China Lake (42 page)

Finally moving out of earshot, Garrett let go. He unzipped his jacket with a ripping motion. ‘‘Shut up and listen to me, if you want to stay out of jail. I’m NCIS.’’

‘‘You’re a cop.’’

‘‘I’m a civilian investigator for the navy.’’

‘‘Undercover as an officer.’’

‘‘Yes. I’m investigating weapons thefts from the base.’’

Jacked on adrenaline, I angered instantly. ‘‘So you’re a fraud.’’

He had duped me. And, of course, he had done it with my complicity, by pretending to be exactly who I wanted him to be: Action Man, My Hero. He had played me like a banjo.

‘‘We’ve been after the Remnant for months, trying to get evidence that they’re buying stolen weapons, enough to take down this theft ring at the base. We thought this was a break.’’

‘‘What did you do, plant a homing device on my car?’’

He shook me. ‘‘Listen. We
thought
this was a break. Instead it’s bait and switch. And you cannot imagine how much the Bureau and ATF hate being made to look like idiots.’’

I rubbed my eyes. They only burned worse. Near the barn, two agents came into view, flanking Marc Dupree. One of the agents held Marc’s pistol in his hand.

Garrett said, ‘‘This was dangerous and stupid. What was your brother trying to accomplish?’’

‘‘Trying to get his son back.’’

‘‘By trading him for a stolen ’winder?’’

‘‘He didn’t steal anything. The missile doesn’t belong to the navy; it wasn’t stolen from the base.’’

‘‘Then where’d he get it?’’

‘‘I got it. From the China Lake Museum.’’

‘‘You’ll have to do better than that.’’

‘‘If you insist.’’

I took a letter from my pocket. It was typed on museum letterhead and began,
Dear Ms. Delaney: Pursuant to your request, we will be pleased to loan the museum’s decommissioned Sidewinder missile (Case assembly no. 30043-65251957) for your exhibition the weekend of October 30-31
. It was stapled to a shipping invoice and receipt, all stamped and signed by Abbie Hankins.

Garrett smiled sourly. ‘‘Well, aren’t you the clever cookie. I think you’ve just saved your bacon.’’

At the sound of voices we looked up. Outside the barn Brian stood arguing with an ATF agent, jabbing his finger at the man’s face. The agent shook his head, gestured in our direction, and Brian looked around at Garrett.

That was when I noticed that the Remnant’s motorcycles were gone.

Brian charged toward us. ‘‘You.’’ Pointing at Garrett. ‘‘You ran this operation?’’

Garrett stood motionless, watching him come on.

‘‘You idiot. They were about to tell me where Luke is, and now everything’s blown. While you were storming in the barn door, Paxton kicked his way out through the back wall. He’s gone.’’

My stomach dropped.

Garrett said, ‘‘If this op’s blown it’s your fault, Commander.’’

‘‘Bullshit. You weren’t here to rescue my son. Not one of you. You were here to catch the Remnant stealing weapons.’’

Another agent started toward us. Garrett waved him away. He said, ‘‘You had zero authority to act on your own.’’

‘‘But you knew I’d do it, didn’t you? That’s why you blew me off at the jail. You
wanted
me to do it. This was all a setup.’’

I said, ‘‘Wait. Garrett came to see you at the jail?’’

‘‘That day you went out to Angels’ Landing. He came with the FBI.’’

It felt like a steel cable snapping deep within me. That day at Angels’ Landing—Garrett hadn’t left me to rush back to the base. He had returned to town to interrogate Brian. He could have gone with me to the fallout shelter, and together we could have gotten Jesse out. I had told him Jesse needed help, that we had to hurry. . . .

‘‘You absolute bastard.’’

He misunderstood. ‘‘Who, me? This plan of your brother’s was reckless and totally unprofessional. Exactly what I’d expect from a couple of jet jockeys.’’

Brian muscled forward, looking ready to head-butt him. ‘‘Listen, you whiny-assed pilot wannabe—’’

I pushed my way between them and grabbed Brian by the shoulders. ‘‘Stop it,’’ I said, forcing myself to focus. ‘‘We have to do something. Fast.’’

They looked at me.

‘‘Don’t you see what’s happened? Paxton thinks that you poisoned him with anthrax, Bri. He’s going to think you were part of the raid—that you set him up to be attacked by federal agents.’’

‘‘Shit.’’

‘‘They’ll think you set the beast on them, that the battle’s starting. They’re going to attack.’’

‘‘Shit!’’

