Heat (11 page)

T
he four men arrived separately in Seattle: two at Seattle-Tacoma International airport on different flights from different destinations. The third arrived by Greyhound bus a little after nine in the evening, and inside an hour had stolen an anonymous van and changed its license plates with those of a Toyota Corolla parked nearby. He then picked up the two men at Seattle-Tacoma airport.

After midnight, the fourth man landed a light airplane, a fixed-gear Cessna 182, at Tacoma Narrows, a small, general-aviation airport on one of the many islands in the area. He taxied to a remote end of the tie-down area and cut the engine. Immediately, the van pulled up to the airplane, and its contents were quickly transferred to the vehicle. Two of the men refilled the airplane's fuel tanks from jerry cans stowed in the luggage compartment. Not a word was spoken. The men got into the van and drove toward Seattle.

The four men were named, for the occasion, Black, Gray, Brown and White. Black, who had piloted the Cessna, held a flashlight to a map of the city and gave
monosyllabic instructions to Brown, who drove, while Gray and White quietly slipped into boiler suits in the back of the van. It was nearly 2
A.M.
when the van arrived at its destination.

“Around the block at twenty-five miles an hour,” Black said. As they turned the first corner, a police car passed them going in the opposite direction.

Brown stiffened at the wheel, but Black put a hand on his arm. “It's all right; in fact it's good. Better now than in half an hour.” He began climbing into a boiler suit. “Stop there and change,” he said, pointing to the curb. When Brown had donned his suit, he drove back toward their destination.

Black pointed to the parking lot of a printing company across the street, and Brown pulled into a parking place. Two small canvas duffles were handed forward from the rear of the van, and the occupants got out. Wordlessly, the four men crossed the street and walked at a moderate pace down the sidewalk along a high hedge, each carrying an identical canvas bag. Black was counting paces under his breath.

He raised a hand, and his companions stopped. Gray and White plunged their arms into the hedge and parted it, while Black and Brown stepped through; then Gray and White followed them. The hedge closed behind them.

Quickly now, Black led them to the rear door of the building. Each man unzipped his canvas bag and removed a pistol with a silencer affixed. Black produced a key, unlocked the door, and the four men stepped inside, then their leader went to a security keypad just inside the door and tapped in a four-digit code. A soft beep sounded. Black turned to his companions and shone his flashlight on his wristwatch. He held up three fingers, for three minutes. His companions nodded, and on a hand signal from Black they spread out into the building.

Black found room number one, sat cross-legged on the floor under the central table and laid his pistol on the floor beside him. He took a small packet from his canvas bag and taped it to the table pedestal, making sure to leave a six-inch length of aerial wire exposed. He went back into the hallway and to the rear door, where he was joined by his three companions. He took another packet from his bag and taped it to the rear door. Glancing at his wristwatch, he tapped a number into a keypad on the unit, then looked at the others and nodded.

Black opened the rear door. To his astonishment he was staring down the barrel of a .38 caliber pistol.

“Freeze! All of you!” The uniformed man cried.

Black did not hesitate; he swung his canvas bag at the man's weapon and felt a round blow past his head. He fired one shot into the middle of the man's face, then stepped over his body and waved the others to follow.

“Jesus Christ,” White said.

“Shut up,” Black barked. “Nothing has changed.” He looked carefully through the parted hedge, up and down the street. It was deserted, but he saw a light come on in a house across the street. “Don't run, walk,” Black growled at the others. They made their way toward the van, and Black heard a door open and voices. “Walk!” he said again.

They reached the van and got in. Brown started the engine, and Black put a hand on his shoulder. “Twenty-five miles an hour, no more,” he said. He switched on his flashlight and started to give instructions again. From the distance came the sound of a police siren.

“Jesus Christ!” Brown shouted, then floored the accelerator.

“Slow down!” Black yelled. “Twenty-five; no more!”

“People came out of that house,” Brown said. “They had to get a look at the van.”

At that moment a huge explosion erupted behind them, and the interior of the van was lit with a fiery light. The two men in the rear of the van cheered.

