Authors: Robert Masello
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers
Bestiary (23 page)
“Just look around you the next time you go to the mall. I was out in Torrance last night, at a Denny’s, and I was the only white guy in the place. And I counted—there were sixteen customers, and maybe three waitresses—and I was the only authentic white guy in the whole damn place.”
He waited for that alarming news to sink in. But if Greer was any judge, only half the crowd—probably the ones who were already charter members of the Sons of Liberty—seemed moved. Two or three others glanced down at the sheaf of papers they’d picked up from the table, one glanced at his watch, then stared blankly out the window, undoubtedly wondering if he could have one more beer before getting the hell out.
But Burt was just hitting his stride. For another twenty minutes or so, he outlined the darkening skin, and the resulting decline, of the United States of America. Most of his warnings were about the Mexicans, the Guatemalans, the Salvadorans. Greer had never been able to tell one from the other, not that it mattered. For a second, he thought about Lopez, the guy he’d lost on that mission outside Mosul. The guy who’d just been . . . carried off in the night. Had he felt one way or the other about him? As opposed to, say, Donlan, or Sadowski, or anybody else in his unit? He took a long pull on his beer, and decided that he had not; there were even times when he felt bad about having gotten the guy killed.
As if he’d been reading his mind, Sadowski was now turned around in his chair, smiling at Greer, with an expression on his face that said,
Isn’t this guy Burt great or what?
Greer just tapped his wristwatch. Sadowski, looking disappointed, turned around again.
Isn’t this guy Burt great or what?
Greer just tapped his wristwatch. Sadowski, looking disappointed, turned around again.
But Burt was finally wrapping up. “I hope you’ll all take a copy of the Sons of Liberty membership packet—you’ll find a new members form inside—and if you’ve got any questions, or you just want to shoot the shit, I’m here . . . all the fucking time!” He laughed, and a few of the audience members, maybe just because they were so happy to be free again, laughed along. “And don’t forget, when you join, you get a ten percent discount every time you come to the range.” Same discount Greer was offered as a vet.
While a couple of interested candidates milled around the front of the room with Burt, and the others grabbed a beer or headed for the men’s room, Sadowski ambled back to the sofa. “You got any questions for Burt?”
“Yeah. How come he talks so much?”
Sadowski started to look pissed. “You didn’t believe him? You don’t think it’s time we woke up and smelled the coffee?”
“I think it’s time we got in your little patrol car and did what we’re supposed to do tonight.”
Greer got up—damn, his leg had locked again, and he had to stop to rub some life back into the knee—and headed for the door. He saw Burt, busy recruiting a guy in a UPS uniform, look his way, and Greer raised a hand, giving him a thumbs-up.
Yeah, right—he’d be joining up real soon.
Yeah, right—he’d be joining up real soon.
In the parking lot out front, Greer waited by the Silver Bear Security car until Sadowski, after muttering something about the Fourth of July to another Son of Liberty, came over and unlocked it. He still looked pissy.
“I don’t know why you won’t listen,” Sadowski said as they got into the car and strapped their seat belts.
“Because it’s a crock of shit.”
“It’s not.”
Greer wondered if it was his turn to say, “Is, too.” Instead, he said, “Just give me the jacket.”
Sadowski, pulling into traffic, said, “It’s in the bag.”
There was a Men’s Wearhouse bag on the seat between them. Greer opened it and took out a gray Silver Bear windbreaker, with epaulettes and silver snap buttons, and a visored cap. A growling bear, rising up on all fours, was emblazoned just above the brim. He put the cap on and turned the rearview mirror to check himself out.
“I need that,” Sadowski said, turning the mirror back.
Greer laughed. “What, did I hurt your feelings?” he said.
Sadowski, his jaw set, just kept driving.
Greer shook his head; it was too weird. Sadowski didn’t mind Greer getting a lap dance from his girlfriend, but he got bent out of shape if you dissed his secret society. He looked out the window, trying to focus himself; there wasn’t time for this bullshit right now. He had to concentrate on what was ahead. He reached into the pocket of his dark gray jeans—as close to the jacket color as he could find at the Gap—and took out a couple of pills; one to kill any pain from the leg, and another to raise his internal alert level. This wasn’t like that job in Brentwood, when he’d stumbled into the dog-sitter at the doctor’s house. This was big time.
This was the al-Kalli estate.
And he would need to be as hyped and vigilant as he had ever been.
Once they’d passed under the arched gateway to Bel-Air, Greer started to take careful mental notes on the terrain, the street layout, the avenues of escape. He’d already studied the map of this area in his Thomas Guide, and pulled it up on MapQuest, too, but there was nothing like checking out the lay of the land for real. And the maps didn’t tell you just how dark—he guessed the locals would call it tasteful—the street lighting in here would be. No high-crime, low-sodium glare here, no rows of towering poles, humming softly, their heads bobbing in the ocean breeze. The street lamps were few and far between, and the light they cast was more like amber pools. As far as Greer was concerned, that was ideal.
