Michael Connelly - Blood Work

He turned and braced himself in the doorway, his eyes downcast as his mind filled with a vision of Graciela and Raymond, their arms around each other, in complete darkness somewhere.

That was when he saw it. On the crushed-shell drive in front of him there was a clear depression pattern crossing the two patterns made by a vehicle’s tires. There was a trail across the drive, heading in the direction of the sloping hill’s crest. It looked to McCaleb as if there was nothing out that way, yet someone had walked there enough times to leave the trail across the drive.

His strides increased to a full run as he headed in the direction the trail led. He came over the crest and in the drop-off below he saw the flat concrete foundation of a structure that had never been built. He slowed to a walk as he approached, wondering what he had found. Rusted iron rebars and plumbing pipes protruded from the concrete. An old pick and a shovel had been left lying on it. There was a step up onto the slab at the spot where a door obviously was to be placed but never was. McCaleb stepped up and looked around. There were no doors to a basement, nothing he saw that matched what Crimmins had said.

He kicked at one of the brass water pipes and looked down into the four-inch main pipe upon which a toilet was supposed to have been placed. In that moment he knew where they were.

He spun around and his eyes covered the ground around the slab. Noting that the step would be the front of the structure, he concentrated on the ground to the rear, looking for the spot where the plumbing would lead; a septic tank. His eyes immediately picked up an area of dirt and rock that he could tell had recently been turned. He grabbed the shovel and ran.

It took him five minutes to clear the dirt and rock off the top of the tank. He knew they had air; the pipes up to the slab would provide it. But he worked as if they were suffocating below him. As he finally opened the manhole-sized cover of the tank, the sky’s dying light swept in and he saw their faces. They were scared but alive. McCaleb felt a great lifting of weight off him as he reached down to them.

He helped them out of the darkness, their eyes crinkled against even the weak early-evening light. Then he held them so tight he thought that he might hurt them. Graciela was crying, her body shaking against his.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s over now.”

She pulled her head back and looked in his eyes.

“It’s over now,” he repeated. “He won’t hurt anybody ever again.”

THE BILGE WAS a claustrophobic crawl space full of the dizzying fumes of gasoline. McCaleb had an old T-shirt wrapped around his face like a bandit but still the fumes filled his lungs. There were nine bolts that held the fuel filter he was changing in place. He had three in and tightened down. He was struggling with the fourth, angling his face forward in a vain effort to keep the sweat from running into his eyes, when he heard her voice above him.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

McCaleb dropped what he was doing and jerked the shirt from around his face. He crawled to the open hatch and came up. Jaye Winston was standing on the dock waiting for him.

“Jaye. Hey, what’s up? Come on aboard.”

“No, I’m on the run. I just wanted to stop by and let you know they found him. I’m on my way down to Mexico.”

McCaleb raised his eyebrows.

“He’s not alive. He killed himself.”

“Really?”

“We’re dealing with the Baja Judicial Police so nothing is for sure until I get down there, but they found him washed up on the beach in a place called Playa Grande. Down on the coast. Shot himself in the heart. A boy who takes care of horses on the beach found him. That was two days ago. We just got the news.”

McCaleb looked around. He saw a man in a white shirt and tie loitering near the gate to the gangway. Her partner, he assumed.

“Are they sure it was him?”

“They say so. The description is close. Plus they tracked him back to a trailer off the beach. They found computers, photos, all kinds of stuff. Looks like our guy. Plus he left a good-bye note on the computer screen.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, this is all secondhand, but essentially he took responsibility for his actions and said he deserved to die for them. It was short and sweet.”

“They find a weapon?”

“Not yet but they’re sweeping the beach with metal detectors today. If they find it, it will probably be our HK P7. The bullet taken during the autopsy was a Federal FMJ. We’ll see if we can borrow it for comparison to our cases up here.”

McCaleb nodded.

“So how are they playing it out?”

“Pretty simple. The guy knows we’re on to him, gets an attack of remorse, writes his note and goes down to the beach, where he puts one in his heart. The tide took him into the rocks there and the body got hung up. That’s why it wasn’t carried out to sea. We’re going down to have a look at things. And to get prints. Probably won’t get gunshot residue because the body was in the water. But one thing’s for sure, were not going to close it unless we’re absolutely sure it was Crimmins.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“I just want to make sure because it just didn’t seem like it was heading toward a suicide, know what I mean?”

She was looking at him intently.

“Well… you never know.”

She nodded and for the first time she looked away from him. She checked on her partner, who was watching them from a distance that put him well out of earshot.

“How was Vegas, Terry?”

He sat down on the gunwale and put the wrench he had been working with down next to him.

“Uh… well, I didn’t really go anywhere. I decided that if I didn’t get this thing running, it might never happen. I turned off the phone and just worked on the boat. I think it’s finally ready to go.”

“Good. I hope you catch a lot of fish.”

“I will. You come over some day, I’ll take you out to catch a marlin.”

“I might take you up on that.”

She nodded and took another look around the marina.

“Well, I guess I better go. It’s a long drive down there and we’re getting a late start.”

“Happy hunting.”

“Thanks.”

She made a move to go but then hesitated and looked back at him.

“I saw your Cherokee up there in the lot. You ought to get it washed, Terry. There’s an awful lot of dust on it.”

Their eyes held each other’s for a long moment then, the silent transmission clear.

“I’ll do that,” McCaleb finally said. “Thanks.”

THE FOLLOWING SEA was cutting south at trolling speed across the low swells toward Catalina. Up on the bridge, McCaleb stood braced against the wheel. He had the forward wind curtain down and the chill air coming up off the surface hit him fully, hardening his skin beneath his clothes. Ahead in the mist the island rose like a huge rock cathedral on the horizon. The outbuildings and some of the taller boats of Avalon were coming into view. He saw the circular terra-cotta roof of the casino, the town’s signature structure, clearly now.

He turned to look astern. The mainland was out of sight, discernible only by the haze of smog that hung over it like a sign warning Do Not Come Here! He was happy to be free of it.

He thought about Crimmins for a moment. He had no regrets about the way he had left things in Mexico. There would be no questions about his motives and choices now. But he was protecting more than himself. Graciela and Raymond had spent thirty-six hours with Crimmins. Though he had not physically harmed them, they still needed private time to heal, to put the ordeal behind them. McCaleb couldn’t see how bringing more cops and questions into their lives could help with that. Graciela had agreed.