No Man's Land (32 page)

Driver read his address and zip code. “Mr. Temple had the great
misfortune to interfere in the natural workings of things. This
failure to be in rhythm with the order—” He looked up at the
camera. “As is always the case, nature is unforgiving of even the
slightest mistake.”

Driver switched the mike off and walked to the back of the trunk.
Marty kept shooting as Driver lowered the tailgate, groped around for
something, then started back his way. He held the microphone in one
hand and a gas can in the other.

“Oh God,” Melanie sobbed. “Don’t you dare. You son of a
bitch . . .” She was running at him, consumed by fury, coming
fulltilt boogie down the hill, her fingernails thrust before her like
talons. Driver set the gas can on the hood, stuck the mike back in
his pocket and stiff-armed her in the solar plexus. She went down in
a heap, gasping for air in a series of hiccuping sounds, rocking back
and forth on the ground like a stroke victim as she fought for
breath. Driver retrieved the gas can. He walked to the driver’s
side and pulled open the door. Marty began to sob and shake. Bob
Temple saw it coming. Without a word Driver began to pour gasoline
over Temple and the interior of the truck. Satisfied with his work,
he lobbed the can into the passenger seat. A low wailing scream came
rolling out of Temple’s mouth as Driver reached into his pocket and
pulled out a signal flare. Driver brought the radio mike to his face.
“You have thirty minutes to arrange my network airtime or else
Melanie Harris and . . .” He looked at Marty.

“Martin Wells,” Marty said.

Marty’s words were barely audible above the terrified wailing
coming from the cab of the truck.

“Should you decide to ignore me again, Martin Wells and Melanie
Harris will be the next to suffer for your foolishness.” He pointed
at Marty. “Show our audience the attractive Ms. Harris.”

Marty was nearly in tears as he lowered the nose of the camera for
fifteen seconds.

Inside the cab of the truck, Temple was throwing himself from side
to side. Driver walked over next to him and smiled. Without a word,
he snapped the flare in half, watched as the red flame came pouring
from the broken ends, then tossed the flare into the truck and kicked
the door shut.

The interior of the truck went up in a whoosh of orange flame,
blowing out both side windows and violently rocking the vehicle on
its springs. By then Marty was crying. Driver grabbed Melanie by the
hair and dragged her all the way up to where he stood.

Inside the cab, the flames had melted some of the tape; Temple had
one hand free and was waving it like a flag on the Fourth of July.

Corso had to stop himself. It took all of his willpower to stay
hidden in the rocks as Temple’s death throes bounced around the
hillside. And then . . . the truck began to move. Temple’s
thrashing must have moved something. The emergency brake or the shift
lever maybe. Either way, the truck began to roll backward, gaining
speed until it slammed into the bank and caromed right, slipping over
the edge one tire at a time.

At first the truck rolled down the nearly vertical incline on its
wheels. The first boulder sent the truck pinwheeling, ass over
teakettle, back over front, down the hill. On the second bounce, the
flames in the cab found the truck’s gas tank and the whole thing
went off like an artillery shell, scattering flaming pieces of truck
all over the hillside.

The smoking carcass came to rest about sixty yards downhill, back
on its wheels again, facing west. Parts of Bob Temple were still and
silent in the driver’s seat. The air smelled of burnt plastic.

“How did you get this number?” Rosen asked.

He listened, obviously getting more annoyed by the syllable.

“From whom?” he demanded. “Corso? Frank Corso?” He shook
his head in disgust. “I see. You don’t know his first name.”

He rolled his eyes. “And your name was?” He listened again.

“Kenneth Grabowski. A message from Mr. Corso you say . . . well
. . . Angels Mountain . . . no, no, no. If you don’t mind, I’ve
had all the foolishness I can stand for one day. We have far more
pressing matters, Mr. Grabowski; lives are at stake here. I hope you
don’t mind.” He broke the connection.

Rosen sounded collected. Truth was, he had a stress headache to
drop a rhino. The Kelly affair was a disaster. A public relations
nightmare. Kelly’s lawyer was going to be all over the Bureau like
a cheap suit. Things were ugly. Not ugly enough to get him
transferred to Albuquerque, but ugly. Since Ruby Ridge, the Bureau
had become extra sensitive about failures of judgment. Getting the
wrong RV was at worst laughable. Shooting out the tires was . . . was
. . . perhaps not the best idea he ever had. He was going to end up
with a letter in his file over this.

