Falling Down (10 page)

“Dead end.” An almost totally blank page came up, showing only two boxes. One required a user identity, the other a password.”

“Who has access to this computer?”

“Practically anybody,” he said. “Or, I guess, practically everybody. When either Jo or I are here, we can turn over one of these computers to park staff, interns, maybe even volunteers. If nobody's around during the day, anybody can use this computer, anybody who comes into the building. At night, only the security people.”

“These computers are networked,” I said. “We don't know who used this computer. Or why. I need permission to look at some key files on your network's main computer.”

“I don't think the director would allow that,” Mary said.

“Does she have to know?” Ken asked.

“I don't work illegally,” I said. “Can the two of you explain it to her? It would be just a onetime thing. I'd go in there to get the log-in data on everybody who's used this computer in the past three days.”

“The director's out of town,” she said. “Vacation. Somewhere in Hawaii.”

“I need somebody's permission.”

“It's a one time thing,” Ken said. Working it out for himself. Nodding as he ran through each point of his de
cision. “Somebody's used a park computer for online gambling. It's totally against the ethics, against all the park stands for. You only want one data list. You'll not change or delete any network files. Yes. You have my permission.”

“I don't think so,” I said.

He'd set it up to take the fall, to assume responsibility and, on the downslope, to assume blame and repercussions if his decision was wrong. He knew Mary was stressed beyond normal, okay, so he wanted to help a good friend, okay, but he also assumed that I was one hundred percent ethically moral.

I'm not.

“Yes,” Ken said. “I'll give you access permission. I figure, what you're going to do is hack into our network from outside, right?” I nodded. “And the easier it is to hack in, the easier it would be for
any
body to hack in. Right?”

I nodded again.

“What's the reality of that happening?”

“Of somebody hacking into your system?”

“Yes.”

“True odds?” I said. “Within twelve hours, I can upload every one of your files. All your financial and personnel data, all your emails stored on any of the networked computers, all personal stuff on individual computers. Then I'll plant some software where nobody would ever see it on your main network computer, and that software would let me use everything you've got for my own reasons. I could send viruses, spam email, I'd just hijack your computers and you'd never know the difference.”

“Is it that bad?” Mary said. “You could really do that?”

“Yes. It's that bad. Total chaos, millions of sheep never see the wolves.”

“So we're doing the park a service,” Ken said. “We're testing our security, we've probably never thought much about it. Yes. Do it.”

I gave instructions on my cell.

“Tohono Chul Park,” Alex said. “Is that the client?”

“Yes.” Only a small lie, a personal lie.

“And what's the fee?”

“Pro bono.” That, I can't lie about with my partners.

“Bottom line?” Alex said. “What do you hope I'll find?”

“Bottom line…I don't know. Deep background, a connection, any financial connections with a Central American cartel called
maras.
Evidence of laundering drug money out of the U.S.”

“Slim pickings.”

“First, get the name of whoever used this computer to log in to the website. Then track the website itself, crack the passwords, tell me what's out there.”

“Well. It's not like we're going where nobody's gone before.”

“Last, put somebody on a search for anything you can find about a woman, or an old Mexican movie, called
La Bruja
.”

“Funky. I can tell you right now there's a mountain bike with that name. And I think a pop singer. But we'll check.”

“Contact David Schultz. Ask him about that name. Call in whatever extra help you need.”

“Twenty-four seven,” Alex said. “We never close.”

“Alex. Wait a minute,” I said. “Can I replace this computer?”

“What?” Ken said.

“I want to examine the hard drive.”

“I've looked at the browser caches,” Ken said. “The deleted emails. There's nothing on there of any use.”

“If I get you a replacement computer and take this one for my techs, is that okay with the park?”

“Sure,” Mary said. “I guess so. For how long?”

“A few days at most.”

“Take it.”

“Alex,” I said. “Courier over a standard PC, hire a geek to set it up however these people want.”

“I'd already thought of that. Anything else?”

“No.” She disconnected.

“How, what are you, what?” Mary said. “Look. I don't understand this.”

“It's a labyrinth,” Ken said. “And this woman is going to the center of it.”

“I make no promise,” I said. “Some of this is untraceable.”

