Authors: Robert Masello
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers
Bestiary (56 page)
The Liberty Firing Range. Suddenly he had an overwhelming urge to do some target practice.
“You mean it about Las Vegas?” she said. “Because Stan and me, we’re not exactly married, if you know what I’m saying.”
Greer had to think about it for a moment but then he realized that, yes, he was serious. “Yeah. Let’s do it in a couple of weeks.”
“But what about Elton John?”
“He can come, too,” Greer said, grazing her cheek with one finger and then heading for the door. He tried his best not to limp; he always hated the thought that somebody would be watching him walk away and thinking about his damn limp.
On the way to the Liberty Range, he had to stop and get gas. He never could do that without thinking about Iraq—about the towering oil derricks and the burning oil fields. Twenty dollars. Twenty-five. Thirty. The pump just kept on ringing. Christ, what was the point of going over there if they didn’t just take all the goddamn oil that they wanted? The army should have just come in and put up a nice big—
very
big—electrified fence around all the drilling and processing plants, and left a battalion of soldiers to guard each one. Who cared what happened to the rest of the country? The Iraqis didn’t seem to give a shit, and they sure as hell didn’t want the Americans around anymore. Greer never could understand exactly what the point of that whole exercise had been, and when his leg acted up, as it was doing now, he understood even less.
very
big—electrified fence around all the drilling and processing plants, and left a battalion of soldiers to guard each one. Who cared what happened to the rest of the country? The Iraqis didn’t seem to give a shit, and they sure as hell didn’t want the Americans around anymore. Greer never could understand exactly what the point of that whole exercise had been, and when his leg acted up, as it was doing now, he understood even less.
Going to the firing range wasn’t exactly as easy, or as safe, as heading into neutral territory like the Bayou. Here, if he found Sadowski, he’d find him armed, and surrounded by his fellow Sons of Liberty. One thing made sense now that Greer thought about it—if you’re a Son of Liberty, wouldn’t the Fourth of July be the perfect time to pull off your grand patriotic demonstration?
In the parking lot, he wasn’t sure if he could spot Sadowski’s car—there were half a dozen black SUVs, some Harleys, and a new Hummer 3—just like the one Tate and Florio had been driving. He felt like he’d just hit a trifecta. He drove down the block, turned around so that his car would be heading toward the nearest freeway entrance, then parked under a burned-out street lamp. There was no point in trying to bring his piece inside; there were metal detectors on the way in, and you had to surrender any firearms at the front counter—before you even got inside the security door. If you wanted to shoot some practice rounds with your gun, they’d give it back to you once you were inside, but Greer wasn’t shelling out any money to step onto the range today.
At the front desk, there was no sign of Burt Pitt. An old man with a glass eye was running the place, and through the tinted bulletproof glass Greer could see only one guy on the range. So what accounted for all the cars outside? Greer could guess.
“If you want to shoot, I’ll need to see your driver’s license and one other form of photo ID,” the old man mumbled, but Greer said, “Maybe later. Just want to get some stuff right now.”
He picked up a wire basket and started to rummage around the stacks of ammo piled up by the counters, the scopes and mounts and visors and gloves. There was the muffled roar of gunshots from the range—Greer guessed that he was hearing a double-pump, twelve-gauge shotgun—but nobody was in the store area, either. The old man was counting the till, and Greer gradually made his way toward the back, where the bathrooms—and the safety instruction classroom—were located off a long hall, out of sight of the front desk.
The classroom door was closed, and the sign said SAFETY SESSION IN PROGRESS. NO ADMITTANCE. Greer put his ear to the door, and he could hear Burt’s voice. But what he could make out sure didn’t sound like a routine lecture on proper gun handling. Burt was keeping his voice down, but Greer heard him say, “Timers all have to be coordinated precisely.” You didn’t use timers on any guns Greer knew of. Then his voice grew fainter. He must have been pacing up and down the front of the classroom while he talked. The next time he got close, Greer heard him say, “And don’t get some Japanese piece of shit—get a Timex.”
There was a round of laughter from inside—sounded like maybe a dozen guys—and then Burt said, “If they don’t go off when they’re supposed to, and where they’re supposed to, it’ll be too easy to contain. Once it gets going, it’s got to be completely unstoppable.” He was standing right on the other side of the door; Greer stopped breathing.
Somebody in the room asked something else that Greer couldn’t make out, and Burt replied by saying, “All the forecasts are good—Santa Anas if we’re lucky, hot and dry either way.”
“How about a break?” somebody called out. “I got to make a pit stop.”
“Good idea,” Burt said. “I soaked through my Depends ten minutes ago.”
There was more laughter, and then, almost before Greer had time to pull his ear away from the door, the handle was turning. He whipped around and ducked into the nearest door behind him—the ladies’ room—just as he heard Burt and the other Sons of Liberty taking their break. It was a small room, with two stalls, a cracked mirror, and a withered bar of soap on the sink. Greer couldn’t imagine that it did much business. But then it occurred to him that it was possible—if unlikely—that the Sons of Liberty included a daughter or two. Shit. He ducked into the far stall, locked it, and prayed.
