Absolute Rage (51 page)

He shrugged. “Hey, no biggie. It's not like we were engaged or anything.” She was silent. He examined her more closely.

“What's wrong? You're not sick, are you?”

“No, I'm not sick.” Her voice was dull. Why had she come here? To share the torment? Why don't I just fuck him and get it over with? At least I would be doing someone some good. As soon as this thought appeared, she felt something shrivel in her and thought of her mother.

“Your mother was by a day or so ago,” Dan said conversationally, as if reading her mind.

Her head snapped up, as if she had been stung. “My mother? What did she want?”

“Just some maps. When she first got here, I showed her some hi-res topo and side-scan sonar maps of the county. Mine shafts, coal seams, and all that. She wanted me to cut her a CD of a couple of sections—Burnt Peak, surface and sub. She paid me, too.” He paused and looked closely at Lucy again. She had stiffened, was chewing nervously at her lip.

“Did she say what they were for?”

“Yeah, she said the cops needed them for their operation against the Cades. It's proprietary stuff from the company. The cops won't have anything that good. That's what she told me anyway. What's wrong now?”

Lucy had jumped up, leaving the rocker swaying. “Quick, where's the nearest phone?”

“In the house. Who do you want to . . . ?”

But she was gone, running down the outside stairway. He followed. She ran through the back door. She was on the phone when he came in, twiddling a credit card in her hand, tapping her foot, mumbling impatiently.

“Chao ong, Ba Diem?”
said Lucy, and then began speaking rapidly in a twittering, tuneful language.

When she hung up, her face was tight-jawed and grim. “They're all gone. And she doesn't expect them back. Oh, Christ, that stupid woman!”

“What? Who's all gone? Who were you talking to?”

“I called Bridgeport. Tran's house.”

“That Vietnam guy?”

“Yes. He's gone and his whole army's with him. I talked to his housekeeper. She said Tran told her I might call. He said to tell me not to worry and he'd be in contact later.”

“I don't get it. What army?”

She took a deep breath. “The maps. I think my mom has arranged for Tran to attack the Cades on Burnt Peak. God, how come I didn't see it! All that sneaking away, the helicopter jumping up and down . . .”

“You think he's really going to do it?”

“Yeah, I do. Look, Dan, can you print out those maps you gave my mother?”

“Sure, but why—”

“Please, just do it! There might still be time to stop them.”

Dan pushed some buttons. A DeskJet hummed and clicked into action and sheets of brightly colored paper slid out onto a tray.

“Show me how to read them.”

They spread them on the bed, and he pointed out what the false colors meant and how the subterranean views related to the standard topographic ones, and the various structures, old mine workings, and the place where the Cades had their stronghold.

“What are you going to do,” he asked as she pored over the maps, “tell the cops?”

“Why would I want to do that?” She put her finger on a sheet. “What does it mean when a red line is broken like that?”

“A cave-in, usually. The red lines are voids, shafts or adits, the ones that go transversely. Here, see, where the red line intersects with green, it means the shaft hits the surface. Where it intersects with brown or black or gray, it means the shaft hits rock or coal.”

She kept studying the maps, flipping from one sheet to another. Fifteen minutes passed this way, with only an occasional question.

“Lucy, if you're not going to call the cops, what're you planning on doing?”

“I'm going to go up there. Here! Look at this!”

Her finger traced a red line. “There's an opening on the west side of the mountain. And it goes through to a shaft that opens right in the middle of these structures. Is that right?”

“Yeah, that'd be the old Canker Run mine. What do you mean you're going to go up there?”

“This has to be it. It's the only place where a road comes close to an abandoned mine tunnel, and they'd want that. They'll be hauling heavy stuff. It's a way to penetrate the perimeter the cops must have around the mountain. You say people around here don't know about all these shafts and things?”

“Oh, they know about them, but not how they interconnect. Most of these tunnels were dug by wildcat miners, back before Majestic consolidated the county. This here's the first and only—”

“Right, and so no one will be watching this hole. When they come out, they'd be west and above where the Cades are, good observation and a strong position in case of counterattack. They could assault through this dead ground to the south or down this creekbed from the northwest.” She sprang to her feet and gathered up the map sheets, folding them neatly and sticking them in the back pocket of her shorts.

