Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

“Can you exit the building?”

A car screeched to a stop in the alley. I strode into the bathroom, slammed the window closed, and locked it.

“Not now I can’t.”

“I have units on the way. Can you hide?”

“Be right there, Don!” I said. “Did you bring some bad company with you?”

“Just me with some special treats from Deimos.”

“Okay, give me a second.”

“Is someone in the room with you now?”

Through the curtain opening I saw three more figures bunching up close to the door. Then I heard a thump on the bathroom wall and saw a man looking through the glass at me. I waved at him and called out, “Just a second, Don!”

“Hurry, Clay!”

“Can you exit the building?”

“I’m going to have to let them in. You guys better be fast.”

“Clay, open up!”

I did. Joe Bodart barreled into me, grabbed at my coat collar, and tried to take me down. I used his momentum and flung him hard against the wall. Past me plowed three other men, the last of whom shut and latched the door behind him. The four looked late thirties to mid-forties, fit, focused, and itching to act. Their eyes roamed alertly and came quickly back to me. Two had drawn down on me. Bodart was wide-eyed and flushed. He righted himself against the wall and spread his hands, inviting everyone to cool it.

I knew that CIA officers couldn’t arrest me, but plenty of other feds certainly could and would.

“Fucking PI,” said Bodart. “Where’s Clay?”

“Back in the wind,” I said.

“Sir, can you hear me? Has another party come into the room? What’s going on there?”

All four of them looked at my phone, sitting on the desk beside the dolls in the weak downcast of lamplight. “You guys look funny,” I said. “She’s my friendly 911 Oceanside PD dispatcher. Hi, I’m back. Yes, there are four of them in here and at least one more outside. Two are armed and brandishing weapons as we speak.”

Bodart shook his head, went to the desk, clicked off the call, and tossed me my phone.

“They’re on their way,” I said.

“We’ve got one minute, men,” he said. “Find it.”

They spread out and searched the room in a storm of efficiency. Bodart stayed with me, eyeing the swordfighting folk dolls, then the suitcases on their stands. My phone rang and I had to figure Oceanside PD. I let it go to record.

“What does Clay Hickman think he’s doing?” he asked.

“You know damn well what Clay’s doing. Same as Spencer knows. You just don’t know for sure what he’s got. Or how much of it.”

“Video, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Christ, I hate amateurs.” Bodart watched me while his three compatriots banged around the room, rifling the desk and night-table drawers, emptying the suitcases on the floor and tearing through the clothes.

“Spirited little primates,” I said.

“Aren’t they.” A siren sounded south of us, coming up the Coast Highway. “Are you armed, Mr. Ford?”

“I’m not.”

“Open your coat for me to see. Slowly and all the way. Then empty your pockets on this desk.”

“No. And if you come at me I’ll knock you cold.”

“That’s right, you’re the jarhead heavyweight.”

“And if you pull that gun, be ready to use it.”

“Take a pill, hero man. Nobody wants to die for some puke like Briggs Spencer.”

The siren came louder. “We’re outta here!” He turned back to me. “Next time we meet, this will be different.”

“Maybe I’ll get to knock you out.”

“ Much different.”

They ebbed from the room as quickly as they had surged in. At the doorway, Bodart the Wrangler and one other man went north and the other two went south. The Coast Highway headlights came slow and bright while the taillights went likewise red the other way. Standing in the doorway I watched the northbound spooks cut left down the first street, heading toward the beach. I figured Clay and Sequoia were probably on I-5 by then, headed god knew where.

The sirens were closer, a few blocks away. Oceanside PD had my burner number but no GPS to ping me and no reason to think I was anyone but David Wills. I took one last look at the dolls locked in mortal combat on the motel room desk, closed the door on them. Then lit a smoke and strolled up PCH toward my car.

I’m very disappointed about what happened with Clay yesterday,” said Briggs Spencer. “You had him and you let him go. But I didn’t ask you to my home today to tell you that. Rameesh!”

A young Afghani man came from the house. He was slight and clean-shaven and wore casual Western clothes. He had two cocktails on the drink tray. Spencer’s home was three stories of white stucco that stood high on a bluff overlooking the Pacific and the city of La Jolla. The window planters overflowed with violet bougainvillea.

I saw a clay tennis court and a helipad on which the bright copper Sikorsky shined. From where we sat in a shaded backyard pavilion, a thick lawn spread all the way to the bluff’s edge, drawing my eyes down to the black rocks, then across the vast ocean to the horizon. A half-dome of sky rose high and curved back overhead toward us.

Rameesh set two martinis on the thick glass table, bowed slightly. “Lunch is almost ready, Doctor.”

“Good,” said Spencer with a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Ford is hungry. I hope you like octopus.”

“More than it likes me.”

Rameesh went back inside. Spencer watched him. “What does Clay have ?” asked Spencer.

It was the second time he’d asked the question. So I answered it the same. “He says he has proof of crimes committed at White Fire.”

“Video, correct?”

I said nothing.

“Did you see it?”

“I know what’s on it.”

His face hardened and darkened. “Crimes committed at White Fire — by whom?”

“All of you.”

Spencer took a while to think about this. “Okay. All right. Then let me ask you this — can you locate Clay for me in the next forty-eight hours?”

“I believe so.”

“How much do you believe so?”

“He’s capable and unpredictable.”

“I can’t believe he gave five agency men the slip. Or maybe I can. Everyone is impressed by those spook types until they actually work alongside them. Then you realize they’ve been classroom trained. So, forty-eight hours is possible? To tell me exactly where Clay is? So I can take him back to Arcadia, which is my legal and moral obligation to the Hickmans?”

I sipped the martini. “He won’t go with you quietly, Dr. Spencer.”

“I know that. Under my contract with the family, I have legal authority to restrain Clay. As necessary for his and the public’s safety. I’ll have professional help and plenty of it.”

“Nets and tranquilizer guns?”

He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “At least.”

“Then what are you going to do with him?”

“Reevaluate, adjust, and resume his treatment. Which, contrary to your amateur assessment, is probably the best available on the planet. Pharmaceuticals — no more shackles, cold baths, lobotomies, or straitjackets.”

“You did squeeze in some electroshock.”

Spencer shook his head slightly, as if shrugging off a bad idea. “Electroconvulsive therapy. Unilateral electrode placement, never bilateral. My first point is that I want Clay back within forty-eight hours.”

“Noted.”

“Mr. Ford, is Aaban on the video?”

“Clearly.”

“Is his son, Roshaan?”

“Roshaan, too.”

Spencer watched me closely as I answered his questions. His gaze seemed opinionless and penetrating at the same time. Like he was an impartial third party — a polygraph examiner or a high-court judge.