“I don't understand what you're going to do,” Mary said. “Just do it. I've got to go to a meeting. Laura? You'll help me?”

“Yeah, sure. Yes.” For the moment, she didn't want to hear anything else. When she left, I sunk into one of the office chairs, head lowered, shaking my head slowly, overwhelmed with my day.

“What's wrong?” Ken said after a while.

“What exactly do you do here?” I said.

“Coordinate all the volunteers.”

“How many of them?”

“Three hundred, give or take, depending on the season.”

“Do they trust you?”

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Not that I'm Big Daddy or Mr. Wonderful. But yeah, they trust I'll do my best to match up whatever they're seeking with what needs doing at the park. Why?”

“I want to volunteer.”

“Whoa, baby,” he said. “What are you asking here?”

“I need to trust somebody. I've got a daughter, I've got my own psychic who's also an astrologer and Tarot card reader, I've got myself.”

“And you don't trust any of them right now?”

“Not to make decisions. No.”

“What decisions are we talking about?” he said.

And so I told him everything from the past day.

“Wow,” he said.

After I'd pretty much laid my soul on the table in front of him. He didn't poke away with questions, he just listened. He barely moved, I noticed he'd lay his index finger into that small vertical depression just below the nose, what some people called the touch of God to show humans we're imperfect. We sat in silence for a few minutes, reading each other, nothing like a Vulcan mind meld, but I felt as close to him in those minutes as I'd felt with anybody in a long time. At one point his cell rang, but he fiddled with the menus and turned off the sound.

“Wow,” he said again. “That's a real shitload of deciding you've got. You're wrapped way too tight, girl. Here. Have a candy.”

“A candy?”

He handed me a peppermint candy. “My ex wife,” he said. “Man, she'd roll the candy around in her mouth, show it between her teeth, taunting her girlfriends who didn't have any candy. Me, I crack the thing into bits, I have no patience with candy, I just want to taste the peppermint. You, I'd bet you'll suck on that candy without crunching or showing off, you just enjoy it to the last itty bitty flake while your head crunches away trying to decide something.”

“What am I trying to decide?”

“Leaving out the guy?” I nodded. “You're conflicted about working for TPD, that's pretty obvious. You're conflicted about helping Mary, that's pretty obvious. Actually, you're pretty much stuck in a conflicted state of mind, right?”

“Right.”

“And you expect me to explain…what?”

“What to do.”

“And you somehow expect me to know that?” he said. “Somebody you just met? C'mon, get real, Laura.”

“Sorry,” I said. “This was stupid, even asking, stupid telling you this stuff.”

“Hey. I can't explain what to do. But if you need help of any kind, just ask.”

“That's really sweet, Ken.”

“Turned out okay, didn't it.”

“What?”

“Our first date.” I stood up abruptly, he stood up, he offered his hand. “But I've got to tell you, I don't sleep with anybody on the first date.”

“K
yle.”

“I have a question,” I said.

“Who is this?”

“Laura Winslow.”

“Laura, I'm sorry, Laura who?”

“We just met. At that crime scene.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. Just woke up.”

“No problem.”

“What did you want, Miss Winslow?”

“Laura.”

“Laura, okay.”

“I'm confused about something,” I said.

“I'm confused about a
lot
of things.”

“The
maras,
” I said. “I've read stories. On the Internet.”

“Okay?”

“These are brutal people.”

“They're assassins.”

“No regard for life?”

“Regard for their own lives,” Kyle said. “And even then, if the contract goes out, they'll kill their own children.”

“I'm looking for a connection.”

“Between?”

“What do they do for fun?”

“You mean, besides killing?”

“Yes,” I said. “Enjoyment. Music, drinks, drugs, sex, what else?”

“Sounds like you've got a suggestion?”

“Cockfights.”

“Ahhhh,” Kyle said. “Oh, yeah. Cockfights, dogfights, anything that kills. I've also heard about rodeos, unsanctioned rodeos, where horses and bulls are spurred and ridden until they die.”

“Cockfights,” I said. “Right now, just cockfights.”

“Why that?”

“I can't tell you.”

The faint sound of liquid being poured into a glass, a sip, a gulp.

