The Rabbit Factory (39 page)

But the helicopter didn't drop anybody. It buzzed right pa.sl the van and kept heading east toward Familyland.

"What the fuck?" Church said, and stepped out of the Winnebago to get a better view. We all followed him and watched as the helicopter flew directly over the theme park.

Seconds later, the sky was filled with a ribbon of yellow.

"He's dropping leaflets," Church said, as tens of thousands of sheets of paper fluttered in the wind. "Command One to Air One. Go, now."

As a cop, my mind focused on the fact that if they were only dropping paper, nobody could get hurt. But as the CEO of Lamaar, Ike had a grasp on the real significance of the drop, "Those fucking motherfuckers," he said, pounding his fist oil the side of the Winnebago. "They're going public on us."

Brian was on the radio. "Security One to all stations. They're dropping flyers over Sector Seven. I want to know what tin] say."

The sky was now littered with flapping yellow pages. Some seemed to be defying gravity as they got caught in an updnift and rose even higher, but the bulk of them were floating slowly to the ground. The helicopter was now a speck on the hori/( m

Ś

The Rabbit Factory

I

p

nd fading out of sight. Air One was about a mile behind.

Curry's radio snapped to life. "Security Twelve to Security One. Brian, it's me, Mel Gelade. This is really sick." "Read it," Brian said.

"There's a Lamaar logo with a slash through it. Then it says Death to Lamaar and all those who associate with them. We've " killed twelve so far, and we will continue to kill employees, cus' totners, and all those who support Lamaar in any way. This is J your only warning."

"What's the crowd reaction?" Brian said. "Not many people have read it yet, but a bunch of them gWho have are hauling ass to the gates. A few think it's a prank and they're happy that the lines are getting shorter. It's not a prank, is it?"

"No. Just a minute." Brian turned to Ike. "White Star," he lid. Ike just nodded. Brian went back to his radio. "Security ne to all stations. Operation White Star is now in effect. This I not a drill. This is the real deal. Repeat, Operation White Star Is now in effect."

Brian turned to us. "We're closing the park," he said. "We Duld have about ninety-eight percent of the visitors and half employees off premises in an hour. White Star is designed get people out of the park in the least amount of time with (lie least amount of panic."

"When did you do your last dry run?" Church asked. "Monday," Brian said. "The day after the ransom note came. Vas thinking that maybe I was being a little paranoid, but now I'm glad I did it."

"I don't get it," Rose said. "We had a deal. They asked for the )nn(.'y. There it is." He pointed to the van, which didn't seem

nearly as important as it was just minutes ago.

"It's a vendetta," I said. "I guess it was never about tlir money."

And then a voice boomed out. It was human, but it w;i.i electronically distorted. "Good afternoon, Mr. Rose." Some where, someone was talking into a voice changer and tlio sound was coming from a loudspeaker in the Ford van. It went on. "We didn't keep our end of the bargain, did we?" 'Ś'Ś' Ike Rose started walking toward the van. "You bastarck What the hell did I do to you?"'Ś'Ś>

"You have no soul, Mr. Rose," the voice said, echoing slightly. "No values. Your days of peddling smut are over." ,'s Ike raised a fist in the air. "You sanctimonious hypocrilo, You kill my people; you break into my home and desecrate my little girl's bedroom; and you talk to me about values?"

The only response was maniacal laughter. Then the laughlor doubled and tripled into a chorus. The person operating the voice changer wanted to piss Ike off. It was working. He w;m I livid, flushed with anger. "I paid your fucking price. What mord did you want?" he yelled, still moving toward the van.

The van answered back, equally angry. "Do you really think we want money? Do you think money will stop us?"

And in that moment I knew what was about to go down, I'm sure the other cops would have figured it out. I just h;i> pened to be the first. "Take cover!" I yelled. "Get in the WinŤ nebago! Now, now, now!"

Church and his men didn't need to be told twice. They started running. But Ike kept advancing toward his invisible accuser, his voice and his fist raised. I grabbed him by the arm, "They don't want the money!" I said. "Run, run!"

"Run?" Rose shrieked. "Fuck them! They're destroying my company."

Terry was right behind me. He grabbed Rose's other arm. l'( >gether, the two of us dragged and shoved the hysterical CEO , toward the Winnebago.

