Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) (18 page)

. . . I was hiding in the barn, studying a pair of notched, worn hooves. One huge brown leg moved up, shook some files away, and then came down again. The exhausted old plow horse broke wind. A man appeared in the doorway, a tall, lanky farmer in a battered tan cowboy hat and torn blue overalls. His wide shoulders were peeling from sunburn, thick knuckles stained with dark green grease. The knees of his jeans were swirled with the dried blood and white feathers of recently slaughtered chickens. Daddy Danny Bell! Then it was not my stepfather any longer, it was Donny Boy from Dry Wells, and he was whispering oh boy oh boy oh boy over and over . . .
"Trouble's coming, Mick."
. . . Wait, that was not Donny Boy that was my stepfather
. . .
I'm dreaming. I have to wake up now.

"Jesus!"

When I finally came to my senses, I was tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets and one foot was hooked under the bedside table. The morning was humid and fierce, as only the San Fernando Valley can be in mid-August. I grabbed a plastic bottle of tepid drinking water from the table and downed it.

My bad dreams usually involve alcohol in some way, but are also often prompted by memories of my stepfather. I stayed flat on my back for a few moments, willing away a terrible sense of futility the dream had engendered. What had my unconscious been trying to communicate?
Trouble is right behind you, Mick,
Danny Bell said.

I knew another therapist would call it mildly delusional. I recognized the superstition and wishful thinking. And yet in some way this was real. Daddy Danny was trying to warn me about something.

I slid out of bed and onto the floor, stretched myself and did crunches until my stomach muscles felt like a rack of hot coal. I drank the rest of the bottled water and went into the bathroom to shower. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I tapped my broken nose and winked.

"You look like shit."

I turned on the radio and got into the shower, covered myself with soap, sang along with Allison Krause in squeaky falsetto. I probably sounded like Minnie Mouse straining for orgasm.

The shower helped. I shaved quickly. I would normally have done that the night before but I'd been too tired. I went back into the bedroom, towel around my waist, and got back into the same pair of jeans and boots. I pulled on a fresh black shirt and went into the hallway.

"Blanca?"

She had yet to arrive. I peeked into the guest bedroom. The bed was neatly made, the white curtains were drawn, and the bedside clock radio was playing. Mary must have gotten up early again, probably to go for a run. I went to the kitchen to make coffee.

Murphy chirped a greeting from his post on the worn couch and came to be fed. I scratched his ears. "You about scared the hell out of me last night, feline." I poured some overpriced dry food that claims to help aging male urinary tracts.

The coffee smelled wonderful. Several birds were arguing on the back fence. I amused myself by watching Murphy watch them. The old tom's hunting instincts were aroused; his tail twitched nervously as he cackled with excitement. And then I suddenly felt uneasy again. The dream redux:
Trouble is right behind you, Mick. Wake up!

The telephone rang. I grabbed it immediately.

"I assume this isn't too early, since you don't party anymore."

"No, it's not too early."

"Good," Darlene Hernandez said. "You remember that enormous, unwarranted favor you asked me for?"

"Sure do."

"Well I did it. And Mick, you owe me big time."

"Another cheeseburger?"

"Chili burger, and that's for starters. First, you were right. Your Agent Fields does check out as legitimate. He got his BS from some tiny college in upstate New York, JD in Law from Penn State. He's single, seems square as a postage stamp."

"He's a little old to be single. Never married?"

"He dates occasionally, but he's never been married. He does live pretty large, got a nice house and a fancy car."

"I noticed an expensive watch, too."

"Yeah, but I poked around and it turns out he inherited some family money from a rich grandmother. Like I said, he seems legit. He goes to church on Easter, doesn't even smoke."

"Just a guy who's obsessed with his job."

"So it would seem. Fields has been with the FBI for more than twenty years. He started out as a liaison with the ATF on some gun trafficking case or another and worked on organized crime for over ten years."

I leaned over the sink. "Ten years? Isn't that a long time?"

