Robert Crais - The Watchman

A man answered on the fifth ring.

“Did you get the sonofabitch?”

The man had a deep, resonant voice, but did not sound like a gangster from Denver or Ecuador. His voice was cultured, and held a trace of something Pike thought might be French.

“Hello? Did we get cut off? Can you hear me?”

Pike said, “Alex Meesh.”

“Wrong number.”

The man hung up.

Pike pressed the send button again.

This time the man answered on the first ring. “Luis?”

“Luis and Jorge are dead.”

The line was silent. This time when the man spoke, his voice was wary.

“Who is this?”

“The sonofabitch.”

The man hesitated again.

“What do you want?”

“You.”

Pike turned off the phone.

John Chen

John Chen was terrified after Pike called. He was so scared he thought he might toss his cookies; Pike on the phone, not even waiting for an answer, just growling out the threat-

“Meet me outside in an hour.”

Yeah. Right.

First thing Chen did was run to the bathroom. He was convinced Pike was going to kill him. Pike probably blamed him for losing the guns, and would probably beat him to death in full view of everyone.

Chen paced in the bathroom for over an hour, sweating buckets, getting on and off the pot, trying to figure out what to do. He considered asking the security guards to follow him to his car, but decided the only chance he had of talking his way out of it was by pretending everything was cool. Make like he could get back the guns. Make up a believable lie.

Chen crept out of the bathroom, made his way to the lobby, and peered through the glass doors into the parking lot. He saw his ’tangmobile easily enough, but he did not see Pike, or Pike’s red Cherokee, or the green Lexus Pike used to shag the hottie. Chen stepped outside, glanced back inside at the waiting area, then scanned the parking lot again.

Still no Pike.

Chen wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe Pike had already come and gone. Maybe Pike had not yet arrived, and Chen could still get away!

Chen sprinted for the ’tangmobile. He hadn’t planned to run; he just ran . He flat-out hauled ass, wheezing and puffing after only fifty feet, but stoked on adrenaline. Chen jabbed his remote ’cause he had it made – he was home free, MOTHERFUCKER!! – and was throwing open that beautiful German-built door when-

– Pike spoke behind him.

“John.”

“Ahh!”

Chen jumped sideways, but Pike once again caught him and held the door.

“Get in.”

Pike was carrying a black backpack. Chen was certain it contained a gun.

Chen latched onto the door like a cat clinging to a sofa, the nervous tic under his eye popping in spasms.

Chen said, “Please don’t kill me.”

Pike pointed inside.

“Don’t be stupid. Get in.”

Pike pushed him in, then went around to the passenger side. Chen couldn’t take his eyes off the backpack.

“I know how this works. You’re going to take me someplace deserted. You’re going to shoot me in the head-”

Pike said, “Breathe.”

Chen couldn’t stop talking. The words rushed out with no more thought than his decision to run.

“The feds took the guns. I would have run them, honest to God. I didn’t have anything to do with-”

One moment Chen was talking; the next, Pike’s hand clamped his mouth like a vise.

Pike said, “You’re my friend, John. You don’t have to be afraid. Can I let go now?”

Chen nodded. His friend?

Pike let go. He opened the backpack, then held it out. Chen thought it might be a trick guys like Pike were always playing on guys like him; you look in the bag and a snake jumps out.

Chen slowly peeked into the bag, ready to jump, but it wasn’t a snake.

“What is this?”

“Guns the feds don’t know about and two sets of fingerprints.”

Chen peered into the bag but touched nothing. He saw two small glasses in plastic sleeves, and what appeared to be two 9mm pistols, both pocked with rust and beat to hell. He knew right away from their shabby condition they were street guns; guns that had been stolen many years earlier, then traded for dope or sold, then sold or traded again, passing from scumbag to scumbag. He also saw three spent shell casings.

“Where did you get this stuff?”

“The feds who confiscated the guns-did you get their names?”

Pike had ignored his question.

“Pitman. Pitman and something else.”

“Blanchette?”

“I don’t know. Harriet didn’t remember.”

Chen glanced back at the shell casings. Their once-gleaming brass was scorched, and the backpack smelled of burnt gunpowder. Chen began to feel afraid again, but not afraid Pike would beat him to death; afraid of something deeper. Chen found Pike watching him. John saw himself reflected in Pike’s dark glasses as if they were reflecting pools. In a weird way he would later wonder about, Chen grew calm. Here was Pike, calm there in the water, and his calmness spread to Chen.

John settled back.

“Are there more bodies to go with these guns?”

“Two.”

“Are they connected with Eagle Rock and Malibu?”

“Yes. LAPD is on the scene now. Shots were fired, so they’ll know guns are missing, but they won’t know who has them. Bullets will be recovered, and those bullets will match one of these guns-the Taurus-but not the other.”

Chen nodded, taking it in. If his shift hadn’t ended when it did, he might have rolled out to the crime.

“If the feds knew we had these guns, would they take them?”

“Yes, but they won’t know. Only you and I know, John. You’re going to have to make a choice.”

Chen didn’t understand.

“Choice about what?”

“Seven men are dead. The Department of Justice is involved. Here we are with these guns. Least case, you could be looking at obstructing a federal investigation. Worst case, accessory to homicide.”

Chen still didn’t understand.

“What are you saying?”

“Tell me you want no part, I’ll walk away.”

Chen was stunned. He was flabbergasted .

“Wait. Waitaminute. You’re giving me a choice?”

“Of course, it’s your choice. What did you think?”

Chen stared at Pike and wondered how Pike could be so calm. His impassive face; his even voice. He studied Pike, and once more saw himself in Pike’s glasses, two faces in one. In that moment, Chen remembered a meditation pool he once saw at a Buddhist monastery, its surface flat, featureless, and perfect. Chen was six years old. His uncle brought him to the monastery, and Chen had been fascinated by the pool. The mirrored surface was absolutely smooth; no leaf, no mote of dust or insect marred it; no breeze stirred its face. The pool was so like a mirror that Chen could not see beneath the surface, and believed it was no more than a few inches deep. His uncle turned away, and Chen decided to jump. It was a hot day in the San Gabriel Valley, and Chen was only six. He wanted to splash in the cool water and run to the other side. Only an inch or two deep. As empty as glass. Chen readied himself to leap, but in that moment the surface roiled and a monster reached for him, scaled in glistening armor. Red, black, and orange plates, shimmering and horrible; it broke the surface with frightening power and then it was gone. A koi, his uncle later told him, when Chen stopped crying; but the lesson was not lost on John Chen, even at six years old. A calm surface could hide great turmoil.

Chen said, “What’s going on?”

“I’m trying to find out. I think the feds confiscated your evidence to hide something. If they knew about these guns, they would confiscate them, too.”