“Cockfights. It's a Latin thing.”

“And betting?” I said.

“Legal betting?”

“Illegal.”

“Sure,” Kyle said. “Miss Winslow.”

“Laura.”

“Where are going with this, Laura?”

“I don't know.”

“Need some help?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Okay. I got a call, earlier. Gates called me. Said he might have a proposition for me. You have any idea what that proposition would be?”

“No,” I lied.

“I'm tapping my nose right now,” Kyle said. “I'm laying my index finger alongside my nose, I'm tapping it. The insider thing, you know? I smell something, you're on to something. I might be asked to be a part of it.”

“Can't really say.”

“I've worked hundreds of homicides, Laura. I've got a system, I get hunches, I've got instincts, you know what I'm saying?”

“Really,” I said. “I've got nothing to say.”

“Just remember this one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Today, you saw what these assassins do. They torture people, they slaughter people, their pulse rate hardly goes up at all, they love it. You be careful, Miss Laura Winslow. Whatever you're doing, you be careful.”

“I'm a good detective,” he said. “I hear things.”

“Right now,” I said. “All I hear are three morning doves. What else should I be listening for?”

“A rooster?”

“Christopher,” I said. “Enough of this cute routine. What do you want to say to me?”

“Maybe I know why TPD wants to hire you. I've been tracking illegal fights for nine months. Cocks, dogs…there's even some extreme human fights. Winner gets a guaranteed good-as-gold Green Card. Loser gets hurt. Or dies. I brought it to my lieutenant once, he's trying to cut down homicide statistics. Birds or dogs, he's never been interested. So I've done this on my own.”

“What are you saying?”

“Word is that these fights are sanctioned by cops.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “What, are you saying, dirty cops?”

“On the pad.”

“To protect the people who stage the fights?”

“Protect and serve.”

“I don't know anything about that,” I said.

“Well, maybe they're hiring you to find out. To find dirty cops.”

“Christopher,” I said. “I work computers. I work identity theft, illegal Internet scams, money laundering through a dozen banks. That's all I do.”

“I just thought, being as how it's TPD showing interest in you, financials about some dirty cops. Just my instincts, just my gut.”

“Not my line,” I said. Some truth in that, it wasn't
yet
my line, it might never
be
my line. “But thanks, Christopher.”

“No problem.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope,” he said. “I just thought, these are vicious people. You're better off, you stay away from it all.”

“I'm going up to Monument Valley tomorrow.”

“You're leaving town?”

“Yes. Leaving town.”

“Well then, Laura. You sleep good, these nights.”

T
he monsoons came early that summer.

Late in June, not at all the typical season, three storms thrashed up from Mexico but never reached Tucson. From Green Valley south, rain fell intermittently for eleven days. Temperatures stayed in the nineties, but the humidity soared beyond forty-five percent, never pleasant in the desert, not popular for those of us who live here because it's both hot and dry.

From my front yard lap pool at my home in the Santa Catalina foothills, all of Tucson stretched below me and I could watch the bands of gray cloud formations drift up from Sonora and veer toward the northwest. I'd lay in the bright sun, clouds covered my usual view of the Santa Ritas thirty miles to the south. Sun so brilliantly blue, layering southward into gray. You didn't want to look directly up, you'd squint your eyelids shut, like when you're on a lake, sailing in the clearest of clear days, or skiing in fresh new powder, the sunlight reflected and refracted until your eyes burned. I rarely wore sunglasses, except for the days like these. Occasional breezes would lick my Palo Verde trees and tall lantana bushes, but the sun always shone, and on June twenty-first, the longest day of the year for sunlight, the temperature slid above one hundred degrees.

In the evenings, the sun slid through the skies and through parts of the color spectrum and just at that mo
ment before it started to dip below the horizon it glowed like a bald, orange head.

I loved to stare at that orange head, I loved watching it disappearing until, if I really focused my senses on watching, at the exact moment the sun disappeared I'd see the green flash.

 

“Damn,” Spider said to me that afternoon as another monsoon passed us to the south. “You think it'll ever rain up here?”