"Not necessarily, but it can be pretty draining. He must be one tough cookie. He personally cracked himself a narcotics ring or two. After that, Fields requested a transfer to his present position, and that was a little more than four years ago." She stopped and read from her notes. "He is now a liaison with the U.S. Department of Justice, Criminal Division, with respect to Child Exploitation and Obscenity."

I paced the kitchen. A sparrow landed on the windowsill and pecked mindlessly. "Anything more personal on him?"

"Some stuff, not much. What's bugging you?"

"Actually, I can't explain why, but he really bothers me. He dresses like a movie star, for one thing."

"Like I said, he inherited around two million, or at least so they say."

"But keeps on working?"

"He reads pretty driven, Mick, and let's just say that his departmental rep is pretty consistent with the attitude problem you described."

"He's kind of a hard ass?"

"And that's probably because he's no spring chicken. The FBI has a lot of new meat moving up in the ranks. He needs to make something happen, or his career will stall for good. Anyway, the word is that he's gotten totally preoccupied with tracking this new, unknown gang that's started moving kiddy porn from somewhere out here on the left coast. I mean, like he's
way
pissed off."

"He's pissed, all right. I got that loud and clear. Okay. Thank you, Darlene, now what about the other gentleman?"

"Fancy's real name is probably Fredrick Newton Wainwright."

"Good lord."

"I shit you not," Darlene said. "Fredrick Newton Wainwright. He was born in Jamaica, but raised by his prostitute mother in some of the funkiest areas of England."

"Is he here legally?"

"Seems that way," she said. "His mother married an older American when he was about fourteen and brought him over. They lived in Denver, then San Francisco, and finally Los Angeles."

"The nickname?"

"Apparently got it here, I suppose because of the English accent and the way he dresses and talks. This guy is scary, okay? He may be physically small, but he's got a well-hung rap sheet."

"What kinds of charges?"

"Assault and battery, pandering, armed robbery. There's a lot more in the file, but nothing they could make stick. He has some kind of deal with the Crips, but nobody knows exactly what. Maybe he pays them for protection. We know he is deep into the porn business, too, production and distribution. This dude is
way
wrong."

"Fields said he ticked off the mob at one point."

"They drove him out of L.A. after a brief, bloody war. Both sides lost a few soldiers. Different detectives at different times have been on his ass for everything from robbery and assault to murder one. You'd best be careful."

"I didn't plan on inviting him over any time soon, but thanks for your concern."

"And last but not least . . ." She rustled some papers. "The stagnant investigation into the disappearance of one Manuel Garcia, a/k/a Loco, age nine has just resumed. I happen to know the D2 who originally caught the case, so I asked him to move it back to the top of his slush pile. Like I said, you owe me."

"Big time. And what about the chances the missing kid has anything to do with Fancy."

"All I can see is we certainly can't rule it out." She chuckled. "And on a personal note, thank you for getting my Italian cousin out of the topless bars. He's completely smitten with your friend Suzanne."

"Peanut."

"Larry just won't shut up about her. Now, Donato has been a dog for years, so it's fun watching him get some of his own. She won't hurt the poor child, will she?"

"Not a chance. She's the best."

"That's cool. And how's our newly sober girl doing?"

I sat down at the kitchen table, sipped some coffee. "Mary? She got up before me. I think she went out for a morning run."

"Sounds like you've been a pretty positive influence."

"She had a pretty positive influence on
my
life. She allowed me to continue breathing."

"You're a decent guy, Callahan. I didn't grow up around decent guys. It's kind of a nice surprise to meet one."

"It sounds like there is a story there."

"Maybe I'll tell it to you sometime."

"Okay, I'd like that."

After a beat, Darlene said: "I never asked you. Is she attractive?"

I blinked and then smiled.
I'll be damned, she likes me
. "Not really, and she's like a client, Darlene. I wouldn't notice anyway."

She laughed. "Bullshit, counselor. You might not do anything about it, but you'd still notice."