Worse yet, he didn’t have clue one as to where Timothy Driver
was at that moment. He shuddered at the thought. Rosen was lost in
his own inner world when the Bureau-issue Ford Taurus skidded to a
stop about a foot in front of his trousers. Rosen was just about to
get in somebody’s face about their driving when Special Agent
Santos bolted out of the car. His arms were full of equipment. “You
gotta see this, boss,” he said as he dumped his load of gear on the
hood of his car with a bang and began pushing buttons. Looked like he
had his satellite phone hooked up to his laptop computer. “This
showed up on the Internet six or seven minutes ago.”

Rosen wandered over. Sunlight made the screen hard to see. Rosen
shaded his eyes, but it didn’t help. Santos took off his suit
jacket and draped it over the screen. “Here,” he said. “Look at
it now.” Rosen bent at the waist and stuck his head under the suit
jacket like an old-time photographer.

Rosen watched in disgust as Driver issued another ultimatum. His
reaction turned to horror when Driver came out of the back of the
truck with a gas can. “Oh God,” slipped from his mouth when
Driver cracked the flare. The rest of it he watched in silence. In
the end, he pulled his head away as if avoiding a blow.

Santos started the streaming video anew. Westerman put her head
under the coat. Rosen watched her body stiffen, then grabbed her by
the elbow when her knees deserted her. She put both hands on the hood
of the car and took deep breaths. She looked like she was about to
puke.

A government green pickup skidded to a halt at the rear of the
car. Short, overweight guy with a round red face. “We’ve got a
report of smoke up near the Angel’s Mountain Lookout,” he said.

“Where?” Rosen asked.

“Angel’s Mountain.”

Rosen pulled his cell phone from his pocket, pushed star
sixty-nine and got the number of the last incoming call. He dialed
the number.

“Mr. Grabowski,” he said. “Good . . . yes . . . you meet us
out at the highway. We’ll be there is less than five minutes. Yes,”
he said. “Yes. We will.”

He pocketed his phone and began to jog toward the Lincoln.

“Santos, follow me. Call another unit, whoever’s closest. Get
a couple of aid cars on the way.”

Westerman was still ashen as she threw herself behind the wheel.

“That was . . . ,” she began.

“Down,” Rosen said. “Give it all she’s got.”

Corso saw them coming. Saw the big Lincoln Town Car winding its
way up the narrow road. Then a gap and a pair of beige Fords trailing
along in the wake. Corso scrambled across the hill, to a place where
he was able to pull himself up onto the surface of the road. Two
minutes later he signaled the Lincoln to a halt just below the last
bend in the road and a couple of hundred feet above the smoking
carcass of Bob Temple’s Forest Service truck. Rosen got out one
side, Westerman the other. They walked to the edge of the road
together and stood gazing down at the carnage below. When the Fords
arrived, Rosen motioned for the occupants to stay put.

A layer of vile black smoke cut across the rugged contours of the
canyon.

“Couple of public access TV channels in L.A. broadcast it live,”
Rosen said. “It’s been up on the Internet for the past twenty
minutes or so.”

“What a way to go,” Corso said. “Live and in color.”

“No kidding.”

“I’d love to get his remains out of that truck,” Rosen said,
G.M. Ford “but we’re going to have to do something about Driver
before we can get a crew up here.”

“Where’s the RV now?” Westerman wanted to know. Corso
pointed uphill. “Just up around that corner. He hasn’t moved.
He’s just sitting up there waiting for his ultimatum to come
around.”

Rosen looked grim. “Word is the network isn’t going to give
him his airtime.”

The news left Corso agape. “You’re shitting me.”

“They’re worried about the legal implications.”

“Ironic huh?” Westerman added with a bitter laugh. “The
paparazzi are worried about their image.”

Corso crooked a finger. Rosen and Westerman followed him uphill to
the final bend in the road. One above the other, they peeked around
the corner.

“There it is,” Corso said. “Only way out is right back this
way. He’s got the high ground. No way to cover the doors without
coming into his field of fire.”

