the phone, leaning close to my ear to let me hear.

‘‘Told you,’’ Paxton said. ‘‘Free and clear.’’

‘‘So you’re a man of your word. Halle-fuckin’-lujah. ’’

Paxton sucked his teeth, cleared his throat. ‘‘You wearing a watch?’’

‘‘Just tell me what you want.’’

‘‘You better synchronize. By my clock it’s one twenty-two p.m. You got twenty-four hours to get what you promised.’’

Brian’s face was gun-barrel rigid. His line of sight focused beyond the walls.

‘‘Did you hear me, Delaney?’’

‘‘Loud and clear.’’

‘‘We’ll call back and tell you where to make the delivery.’’

‘‘No. I’ll tell you.’’

‘‘You don’t got no say in this.’’

‘‘I’m not dropping off cash, you jackass—it’s a BW warhead, extremely volatile. I can’t just toss it in a Dumpster behind Wal-Mart. I’ll tell you when I have a safe location secured.’’

‘‘Don’t mess with us.’’

‘‘You bring Luke and Tabitha. Otherwise I abort.’’

Paxton hawked. ‘‘Officers. All of you the same— think you run the world. Twenty-four hours, clock’s ticking.’’

Brian dropped the phone back in its cradle. He leaned against the counter. Veins stood out on his arms.

I said, ‘‘Are you going to call the police?’’

‘‘No.’’ He turned to me. ‘‘There’s only one person I trust with Luke’s life, and that’s you. So get yourself in gear.’’

I felt the boosters kicking in. I knew what he was offering me. Brian renounced the possibility of God, saw a barbarous and insensate universe, but by trusting Luke’s life to me he was giving me a chance for redemption.

I said, ‘‘Now what?’’

‘‘Now we get ourselves a warhead.’’

I said, ‘‘Leave that to me.’’

When I pulled into her driveway Abbie Hankins had just walked her kids home from school. The front door was open, backpacks and small shoes and bunched socks clogging the entryway, air-conditioning rolling outside into the angled afternoon sun. I had three Happy Meals, a quart of Pralines ’n’ Cream, and a six-pack of Coors, Abbie’s beer. I knocked.

Abbie stuck her head into the hallway from the back of the house. ‘‘Here for the Weight Watchers meeting, are we?’’

‘‘I thought the kids could eat while we talk.’’

While the kids tore into the food, Abbie poured two glasses of iced tea, handed me one, and said, ‘‘Let’s sit out on the patio.’’ We settled onto rickety metal deck chairs and she said, ‘‘Okay. Shoot.’’

‘‘I need a favor. A huge one that could get you in trouble.’’

‘‘Something illegal?’’

‘‘Unquestionably. But it could save Luke’s life.’’

In the sunlight her hair shone Valkyrie blond. She said, ‘‘I got you in big trouble once with something illegal. And you got me out of big trouble recently. I’m doing the arithmetic, and you’re coming out on the ‘greater-than’ side of this equation.’’

‘‘Want me to tell you?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Help me steal the Sidewinder missile from the China Lake Museum.’’

Back at the house, Brian met me at the door. ‘‘Results?’’

‘‘Tonight at eleven. Abbie will meet me at the museum with the key.’’

He clasped my shoulder. He looked, I thought, surprised. ‘‘Good girl.’’

‘‘But once I get it you have to be ready to roll. I’m not parking my Explorer on the driveway with a big-ass rocket sticking out the back.’’

‘‘We’ll drive it out to the meeting site while it’s still dark.’’

‘‘All right.’’ We headed into the kitchen. ‘‘And for your information, you get three chances to call me ‘good girl,’ and I mean in your lifetime.’’

Standing at the kitchen table was Marcus Dupree. ‘‘Better learn, man. You don’t say ‘good girl’ unless the woman in question wears diapers, or she’s a golden retriever. Good afternoon, Evan.’’

‘‘Marc.’’

He was making amends, I thought. I hadn’t seen him since the day I’d told him off, charged him with being no friend to Brian. He was in civvies, jeans and a Naval Academy T-shirt, but still looked martial.

‘‘You’ve been shopping,’’ I said.

On the table lay two slim fire extinguishers, several small aerosol canisters, and an assortment of bits and gadgets from Radio Shack—sensors, LEDs, and two electronic thermometers.

I said, ‘‘What’s for lunch?’’

‘‘Anthrax,’’ Brian said.

‘‘Holy Christ.’’

‘‘Or sarin gas. I haven’t decided.’’

Marc said, ‘‘Maybe it’s plutonium particulates. They’ll mess their shorts; I guarantee it. You can’t go wrong with radioactivity.’’

I said, ‘‘I love it when guys cook.’’

Brian said, ‘‘I promised these assholes a BW warhead, so that’s what we’re going to give them. We’re kludging together ‘detectors’ to prove that we’re delivering the goods.’’

Marc pointed at the Radio Shack gadgets, said in his jazz-deejay voice, ‘‘We could rig them to act like Geiger counters, add a clicking sound.’’

I picked up one of the little aerosol canisters. ‘‘What’s this?’’

‘‘CS gas,’’ Brian said.

‘‘Pepper spray?’’

‘‘Just in case.’’

‘‘In case what?’’

