Robert Crais - The Watchman

She said, “Ohmigod, what kind of freak are you?”

He went back under the dash a last time for a sealed plastic bag containing two thousand dollars and credit cards and a driver’s license showing his face in the name of Fred C. Howe. He put the bag into her lap with the guns.

“This one has money. Maybe it’ll fit your purse better.”

Pike finally shut the engine and got out without waiting for her. He carried their bags to the Lexus, then went to the left front tire where Ronnie had hidden the key. Pike loaded their bags into the Lexus, then locked the Jeep and left the key in the same place under the tire. Ronnie would return for the Jeep later and leave it behind the gun shop.

Larkin watched Pike with her arms crossed.

“What are we going to do now?”

“First step, get in the car.”

“How about, second step, get something to eat?”

“Soon.”

Pike wedged the Kimber under his right thigh, butt out, ready to go. He started the engine for the air, then picked up the new phone. Ronnie had left the phone, two extra prepaid phone cards, and a note on the driver’s-side floorboard. Along with the phone was a charger Pike could plug into the car, a second charger for use in a house, and an earbud for hands-free driving. Ronnie had already activated the phone and registered two thousand minutes of calling time, so the phone was good to go. He had written Pike’s new cell phone number on the note.

Larkin said, “I am so starving. Could we please get something to eat?”

Pike studied the phone to figure it out, then fired up the Lexus and backed out, already thumbing in the number of a real estate agent he knew.

Larkin said, “Thank God. Finally. I’m so hungry my stomach is eating itself.”

“Not yet.”

Larkin colored with irritation.

“Oh, fuck this! This is absurd ! I’m hungry . I want food .”

Pike had to get them a place to hide. He had considered a motel, but a motel would increase their contact with people and contact was bad. They needed privacy in a neighborhood where no one was likely to recognize the girl. They needed immediate occupancy with no questions asked, which meant Pike could not do business with strangers. He had once helped the real estate agent deal with an abusive ex-husband, and had since bought and sold several properties through her.

When Pike had her on the line he described what he needed. Larkin was slumped against the door on her side of the car, arms crossed and sullen.

She said, “Help! Help! He’s raping me! Help!”

Loud.

The real estate agent said, “Who’s that?”

“I’m babysitting.”

Larkin glared harder-

“You’ve never sat a baby like me.”

– then leaned closer to the phone.

“I gave him a blow job!”

Pike’s friend said, “Sounds nice.”

Larkin shouted, “I blew him and now he won’t feed me! I’m starving to death! ”

Pike cupped the phone so he could continue.

“Can you find a house for me?”

“I think I have something that will work. I’ll have to get back to you.”

Pike gave his friend his new number, ended the call, then glanced at the girl. She was slumped back against her door again, glaring at him through her dark glasses as if she was waiting to see what he would do. Testing him, maybe. Everything Pike knew about this girl had been told to him by Bud Flynn and the girl’s father less than seventeen hours ago, and now he knew that Bud’s information could not be trusted.

Pike glanced over at her again.

“What’s your name?”

She took off her glasses and frowned at him as if he were retarded.

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t get it. Is this some kind of game we’re playing, truth or dare, what?”

“Your name.”

“I don’t get why you’re asking my name.”

“What is it?”

Her face flattened in frustration and she pulled at her shirt.

“I’m hungry. When are you getting me something to eat?”

“Name.”

“Larkin Conner Barkley! Jesus Christ, what’s your fucking name?”

“Your father?”

“Conner Barkley! My Mother is dead! Her name was Janice! I’m an only fucking child! Fuck you !”

Pike checked the rearview, then pointed at her purse on the floor under her feet.

“License and credit cards.”

She snatched up her purse, dug out her wallet, and threw it at him.

“Use the cards to buy me some lunch.”

Pike fingered open the wallet and thumbed out her driver’s license. It showed a color picture of her along with the name Larkin Conner Barkley issued by the California Department of Motor Vehicles. Her address showed as a high-rise in Century City, but both Bud and her father had described a home in Beverly Hills.

Pike said, “You live in Century City?”

“That’s our corporate office. Everything goes to that address.”

“Where do you live?”

“You want to go to my loft? I got a great loft. We own the building.”

“Where?”

“Downtown. It’s in this great industrial area.”

“That where they came for you the first time they tried to kill you?”

“I was with my father. In Beverly Hills.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know. Jesus!”

“Think.”

“A week. Not even. Six days, maybe.”

“Who is Alex Meesh?”

She sank back, her angry confidence gone.

“The man who’s trying to kill me.”

Pike had already heard it from her father and Bud, but now he wanted it from her.

“Why does he want you dead?”

She stared out the windshield at oncoming nothingness and shook her head.

“I don’t know. Because I saw him that night with the Kings. When I had my accident. I’m cooperating with the Justice Department.”

Pike fingered through her credit cards, reading their faces between glances at the road. The cards had all been issued to Larkin Barkley, sometimes with the middle name and sometimes not. Pike pulled out an American Express card and a Visa. The AmEx was one of those special black cards, which indicated she charged at least two hundred fifty thousand dollars every year. He tossed her wallet back onto the floorboard at her feet, but kept the two credit cards and her driver’s license. He wedged them under his leg along with the gun.

Pike knew what Bud and her father had told him, but now he wanted to identify the players and find out for himself what was true. He would need help to find out those things, so he dialed another number.

Larkin glanced over, but this time her heart wasn’t in it. She made a weak smile.

“I hope you’re calling for reservations.”

“I’m calling someone who can help us.”

The phone rang twice, and then a man answered.

“Elvis Cole Detective Agency. We can do anything.”

“I’m coming up.”

Pike closed the phone and turned toward the mountains.