“I have to go,” she said.

*  *  *

Lester Weames dialed the number he had been given, the one from that package. He rubbed his chest. He'd had heartburn on and off ever since the thing had arrived and he'd realized that Mr. Ballantine knew who he was and what he had done. Somehow this was even more disturbing than George Floyd's defection. George he could deal with, but Ballantine was a complete monkey wrench, a shocking surprise.

The phone rang twice. A gravelly voice said, “Weames.”

“How . . . how did you know . . . ?”

“It was you? Weames, you're dealing with a professional organization here. Naturally, we have a phone line for each client. It's not like we do a volume business. When the job is done, we cancel the line. Speaking of jobs, how did you like the low bidder you used?”

“Okay, I was wrong. I made a mistake. I need to clean some things up. Your message . . .”

“Yeah, we can help there. Listen, so you don't feel bad, it's not that unusual. A lot of our business is cleaning up after do-it-yourselfers. You remember the bar where you made the appointment the first time?”

“Yeah, it was—”

“No names on the phone. You be there tomorrow, the bartender will give you an envelope so you'll know where to meet my associate. You will be carrying fifty large, in hundreds.”

“Fifty? But . . . ?”

“Price has gone up, Weames. Inflation. Or do I hang up now?”

“No, don't! Okay, fifty. And I'll be dealing with just you, right?”

“No. But Mr. Schaeffer has my full confidence. And Weames? This is it. We don't give you no third strike. Fifty large or don't show.”

Ray Guma broke the connection, then called a number on his other telephone.

When it was answered, he said, “Bingo.”

“He bought it?” asked Karp.

“Seems like it. I got Vinnie Cicciola from the Five going to do the interview. He looks more like a goddamn ginzo mobster than the ginzo mobsters.”

“You did good, Goom.”

“Hey, it keeps me interested. The docs say that's a good thing. How's the boy?”

“No change.”

*  *  *

“Are you nuts? You can't go up there by yourself,” cried Dan Heeney. “And that's all she wrote. You need to go to the cops with that stuff.”

She seemed about to object, and for a moment he saw a flash of the former Lucy, but then she shrugged, her shoulders slumped, and she said, “Yeah, I guess. I'll go do that. My dad'll know what to do. Thanks for the help. I'll see you.”

“Yeah, see you round,” said Dan to her back as she walked out.

Lucy drove the Toyota west on 119, but instead of going right on 130 toward the center of town, she continued past the junction with its little forest of signs and arrows. She drove west, past the hamlet of Till, past Mt. Bethel, almost to the Kentucky line, before she turned north at Marblevale. She was now several miles to the west of Burnt Peak, outside the zone of police activity, which centered on Route 712, the road that ran along the mountain's western edge.

She stopped often to check her bearings against the map and against the big floating compass on the dash. Southwest of Ponowon she left the blacktop and took the dirt roads that wound through the hollers, climbing through a landform called Jubal Ridge, a lower corrugation running parallel to Burnt Peak and five miles to its west. It was surprisingly easy to find, for the little road bore the marks of heavier traffic than it was used to. Some vehicle, a large truck or trucks, had snapped off overhanging branches, scarred the bark of roadside trees, and marked the way with deep, fat ruts in the softer places. These signs led her to a hole in the side of the hill. Brambles and some small bushes that had grown up before it had been hacked down and cleared away. She took a six-cell flashlight from under the seat, and a plastic bottle of water from the side pocket of the door. She filled a large tin basin with water and ripped the top off a ten-pound bag of Purina chow.

“You have to stay here,” she told the dog. “We don't want you to get shot. I'll be back soon. Stay, Magog!” The animal whined in protest, but Lucy calmed her with hands and voice. Then she switched on the flashlight and descended into the pit.

