Robert Crais - The Last Detective

"Their families. The guys who served in my company at the time. The Army."

Starkey said, "Cole gave me a list of names earlier. I had Hurwitz run them through NLETS, including the dead guys. We got zip."

"One of them might have a younger brother. One of them might have a son. He says on the tape, 'He made my life hell.' He's telling us that he suffered."

I said, "He told us that he was there, too, but only five people went out and the other four are dead. Call the Army and ask them. The citation and after-action reports will tell you what happened."

Starkey said, "I already called. I'm gonna read that stuff tonight."

Gittamon nodded, then glanced at his watch. It was late.

"All right. We'll talk to the families tomorrow. We might know more after that. Carol? Anything else?"

I said, "Can I have a copy of the tape? I want to hear it again."

Starkey said, "Go home, Dave. I'll get his tape."

Gittamon thanked me for my time and got up. He hesitated as if he was thinking about taking Richard's folder, then looked at me.

"I want to apologize for that outburst, too. If I had any idea he was going to do that, I wouldn't have allowed it."

"I know. Thanks."

Gittamon glanced at the folder again, then went home. Starkey left with the tape and did not come back. A few minutes later, a detective I had not met brought a copy of the tape, then walked me to the double glass doors and put me outside.

I stood on the sidewalk wishing that I had taken the folder. I wanted to see what Richard knew, but I didn't want to go back inside. The cool night air felt good. The double doors opened again, and a detective who lived up on the hill by me came out. He cupped a cigarette and his lighter flared.

I said, "Hey."

It took him a moment to place me. A few years ago, his house had been damaged in the big earthquake. I didn't know him then or that he was with LAPD, but not long after I jogged past while he was clearing debris and saw that he had a small rat tattooed on his shoulder. The tat marked him as a tunnel rat in Vietnam. I stopped to give him a hand. Maybe because we had that connection.

He said, "Oh, yeah. How ya doin'?"

"I heard you quit."

He frowned at the cigarette, then drew deep before dropping it.

"I did."

"I don't mean the smoking. I heard you left the job."

"That's right. I hadda come around to sign the papers."

It was time to go, but neither of us moved. I wanted to tell him about Abbott and Fields, and how I pretended to be sick after they died because I was scared to go out again. I wanted to tell him that I had not murdered anyone and how the rage in Lucy's eyes scared me and all the other things that I had never been able to talk about because he was older and he had been there and I thought that he might understand, but, instead, I looked at the sky.

He said, "Well, stop around some time. We'll have a beer."

"Okay. You, too."

He walked around the side of the building, and then he was gone. I wondered about the silence that he carried, and then I wondered at my own.

Joe Pike and I once drove down to the tip of the Baja Peninsula with two women we knew. We caught fish in Baja, then camped on the beach at Cortez. That far south, the summer sun heated the Sea of Cortez until it felt like a hot tub. The water was so heavy with salt that if you let yourself dry without first showering, white flakes would rime on your skin. That same heavy water pushed us to

its surface, refusing to let us sink. It could lull you, that water. It could make you feel safe even when you weren't.

That first afternoon, the sea was so still that it lay clean as a pond. The four of us swam, but, when the others stroked back to shore, I stayed in the quiet water. I floated on my back without effort. I stared into the cloudless azure sky feeling something like bliss.

I might have dozed. I might have found peace.

I was absolutely still in my world when, in the next instant, a fierce and sudden pressure lifted me without warning as the sea fell away. I tried to kick my legs under me, but the surging force was too great. I tried to right myself, but the swell grew too fast. I knew in a heartbeat that I would live or die or be swept away, and I could change none of it. I had lost myself to an unknown force that I could not resist.

Then the sea settled and once more grew flat.

Pike and the others saw it happen. When I reached shore, they explained: The Sea of Cortez is home to basking sharks. Basking sharks are harmless, but monstrously large, often reaching sixty feet in length and weighing many tons. They cruise at the surface where the water is warm, which is how they earned their name. I had floated into the path of one. It had dipped under me rather than going around. The swell of its tremendous passing had lifted me in its wake.

I had forgotten the feeling of fear when my body and fate were controlled by an unknown power; the feeling of being so purely helpless and alone.

Until this night.

Tunnel Rat

Sweat pooled in the caverns of Ben's eyes. He ducked his head from side to side, wiping away the sweat onto his shoulders. In the depthless black of the box, he tried to work with his eyes closed, but all of his instincts drove them open as if with an expectation of sight. His clothes were soaked, his shoulders ached, and his hands were cramped into claws, but Ben felt ecstatic: School was out, Christmas was here, he had knocked in the game-winning run. Ben Chenier was approaching the finish line and he was happy!

"I'm gonna get out. I'm getting OUT! "

A cut opened across his plastic sky like a scar pulling free of its stitches. Ben had worked furiously throughout the night and through the day. The Silver Star bit through the plastic again and again, and loose soil fell like rain.

"Yeah, that's it! YEAH! "

He had dulled three of the star's five points, but by the afternoon of the first day the cut had grown into a snaggle-toothed leer that stretched across the width of the box. Ben worked his fingers into the gap and pulled as hard as he could. Tiny pebbles bounced around him as dust trickled through the split, but the plastic was strong and did not bend easily.

" SHIT! "

Ben heard a mumble and a thump, and he wondered if he was dreaming again. He wouldn't mind if the Queen of Blame came back; she was hot. Ben stopped working, and listened.

"Answer me, kid. I can hear you down there."

It was Eric! His voice sounded hollow and far away coming down the pipe.

"Answer me, goddamnit."

The light from the pipe was gone; Eric must be so close that he blocked the sun.

Ben held his breath, suddenly more afraid than when they first put him in the box. A few hours ago he had prayed for them to return, but now he was almost out! If they discovered him trying to escape, they would take away the medal, tie his hands, and bury him again – and then he would be trapped forever!

The light returned, and then Eric's voice sounded farther away.

"The little prick won't answer. You think he's okay?"

Ben heard Mazi clearly.

"Eet weel not mahter."

Eric tried once more.

"Kid? You want some water?"

Here in the darkness of the box, Ben hid from them. They wouldn't know if he was alive or dead unless they dug him up, but they wouldn't dig him up during the day. They would wait until dark. No one can see you do bad things in the dark.

"Kid?"

Ben held perfectly still.

"You little shit!"

The light reappeared as Eric moved away. Ben counted to fifty, then grew scared that it wasn't enough. He counted to fifty again, then resumed work. He was in a race with them now; he had to get out before they dug him up. The African's words echoed in the darkness: Eet weel not mahter .