Dark Rivers of the Heart (46 page)

The target was approaching a highway.

“What road is that?” Roy demanded. “Give us some overlays, let’s identify this. Quickly.”

Hyckman pressed a console key and spoke into the microphone.

On the wall, by the time the suspect turned east onto the two-lane highway, a multicolored overlay identified a few topographical features—as well as Federal Highway 93.

When Valerie didn’t hesitate before turning east on the highway, Spencer said, “Why not west?”

“Because there’s nothing in that direction but Nevada badlands. First town is over two hundred miles. Warm Springs, they call it, but it’s so small it might as well be Warm
Spit
. We’d never get that far. Lonely, empty land. There’s a thousand places they could hit us between here and there, and no one would ever see what happened. We’d just disappear off the face of the earth.”

“So where are we headed?”

“It’s several miles to Caliente, then ten more to Panaca—”

“They don’t sound like metropolises, either.”

“Then we cross the border into Utah. Modena, Newcastle—they aren’t exactly cities that never sleep. But after Newcastle, there’s Cedar City.”

“Big time.”

“Fourteen thousand people or thereabouts,” she said. “Which is maybe all the bigger we need to give us a chance to slip surveillance long enough to get out of the Rover and into something else.”

The two-lane blacktop featured frequent subsidence swales, lumpy patches, and unrepaired potholes. Along both shoulders, the pavement was deteriorating. As an obstacle course, it provided no challenge to the Rover—though after the jolting overland journey, Spencer wished the truck had cushier springs and shock absorbers.

Regardless of the road condition, Valerie kept the pedal down, maintaining a speed that was punishing if not reckless.

“I hope this pavement gets better soon,” he said.

“Judging by the map, it probably gets worse after Panaca. From there on, all the way into Cedar City, it’s just state routes.”

“And how far to Cedar City?”

“About a hundred and twenty miles,” she said, as though that was not bad news.

He gaped at her in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding. Even with luck, on roads like this—roads worse than this!—we’ll need two hours to get there.”

“We’re doing seventy now.”

“And it feels like a hundred and seventy!” His voice quavered as the tires jittered over a section of pavement that was as runneled as corduroy.

Her voice vibrating too, she said, “Boy, I hope you don’t have hemorrhoids.”

“You won’t be able to keep up this speed all the way. We’ll be getting into Cedar City with that hit squad right on our ass.”

She shrugged. “Well, I’ll bet people around there could use some excitement. Been a long time since last summer’s Shakespeare Festival.”

At Roy’s request, the magnification had been increased again to provide a view equivalent to the one that they would have had if they really had been two hundred feet above the target. Image enhancement became more difficult with each incremental increase in magnification—but fortunately there was enough additional logic-unit capacity to avoid a further processing delay.

The scale of the wall display was so much larger than before that the target rapidly progressed across the width, vanishing off the right-hand edge. But it reappeared from the left as Earthguard projected a new segment of territory that lay immediately east of the one out of which the target had driven.

The truck was rushing east, instead of south as before, so the angle now revealed some of the windshield, across which played reflections of sunlight and shadow.

“Target profile identified as that of a late-model Range Rover.”

Roy Miro stared at the wall display, trying to make up his mind whether to bet the bank that the suspect vehicle contained at least the woman, if not also the scarred man.

Occasionally he glimpsed dark figures within the Rover, but he couldn’t identify them. He couldn’t even see well enough to be sure how many people were in the damn thing or what sex they were.

Further magnification would require long, tedious enhancement sessions. By the time they were able to obtain a more detailed look inside that vehicle, the driver would have been able to reach—and get lost in—any of half a dozen major cities.

If he committed men and equipment to stopping the Range Rover, and if the occupants proved to be innocent people, he would forfeit any chance of nailing the woman. She might break cover while he was distracted, might slip down into Arizona or back into California.

“Target’s speed is seventy-two miles per hour.”

To justify going after the Rover, a lot of assumptions had to be made, with little or no supporting evidence. That Spencer Grant had survived when his Explorer had been swept away in a flash flood. That somehow he had been able to alert the woman to his whereabouts. That she had rendezvoused with him in the desert, and that they had driven away together in her vehicle. That the woman, realizing the agency might resort to orbital-surveillance resources to locate her, had gone to ground early Saturday, before the cloud cover dissipated. That this morning she had broken cover, had started up-linking with available surveillance satellites to determine if anyone was still looking specifically for her, had been surprised by the trace-back program, and had just minutes ago begun to run for her life.

