The Pressure of Darkness (11 page)

"The stink of your piss tells me so. Where are my drugs?"

"Garcia took them, Buey."

"Then where is my money?"

"I sent half to my family, sir. I was not lying about that. My sister needs a new kidney and they live in Guadalajara. They have no money, I was only trying to . . ."

"Boy, calm yourself. And the other half?"

"In the wall behind my bed, in the back of the bunkhouse. I was going to give it back to you, I swear it. It was only meant to be a loan,
please
, Buey . . ."

"One final question, we are almost through. I need to know if you told anyone about my new American business partners."

"Those people who come and go? No, I swear it."

"No one at all, not even that goat you fuck?"

"I swear it."

"Also, have you spoken of the project our chemists are involved with, assuming you even know?"

"What project?"

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you? I get very upset when people lie to me."

"No, Buey! I am telling the truth."

"Have you ever heard of an American operative known as Jack Burke?"

"No. Buey, please do not do this to me!"

"Gag him, Ortega. He is beginning to get on my nerves."

"PLEASE!"

"That is better. Now he can only grunt or scream. Don't you think this is better, Ernesto?"

"I should go prepare lunch and the horses."

"You will stay for a bit."

"Yes, Buey."

"You must learn to harden yourself, Ernesto. This man is a common thief, and worse still he betrayed my trust. This has broken my heart, and I demand retribution. Ortega?"

"Yes, Buey."

"Begin. No, wait. I have something else to say. Let me closer. Do you hear me, boy? One last thing, before I go. I know where your family lives, and I will get the other half of my money soon."

"
Mmmph
!"

"Oh, and your
puta
of a sister has already been raped and strangled. Rest assured that
my
money is on the way back to
my
pocket."

"Buey?"

"Why do you interrupt me, Ernesto?"

"I cannot stay, I feel sick. Can you not end this quickly?"

"Boy, Ernesto seems to like you, and you have told me at least part of the truth, yes?"

"
Mmmph
."

"Well, unfortunately for you, I am not in a good mood. I hereby retract my initial offer. Ortega?"

"Yes."

"You may take as much time as you wish with this one."

"
Gracias
, Buey."

"Show patience. You must pace yourself, yes?"

"Oh, Buey . . ."

"Ernesto, do not weep. You may leave and prepare our lunch."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you."

"I will be along in due time, yes? Now, Ortega. Let us begin."

"Fingernails?"

"No, not this time, I think. We should warm him up first with the blow torch."

TWELVE

It has been said that there are many different ways to get to Bel Air, but the easiest is to make a lot of money. Jack Burke drove down White Oak Boulevard, with its rows of weathered, pastel houses, forced his way onto the Ventura Freeway for a few exits. He stayed in the right lanes, where cracked concrete jiggled and thumped beneath the tires, and eased over to the San Diego Freeway, moving south. The sky was a bruised purple with streaks of orange from LA's belligerent pollution.

Burke's mind was wandering, and he almost missed the exit for Sunset Boulevard. A hunched-over elderly man in a finned white Caddy was smoking defiantly and squinting into the taillights of the next vehicle. Burke honked, but the old man refused to yield. Gauging the distance perfectly, Burke floored it and shrieked into a space between cars that opened and closed in a nanosecond. The old man flipped him the finger. The ramp was backed up; Los Angeles traffic was gnarly virtually any time of the day, but in rush hour it was hideous.

Burke hung a left on Sunset and followed it to the overgrown, half-shielded entrance to an exclusive, gated community. He left the main street, followed the winding drive and finally rolled up to a freshly painted guard shack. The rent-a-cop was a buff, blue-eyed kid with steroid pimples. He leaned out of the window and eyed Burke with a practiced gaze intended to intimidate.

"My name is Burke. Nicole Stryker left my name."

The kid made a show of searching his clipboard. He seemed disappointed when he discovered the name was listed. He nodded grudgingly, reached toward the car with one large hand. "Need to see a photo ID, sir."

Burke debated and then handed over his legitimate license, rather than one of the forgeries he has tucked away in the glove compartment. The extras were there to provide him with different first names—also with his last name spelled as Birk, Berk, or Burk. His eye color was different in some photographs, the same in others; a number of the licenses claimed he wore glasses or was subject to seizures when not on medication.

