Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

Then a sound came, carried in by the wind it seemed — a faint vocal tone that at first sounded very much like the way I hear Justine’s voice now. A tone and syllables but no words. Next was a dull thump — something dropped, maybe — but barely audible over the breeze and my steady heartbeat. The wind whooshed through the trees, and when it stopped the house was quiet again.

I set my gun on the floor and worked the wallet from the man’s back pocket. His driver’s license was in a flap with a clear window: John A. Vazquez, brown and brown, 5’11”, 185 pounds. His DOB made him thirty-one. In the photo he was smiling.

I heard the sound again. Slightly clearer now while the wind caught its breath. It sounded as if it were coming from somewhere closer — not from the outside at all, but from inside.

I stood and looked down at John A. Vazquez. His T-shirt was light blue and he’d been shot several times. I saw entry and exit wounds on his front torso, which could mean the gunman shot Vazquez coming and going. Or two gunmen. The thing I learned about death by gunshot — both with the San Diego Sheriff’s and in combat in Iraq — is the absolute chaos that gunfire causes, especially in tight quarters. The facts of ballistics are complicated by astonishing bullet speeds; physical variables, from bones to belt buckles; as well as human reactions that often border on the impossible. I ran my gaze along the kitchen cabinets and walls, looking for more holes. Saw none.

I heard the thump again, something being dropped or struck. It seemed to come from under me. Gun up and finger on the trigger, I moved slowly and quietly down the hallway. Room to room. Cleared a home office, what looked like a spare bedroom, and a young boy’s room. I looked at the Transformers toys and plastic weapons and the bats and balls and plastic dinosaurs littering the floor. I wanted very badly not to see that boy, lying like his father was. I didn’t.

The master bedroom was spacious. The bed was made and there were no bodies. I’d worked myself up about that: no more bodies.

The voice came clear but faint. “John? John!”

Again the thump, which now sounded like a hard object being pounded on a wall or door. It came from below me, and no more than twenty or thirty feet away. Into the master bath: toilet room, twin basins, and a Roman tub. Off the bath was a big spa room with a whirlpool, skylights, and cedar walls sprouting bromeliads and orchids. There was a door. Bromeliads and orchids on it, too. If not for the slender pull handle, I might not have seen it. The sauna, of course. I pulled open the door and found not a sauna but a landing, and a steep spiral staircase, leading down. Being in wine country, I understood.

The voice was clearer now, and much closer. “John? Is that you? Please be you.”

“I’m a friend of Clay Hickman.” Silence. “I’m coming down, Mrs. Vazquez. Don’t shoot me. I’m a friend of Clay Hickman.”

“Is John there? Is John okay? There were men...”

“With guns!” A boy’s voice. “And masks!”

“Hush, Michael! Are you one of them?”

“No. I’m here to help you.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because they might come back.”

A beat. “They locked us in. But I have a twelve-gauge shotgun. John keeps it down here.”

“I’m trying to help you, not get killed.”

“Where’s John?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Where’s Dad?”

“There’s a spare key,” said Mrs. Vazquez. “In the medicine cabinet over the right sink. Bottom row, far left.”

“I’ll be back with it.”

“Where’s John? Why won’t you tell us? Are you one of those goddamned sons of bitches?”

“With guns?”

I got the key, then hustled down the steep, circular stairs to a cozy tasting room that smelled of cigar smoke. Wall cubbies stacked with bottles, a tasting bar with wine goblets racked overhead, wine barrels for tables, stools. It was cool and I could hear a built-in air purifier humming in the ceiling.

Mrs. Vazquez and her son had been locked in what I assumed was the wine vault. Concrete-block wall, rustic oak door, a wrought-iron lock and pull handle.

I stood to the side and explained to Mrs. Vazquez that I was about to crack open the door but wouldn’t let them out until I had the gun. “Got that? You have to stay cool.”

“Okay.”

Key in quietly. “I’m cracking the door. All I want to see is the barrel of that thing.”

“Okay.”

I unlocked the door, leaving the key in, then stood aside. Planted my foot as a brake. Pulled the door open six inches and waited. “The gun please.”

With only moderately good guesswork, Mrs. Vazquez could have blasted me through the door. Instead, a shotgun barrel came through the crack. As soon as there was enough, I grabbed it and yanked hard. It came loose and the door swung open and a terrified woman backpedaled away from me, nearly knocking over a boy no more than ten years old. The boy got his balance and held up his fists, ready to fight.

She tried to run past me. I caught her wrist, let her get past the door, then slammed it on the boy. She threw a wild punch with her free hand, so I set the shotgun against the cement wall and grabbed that wrist, too. I shook her firmly and got up in her face. “Listen to me. Listen!”

She struggled, grunting, but I half-turned her and marched her across the tasting room to one of the barrel tables. I let go of her, stepped back, and raised my index finger to my lips. She watched me for a long moment, then slowly put aside her fight. “John’s dead,” I whispered, glancing at the vault in which her son waited silently. “He’s... in the kitchen. You probably don’t want the boy to see that.”

“My god...”

“Go up there if you need to, Mrs. Vazquez. No one says you have to. But remember, they could come back if they left something unfinished or have a change of mind. I’ll try to talk to your boy.”

She flew up the spiral stairway and out of sight. I heard the spa door open and slam shut, then footsteps dimming fast. I didn’t know how to break the news to Michael that his father had been murdered. Opened the vault door and looked in. Cases to the ceiling, poor light. He sat on a step stool, chewing a thumbnail. Looked at me and stopped.

“I’m Roland and I’m a good guy.”

He blinked. “Mike.”

“Do you box?”

He took his time answering. “Dad’s teaching me. We watch on TV.”

“I boxed in the Marines.”

“Were you good?”

“Not bad.”

“Heavy or light heavy?”

“Heavy. My best weight was two-oh-six.”

“Muhammad beat Liston at two-oh-six. In the rematch. He was Cassius Clay then. Um, how’s my dad?”

Through the loudest of storms only the heart can be heard. Its roar almost deafened me. “They killed him, Mike.”

He looked down at his hands, nodding slowly. Tears jumped from his eyes. “That’s not true, is it?”

“It’s true. I’d give anything to say it isn’t.”

“Mom’s up there with him?”

“Yes.”

“I hear her.”

So did I, a high, seemingly distant keening.

“I don’t want to go up there.”

“Don’t. Nothing will change, and you’ll see things you don’t need to see.”

His face caved and shifted as emotions surged through him. “Did they shoot him?”

“Yes.”

Eyebrows raising, tears falling. “What did he do?”

“Your father did nothing to them. This is about someone else.”

“Then... why?”

“I don’t know. But I will find out.”

The tears poured down his cheeks and Michael brought his hands to his face and screamed. Loud. He ran for the door. I blocked him and held him back while he flailed at me with his fists, blubbering, his bloodshot gray eyes dilated with wild grief. He punched himself out in a brief fury and dropped to his knees, sobbing into his small fists.