That was a series of assumptions long enough to make Roy uneasy.

“Target’s speed is seventy-four miles per hour.”

“Too damn fast for the roads in that area,” Ken Hyckman said. “It’s her, and she’s scared.”

Saturday and Sunday, Earthguard had discovered two hundred sixteen suspect vehicles in the designated search zone, most of which had been engaged in off-road recreation of one kind or another. The drivers and passengers eventually had gotten out of their vehicles, been observed either by satellite or chopper overflight, and proved not to be Grant or the woman. This might be number two hundred seventeen on that list of false alarms.

“Target’s speed is seventy-six miles per hour.”

On the other hand, this was the best suspect they’d had in more than two days of searching.

And ever since Friday afternoon in Flagstaff, Arizona, the power of Kevorkian had been with him. It had brought him to Eve and had changed his life. He should trust in it to guide his decisions.

He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and said, “Let’s put a team together and go after them.”

“Yes!” Ken Hyckman said, punching one fist into the air in an annoying, adolescent expression of enthusiasm.

“Twelve men, full assault gear,” Roy said, “leaving in fifteen minutes or less. Arrange transport from the roof here, so we don’t waste time. Two large executive choppers.”

“You got it,” Hyckman promised.

“Make sure they understand to terminate the woman on sight.”

“Of course.”

“With extreme prejudice.”

Hyckman nodded.

“Give her no chance—
no chance
—to slip loose again. But we have to take Grant alive, interrogate him, find out how he fits into all this, who the sonofabitch is working for.”

“To give you the quality of satellite look-down you’ll need in the field,” Hyckman said, “we’ll have to remote-program Earthguard to alter its orbit temporarily, nail it specifically to that Rover.”

“Do it,” Roy said.

TWELVE

By that Monday morning in February, Captain Harris Descoteaux, of the Los Angeles Police Department, would not have been surprised to discover that he had died the previous Friday and had been in Hell ever since. The outrages perpetrated upon him would have occupied the time and energies of numerous clever, malicious, industrious demons.

At eleven-thirty Friday night, as Harris was making love to his wife, Jessica, and as their daughters—Willa and Ondine—were asleep or watching television in other bedrooms, an FBI special-weapons-and-tactics team, in a joint operation between the FBI and the Drug Enforcement Administration, raided the Descoteaux house on a quiet street in Burbank. The assault was executed with the stalwart commitment and merciless force exhibited by any platoon of United States Marines in any battle in any war in the country’s history.

On all sides of the house, with a synchronization that would have been envied by the most demanding symphony-orchestra conductor, stun grenades were launched through windows. The blasts of sound instantly disoriented Harris, Jessica, and their daughters, and also temporarily impaired their motor-nerve functions.

Even as porcelain figurines toppled and paintings clattered against walls in response to those shock waves, the front and back doors were battered down. Heavily armed men in black helmets and bullet-resistant vests swarmed into the Descoteaux residence and dispersed like a doomsday tide through its rooms.

One moment, in romantically soft amber lamplight, Harris was in the arms of his wife, gliding back and forth on the sweet dissolving edge of bliss. The next moment, passion having turned to terror, he was staggering around in the infuriatingly
dim
lamplight, naked and confused. His limbs twitched, his knees repeatedly buckled, and the room seemed to tumble like a giant barrel in a carnival fun house.

Though his ears were ringing, he heard men shouting elsewhere in the house: “FBI! FBI! FBI!” The booming voices weren’t reassuring. Addled by a stun grenade, he couldn’t think what those letters meant.

He remembered the nightstand. His revolver. Loaded.

He couldn’t recall how to open a drawer. Suddenly it seemed to require superhuman intelligence, the dexterity of a torch juggler.

Then the bedroom was crowded with men as big as professional football players, all shouting at once. They forced Harris to lie facedown on the floor, with his hands behind his head.

His mind cleared. He remembered the meaning of FBI. Terror and confusion didn’t evaporate, but diminished to fear and bafflement.

A helicopter roared into position above the house. Searchlights swept the yard. Over the furious pounding of the rotors, Harris heard a sound so cold that he felt as if ice had formed in his blood: his daughters, screaming as the doors to their rooms crashed open.

