T. Parker - Full Measure

“Stop here.”

“Eleven dollars.”

Ted turned to watch the big boy throw open the door and haul himself out. Then Edgar was at the window pointing a gun at Ted’s face. “Turn it off and drop the keys on the ground.”

Ted looked at the gun. His field of view had ratcheted down to almost nothing, but he saw in hyperfocus the black cave of the barrel, the age-worn bluing at the end of it gone silver like the muzzle of an old dog, and within the barrel the first spiral of rifling, twisting back toward the hand that held the gun. Ted turned off the engine and dropped the keys to the sidewalk. They landed with a loud clank. He told himself to stay calm. “That’s a big one.”

“It’s big enough to blow a hole in your head. Give me the bills from the box. No change. You got five seconds.”

Ted opened the cash box, which was just a small metal toolbox with the top shelf removed. Friendly Village Taxi had provided it to Ted but it didn’t even lock. The change banged around loudly while Ted raked up the bills. He held them out and the boy snatched them away and stuffed them in his jacket.

“Gimme the tips, too. From your pocket.”

“But that’s my money. I need it for the groves.”

“Roll with it, fat boy.”

Ted worked out his humble earnings and handed them over. His hand was shaking but still he thought, That’s my forty-two bucks in there and I want them back. The red Impala started up and rolled slowly away from the curb. Ted aimed his gun barrel vision at the driver and committed the face to memory. “Those are the Fallbrook Kings,” he said. “Is this some kind of initiation?”

“You’re a genius, gordo. ”

Edgar stepped back and peeled a ten off the tip roll and dropped it on Ted’s lap. He kicked the keys under the car, then slid the gun back into his jacket and jogged off diagonally across one of the small lawns. He looked back, then let himself through a chain-link gate that latched loudly. Through the mesh Ted saw the big drooping pepper tree in the backyard and the branches hanging low and the flicker of Edgar moving below them across the yard. A dog barked ferociously and Edgar cursed.

Ted heaved out and fished his keys from under the car. He ran as fast as he could across the yard but he was slow. Looking over the gate he saw that the yard was thick with foliage, and a brick wall ran along the back of it. He threw open the gate and ran for the wall and pulled himself up onto it and looked over. Something launched. He saw a hurtling cave of teeth and pink meat coming up at him, and he heard the loud snap of those teeth, then the pit bull fell away and gathered itself for another jump. Ted slid back down his side of the wall and heard the growls and then the screech of tires from beyond the house.

He lumbered back across the yard, his feet already smarting from the exertion. He slowed and walked back to the car, trying to let his pulse slow down, his breathing relax, and his vision return to normal. When he reached the open door of his taxi Ted took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest, tightly, closed his eyes, and rotated his body counterclockwise. He turned in circles as fast as he could. It was a tic from childhood. Pat said it was like he was unscrewing from the world, and Ted said he was trying to fly away. When he stopped turning and opened his eyes the world had changed not one bit that Ted could see.

He sat in his taxi and felt his mind starting to reassemble. At least I’m not shot, he thought. Not hurt. I only lost thirty-two dollars in tips and the charges for one day’s work. Friendly Village Taxi is insured. Ted stared out at the fence. His vision relaxed, peripheries falling into place like a kaleidoscope shifting into a new pattern. He wondered, What’s Edgar going to do when I see him around town again? In Fallbrook everybody sees everybody sooner or later. What am I going to do when I see him again?

Ted parked at the Fallbrook Sheriff Substation and waited for his body and mind to mesh. He muttered the Lord’s Prayer, which sometimes seemed to help. He made it halfway through. And by then some kind of timing belt seemed to have reengaged inside him, and his inner engine started to run more smoothly. He could still smell his fear, ammoniacal and bitter.

His feet throbbed as he crossed the parking lot. Twenty-six years, two surgeries, and many expensive orthotics and Ted still couldn’t walk faster than a chameleon without it hurting. Inside the sheriff’s department afternoon sunlight came through the blinds and hit the finished concrete floor, then laddered up the front desk and the flags of the United States of America and the great State of California. The black desk sergeant regarded him with frank suspicion. He had rousted Ted just a few weeks back for a failed brake light on his cab, then given him a nystagmus test in broad daylight, humiliating Ted in front of all of Fallbrook. My government at work for me, he thought. He took a deep breath, nodded at the sergeant, then turned and walked back out.

Evelyn Anders sat in the back of the Fallbrook Fire Department sedan and looked out at Rice Canyon, where the devastating fire had started. The early October morning was warm and dry and the scorched earth wheezed smoke and ash. Rice Canyon was steep and rugged and serviced by only one paved road, which intersected Highway 76 six miles from the Fallbrook city limit.

She hadn’t seen the canyon in two years, since she and her husband had gotten a sitter for the kids and come out here to hike and watch birds, then gamble and spend the night at the Pala Casino. Now she looked out at the utter destruction on display. She remembered Rice Canyon as a lovely, thickly wooded area, clotted with lemonadeberry and sage and ceonothus, which, she knew, would all burn like matches in any drought month. And October was the absolute worst month of all. It looked like a hydrogen bomb had gone off.

Fallbrook Fire Chief William Bruck swung around in the front passenger seat and looked at her. “Evelyn, we’ve just learned something interesting that I’d like to share with you. Last week, an online English-language Al-Qaeda magazine called for homegrown terrorists to start fires in the U.S. They published detailed directions on how to use simple timers and accelerants. The terrorist magazine is called Inspire. ”

“Good Lord. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“The DHS didn’t tell me until about thirty minutes ago. They’ve sent an arson-terror specialist — Special Agent Max Knechtl. He told me that no one has claimed responsibility for this fire. But the good news is that NSA electronically monitors Inspire readers here in the U.S. And they report to the DHS. So, if there’s a connection...”

Evelyn wondered if NSA surveillence of e-magazine readers without a warrant was good news or not. But there were larger questions here, or at least more urgent ones.

“And the other good news,” said Bruck, “is that I’ve wrapped up the investigation and gotten everything into the lab.”

“Well, Bill — we’ve wrapped it up,” said Sheriff Stan Hazzard, who sat in back with Evelyn. The two men chuckled. The driver, a young fireman with a buzz cut, glanced back at Evelyn in the rearview.

“What did you find out?” asked Evelyn.

“Oh, that’s going to take some time,” said Bruck. “We may have evidence of arson. But we’ve also got San Diego Gas and Electric power lines, apparently downed by the wind.”

“How long until you know what caused the fire?” asked Evelyn.

“The lab is good,” said Sheriff Hazzard. “A week at the most.”

“But you can see right over there that the trees were higher than the lines,” said Evelyn. “And we know they were swaying like crazy in the winds that night. It’s the power company’s responsibility to keep the trees away from their lines, right?”