“Shut up,” Black said to them. “We can't return the van to where you stole it,” he said to Brown. “We go to Plan B. Right at the next intersection; we'll stay off the big streets and go through neighborhoods to the Plan B rendezvous. We've got a local contact waiting there for us, just in case. Now left at the corner. And slow down!” He turned and looked over his shoulder at the two men in back. “Listen to me carefully. If a cop car gets on our tail, we won't run. Brown will slow down; you kick open the back doors and pour everything into their windshield.”

“We've already killed one cop,” Brown said.

“That was a security guard, and anyway, we've already bought the death penalty if they get us, so another cop or two won't matter.”

Brown set his jaw and drove.

“Two rights, now.” In a moment they were approaching a school. “Turn in here; drive around back.” As they came around the corner of the building the van's headlights picked up a Lincoln Town Car parked near a dumpster. “That's our ride,” Black said. “Make sure everything is out of the van. Everybody still wearing gloves?”

Affirmative noises came from all three men.

Black got out and rapped on the driver's window of the Lincoln, and as it came down he found himself looking into the face of a plump, pretty blonde woman. “Hit your trunk release,” he said. He turned to his companions. “I want all three of you in the trunk.”

“What?” Brown asked, incredulous.

“They're looking for four men in a van, not a woman and a man in a Lincoln. Don't worry, it's a big trunk.”

The three men got out of their boiler suits and arranged themselves in the trunk; Black tossed his suit into the trunk along with his bag, tucked his pistol into
his waistband and closed the lid. He got into the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt. “All right, let's go,” he said. “I'll give you directions.”

The woman turned toward him. “Did everything go all right?”

“Shut up and look straight ahead,” Black said. “Have you forgotten your instructions?”

The woman snapped her head around. “I'm sorry.”

“Let's move it, then! Don't turn your lights on yet; drive to the corner of the building and stop.”

The woman obeyed, sitting quietly while he looked up and down the street.

“All right, turn right out of the parking lot; twenty-five miles an hour, no more.”

The woman followed his instructions. “I thought you weren't coming,” she said. “I was about to leave.”

“I'm not going to tell you again to shut up,” Black said. “If you speak again, I'll throw you out of the car. Do you have your story straight if we're stopped? Nod your head.”

She nodded.

He finally seemed to have gotten through to her. He began to concentrate on giving her directions.

 

Half an hour later they crossed a bridge to the island and immediately turned left at a sign for the airport. “Stop here,” he said. He opened the glove compartment and pressed the trunk release button, then got out of the car. His three companions were extricating themselves from their cramped positions and stretching their limbs. One of them took their equipment from the trunk.

“Hey, we made it!” White said, seeing the airport sign. “Good going, Chief Casey!”

Casey opened his mouth to yell at the man; then
he saw the woman. She had gotten out of the car and was standing at the rear bumper, looking at them. “Partain,” he said, “you are one stupid son of a bitch.” He pulled the pistol from his belt and raked the woman across the head with the silencer. She went down with no more than a sigh.

“What did you do that for?” Gray asked.

“I did it because she was stupid enough to see all of our faces, and because Partain, here, stupid as he is, told her my name! Now get that bitch into the front seat of the car.”

“What are we going to do with her?” Partain asked.

“What do you think?” Casey said. “Get behind the wheel. You two guys wait here.” He got into the backseat. “Drive back down to the bridge and stop just before you get to it.”

Partain did as he was told. Casey got out and pulled the limp woman into the driver's position. He turned the steering wheel to the right, put on the emergency brake and put the transmission in drive. He moved the woman's right leg until her foot rested on the accelerator, pressing lightly on the petal. The car revved slightly and strained against the parking brake. He turned to Partain. “Come here.”

Partain walked over. “Yeah?”

“Release the parking brake,” Casey said.

Partain scratched his head, stepped forward and, after a moment's hesitation, pulled the control that released the brake. The car jerked forward and began to move toward the side of the road.