Garrett Holt was losing his cool. He was pacing in a tight circle, rubbing his temples, and keeping one eye on Brian, who was ready to punch him. He held up both hands, saying, ‘‘Shut up, just shut up,’’ even though we hadn’t spoken.

He pointed at me. ‘‘Glory claimed that the Remnant plans to attack Santa Barbara. Correct?’’

‘‘That’s the flashpoint.’’

‘‘I’ll contact the Santa Barbara police.’’

Brian turned and started toward my car.

‘‘Delaney. Where do you think you’re going?’’

Brian said, ‘‘To find my son and his mother.’’

‘‘No, you’re not.’’

Brian ignored him. Garrett again said, ‘‘Shit,’’ and started after him, his jaw clenched, his face red. I followed, hearing him mutter, ‘‘Freakin’ fighter god.’’ Brian’s crack about him being a whiny-assed wannabe had, I realized, hit home.

I said, ‘‘Let him go.’’

He gave me an acidic look. ‘‘Go? I haven’t even started with you two yet.’’

‘‘I know you’re furious. But you know you can’t arrest us.’’

‘‘Just watch me.’’

‘‘You’ll only end up releasing us. So do it now, when we can still make a difference—’’

He turned and glared. ‘‘You think I’m that stupid? You’re going to run off and get yourself even deeper into this mess.’’

‘‘Come on, you’re still way up on points here. You’ve gathered a wealth of information about the Remnant by tagging along with me.’’

‘‘You don’t call it even with the FBI or NCIS, Evan. That’s not how it works.’’

‘‘We’re wasting time. Look, SBPD can’t comb the entire city. Brian and I would be two extra pairs of feet on the ground. We aren’t going to try to battle the Remnant. We don’t even have weapons.’’

He looked toward the barn and the Sidewinder.

‘‘Give me a break,’’ I said. ‘‘Don’t force us to sweat out an interrogation right now. We’ll come in another time, I promise. Tomorrow.’’

The wind rasped over us. The mountains reared like a wave about to break.

‘‘Luke is Brian’s life, Garrett.’’ I looked into his sea green eyes and swallowed it all—the anger, the resentment, my pride. ‘‘Please.’’

He stared at me for a long while. Finally, for the last time, he said, ‘‘Shit. Where would you go, Tabitha’s house?’’

‘‘Probably.’’

‘‘Make that ‘definitely,’ so I can tell SBPD you’re there and they won’t accidentally shoot you. And I want both you and your brother on base at NCIS tomorrow at oh nine hundred. No exceptions. Got it?’’

‘‘Got it.’’

‘‘Now go. Quickly, before I change my mind.’’

A minute later we were booming down the highway toward China Lake. Brian said, ‘‘We don’t have time to drive to Santa Barbara. Head for the airport.’’

He rented a twin-engine Piper and flew us across the Tehachapis, droning toward the brilliant glare of the ocean. The tailwind chucked us around like a pin-ball. I clawed the seat, holding on, but Brian was unfazed, could have been flossing his teeth for all the strain the turbulence caused him, and came into the airport on a steep, sweeping approach. I looked down at the city. It lay breathless under scoured skies, crystal clear and exposed.

Nikki and Carl Vincent met us at the airport. Nikki hugged me and handed me the morning’s paper. It snapped in the wind like a flag. The headline read, ‘‘Cult Threat to Schools,’’ by Sally Shimada.

Carl pointed across the parking lot at his Jeep Grand Cherokee. ‘‘I can go with you. Four-wheel drive and a full tank.’’

He looked sturdy and stone-certain, standing there in his white button-down shirt, khakis, and owlish glasses. I felt gratitude welling up, an immense fondness for him.

‘‘No. You should get out of town. Drive to L.A. for the day.’’ He started to protest and I said, ‘‘The Remnant knows where you live. Go somewhere.’’

He glanced at Nikki and handed me his car keys. Then he put a hand on my shoulder and said with conviction, ‘‘Fear no evil.’’

The power in his voice rooted me there. Brian snatched the keys. Calling thanks over his shoulder, he pulled me toward the Jeep.

We roared toward Tabitha’s house, up San Marcos Pass and along the switchbacks of West Camino Cielo. Breaking out of the foliage along a ridge, we caught a view down the mountains. I wondered where Paxton was, whether he had sent word to Chenille Wyoming to light the fuse.

Brian jerked the wheel and shot along Tabitha’s rutted driveway. He gunned it right up to the house and skidded to a stop, definitely not coming in under the radar. Reaching into the backseat, he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a handgun.