"Have you been here before, Mr. Burke?"

"No."

The kid leaned on the car. His breath reeked of garlic. "You take a right on Bellefontaine, go maybe two hundred yards until you get to Bogart Drive. Turn left on Bogart all the way to the top of the hill, maybe half a mile. You'll see a fork in the road. Take the left fork onto Warner Drive, and the house is the first one on the right side, you can't miss the gate."

"Thanks." Burke started the car. The kid was looking at him as if about to say something. Burke didn't want the police or anyone else interrupting. "In case you're wondering, I know he's dead. Nicole asked me to come up and get a few things. She's too upset right now."

The kid nodded, a bit dimly. "I can understand that. And how long do you plan on being up there, Mr. Burke?"

"Maybe a half hour." Burke actually didn't have a clue. "No more than an hour. It wouldn't take that long, except I'm going to have to locate stuff from her directions because I've never been here."

The kid still seemed too suspicious. "You work for the family?"

"I'm a friend of Nicole's," Burke said, with emphasis on the word friend. He changed gears and manufactured a lewd wink.

That did it. The kid relaxed, fully convinced. He stepped back. "Go on ahead, sir," he said, brightly. "Be sure to check out again when you leave."

The main drag was oddly dark for an upper class neighborhood, but as Burke turned the car onto Garfield Lane the lighting improved. The next properties could all rightfully be termed 'estates,' for they were massive. He saw tall rows of trees weaving in and out of giant metal fences with mounted cameras and motion alarms. A Mercedes-Benz sedan passed him going the other way. The driver was a flawless blonde with yet another one of those surgically pinched noses. She smiled, Bel Air style:
Hi! Are you somebody important, who can do something for me or my career?
The smile flickered out like a pissed-on campfire when she realized Burke was nobody special.

Warner Drive was all one property and the tall fencing stretched for an easy two blocks. Burke was impressed. He arrived at the tall, gothic-looking gates and paused to take it all in. This was a perfect home for a horror author. Far back into the gloomy trees he could just make out a sprawling, two-story property with high gables. The gate looked formidable; the entire, seemingly endless ribbon of impeccable driveway was dark. Burke parked and fished through his pockets for the keys Nicole Stryker had tossed him. There was one large key on the ring, but also one smaller—perhaps for a desk drawer or the lock leading into a library or study. Burke swore under his breath.

Two things sprang to mind: First,
why would Stryker leave such an already isolated setting to commit suicide in a hotel suite?
Second,
why the hell didn't Nicole tell me how to get in the front gate, if she knew it would be closed?

Burke got out of the car, reached back under the front seat. He pulled out a large, police-style flashlight. He took measure of the fence, sighed. He knelt in the grass, checked that the snub S&W .38 was snug in the holster at his ankle. He removed a small travel-sized bottle of baby powder, sprinkled it on his hands and slipped on a pair of thin surgical gloves, just to be on the safe side. He looked in both directions; nothing. He searched the tree line for cameras directed toward the street; nothing.

He walked closer. There was no key opening on, or even near, the large front gate. Burke dialed Nicole on the cell phone, got a machine. He hung up, not wanting to leave a recording that might later serve as evidence.

Thirty seconds later he was at the top of the metal fence, shining the powerful flashlight beam down onto the lush grounds. He checked again for cameras and quickly found a few placed discreetly atop poles and among the trees. He recognized 'sweepers' that were designed to move constantly and search the grounds below. These didn't seem to be activated. He considered, then slithered down some ivy and dropped loose-kneed onto the slightly damp grass. Burke figured he was here legally anyway. The guard could testify to his name having been on the list.

Meanwhile, the closed gate could mean any number of things, but only one that was truly interesting. If Nicole Stryker had left it open for him, then someone else either had recently been on the premises to close it—or that someone else was still here.