As it passed, Casey slammed the driver's door. The car left the road, gaining speed, and started down the slope of the bridge approach, knocking down small pine trees as it went. At the bottom of the incline the car went over a small cliff and flew through the air toward the narrows. There was a loud splash and white foam spread across the black water.

Casey stood and watched as the waters quieted. Then the Lincoln popped to the surface, or nearly so. The roof could be seen as the car drifted away from the bridge with the current.

“It's not going to sink!” Partain cried.

“It's going to sink,” Casey said. “If not here, then down a little ways. The farther from the bridge, the better.” As he watched, bubbles spilled from the cabin, and the car slowly sank from sight. “There,” he said. “They won't find her for a while.”

The two men trudged back up the hill and joined their two companions. It was a few minutes' walk to the airport. They skirted the building where the night attendant was and boarded the Cessna, tossing their bags into the luggage compartment with the empty jerry cans. Casey worked his way through the checklist deliberately; he could not allow himself to rush. The engine started quickly, and Casey taxied onto the runway, turning upwind. He pushed the throttle all the way forward; the airplane started its roll, and in a moment, they were airborne.

As they climbed away from the field the lights of Seattle appeared in the distance. Near the center of the city, Casey could see a large fire burning.

“Wow, look at that,” Partain said from the backseat. “We must have ignited a gas main.”

Casey stayed under a thousand feet until they were clear of the Seattle Terminal Control Area, then he began his climb and pointed the Cessna east, toward Idaho. All that remained for him to do on arrival was to remove the taped-on, fake registration number from the side of the airplane and reapply the original numbers.

That, and beat the shit out of Partain, he mused.

J
esse left work on Monday afternoon and drove into town. He parked his truck, picked up a Boise paper at the drugstore and walked down to the police station. A young officer was manning the reception desk.

“Hi, I'm Jesse Barron,” he said to the officer. “Chief Casey is expecting me; will you tell him I'm here?”

Pat Casey gave him a wave from his glass-enclosed office, took his hat from a hook and walked into the reception area. “How you doing, Jesse?” he asked shaking his guest's hand. “Ready for your meeting?”

“Sure,” Jesse said. He followed Casey outside and into a patrol car. Casey backed out and drove toward the church.

“You know, Pat, that's a real impressive station you've got there. Not what you'd expect to see in a small town.”

“You're right about that, pal; we've got all the latest computer stuff, and we can plug into any of half a
dozen law enforcement networks with a few keystrokes. My squad cars have got computer equipment, too. You know, Jesse, I ran a check on you the day you hit town.”

Jesse tried to look surprised. “No kidding? You're a careful man, Pat.”

“I try to be.”

“And what did you find out?”

“That you're not a liar. You know, I thought about offering you a job on the force, but you moved up so fast at Wood Products that I couldn't afford you now.”

“You think I'd make a cop?” Jesse asked.

“I think so. You're a smart guy, and you've got guts; you showed that when you took on a guy the size of Phil Partain.”

Jesse shrugged and unfolded his newspaper.

“What's in the news?”

“Looks like somebody took out another abortion clinic,” Jesse replied, scanning the story. “That's the fourth one in a month, and it's okay with me.” He could feel Casey's gaze on him.

“You against abortion?”

“Murdering babies? Damn straight, I am. I had three girls, you know, and the second two were big surprises. I wouldn't have stopped either one of them for anything.”

“I'm with you, pal,” Casey said, swinging past the church and starting up the mountain.

“We're not going to the church?”

“The pastor wants to see you in his home. That's a rare honor, believe me.”

“I'm flattered.” Jesse glanced down at the bottom of the newspaper's front page.
SEATTLE ANTI-ABORTION ACTIVIST DEAD IN PUGET SOUND PLUNGE
, it read.

“What's that piece?” Casey asked.