It was a crude shaft, most likely dug nearly a century ago by a little group of men with picks and shovels, earning a little extra money to supplement their incomes from the land. The floor sloped slightly downward; the ceiling dripped in places and was supported by props made of chestnut logs. She followed it until it was intersected by another adit, at a slightly lower level, this one much larger and clearly made by more modern machinery, an accidental intersection with a newer and hungrier mine, sucking at the same rich seam. She did not need to consult the map. On the soft dust and mud of the floor were the marks of many feet, and also of narrow wheels. They were using bicycles, which made sense. No one on earth had been more successful hauling heavy military supplies by bicycle than the Vietcong.

She followed this trail for many hours, climbing up or down where tunnels intersected, pausing occasionally to rest and drink from the bottle. Now she noticed other signs, too, cigarette butts and crumpled food wrappers. Not very military after all; she recalled that Tran always shredded his butts.

She became aware of a strong chemical smell and of noises ahead. She began to sing, in Vietnamese, a song from the war that Tran had taught her:

When he was a child, his father died

His mother left him all alone,

Yet he grew well, like a healthy plant,

In wartime now he lives for himself

The boy makes himself into a man, by himself

Never mourning the orphan he is.

A flashlight beam shot out of the blackness ahead, blinding her. She stood still, turned off her own light, and held her hands high. She heard footsteps approach. Squinting around the glare, she made out the face of Phuong, one of the Lost Boys. He was staring at her in amazement. Held tightly under his flashlight was a sub-machine gun pointing at her.

“Hello, Phuong,” she said cheerily. “I've come to visit Uncle Tran. Would you kindly take me to him?”

*  *  *

“Anything new?” asked Marlene when she came in to relieve Karp at the hospital.

“No, he's always the same. Zak says he's dreaming. How're you holding up?”

“Marvelous. The press is out in force. There's no news from the siege, so they've discovered Giancarlo. I had twenty cameras shoved in my face coming in here. How do you feel?”

“I'll get some more security.”

“Oh, the security's fine. Deputy Petrie is in charge. He likes pushing people. He's got a yellow ribbon tied to his badge. We're a national spectacle.”

“Marlene, cripes! I feel like I've a lance piercing through my chest. I can give a shit about a so-called spectacle.”

Momentary stone silence filled the room. Then Karp said matter-of-factly: “I have to go back to the City tomorrow.”

“What is this now, Saturday? I've lost track of the days.”

“Yes, Saturday. Mac and cheese at Rosie's, that's how I can tell.”

“This is for the scam on Weames.”

“Right. Guma came through.”

“Good old Goom. Well, I wish you luck. If it works, can you get a conviction?”

“Oh, yeah. I got both of them if it works, without any deals. They'll both go for the max.”

“What is that? Being eaten alive by army ants?”

“No, just life.”

“Fuck life.” She looked at the still boy on the bed.

*  *  *

Phuong led Lucy through the mine tunnel, which became gradually lighter, until they came to a section illuminated by large fluorescent fixtures and stinking of phenol and acid. Here there were fifty-five-gallon drums of chemicals, and rows of plastic garbage cans rigged with hoses and duct tape. Racks of steel shelves held cartons and brown bottles and laboratory glassware. Lucy had never been in an illegal meth lab before, but Billy Ireland had described them to her, and she figured she was in one now. A former meth lab. A good deal of destruction was apparent, bullet holes, smashed and punctured equipment, the marks of fire, dark stains on the duck-boards they walked on, spatters of red-black. She could reconstruct the events these suggested. The Cades, or their employees, had been peacefully making poison when Tran and his people had burst in among them.

They arrived at an elevator cage. Phuong used a phone attached to the wall, and immediately Lucy heard the sound of a large motor. The boy motioned her into the cage. It was large enough for twenty men and moved fast enough to blur the black walls outside.

Tran was waiting for her at the head of the shaft along with Freddy Phat and several other Vietnamese. They were wearing black cotton pajamas and military web gear. Tran had his Stechkin in its big wooden holster on his hip; his face was wooden, too, and unsmiling. In French he said, “You know, this is the first time that I have not been happy to see you. I am quite displeased. Why have you come?”