The voice on the loudspeaker continued. "Lamaar is doomed, Mr. Rose, and you're the person responsible for Bending it to its grave."

The Feds piled into the Winnebago. Terry and I tried to push Rose in, but he smashed his shin into the metal step and litarted to yelp in pain.

Church's partner, Henry Collins, who has arms that look like they were fabricated in a steel mill, reached down from inside I lie motor home and yanked Rose up in the air and pulled him In. I made it up the step and Terry was right behind me, shoving i He through the door.

"Take cover!" I yelled. "Stay away from the windows! ley're going to..."

I didn't get to finish my sentence. The explosion finished it

me. The van had been wired with a bomb. I caught a quick limpse of the fireball as the van and the twenty-seven duffel bags stuffed with money blew sky high.

As my partner tumbled through the door, the blast knocked the Winnebago on its side and we slid across the macadam.

I I

TT 'we never been shot. But in my mind I've always been pre—

I pared for what it would feel like to take a bullet. JL.This I was not prepared for.

I' I threw myself down and managed to get most of my upper l>ody under the video equipment table, and immediately decided it was the wrong choice. I tried to protect my head with my hands. My ears were covered but I could still hear metal .shredding, glass breaking, and Garet Church bellowing out in iigony. We skidded to a stop and the horrendous sounds gave way to frightening smells. Burning electrical cables, scorched rubber, spilled gasoline.

I kicked what glass was left in the front windshield and crawled out onto Ramona Rabbit. One by one the others crawled out after me. All except Terry. I screamed his name. No answer. I crawled back in.

The motor home was on its side and Terry was lying inside (I shattered window frame. His face was covered with blood

'that sparkled with tiny shards of glass. His arms were clutching

riťis chest and he was gasping for air.

Like most cops I've had some medical training. In a post9/11 world, we've become first responders. I'm a few steps up from Eagle Scout and a few notches below an EMT. The good news is I know enough to diagnose the problem. The bad news is I know just enough to make me fear the worst.

And the worst in this case was pneumothorax. Collapsed lung.

"You get hit in the chest?" I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. 'He grunted something that felt like yes.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I know what this is and I'm not equipped. I could hear my own heavy breathing. In my worst-case scenario, his lung was punctured; air was filling up his chest cavity with no place to escape. His lung would collapse and he would die in minutes. Come on God, don't fuck with me. He's got three kids. We need this man.

I put my ear to his chest. I couldn't hear a thing. I ripped his shirt open and pressed my ear hard and flat against his skin.

"No mouth... to mouth... you homo," he said, between shallow breaths.

"If ever in your life you stopped trying to be funny, this would be a good time, asshole!" I yelled. "Breathe, mother fucker!"

It was hard to hear what was coming from his chest, but ii felt like breathing. Labored, but it sounded like his lungs wen expanding and contracting. "Sit up," I said. "This is a better position."

He sat and I looked out through the windshield at thr Ramona Rabbit Parking Lot. A few agents were on their feet, Garet Church was clutching his right shoulder and his face was

contorted in pain.

A column of fire and black smoke rose up from row fourteen, space nine. Ike Rose, bleeding from a gash over his left eye, stared upwards as hundred-dollar bills swirled around the flames and dissolved into orange embers. I could hear sirens as the fire trucks and emergency vehicles headed our way.

And then my cell phone rang.

There was nobody on the planet I wanted to talk to. But I had a brother who was living under a death threat. Or it could lie Diana with news about Hugo. Or maybe the Governor was just wondering how things were going on the Lamaar case. Fuck it. I let it ring a second time. And a third.

"You're giving me... a headache," Terry said. "Answer... the fucking... phone."

I flipped it open. "Hello."

"Detective Lomax?" It was a man's voice, but I didn't recognize it.

"Yeah, this is Lomax," I said, as the wailing fire engines pulled up to the burning van.

"Sounds like you're busy out there," he said. "This is Danny Eeg calling from Woodstock. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

I

III.

RUN, RABBIT, RUN

T;

he three remaining disciples of Dean Lamaar sat quietly, absorbing the silence. As soon as Klaus Lebrecht had detonated the bomb, every microphone, camera, and electronic connection to the van was obliterated. The conversation with Ike Rose was over.

"Gentlemen," Lebrecht said giddily. "We seem to have been disconnected."