Being required to lie naked on the floor while Jessica was rousted from bed, equally naked, was deeply humiliating. They made her stand in a corner, with only her hands to cover herself, while they searched the bed for weapons. After an eternity, they tossed a blanket to her, and she wrapped herself in it.

Harris was eventually permitted to sit on the edge of the bed, still naked, burning with humiliation. They presented the search warrant, and he was surprised to find his name and address. He had assumed that they had invaded the wrong house. He explained that he was an LAPD captain, but they already knew and were unmoved.

At last Harris was permitted to dress in gray exercise sweats. He and Jessica were taken into the living room.

Ondine and Willa were huddled on the sofa, hugging each other for emotional support. The girls tried to rush to their parents but were restrained by officers who ordered them to remain seated.

Ondine was thirteen, and Willa was fourteen. Both girls had their mother’s beauty. Ondine was dressed for bed in panties and a T-shirt that featured the face of a rap singer. Willa was wearing a cut-off T-shirt, cut-off pajama bottoms, and yellow knee socks.

Some officers were looking at the girls in a way they had no right to look. Harris asked that his daughters be allowed to put on robes, but he was ignored. While Jessica was taken to an armchair, Harris was flanked by two men who tried to lead him out of the room.

When he again requested that the girls be given robes and was ignored, he pulled away from his escorts, indignant. His indignation was interpreted as resistance. He was hit in the stomach with the butt of an assault rifle, driven to his knees, and handcuffed.

In the garage, a man who identified himself as “Agent Gurland” was at the workbench, examining a hundred plastic-wrapped kilos of cocaine, worth millions. Harris stared in disbelief, with a growing chill, as he was told that the coke had been found in his garage.

“I’m innocent. I’m a cop. I’ve been set up. This is nuts!”

Gurland perfunctorily recited a list of constitutional rights.

Harris was infuriated by their indifference to everything he said. His anger and frustration earned him more rough handling as he was escorted out of the house to a car at the curb. Along the street, neighbors had come onto their lawns and porches to watch.

He was taken to a federal detention facility. There he was permitted to call his attorney—who was his brother, Darius.

By virtue of being a policeman, and therefore endangered if confined with cop-hating felons, he expected to be segregated in the lockup. Instead, he was put into a holding cell with six men waiting to be charged on offenses ranging from interstate transportation of illegal drugs to the hatchet murder of a federal marshal.

All claimed that they were being railroaded. Although a few were
obviously
bad pieces of work, the captain found himself more than half believing their protestations of innocence.

At two-thirty Saturday morning, sitting across from Harris at a scarred Formica-topped table in a lawyer-client conference room, Darius said, “This is total bullshit, total, it stinks, it really
reeks.
You’re the most honest man I’ve ever known, a straight arrow since you were a kid. You made it
hell
for a brother to measure up. You’re an annoying goddamned
saint,
is what you are! Anyone who says you’re a cocaine dealer is a moron or a liar. Listen, don’t worry about this, don’t worry for a minute, a second, a nanosecond. You have an exemplary past, not a stain, the record of an annoying goddamned saint. We’ll get low bail, and eventually we’ll convince them it’s a mistake or a conspiracy. Listen, I swear to you, it’s never going to go to trial, on our mother’s grave, I swear to you.”

Darius was five years younger than Harris but resembled him to such an extent that they seemed to be twins. He was also as brilliant as he was hyperkinetic, a fine criminal trial attorney. If Darius said there was no reason to worry, Harris would try not to worry.

“Listen, if it’s a conspiracy,” Darius said, “who’s behind it? What walking slime would do this? Why? What enemies have you made?”

“I can’t think of any. Not any who’re capable of this.”

“It’s total bullshit. We’ll have them crawling on their bellies to apologize, the bastards, the morons, the ignorant geeks. This
burns
me. Even saints make enemies, Harris.”

“I can’t point a finger,” Harris insisted.

“Maybe saints
especially
make enemies.”

Less than eight hours later, shortly after ten o’clock Saturday morning, with his brother at his side, Harris was brought before a judge. He was ordered held for trial. The federal prosecutor wanted a ten-million-dollar bail, but Darius argued for Harris’s release on his own recognizance. Bail was set at five hundred thousand, which Darius considered acceptable because Harris would be free upon posting ten percent to a bondsman’s ninety.

Harris and Jessica had seventy-three thousand in stocks and savings accounts. Since Harris didn’t intend to flee prosecution, they would get their money back when he went to court.