Jesse read aloud: “‘The body of Martha Terrell Peary, a prominent member of Seattle's pro-life move
ment, was found in her car near the Tacoma Narrows bridge yesterday, the victim of an apparent accident. Raymond Peary, her husband, said his wife often took late-night drives and that she must have lost control of her car. Mrs. Peary had taken a leading part in many demonstrations against family planning clinics in the Northwest over the past four years, and it seemed ironic to her friends that she should have died on the night of the firebombing of the Parsons Street Clinic, in Seattle, by unknown perpetrators.' That's it.”

“Well,” said Casey, “win some, lose some.”

 

Jack Gene Coldwater's house was situated at the end of a long drive, very near the top of the mountain. It was a solid-looking stone structure, with elaborate plantings along the drive and in the turnaround at the front door. Jesse thought it looked like something out of an architectural magazine. This impression was reinforced when they were let inside by a pretty young woman and shown to the pastor's study.

Coldwater sat in a leather armchair, his striking profile toward the door, apparently lost in a book. The room was paneled in walnut and lined with bookcases. Books were everywhere, on a sofa, on a coffee table, on the floor and on the limestone mantelpiece. A cheerful log fire burned in the grate.

“Pastor,” the woman said softly, “your guests are here.”

Coldwater looked up and smiled. “Jesse, how are you?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Miss Betty,” Casey said to the young woman, “do you think you could find me something to nibble on in the kitchen?”

“Of course, Chief,” she replied, and led the way. Casey closed the door behind them.

“Come and sit down,” Coldwater said, indicating a matching chair facing his own.

Jesse sat down.

“I believe the sun is over the yardarm,” Coldwater said, looking out the window at the winter twilight. “May I offer you something to warm you up?”

“Thank you sir, maybe a bourbon.”

Coldwater went to a drinks trolley and poured them both a stiff drink, handed Jesse his, sat down and raised his glass. “To a better day.”

Jesse raised his glass and drank. It was excellent.

Coldwater took a small sip, then set his glass down on a side table. “What do you know about us here, Jesse?”

“About the town?” He set his drink down.

“About the church; about me.”

“Not very much, I guess. The Thanksgiving dinner was my first visit to the church.”

“No gossip around town?”

“I've been spending most of my time at home, when I'm not working.”

Coldwater nodded. “At Jenny Weatherby's. A fine young woman, Jenny; fellow could do a lot worse. Nice little girl, too.”

“I've grown fond of them both.”

“Good. A man needs the affection of a woman.”

They sat silently for a moment, and Jesse elected not to speak first. After all he had been summoned here.

“I want to tell you something of the background of this place,” Coldwater said. “I came here some twenty years ago, fresh out of the army and the Vietnam war. I came with a couple of thousand dollars in back pay and two friends, Pat Casey and Kurt Ruger. Pat, you know; have you met Kurt?”

“No, sir.”

“A financial wizard. One of the best minds for
money in the country. On Kurt's advice, we pooled our funds and made a down payment on land that includes this mountain. We built a log church on the site where the First Church now rests, lived in it, worshiped in it, conducted our lives in that building for years. We worked hard, marshaled our resources and attracted others to our way of life. We multiplied and prospered.” He stopped and looked at Jesse. “Are you a religious man, Jesse?”

“My father”—he stopped himself; he had nearly said that his father was a minister—“kind of rammed it down my throat, I guess. I didn't feel close to the church at home, but I…I guess I sort of carved out my own religion from all of what was thrown at me as a boy. I believe in God, I really do.”

“Do you believe that some people are chosen
personally
by God?”

“Yes, sir, I believe that. I've never known what he wanted me to do, though.”

“Jesse, I believe God has brought you here, to us. Do you believe that God can do that?”

“I believe God can do
anything
,” Jesse said, nodding vigorously.

“Good man. Do you believe that God speaks directly to some people?”

“I'm sure he must,” Jesse said. He looked into the fire for effect. “Sometimes I wish he'd speak to me.”

“Do you believe God chooses some groups of people over others?”

“Well, the Israelites were the chosen people of the Bible, weren't they?”