‘‘Where’d that come from?’’

He racked the slide. ‘‘It’s Marc’s. He got it back from the feds. Now I have it.’’ He opened the car door. ‘‘Stay behind me.’’

We strode to the front door. My heart was pounding. Taking a breath, Brian raised the pistol and turned the knob. Stillness greeted us, a thick silence that contrasted with the wailing wind outside. He waited for a moment, listening, and then charged into the living room.

He stopped. The walls were covered with hideous black-and-white drawings. Tabitha’s eschatological art gallery had expanded to cover every inch of wall space, floor to ceiling. He stared at a picture of the Antichrist with an ax stuck in his head.

‘‘Jesus Christ.’’ His gun arm wavered.

I went past him, looking in the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen. Found nothing. I checked the garage: empty. The supplies Jesse had seen were gone. The only thing left was a piece of paper thumbtacked to the wall, flickering in the wind. It was the Revelation checklist. Smoothing it out, I saw that all the boxes were checked off.

Armageddon, you are go for launch.

In the backyard I found Brian standing at the edge of the lawn, the gun hanging at his side. Beyond the grass, sandstone and manzanita took over, covering the mountainside in a thick tumble all the way down.

His voice barely disguised his frenzy. ‘‘You’ve been here more recently than I have. Had she built a tool-shed, a garden hut, had the Remnant set up a firing range down past the lawn?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘Think, Ev.’’

I thought. She had left a message before, in the fallout shelter. Maybe she’d left one here. I ran back to the house. She would have put it on the living room wall, among the screaming meemies. But there were dozens of drawings. Even if there was a message, how would I find it?

What had drawn Jesse’s eye to the message on the blast door mural? I thought: contrast. It had been black-and-white amid boisterous color. Stepping back mentally, I took in the sweep of the walls, looking for disparity, a break in the pattern. Looked and looked, until I saw, snaking through a sketch above the fireplace, a ribbon of red. It had been sketched quickly— and recently. In the past few days. I looked closer. It was a dragon, wild in the sky, its tail hurling stars down to earth. Revelation twelve. The stars tumbled in a long trail, falling toward a mountainside. This mountainside. This house, and the landscape beyond it.

I rushed outside. A few yards into the brush I found some boulders and climbed up. Now I saw it: a rutted dirt road, nearly obscured by vegetation, running downhill parallel to Tabitha’s driveway. Yelling at Brian to get the Jeep and follow me, I jumped down and started pushing through the bushes, finally emerging onto the road. When Brian caught up I hopped in the Jeep and we jarred along, half a mile down into the dry, overgrown chaparral, until we broke into a clearing and found the decrepit clapboard cabin that had been sketched on Tabitha’s wall.

It had a warped wooden porch running along the front, and a big picture window filmed with dust. There was a detached garage with a heavy padlock on the door. Live oaks framed both structures, heavy branches growing over the roofs. Late-afternoon light ice-picked through the leaves. Santa Barbara Realtors would have pimped the place for $350,000, if not for one other feature: the slavering dog chained to the porch rail. It was yellow-eyed and dusty, a big, shabby animal that lowered its head and began growling when the Jeep drove up.

‘‘It’s a coydog,’’ I said. ‘‘One of Curt Smollek’s rabies incubators.’’

‘‘Wait here.’’

Brian got out. The dog lunged at him, barking furiously. He walked toward it, raised the pistol, and fired. The dog went down. He kept walking, not breaking stride, not even looking at the animal, and stepped onto the porch. With sudden clarity I saw what Tabitha had seen in him, his heart of death.

The door resisted when he tried to open it, and he put his shoulder into it, shoving it open with a crack. He disappeared inside. I leaped from the car, ran to the doorway. The cabin’s interior was dim, and with my eyes tight from the sun all I could see was shadow.

I heard Brian crying.

My eyes adjusted. Brian was kneeling on the floor, cradling Luke’s small form. Luke was utterly silent in his arms. Beyond Brian lay Tabitha, her mouth gagged and her hands bound behind her back, tied to an old iron stove. Her dark eyes were wide, staring fixedly. My breathing failed me.

Abruptly she kicked and squirmed. She grimaced at me, the
don’t just stand there
clear on her face. I saw that Brian was untying a cord around Luke’s hands. Luke’s little fingers flexed and then clutched Brian’s sleeve. His eyes were as round as quarters. Brian pulled the duct tape off his mouth.