Burke stayed at the base of the pines for a few moments, just listening, then crouched low and worked his way closer to the mansion. The grounds had an unnatural stillness to them; the plants were rigid enough to appear artificial and the grass, though cool and somewhat damp, felt like the Astroturf flooring of a domed stadium. From somewhere to the south Burke heard the gruff rumbling of an airliner approaching LAX. His tennis shoes whispered through the foliage. His instincts flared. He was soon moving at a good, solid clip. He angled for the side of the massive porch and duck-walked beneath the picture window. At the edge of the doorway he reached for his ankle and unclipped the .38. It felt improbably light—and a bit unimpressive—once in his grasp.

Burke blinked sweat from his eyes. He reached up with one gloved hand and carefully tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked and it swung open. Burke slithered into the foyer, the .38 low and pointed toward the tiled flooring. He was surprised how well he could see. He peered down into the huge living room. The house was riddled with night-lights; they were plugged into dozens of receptacles near doorways and closets.

For some reason, Peter Stryker had been abnormally afraid of the dark.

Burke was on the premises legally, with keys that belonged to the family, and he was licensed to carry a firearm. None of those facts were of any particular value to him at the moment. They would not make him bulletproof. In fact, he wished he'd brought the Kevlar vest he left hanging in a closet at home. He eased through the foyer, barely noticing that the ornate, doubtlessly expensive tiles were identical to those that adorned Nicole Stryker's residence.

The living room had thick, plush carpeting. Burke moved through it rapidly and soundlessly. He did not know what he was looking for, but if Stryker's death was something other than suicide, the presence of an intruder would likely be connected. He had taken the young woman's money. Since he was here, he felt obligated to follow through.

A floorboard squeaked on the upper landing. Burke flattened against a wall near the bottom of the spiral staircase, between two massive wooden bookshelves. For the first time, he noticed several small indicators of a careful, possibly recent search of the property. Some books had been replaced upside down and a few papers slipped under end tables or protruded from desk drawers. He listened intently. He could hear faint music coming from upstairs; something classical, although he did not recognize the piece.

Then footsteps, confident and brisk, crossed the floor above him and paused at the top of the stairs.
I saw a man who wasn't there,
he thought. How did that old poem go?

Burke braced the .38 in his hands. He would wait for the intruder to deal the cards. He couldn't retreat to the front door, which was still standing open, without being seen. Neither could he approach the staircase. His best hope was that the man on the landing would decide he'd left the front door open himself and make a run for it, or perhaps would know another way out of the home and not choose to take any undue risk. By staying still, Burke might have the upper hand. All he had to do was be patient and wait. Or so he hoped.

The intruder also waited.

Burke tried to get a sense of the man or woman upstairs. The floorboards had squeaked, rather than complained, as they likely would with someone Burke's size. The person was probably not exceptionally large. The lock on the front door was not damaged in any obvious way, and was the likely point of entry because it was open, so the burglar was either a professional or someone with a key. And this was also someone who could stand in utter tranquility for several minutes after having been interrupted in the middle of ransacking a dead man's home.

More time passed with no movement, no sound. Sweat rolled down Burke's face and tickled his lips. He licked it away. His Delta training had prepared him for long and boring periods of motionless anxiety, waiting for a target to appear. He was confident he could wait his opponent out, regardless of how long it took.

Time slowed, almost stuttered to a halt. Burke could hear the ticking of a clock in another room.

Movement? Yes
. The figure was backing away from the staircase now, probably not convinced there was someone else in the house, but unwilling to walk downstairs to be sure. Burke knew he could either call for the police or try to corner the intruder somewhere on the upper floor. But he did not know the layout of the house, and the undamaged lock suggested his opponent may have had an opportunity to familiarize himself with floor plans, or perhaps had even been on the premises before. That gave the intruder a decided advantage.

It annoyed Burke to have to wait. He knew it made sense to call the police and report someone in the house. He even gave the idea careful consideration. But having the person arrested would eliminate a juicy opportunity for some intense, brutal questioning. The footsteps backed away from the upstairs foyer and into a hall or bedroom, somewhere where there was carpeting. Burke did not know if the stairs themselves would make noise. He doubted it. In the dim light of the many tiny bulbs peppered around the house Burke could make out that the stairs had also been carpeted. That meant only the boards at the top of the stairs presented a serious risk that could give away his position. He stepped forward and looked up.