In Tucson, you never really knew about rain. It'd come by surprise, Santa Claus unexpectedly stopping by with water. But she didn't come out of the house to talk about rain. Holding a portable phone in her hand, staring at it with concern.

“Mom. Uh, that was Nathan.”

“Why didn't you bring the phone outside?”

“Um. He just wanted to talk to
me.”

“Tell me what he said.”

“Well. He called me, he just wanted to say goodbye. That's all. His actual words were, ‘I just called you to say goodbye.' What's wrong?”

“He's just gone.”

“Well, he'll be back.”

“No. Not this time.”

“What do you mean?” Now showing alarm and concern.

“He's gone up to the rez.”

“So, go up there yourself. Or wait, he'll be back. Won't he?”

“Not this time. He wants to live up there.”

“So? Go up yourself.”

“I don't want to live on a reservation.”

“You don't have to live there. He needs you.”

“Not this time.”

“You need him.”

“I don't even know that for sure,” I said finally.

“Oh, Mom.” She sat beside me, arm around my
shoulders. I can remember, not that far back, when I'd give the world just for an hour of her touches. “Call him, Mom.”

“I gave him a cell phone. But it's turned off.”

“So call where he's going. Leave a message.”

“He's gone beyond telephones.”

Her head flicked around like a lizard, darting just a fraction of an inch to the right, to the left, up and down, just like a lizard uncertain of his territory, uncertain of the dangers.

“Can I help?” she said.

“Just leave me alone.”

 

I dove into the pool, a racing dive, a streamlined dive, crashing into another world to let the water wash all my cares away as I glide along in relative silence, my senses insulated by immersion into water.

In the first lap, I began with a slow kick, blood awakening in an all-body pulsation beginning with the head, the shoulders, the back, the thighs, all the way down to my toes, my entire body undulating into one dolphin kick, the rhythm continued as I lifted my head to breathe, lifted my eyes toward the sky. As my toes broke the surface of the water,
woooooshhhh,
a spurt of energy, thoughts of Nathan fading, not entirely gone, but fading and lessening as I accelerated into the power of the butterfly stroke, grabbing the water, my hands following a circular shape, like entering the top of the keyhole, hands powering around, meeting at my belly, and then the surge at the bottom of the stroke, shaping the triangular base of the stroke, pushing myself ahead and winding my arms around, stretching ahead, my hands pounding into the water, into the next stroke.

Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, a dichotomy of ease and power, my entire body fully into the rhythm, constantly adding power and strength.

Each stroke entering the keyhole, sliding through the gateway into my inner thoughts for now, when I gain
this power and strength and shape, the motion and the water and the breathing are all, I'm the sum of these motions, my anxiety gone, I am entirely quiet, immersed in an isolation tank.

It's just me.

Just me fighting the forces of nature.

And gradually becoming one with the flow, one with nature. The two-hundred butterfly, a warm-up. Next, flipping my body over for the backstroke, arching back and over then under the surface, using a butterfly kick until I'm staring straight up into the blue sky, then switching to a motorboat flutter. The alternating windmill arm sweeps and the leaning into each stroke rock me like a baby. I could breathe constantly, but I keep the rhythm. Starting a breaststroke I experiment with the old-fashioned frog kick, but switching into the power of the whip kick which propels me half out of the water with each whip.

Finally, I settle into the old reliable freestyle, the flutter kick constant, quick breaths on alternating sides with every third stroke. Whapping my legs to create a splash at each flipturn.

Fifty laps of a twenty-yard pool is more than half a mile.

I always lose count.

Lost in my own world, fused with all.

I love to swim. I swim fast. I'm physically unable to float, I've got to keep moving or I sink to the bottom. A small peril of being slim with little body fat.

Swimming is, I don't really know, I guess it's just knowing I'm good at something, and then being able to prove I can do it well.

There's something about pushing yourself and trying to get past your physical limitations, then actually getting past that point, past being tired, I feel like I can do anything. Time has no meaning, that's when I start cutting time off and I get the feeling that nothing can hold you back, no rules, no people, no promises to make or
break, nothing except my body in the water, everything in that I have complete control over it all.

 

Until I get out of the pool. The dry Arizona air slaps me back into reality, the world rushes back in, and my peace is gone.