"Do you think he's dead?" Kevin Kennedy said. "I don't know," Lebrecht answered. "I was trying to lure him closer to the van. Then, somehow, that cop figured it out and they started running. I pushed the button as fast as I could, but the relay must be slow. Even if he's not dead, I'll bet he's cut up pretty bad. There was a lot of shrapnel flying through the air."

"And a lot of money," Kennedy said. "A lot of fucking -money."

Lebrecht poured himself some wine from a Baccarat decanter and held his glass up in a toast. "Alea iacta est," he said.

The others needed no translation. They'd heard it from him I before. It was the phrase Julius Caesar had uttered when he led

his troops across the Rubicon River and began his successful campaign to conquer Rome.

Alea iacta est. The die is cast.

"I thought the fucking die was cast when we whacked Elkins," Kennedy said, waving off Lebrecht's offer of wine and pouring himself more vodka. "On the other hand, if you mean we just let a quarter of a billion dollars go up in smoke and we'll never get it back, then yeah, that die is cast. I realize it made for great theatre, but don't tell my wife that I gave up a shitload of dough just to make a point, or this Mick will be cast. Castrated."

"That piece-of-ass wife of yours will outlive you by fifty years and still have a small fortune left over when she dies," Lebrecht said. "And, for the record, I have no regrets about blowing up the money. My only regret is that this is the last bottle of 1959 Gruaud Larose in my cellar."

He poured some wine into Mitch Barber's glass. "Alright, let's focus on Act Three. We've got Sophocles in New York, Yeats in Dallas, and Cervantes is still in L.A. They're waiting for their marching orders."

Barber took a sip, then swirled the Gruaud around his tongue. How did it get this far, he wondered. He was the writer who made movies with the great Dean Lamaar. And now, he was writing death threats and ransom notes.

Kennedy was an alcoholic. But Barber's addiction took on a much more acceptable form. Workaholic. No matter how hard or how late Dean Lamaar worked, Barber worked harder and later. In part, he was driven to succeed, but mostly it was his need to constantly impress and be near the Boss.

Deanie was God. And if I can't be God, Barber used to tdl

his analyst, I want to at least be recognized as the second in command. The Son of God.

"Did you hear me, Mitch?" Lebrecht said. "They're waiting for their marching orders."

Marching orders? We won't be giving them orders to march. They're waiting for their killing orders. Barber drank some more wine and spoke. "Maybe we should hold off. We've made the threat. Shouldn't we wait and see what happens?"

Lebrecht's lips pursed. "You losing your nerve, Mitch?" k "Hell, no," Barber said quickly. "I just don't want us to lose sight of what we're trying to do. The objective is to put Lamaar out of business. Not to kill off their customers and employees one by one. Don't you think a dozen fucking dead people makes a big enough statement? Let's wait for the public reaction. Maybe killing more people is unnecessary."

"If we quit now, it'll be business as usual at Lamaar a month from now," Lebrecht said. "This is war. There are going to be casualties. I made my peace with that when we started. I want to see the company die before I die. Besides, we're only going to kill those who support Lamaar in any way. Your words Mitch, not mine. If nobody supports them, nobody gets killed." r Kevin Kennedy refilled his glass with vodka. "Sorry Mitch," he said. "I know where you're coming from, but it's too late for regrets or conscience or whatever it is that's got you. In for a penny, in for a pound."

Barber had worked with the two of them since World War

If. Whatever he dreamed up they had made happen. Kevin was

one of the best damn producers in Hollywood, and Lebrecht,

side from being a narcissistic, arrogant prick, was still the best

irector Barber ever worked with.

Deanie had discovered them, took them under his wing, and together they had built an empire. But the empire they created had been replaced by a new one that reeked of depravity and decadence. Lebrecht and Kennedy were right. It had to be destroyed. It was too late to turn back now.

Alea iacta est.

The helicopter that had been waiting on the ground to chase the bad guys was quickly brought over to airlift the good guys to UCLA Medical Center. The top hospital brass was out in force when we arrived, bt because we were cops, but because Ike was on their Board, 'erry had stabilized in flight, and as soon as the rotors stopped spinning and he could be heard, he started talking. "Never .would have guessed...they'd blow up the money. Good call, partner. You saved my life."