April Smith - Judas Horse

Indignation flares and I don’t try to stop it.

“If you’re talking about the agent you murdered with a bomb, he had a name — Steve Crawford. He left a wife and children, and he was a friend of mine.”

“You think he was a together guy? He came across to me as a real asshole.”

“That was his cover,” I say angrily.

“Nope, sorry, that was him. He’s supposed to be dealing methamphetamine, but he’s wearing a Harvard University ring, for Christ’s sake. And nice-looking boots.”

Stone is busy unscrewing the top of a water bottle, then soaks a red bandanna inside. He ties it tightly over his head, gangsta-style. Water drips along the pink flush in his neck.

“Your buddy Steve was pushing too hard. He comes in way too fast and fancy. You’re thinking, Man, what is this? You know what was the tell? He’s cheap. He acts like a high roller, but he doesn’t tip well, like a person on an expense account trying to shave a little. Working people know that barmaids have to make a living. That was paltry.”

“So you lure him into the woods and blow him up?”

“Why do that? Why off an agent and send the whole world up here? He blew himself up. He hears a rumor I’ve got a buried fortune in stolen turquoise and silver, and he decides, I’m going to do something about this kingpin. I’m going to take the turquoise. Because I’m the government, and the government can do anything. He out-and-out threatens me, just like any crooked scumbag cop. He says, ‘I’m going to take the goods off you. I’m gonna steal it because it’s stolen anyway. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have you arrested.’ So I told him where it was.”

Then it collapses, like a sand castle undercut by waves. “That’s not the guy I knew.”

“I’m amazed you didn’t see through the act.”

“Did you tell him what the turquoise is? Don’t say Indian jewelry.”

Dick Stone smiles. “I like symbols. I like the great western myths — like preserving the freedom of the wild mustangs — it stirs people’s loyalty. There’s an open secret — one I’ve cultivated for years, like the orchard — that I have the means to finance operations. Otherwise, nobody would pay attention.

“No, it’s for real. Back in the day, I was working a deal we had going in Arizona, called Turquoise. Case closed, bad guys in jail, and Berwick the techie and I find ourselves alone in a garage, disabling the crap he’d installed on this armored car, and sweet Jesus, there is a bag with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the bottom of the trunk. It was nowhere on our inventory. Nobody knew it existed. The Bureau was acting like I was an orphan child they’d disowned, so screw it. We took the cash. Berwick was scared, so I kept his share for him. Then some dudes from the Paiute Nation got ripped off of a load of semi-precious gems, and thus a legend was born.

“Don’t lose sleep over your buddy. He was just another insignificant, corrupt little Bureau shit, who only made my life that much harder. And then there was you.”

He shakes his head, then pulls out a joint and lights it, carefully extinguishing the match against the sole of his sandal. Despite the coolness beneath the trees, heat is shooting through my body.

“Ana, I cannot express to you the depth of my disappointment and sorrow. I would never have said it to him, your friend, the father of two—‘Prove your loyalty and I will share my treasure.’” His eyes bulge as he holds the smoke. “But I would have said it to you.”

“I can help you out.”

“How is that?” asks Stone.

“I feel you, brother.”

Stone doubles up laughing, spewing fragrant smoke.

“You’re kidding, right?”

I’m speed-talking, careening into street jive.

“No, dig it, look. You come into the FBI all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a well-educated attorney, a patriot like your brother, who made the sacrifice in Vietnam, and all you want is to follow the rules and do your duty, and look how you were treated. Sent undercover with no protection, no support. So here’s me. Female, biracial, and it’s the same tune. They throw me into this situation here and walk away. My supervisor is a jerk. He doesn’t care about my safety; he’s just worried about his career. I’m the way he’s going to advance, no matter how the case turns out with Dick Stone.”

Stone exhales a cone of smoke. “So I’m preaching to the choir?”

“I can’t argue with the evidence. The bullet casings? Berwick on the inside? What’s my choice? What would you do? You’d do the smart thing, too. You’d flip. It’s a no-brainer. I’ll come over and help you out.”

Stone extinguishes the joint. His tone is magnanimous.

“You can flip all you want. You can flop around like a goddamned salmon. But one day, I will take your life. In spite of the fact you’re good. Or maybe because you’re good. It completes a certain cycle of nature. You like science? I like science, too. No worries, Ana. It won’t be a surprise.”

“They know where I am and they’ll come and get me.”

“Yes, they will, but not before the Big One. After that, darlin’, it won’t matter much to either one of us.”

Atask force of Bu-cars and tech vans moves in formation across the Harbor Freeway in downtown Los Angeles. Lanes of traffic give way to the flotilla of black vehicles as it passes the Staples Center and the painted eyes of the twelve-story violinist on the famous mural, which are following the caravan with subtle surprise.

Curving down an exit and underneath the freeway, maintaining the speed limit, it moves with the precision of a fleet of Hornet warplanes. Entering the Central American nation, it slows for pushcarts selling ices and throngs of women and children shopping the mercados and botanicas in the early-morning particulate dust. The security gates roll back and the lead sedan, in which SAC Robert Galloway is riding, enters the secure lot of the JR Trading Co.

The sweep is a total surprise. The task force invades the ancient hallways, charging past the cubicles of the defunct unemployment office, where bewildered agents sit before computer screens, to the innermost heart of covert operations — the secret laboratory — securing doors and exits in less than four minutes.

Nobody is going home today.

Stone walks me out of the orchard. Like Slammer to his burial, I go willingly. He doesn’t have to show the gun.

We probably look like hippie father and daughter, or master and acolyte, strolling past the dusty blackberry bushes laden with ripe fruit and bees. It probably looks like everything’s okay in the heartland of the USA. In the center of a small ring, willowy young Sara is reluctantly learning to lunge Geronimo. Sterling McCord is teaching her how to exercise him, standing close behind her, spooning almost, with that uninhibited pelvis, as he reaches around to guide her hands on a long lead rope and whip. Just a whisper on the hindquarters, and the little white horse starts up a trot.

Like figures on a music box, the cowboy and Sara revolve in tiny steps together, guiding the foal with the lead and the whip in sprightly circles around the ring.

I cannot hide the bitter envy. “Isn’t it pretty?”

Little Geronimo gets frisky and kicks up his heels, hitting a hind leg against the rail. A smack rings out and the wood vibrates. Sterling halts the lesson.

Everyone who works at the off-site is herded into the central lab. Restrooms are searched. The roof is secured. Galloway addresses the crowd.

“There has been a breach of security at this facility. A suspect is being apprehended. Our purpose right now is to evaluate the viability of this workplace. You will be required to take a polygraph. We are counting on your patience and understanding in getting everyone through this as quickly as possible.”