Thirty-two hours earlier, on the morning it began, Ocean Avenue was lit with smoky gold light from the street lamps and apartment buildings that lined Santa Monica at the edge of the sea. Joe Pike ran along the center of the street with a coyote pacing him in the shadows bunched on the bluff. It was three fifty-two A. M. That early, the Pacific was hidden by night and the earth ended at the crumbling edge of the bluff, swallowed by a black emptiness. Pike enjoyed the peace during that quiet time, running on the crown of the empty street in a way he could not when light stole the darkness. Pike glanced again into the shadows and saw the coyote pacing him without effort, sometimes visible, other times not as it loped between the palms. It was an old male, its mask white and scarred, come down from the canyons to forage. Every time Pike glanced over, the coyote was watching him, full-on staring even as it ran. The coyote probably found him curious. Coyotes had rules for living among men, which was how they flourished in Los Angeles. One of their rules was that they only came out at night. Coyotes probably believed the night belonged to wild things. This coyote probably thought Pike was breaking the rules. Pike hitched up his backpack and pushed himself faster. A second coyote joined with the first. Joe Pike ran this route often: west on Washington from his condo, north on Ocean to San Vicente, then east to Fourth Street, where steep concrete steps dropped down the bluff like jagged teeth. One hundred eighty-nine steps, stacked up the bluff, interrupted four times by small pads built to catch the people who fell. Without the pads, anyone who stumbled could be killed. One hundred eighty-nine steps is as tall as a nine-story building. Running the steps was like running up nine flights of stairs. This morning, Pike was wearing a surplus rucksack loaded with four ten-pound bags of Gold Medal flour. Pike would run the steps twenty times, down and up, before turning for home. Around his waist, he wore a fanny pack with his cell phone, his ID, his keys, and a.25-caliber Beretta pocket gun. Pike was not expecting the call that morning. He had known it would come, eventually, but that morning he was lost in the safe ready feel of sweat and effort when his cell phone vibrated. He had a nice rhythm going, but the people who had his unlisted number were few, so Pike heeled to a stop and answered. The man said, “Bet you don’t know who this is.” Pike let his breathing slow as he shifted the ruck. The weight only grew heavy when he stopped running. The man, confused because Pike had not answered, said, “Is this Joe Pike?” Pike had not heard the man’s voice since an eight-year-old boy named Ben Chenier was kidnapped. Pike and his friend Elvis Cole had searched for the boy, but they had needed help from the man on the phone to find the kidnapper. The man’s price was simple-one day, the man would call with a job for Pike and Pike would have to say yes. The job might be anything and might be the kind of job Pike no longer wanted or did, but the choice would not be his. Pike would have to say yes. That was the price for helping to save Ben Chenier, so Pike had paid it. That word. Yes. One day the man would call and now he had. Pike said, “Jon Stone.” Stone laughed. “Well. You remember. Now we find out if you’re good at your word. I told you I would call and this is the call. You owe me a job.” Pike glanced at his watch, noting the time. A third coyote had joined the first two, staring at him from the shadows. Pike said, “It’s four A. M.” “I’ve been trying to get your number since last night, my man. If I woke you, I’m sorry, but if you stiff me I have to find somebody else. Hence, the uncomfortable hour.” “What is it?” “A package needs looking after, and it’s already hot.” Package meant person. The heat meant attempts had already been made on the target’s life. “Why is the package at risk?” “I don’t know and all I care about is you keeping your word. You agreed to let me book you a job, and this is it. I gotta tell these people whether you’re in or not.” Grey shapes floated between the palms like ghosts. Two more coyotes joined with the first three. Their heads hung low, but their eyes caught the gold light. Pike wondered how it would be to run with them through the night streets, moving as well as they, as quietly and quickly, hearing and seeing what they heard and saw, both here in the city and up in the canyons. Stone was talking, his voice growing strained. “This guy who called, he said he knew you. Bud Flynn?” Pike came back from the canyons. “Yes.” “Yeah, Flynn’s the guy. He has some kinda bodyguard thing with people who have so much dough they shit green. I want some of that green, Pike. You owe me. Are you going to do this thing or not?” Pike said, “Yes.” “That’s my boy. I’ll call back later with the meet.” Pike closed his phone. Brake lights flared a quarter mile away where San Vicente joined with Ocean. Pike watched the red lights until they disappeared, then hitched his ruck again. Eight or ten coyotes now waited at the edge of light. Three more appeared in an alley between two restaurants. Another now stood in the street a block away and Pike had not even seen it approach. Pike breathed deep and smelled the sage and earth in their fur. The older coyote did not turn for the canyon. It circled wide of Pike, then crossed Ocean Avenue and continued up Santa Monica Boulevard. The other coyotes followed. The city was theirs until sunrise. They would hold it as long as they could. Pike unslung the ruck and let it drop. He took a deep breath, then lifted his hands high overhead, stretching. His muscles were warm and his weak shoulder-the shoulder that had almost been destroyed when he was shot-felt strong. The scars that laced his deltoid stretched, but held. Pike bent forward from the hips until he easily placed his palms on the street. He let his hands take his weight, then lifted his feet until he was standing on his hands in the middle of Ocean Avenue. Pike felt peaceful, and held his balance with a perfect center. He lowered himself straight down until his forehead touched the street, then pushed upright again, doing a vertical pushup, not for the effort but to feel his body working. His shoulder tingled where the nerves were damaged and would always be damaged, but Pike lifted himself without strain. He lowered his feet and stood, and saw that the coyotes were back, watching, street dogs at home in the city. Pike shouldered the ruck and continued with his run. In fourteen hours, he would be driving north to pick up the girl and see Bud Flynn for the first time in twenty years, a man he had deeply and truly loved.