‘‘In case the Sidewinder doesn’t sufficiently impress them. If things get squirrelly, I want to disable and confuse them quickly. The CS gas can do that.’’

‘‘And the fire extinguishers?’’

‘‘I’m putting one in the ’winder. Know how fast people run when they see smoke shooting out the end of a missile?’’

He saw my thoughtful look.

‘‘I’m not taking firearms into the exchange. Luke’s going to be there,’’ he said. ‘‘The Remnant’s a bunch of amateurs. I don’t trust them to hold their fire in a tense situation, and my carrying a weapon would simply make them more trigger-happy. I’m not going to take that risk. Marc will be outside, so he’ll be armed. But I have to do it another way.’’

I gazed over the items on the table.

‘‘If things turn sour,’’ I said, ‘‘you want to do more than disable the Remnant. That will be difficult anyway, considering that they’ll probably outnumber us.’’

‘‘You’re not coming.’’

‘‘Bro. Don’t be asinine. My point is, you’re creating the illusion that you’ve got a biological warhead, so why not extend the illusion to scare the Remnant, and
control
them if things go bad.’’

He crossed his arms. ‘‘Go on.’’

I pointed at the electronic gadgets. ‘‘You’re engineering detectors to convince them that the warhead is lethal. Take it a step further. Engineer the warhead to release the biological warfare agent if Paxton doesn’t behave.’’

‘‘Doesn’t behave. Doesn’t set Luke free, you mean.’’

‘‘Yes. You should be ready to force his hand.’’ I was also thinking that we could force Paxton to tell us what had happened to Jesse. I picked up a spray canister. ‘‘If he double-crosses you, gas him.’’

He rubbed a hand across his chin and started pacing. ‘‘Wouldn’t that mean exposing myself to the BW agent as well?’’

‘‘You’ve been vaccinated against anthrax. Paxton hasn’t.’’ I turned to Marc. ‘‘This nixes the plutonium idea. Brian couldn’t claim to be vaccinated against radioactivity. But if he makes them think he’s exposed them to germs—’’

‘‘You could offer them an antidote.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’

They looked at each other. A scimitar smile transformed Brian’s face. ‘‘I like it.’’

Marc said, ‘‘This crowd knows about anthrax vaccinations for the military. They’ll know you haven’t been immunized, Evan.’’

‘‘Then I’ll have to take the antidote. It can be part of the act.’’

He thought. ‘‘They may also know that antibiotics can cure anthrax.’’

‘‘Not secret, bioengineered military anthrax they can’t.’’

He nodded. ‘‘I can provide syringes. Sheree’s diabetic. ’’ He explained, ‘‘My wife.’’

Brian said, ‘‘Getting sprayed with anthrax would be painless, though. Pepper spray leaves you screaming and coughing on the ground, half-blind for an hour.’’

‘‘So dilute it, give them a tiny dose, something. You guys know how to handle fifty million dollars’ worth of fighter jet; you can surely manage to fiddle with a spray can.’’

Brian was nodding, thinking. ‘‘It won’t fool them for long, but maybe long enough.’’ He glanced at me edgewise. ‘‘You certainly have a dishonest imagination. ’’

‘‘The venom of asps is under my lips. Let’s get to work.’’

Abbie was waiting when I backed the Explorer up to the rear door of the China Lake Museum. The night sky unrolled above us, moonless, punched with stars. The wind keened like the dead. The Explorer’s tailgate sat half-open, and protruding from it were lengths of PVC pipe. I planned to place the Sidewinder underneath them, slide a short pipe over its nose, stuff a towel in the end, and hang a flag off the back. That way, when I cruised down China Lake Boulevard it would appear that I was doing some midnight plumbing, not packing a heat seeker, maybe looking to dogfight Range Rovers.

Abbie unlocked the door. ‘‘What a way to spend Saturday night.’’

‘‘It beats the Lobo.’’

We hauled a section of pipe from my car and carried it inside. Abbie closed the door and flipped on a light. The stuffed animals in the display cases jumped into eerie relief, synthetic eyes glaring blindly.

Abbie said, ‘‘You’re going to bring the missile back, right?’’

‘‘On my honor.’’

She set the pipe down. ‘‘By Monday. Then, just maybe, I won’t get fired.’’

‘‘This should all be over by tomorrow afternoon.’’

‘‘Cool.’’ She pulled out a large screwdriver and started unscrewing the Sidewinder from its display mount.

I reacquainted myself with the missile: a ten-foot needle, six inches in diameter, with guidance fins near the nose and on the tail. Those tail fins, too big to fit inside a PVC pipe, would have to ride next to me, resting between the front seats of my car. I looked at the rest of the exhibit, Technicolor photos of fireballs and shrapnel.

Abbie spun the screwdriver. ‘‘Relax, it’s unarmed, no warhead or propellant. I’m almost positive.’’

‘‘Ha-ha. Remember that air show, where the navy let kids sit in a fighter cockpit but forgot to disconnect the ejection seat? Some little seven-year-old—’’

‘‘Stop.’’ She held up a hand, looking stricken. ‘‘Don’t talk about kids getting hurt. I can’t stand it.’’

And that, I knew, was why she had agreed to help me—not to repay a debt to me, or because she had a residual wild streak, or even because the Remnant had set loose the coydog that attacked her. She couldn’t stand by while these people threatened a child’s life.