Burt’s voice was coming from the hall right outside—“perfect conditions,” he was saying “better than you could ask for”—and then, as he went into the neighboring men’s room, it became muffled, but still clear, and coming from overhead. Greer glanced up, where he saw a flat, dusty vent. A Son or two had entered the men’s room with him. A urinal flushed. Burt was saying something about a test run he’d made. Greer gently stepped on top of the toilet seat and raised his head to the vent level.
“—and the choppers made it there in less than fifteen minutes. I timed it.” His voice came in loud and clear.
“But we had some fun that day anyway,” another man said, “didn’t we?”
Greer knew that voice, too—it was Sadowski.
Burt chuckled. “Might have had more if we hadn’t been interrupted.”
Greer wondered what the hell they were talking about; he didn’t remember Sadowski ever telling him anything that would correlate.
A third man said something Greer had trouble hearing—something about aliens. Somebody was taking a loud, splashing leak.
“If we set it up right,” Burt said, “they will.”
“Make sure you bring all the stuff and leave it the way you’re supposed to,” Sadowski said. He added something else that was lost under the sound of rushing water from the faucet. At least somebody’s washing his hands, Greer thought; those Sons of Liberty didn’t strike him as the most hygienic bunch.
“Incoming!” he heard loudly as somebody rapped hard on the ladies’ room door. He just managed to duck his head as he heard a guy barge in. “It’s empty,” the intruder called out to someone else in the hall, then Greer heard a zipper being pulled down and the door to the other stall—thank God—being flung open. But what if this guy’s pal joined him?
Greer teetered on top of the toilet seat, his left leg starting to quake; it was one thing to stand on top of it, it was another to have to crouch down and hold your balance.
The guy lifted the toilet seat with his foot, then let loose with a powerful stream that went on and on and on.
How
many beers,
Greer thought, his palms flat against the cold tile wall, his leg cramping,
did this guy have in him
?
How
many beers,
Greer thought, his palms flat against the cold tile wall, his leg cramping,
did this guy have in him
?
The bathroom door swung open again—Greer could hear several men horsing around in the hallway—and another man came in. Greer wondered what the hell to do—maybe he could put his feet down now, slowly, and the new guy would think he’d been there all along. There was no way he could burst out and run for it—his leg was going to need a few minutes just to get fully operational again.
But the stall door stayed latched; Greer held his breath as he turned his head. There was about a half-inch slit between the door and the side of the stall. Through it he could just make out the back of a guy standing in front of the mirror, lovingly combing and styling a thick head of oily black hair. On his forearm, he had a tattoo of the Liberty Bell.
It was Florio.
Which meant Tate was probably the guy still pissing in the next stall.
Which also meant that if they found him there, he stood almost no chance of leaving in one piece. Or leaving at all.
“You think it’s gonna work?” Tate said, finally finishing off, then audibly zipping up.
“Who the fuck cares?” Florio said, patting down some stray hairs. “If it does, that’s great. If it doesn’t, so what? A lot of rich shits find out they’re not so rich anymore.”
Tate laughed and came over to the mirror. “Can I borrow that?” he said, reaching for the comb.
“No,” Florio said, sticking it into the back pocket of his jeans. “What do you need it for anyway?”
Florio sauntered out, and Tate, unfazed, ran some cold water on his hands, then slicked his own thinning brown hair straight back on his skull. Greer felt the toilet seat he was perched on starting to tilt, and he prayed it wouldn’t fall. Tate opened his mouth and put his face closer to the mirror, looking, it appeared, for something stuck in his teeth. The tremor in Greer’s left leg was fast becoming a full-blown shake. Tate put a finger in his mouth and pulled a cheek to one side, inspecting something within. Greer’s hand, sweating, started to slip on the tiles, and his left knee felt like somebody had just lighted a match inside it. The seat creaked, softly.
But Tate must have heard it because he glanced backward in the mirror.
“Somebody there?”
Greer let his legs slip down to the floor.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
“Shit, I didn’t know anybody was in here.”
Tate bent down to look under the stall door. He could see Greer’s feet facing the wrong way.
“Got a prostate the size of a softball,” Greer muttered in mock frustration.
“That so?” Tate said, a tinge of suspicion still in his voice.
Greer knew he had to say something to allay it. “Tell Burt I’ll be there when this fuckin’ dam breaks.”
The mention of Burt seemed to do it. “Yeah, well, don’t take all night,” Tate said, taking hold of the door handle, “we’ve still gotta get our final instructions.”
And then he was gone—and Greer could lean forward with his head against the wall and let out a low moan of agony. His hands went to his leg and squeezed it tight, trying to block the pain signals from making it up to his brain.
He could still hear some commotion in the hall outside, and he waited till it died down. Then he fumbled in his pocket, found some Vicodin, and left the stall. He listened again for any noise in the hall—there was none now—then ran some cold water into his cupped hand and swallowed the pills. He opened the door slowly, poked his head out. The classroom door was shut, and he could hear muffled voices inside.
He walked past and back to the merchandise and display cases. The old man at the counter was collecting the lone shooter’s safety gear and settling up the bill. As Greer moved past them toward the exit, the old man said, “Looking for something special?”
“Nah, just looking,” Greer said. He went out the door and into the still hot night air. He limped down the boulevard, praying that the painkillers would kick in soon, and got into his battered Mustang. The only thing sparkling about it was the new window on the driver’s side, the one he’d had to replace after Tate had taken it out with the baseball bat.
Tate. And his Hummer 3.
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