"Point taken. Darlene?"

A little hitch in her voice? "Yes?"

"I think I owe you dinner, or something."

"You don't owe me anything," she said, briskly.

Oops, that sounded terrible.
"What I meant to say is that I would like to take you out to dinner. Or lunch. Or something."

"Or something sounds nice," she said. "I have some vacation time coming."

I was stunned. "So, let's do it. Where were you thinking of going?"

Darlene Hernandez laughed. "Don't sound so enthusiastic, Callahan. I was just kidding. Dinner would be fine."

"Oh."

"For a therapist, you sure don't know much about women, do you?"

"No, I suppose I don't, not outside of therapy rooms."

"Maybe you should try practicing what you preach."

"Let's not get carried away."

She chuckled. "This may surprise you, but we occasionally have discovered an alcoholic or two in the police department."

"You don't say?"

"Once they sober up they seem to all be clueless about dating and sex," she said, teasingly. "Why do you suppose that is?"

"Somehow, I have lost control of this conversation. I think I had best hang up, now."

"Why, Mick Callahan, you're a total coward!"

"I resemble that remark. Thanks a bunch."

"Bye."

I put the phone down gently, smiling to myself. I whistled as I washed the coffee cup and fished the car keys from the pocket of my jeans. The telephone rang again.

"Total coward speaking."

"Mick, they're going to kill me."

I sat up so quickly, my chair slapped the floor. My mind went into high gear, gathering bits of information.
I think I hear a freeway. She is on a cell phone, keeps cutting in and out.

"Black," she said.

"What?"

"Tent" came through the static, and then what sounded like the word "city." The reception was terrible. Mary was somewhere else, not nearby. She was frightened and in pain. It sounded like she was trying to whisper, moan, and sob all at the same time. "Please come get me," Mary said. "
Please
."

And then the phone went dead.

"Why didn't you call me before?" Jerry stood in the living room, twisting a dark Yankee baseball cap in his small, sunburned hands. The ugly, triangular burn scar that covered the side of his face was pulsing, dark with angry blood. He paced in concentric circles, and the wooden floor squeaked in syncopated rhythm. "You knew I'd been looking for her for months, man. You
knew
that."

"Mary asked me not to call you. She said she wanted to have it together before she saw you again. She was protecting you. I'm sorry."

"Maybe she doesn't care about seeing me again," Jerry said.

"I doubt that."

"Look, we have to find her, Mick." His voice broke.

"I know."

Jerry looked away. He went into the den. "I love your little house, but why do you still have such a piece-of-shit computer setup?" He ran his experienced hands over the entire system, his thick black eyebrows twitching wildly. He wore dirty blue jeans and a red cowboy shirt. He adjusted the baseball cap and turned it backwards. I could see his obsessive mind working. He was happy to see me, but still angry and upset.

"Jerry, listen . . . I'm really sorry."

Jerry ignored me. "You need to pop for a better system, dude."

"Money can be a finite thing, Jerry. Those of us who come by it honestly tend to run out now and then."

He shook his head and grinned. "Then you need to find another way to make it, man. Anyhow, I have elected to take pity upon your sorry ass. I come bearing gifts."

"Say what?"

"Like I said, we have to find her. I assume we'll be working with old Hal again? We will have to video-conference with him from time to time?"

"I suppose, but I already have a . . ."

"Good," Jerry said, blithely interrupting. "That's why I asked you what you had humming around in here before I drove on down. I just happen to have a few cool upgrades out in the bed of my truck."

"Jerry . . ."

"I brought a few items, things that got lost on their way to the warehouse, if you know what I mean."

"But . . ."

"No buts about it," Jerry said. He rubbed his scar absently. "This shit is way cool. It will synch the picture up to the sound almost perfect, and it can store what he sends us without jamming up your files. All I gotta do is stick a satellite receiver on the roof and run a few cables, and then outboard a piece or three and we're in business."