“Yes, until they renounced and murdered his son,” Coldwater replied softly. “God has never forgiven them for that; they are, each of them, cursed. God has a new chosen people now.” He leaned forward and bored his gaze into Jesse's eyes. “They are here, in this community, and God has chosen
me
to lead them to him.”

Jesse let his eyes widen slightly and his jaw drop.

“Do you believe that is possible?” Coldwater asked.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Do you think I am insane, Jesse?”

“No, sir; you seem very sane to me.”

“People to whom God speaks are often thought to be insane. Some of them are, I suppose, but I assure you, I am not.”

Coldwater suddenly sat up straight and pressed his back against his chair. “Jesse,” he said, and his voice seemed to waver, “Jesse, sometimes God gives me to know about people, and he is speaking to me of you at this moment.”

Jesse leaned forward. “About
me?
”

“You have had a great tragedy in your life,” Coldwater intoned, closing his eyes. “You have lost those dearest to you in the most violent way.”

“Yes,” Jesse said, “it's true.”

“There are three little girls and a lovely woman; they are with God.”

“Yes,” Jesse said again, allowing his voice to waver. I'll match you con for con, he thought.

“They are happy, but they are worried about you,” Coldwater said. “They want you to have a new life.”

“Can you see them?” Jesse asked.

“God can see them. God has chosen this moment to heal your wound, to make you whole again.”

“Oh, God,” Jesse moaned. He was actually enjoying this. The guy was some salesman, and this was some pitch.

Coldwater opened his eyes and looked at Jesse, then closed them again and his brow furrowed. “There is someone else,” he said.

“Sir?”

“Another little girl, younger than the three.”

A chill ran through Jesse. What was going on here?

“She was torn from you, but she has not forgotten her love for you.”

Tears sprang involuntarily to Jesse's eyes. “
Sir?
”

“She is far from here, but with kind strangers.”

“Who?” Jesse demanded. “Who is she with?”

“A young couple in a sunny place.”

Miami, Jesse thought, she's still in Miami. What the hell is going on here?

Coldwater opened his eyes again, then reached out, took Jesse's hand and pulled him to his knees. “Will you pray with me?”

“Oh, yes, sir!”

Coldwater pressed a palm onto the top of Jesse's head. “God, Jesse and I have heard you. He is with us now, his wound healed. Give him the strength to go forward with us!” Coldwater released Jesse and sank back into his chair. The spell seemed broken.

Jesse struggled to his feet and sat down. He grabbed his drink, took a large swig and tried to slow his breathing.

“I'm sorry if I frightened you, Jesse,” Coldwater said. “I have these…visitations from time to time, when I am told things. Did it all make sense to you?”

“Yes, sir; I had a wife and three little girls, and they were killed in a car accident.”

“What about the fourth child?”

“I don't know about that, sir; it didn't make any sense to me, unless it was really one of my girls.”

“Yes, that must have been it.” Coldwater stood. “Our time is up for today. Will you come and see me again?”

“I'd like that, sir,” Jesse said, rising.

Coldwater took Jesse's arm and steered him toward the door. “Jesse, God has work for you to do here with us. Will you join us? Will you do His will?”

“Yes, sir; I want to be with you,” Jesse said earnestly. “You just tell me what to do.”

“I'll have something for you soon,” Coldwater said. Then he pulled Jesse to him and embraced him in a bear hug.

Jesse had the breath crushed from him. He put his arms around Coldwater, feeling small. The muscles in the man's back were as hard as nails.

Coldwater held him at arm's length. “Goodbye, my good friend. I will see you again soon.”

“Goodbye, Pastor,” Jesse said, and allowed himself to be shown out of the study.

Pat Casey was waiting for him and led him to the squad car, saying nothing.

Jesse sat in the passenger seat of the car, staring out the windshield. What had happened back there? Had Coldwater, in the middle of that
spiel
, somehow tapped into his soul for that moment? Carrie still remembered him, Coldwater had said. He hoped to God the man was right. Casey silently delivered him to his truck, then said goodnight. Jesse drove home slowly, thinking of Carrie. She was never far from his mind.