The higher they went, the darker it got, and the less Greer could see from the patrol car. If there were houses back there, behind the high hedges and brick walls and iron driveway gates that bristled with warning signs and intercoms and surveillance cameras, you’d never know it. Once in a while, especially when they passed a Silver Bear sign, Sadowski told Greer what movie star or pop singer or athlete lived there. Greer could only imagine what kind of pickings those houses would provide. Why had he been bothering with guys who were just doctors, in Brentwood? He’d have to discuss that, later, with Sadowski.
“See that? Sadowski said, slowing on a narrow curve, beside a high stone wall.
“See what?”
“The gates.”
Greer saw an unmarked solid steel-plated gate, and a door, barely visible between some thick bushes, set into the wall beside it.
“That’s the back service entrance to the Al-Kalli estate. That’s where I’ll pick you up.”
“How do I get out without setting off an alarm?”
“Only the driveway gates are alarmed, and the door can only be opened from the inside,” Sadowski said, driving on. “You see any other car come by, just hide behind the bush.”
“I haven’t seen another car for the last fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, but up here, almost any car you do see is a security patrol.”
Greer nodded, as Sadowski completed the curve, then took them back up around a wide bend—Greer had the feeling that they were basically making a big circle around the top of the hill crest—before entering a long, dimly lighted, dead-end street. Greer hadn’t even seen another driveway gate, on either side, for a while—just ivy-covered walls, with impenetrably thick and high hedges rising right behind them. So all of this was one property? And all of it al-Kalli’s?
“Okay, that’s his gatehouse up ahead,” Sadowski said. “A guy named Reggie’s usually on duty.”
Greer straightened his cap and collar. “You’re doing the talking.”
“Yeah, I’ll get us in,” Sadowski said. “After that, it’s up to you.”
Sadowski flashed his headlights as they approached the lighted gatehouse. It looked like the kind of stone cabin you’d see when you were entering some national park. A black guy holding a magazine in one hand stepped out as Sadowski pulled to a stop and lowered his window.
“What’s up, dude?” Sadowski said in a friendly tone.
What happened to the coming race war? Greer wondered.
“Not much,” Reggie said, resting his hand on the door of the car. He looked into the car. “Who’s this?”
“This, my man, is our sensor expert.”
Greer lowered his head, nodded, but said nothing.
“Your what? Your sensei, like in
Karate Kid
?”
Karate Kid
?”
Sadowski faked a laugh. “No, this is the guy that checks out all the motion sensors around the house and grounds.”
“Whatever you say,” Reggie replied.
“Anybody home tonight?”
“Everybody.”
“Okay, then, we’ll get this done as fast as we can.”
Reggie stepped back and batted a lever with the end of the rolled-up magazine. The gates swung back smoothly.
Sadowski raised his window again as he steered the patrol car up the long, winding drive. Greer didn’t particularly like the sound of that—everybody home. He always hoped to hear that his targets were away on business or off on vacation. But he would work around it.
But he still couldn’t see any sign of a house. What he did see, standing by the side of the drive and staring silently at the car, was a pair of peacocks. When one of them, suddenly caught in the headlights, cried out, the sound took him right back to Iraq. To those eerie cries, at dusk, when he’d first ventured into al-Kalli’s palace grounds.
“Yeah, those fuckin’ birds are all over the place,” Sadowski said. “I don’t know how anybody gets any sleep up here.”
Greer wasn’t going to worry about it. “Is there a house somewhere, or are we just out for a ride?”
Sadowski snorted. “Yeah, it’s coming.” And then, under his breath, for no particular reason, “Fucking A-rabs.”
The car passed a lighted fountain, with lots of carved figures and water jetting up on all sides. Greer started to feel like he was in an amusement park—but he wasn’t amused. Maybe it was that damned peacock cry, maybe it was just the fact that it was al-Kalli’s place, but he was already getting a bad vibe about the whole mission. He’d had enough bad nights, nights when he bolted up in bed sweating, thinking about endless colonnades, slanting desert sun . . . and empty cages with bent bars. Just a couple of weeks earlier, he’d actually screamed in his sleep, so loudly his mother had poked her head in the door and asked if he was all right.
At first, he hadn’t been able to answer her; his mouth was that dry. And he hadn’t been able to shake that image . . . of a black fog, but stronger, and more substantial, rolling toward him, starting to envelop him. He’d been struggling to get free, to get out, before whatever was in that fog—and he knew there was something in it, something terrible—discovered him. He could hear its breathing, a low rumble, and he could smell it—the smell of putrid fur and dung and blood.
“Yeah, yeah,” he’d finally said to her, wiping his damp palms on the sheet. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I said I’m okay.”
“Well, you don’t need to snap at me,” she’d said, before jerking the door closed.
He’d swallowed a couple of Xanax and spent the rest of the night in a stupor in front of the TV.
The wheels of the car had moved off the smooth concrete now and onto a rougher, cobblestoned surface. The car made another turn, and suddenly the house loomed into view. Greer had to lean forward in the seat to see all the way to the top of its spires and gables, silvered in the moonlight.
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