“We’re going to have to try,” Rosen said.

Corso and Westerman watched as Rosen marched downhill to the
waiting agents. After a quick briefing, all four agents helped one
another up the steep, moss-covered bank, climbing up onto the top
side of the road. Working their way backward, away from the clear-cut
at the top of the hill, they quickly disappeared from view.

Rosen tried his phone, only to find out what Corso already knew.
Thwarted by a complete lack of service, Rosen tried his radio. Same
result. He walked uphill.

“Think he’ll negotiate?” Rosen asked Corso.

“Not a chance. That’d mean he wasn’t running the show.”

“You think he’s got a plan for getting out of here?”
Westerman asked.

“I don’t think he wants to get out of here,” Corso said. “He
wants to broadcast his message to the world, then go out in a blaze
of glory.”

The crash of broken glass was followed by three flat reports, a
pause, then three more. More broken glass. Closer this time. A peek
around the corner confirmed Driver’d kicked out both the side and
the back windows of the RV. Mangled screens and pieces of curtains
hung down on the outside of the vehicle. The segmented barrel of the
carbine appeared in the side window. Three more flat reports split
the air.

Down by the cars, the Hispanic agent came spilling over the side
of the bank, landing in the road at a skid. His suit was stained with
dirt and moss; his service revolver dangled from his right hand as he
hurried up the hill.

“Buttros has been hit bad,” the agent said.

“Hit where?”

“In the head.” He made a smoothing gesture with his left hand.
“He was flat on the ground. Guy shot him in the top of the head.”
The hitch in his voice said he wasn’t far from losing it. Rosen put
a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Santos. I
know he’s your partner. I know how hard this is, but we’ve got to
keep our wits about ourselves up here. Soon as I can, I’ll get us
some help. In the meantime, what’s the chances of getting Buttros
out of where he is without getting anybody else hurt?”

“Already done,” Santos said. “We dragged him back out of
range. Timmons and Lange are bringing him . . .”

As if on cue, the pair appeared, Buttros slung between them like a
sack of feed. Santos hustled down to be of assistance as they eased
Buttros over the bank onto the dappled sunlight of the road surface.
Santos took his pulse and looked up. His eyes were wide and wet.

“His vital signs are pretty good. We got to get him some help.”

Rosen agreed. “You and Lange. Take the car in the back. Hurry.”

“You want us to send help?”

“Not just yet,” Rosen said.

The trio of FBI field agents carried their fallen comrade to the
rearmost car, carefully packed him into the backseat and began to
back down the mountain.

Rosen walked down to Timmons. “Go get Martini. Bring him back
here. Be careful. We don’t want anybody else hurt.”

Corso and Westerman watched Timmons scale the bank and disappear.
Rosen made his way to the trunk of the town car and pulled out a
bullhorn.

Corso and Westerman stepped aside as Rosen approached. He poked
the mouth of the bullhorn around the corner. “
This is the
FBI . . . ,”
he began.

A single shot rang out. More of a slap than a boom. The megaphone
disintegrated, its plastic and metal body sending a shower of shards
into the surrounding air. Rosen leaned back against the bank. His
lower lip was split in two and dripping blood down onto the front of
his suit. A piece of white plastic was lodged in his right cheek,
dangerously close to his eye. He sensed his wound, dropped the rest
of the bullhorn and pulled a white linen handkerchief from his jacket
pocket. He dabbed at his lower lip with little effect. Westerman
stepped forward, took the hankie from his hand and used it to pull
the jagged piece of plastic from his cheek. Rosen winced as Westerman
applied pressure to the wound for a few seconds before turning her
attention to his lip. She covered the split with the lion’s share
of the hankie and told him, “Squeeze.”

Rosen did as he was told. “Harder,” she told him, and once
again he did as bidden. The flow of blood stopped. Agents Timmons and
Martini slid down into the road. Rosen beckoned them to his side. He
tapped Timmons on the chest.

“Timmons. You take the car. You get down to somewhere you can
use the phone. You call us in a SWAT team. Have them helicopter in.
We need them yesterday. You understand me?”

Timmons said he did.

“Take Corso with you,” was Rosen’s last order.

“I’m not going,” Corso said flatly.