The situation wasn’t ideal. But before they could proceed to structure a legal counteroffensive and get the charges dismissed, Harris had to regain his freedom and escape the extraordinary danger faced by a police officer in jail. At least events were finally moving in the right direction.

Seven hours later, at five o’clock Saturday afternoon, Harris was taken from the holding cell to the lawyer-client conference room, where Darius was waiting for him again—with bad news. The FBI had persuaded a judge that probable cause existed to conclude that the Descoteaux house had been used for illegal purposes, thus permitting immediate application of federal property-forfeiture statutes. The FBI and DEA then acquired liens against the house and its contents.

To protect the government’s interests, federal marshals had evicted Jessica, Willa, and Ondine, permitting them to pack only a few articles of clothing. The locks had been changed. At least for the time being, guards were posted at the property.

Darius said, “This is crap. Okay, maybe it doesn’t technically violate the recent Supreme Court decision on forfeiture, but it sure as hell violates the
spirit.
For one thing, the court said they now have to give the property owner a notice of intent to seize.”

“Intent to seize?” Harris said, bewildered.

“Of course, they’ll say they served that notice at the same time as the eviction order, which they did. But the court clearly meant there should be a decent interval between notice and eviction.”

Harris didn’t understand. “Evicted Jessica and the girls?”

“Don’t worry about them,” Darius said. “They’re staying with Bonnie and me. They’re all right.”

“How can they evict them?”

“Until the Supreme Court rules on other aspects of forfeiture laws, if it ever does, eviction can still take place prior to the hearing, which is unfair. Unfair? Jesus, it’s worse than unfair, it’s totalitarian. At least these days you get a hearing, which wasn’t required till recently. You’ll go before a judge in ten days, and he’ll listen to your argument against forfeiture.”

“It’s my house.”

“That’s no argument. We’ll do better than that.”

“But it’s my house.”

“I have to tell you, the hearing doesn’t mean much. The feds will pull every trick in the book to be sure it’s assigned to a judge with a strong history of endorsing the forfeiture laws. I’ll try to prevent that, try to get you a judge who still remembers this is supposed to be a democracy. But the reality is, ninety-nine percent of the time, the feds get the judge they want. We’ll have a hearing, but the ruling is almost certain to be against us and in favor of forfeiture.”

Harris was having difficulty absorbing the horror of what his brother had told him. Shaking his head, he said, “They can’t put my family out of the house. I haven’t been convicted of anything.”

“You’re a cop. You must know how the forfeiture laws work. They’ve been on the books ten years, growing broader every year.”

“I’m a cop, yes, not a prosecutor. I get the bad guys, and the district attorney’s office decides under what laws to prosecute.”

“Then this will be an unpleasant lesson. See…to lose your property under forfeiture statutes, you don’t have to be convicted.”

“They can take my property even if I’m found innocent?” Harris said, and he was sure that he was having a nightmare based on some Kafka short story he’d read in college.

“Harris, listen very closely here. Forget about conviction or acquittal.
They can take your property and not even charge you with a crime.
Without taking you to court. Of course, you
have
been charged, which gives them an even stronger hand.”

“Wait, wait. How did this happen?”

“If there’s evidence of any nature that the property was used for an illegal purpose,
even one of which you have no knowledge,
that’s sufficient probable cause for forfeiture. Isn’t that a cute touch? You don’t even have to know about it, to lose your property.”

“No,
I
mean,
how did this happen in America?”

“The war against drugs. That’s what the forfeiture laws were written for. To come down hard on drug dealers, break them.”

Darius was more subdued than on his previous visit that morning. His hyperkinetic nature was expressed not primarily in his usual, voluble flow of words as much as in his ceaseless fidgeting.

Harris was as alarmed by the change in his brother as by what he was learning. “This evidence, the cocaine, was
planted.
”

“You know that, I know that. But the court has to see you prove it before it’ll reverse a forfeiture.”

“You mean, I’m guilty till proven innocent.”

“That’s the way the forfeiture laws work. But at least you’ve been charged with a crime. You’ll have your day in court. By proving you’re innocent in a criminal trial, you’ll indirectly have a chance to prove forfeiture was unjustified. Now, I hope to God they don’t drop the charges.”

Harris blinked in surprise. “You hope they
don’t
drop them?”

“If they drop the charges, no criminal trial. Then the best chance you’ll ever have to get your house back is at the upcoming hearing I mentioned.”