Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

Two men stepped into the sun-room. The first was Cyril Trapp in white polo shirt, pressed designer jeans, Topsiders, and black Members Only jacket. California Casual betrayed by the tension in his white-blotched face and the blue steel revolver in his right hand.

The second man kept his hands in his pockets as he examined the room with the practiced eye of a pit boss. Older, mid-sixties, tall and wide- big bones padded with hard fat. He wore a doeskin-colored western suit, brown silk shirt, string tie gathered by a large smoky-topaz clasp, peanut-butter-colored lizard boots, and a straw cowboy hat. His skin tone matched the boots. Forty pounds heavier than Trapp, but the same hatchet jaw and thin lips. His eyes settled on me. His stare was that of a naturalist studying some rare but hideous specimen.

“Mr. Hummel,” I said. “How are things in Vegas?”

He didn’t answer, just moved his lips the way denture wearers do.

“Shut up,” said Trapp, pointing the gun at my face. “Put your hands behind your head and don’t move.”

“Friends of yours?” I said to Hope Blalock. She shook her head. Her eyes were electric with fear.

“We’re here to help you, ma’am,” said Hummel. His voice was badlands basso profundo , coarsened by smoke and drink, and desert air.

Ramey came in, all spotless black serge and starched white. “It’s all right, madam,” he said. “Everything’s in order.” He looked at me with tight fury and I knew who’d called in the goon squad.

Trapp stepped forward, waved the revolver. “Get those hands behind you.”

I didn’t move fast enough to suit him, and the weapon was pressed hard under my nose.

Hope Blalock gasped. Ramey went to her side.

Trapp put a little more weight behind the gun. Looking at all that metal crossed my eyes. I tightened reflexively. Trapp leaned harder.

Royal Hummel said, “Easy.” He came around behind me. I heard a ratchet slip, felt cold metal around my wrists.

“Not too tight, son?”

“Perfect. Uncle Roy.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Trapp.

Hope Blalock winced.

Hummel said, “Easy, C.T.,” and patted the back of my neck. His touch bothered me more than the gun. “Close your eyes, son,” he said, and I obeyed. The pressure of the revolver was replaced by something tight and elastic around my head. Banding my eyes so tight I couldn’t open them. Strong hands gripped me under my arms. I was lifted so that only my shoe tips touched the floor, propelled forward like a kite in a headwind.

It was a very big house. They dragged me for a long time before I heard a door open, felt hot air on my face.

Trapp started laughing.

“What?” said his uncle, stretching the word to two syllables.

“How we got this joker. Fucking butler did it.”

They searched me, confiscated my watch, keys, and wallet, and put me in a vehicle that smelled brand-new.

“Settle down, son,” said Hummel, easing me into the backseat and removing the cuffs. He slammed the door. I heard him go around to the front; then the engine started- muted, as if my ears were stuffed.

I peeled back an inch of blindfold and inspected the interior: blackened windows that let in only hints of light. A black glass partition sealing off the rear compartment. A cell lined in gray vinyl- rock-hard bench seats, nylon carpeting, cloth roof. No dome light. No ornamentation at all, not a clue to make or model. The plain-wrap styling of a midsize economy American sedan- a bottom-of-the-line Dodge, Ford, or Olds, but with a twist: no door handles. No ashtrays or seat belts. No metal at all.

I ran my hands over the doors, trying to find some hidden latch. Nothing. A hard rap on the partition brought no response. San Quentin on wheels.

We began to move. I peeled off the blindfold. Heavy-duty black elastic, no label. It already stank of the fear in my sweat. I heard the spatter of gravel, muted like the ignition. Soundproofing.

I pressed my face to the window, saw only my reflection in the darkened glass. I didn’t like the way I looked.

We picked up speed. I sensed it the way you sense acceleration in an elevator- a pit-of-the-stomach lurch. Cut off from the world, I had only my fear to listen to; I might have been in a crypt.

A sudden turn made me slide across the seat. When the car straightened, I kicked the door, then karate-kicked it hard. No give. I pounded the windows until my hands hurt, attacked the partition. Not even a hint of vibration.

I knew then that I’d be there as long as they wanted me to. My chest went tight. Any road noise the soundproofing let in was blotted out by the pounding of my heart.

They’d robbed me sensorily; the key was to regain my bearings. I searched for mental signposts; the only thing left was time. But no watch.

I began counting. One thousand one. One thousand two. Settled back for the ride.

After about forty-five minutes the car came to a stop. The left rear door opened. Hummel bent low and peered in. He wore mirrored sunglasses and held a long-nosed chrome-plated Colt.45 parallel to his leg.

Behind him was cement flooring. Sepia-tinged darkness. I smelled auto fumes.

He raised his other hand to his crotch and unbound his shorts. “Transfer time, son. Gonna have to cuff you again. Bend forward.”

No mention of the fact that I’d removed the blindfold. I stuffed it behind the seat and did what he asked, the good little prisoner. Hoping compliance would buy me the privilege of vision. But the moment my hands were bound, on went the elastic.

I said, “Where are we going?” Stupid question. Helplessness does that to you.

“For a ride. C’mon, C.T., let’s hustle.”

A door slammed. Trapp’s voice said, “Let’s move this turkey.” Amused. A moment later I smelled Aramis, heard the buzz of his whisper in my ear. “Fucking butler did it. Isn’t that a hoot, faggo?”

“Tsk, tsk,” I said. “Bad language for a born-again.”

Sudden bee-bite pain behind my ear: a finger flick. “Shut the fu-”

“ C.T. ,” said Hummel.

“All right.”

Double arm-grip. Footsteps echoing. The auto fumes stronger.

An underground parking lot.

Twenty-two paces. Stop. Wait. Mechanical hum. Gears grinding, something sliding, ending with a clang.

Elevator door.

A push forward. Slide shut. Click. Rapid climb. Another push. Out in the heat, the stench of gasoline so powerful I could taste it.

More cement. A loud whoosh, growing louder. Very loud. Gasoline… No, something stronger. An airport smell. Jet fuel. Whoosh whoosh . Gusts of cool air slicing through the heat.

Propellors. A slow chug picking up speed. Helicopter rotor.

They dragged me forward. I thought of Seaman Cross, driven blindfolded to a landing strip less than an hour from L.A. Flown to Leland Belding’s dome. Somewhere out in the desert.

The rotor noise grew deafening, scrambling my thoughts. Gusts of turbulence slapped my face, plastered my clothes to my body.

“There’s a step here,” Hummel shouted, putting pressure under my elbow, pushing me, lifting me. “Step up, son. There you go- good.”

Climbing. One step, two step. Mother, may I… Half a dozen, still more.

“Keep going,” said Hummel. “Now stop. Put your foot forward. There we go. Good boy.” Hand on my head, pushing down. “Duck, son.”

He placed me in a bucket seat and belted me in. A door slammed. My ears clogged. The noise level dropped a notch but remained loud. I heard radio stutter, a new voice from the front: male, military-flat, saying something to Hummel. Hummel answered back. Planning. Their words drowned out by the rotor.

A moment later, we lifted off with a surge that bounced and buffeted me like a pachinko ball. The copter swayed, rose again, gained stability.