Until Judgment Day (15 page)

M
ONDAY
, J
ANUARY
6, 9:45
P.M.
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
I
NTERNATIONAL
A
IRPORT

T
HE
C
ONTINENTAL
AGENT
was a black woman about ten years Kathryn's senior with a
BETTY—SUPERVISOR
nametag, a generous figure, and a toothy smile. She scrutinized Kathryn's driver's license, keyed Mackay's ticket into the computer, and handed it back with a boarding pass.

“Seat thirty-six-B.”

“That's a center seat. Is there anything on the window? I'd like to sleep.”

“Sorry, coach is full and there are standbys.” Betty shook her head. “Are you sick?”

“Just tired.” She leaned against the ticket counter. “And pregnant.”

“Been there my own self. Flying's no picnic in your condition, 'specially early when your stomach's churning all the time. How many kids you got?”

“This'll be my second.”

“I got four boys. How long you been in line?”

“Almost an hour.”

“Back's killing you, huh?”

“And how! Feet, too.”

“I hear that! Don't know what kinda work you do but if you're on your feet all day like me, you don't wanta be squished between two fat guys on no airplane. Gimme that ticket and boarding pass.”

Kathryn hesitated, then handed them back. Betty ripped them up and dropped them in the wastebasket, punched a few computer keys, printed out new documents, and handed them to Mackay.

“I moved you to seat two-A. Two-B's empty. First class boards 'bout ten-thirty.”

Kathryn slid her credit card across the counter.

Betty pushed it back. “Forget it.”

“I'm not sure I can accept it without paying.”

“Sure you can. We fly empty first-class seats almost every flight, and give away plenty of upgrades—handicapped folks, angry folks, pushy folks, you name it. As shift supervisor it's part of my job.”

Betty checked her computer. “'Sides, they gave away seat thirty-six-B while we were talking. You take this plane to Cleveland tonight, it's in first class. Have a nice flight.”

Kathryn stuffed the ticket into her handbag. “Thank you very much, I can't tell you—”

“Next!” Betty had turned her attention to another passenger.

The security line was short and they didn't search her, so Kathryn rolled her carry-on to the gate, collapsed into a seat, kicked off her shoes, propped her feet on the bag, and dialed her cell phone.

“Granz.”

“You said to call and let you know everything's okay before we took off.”

“How come you called my cell phone instead of our house line?”

“I didn't want to wake Emma.”

“Your flight on time?”

“They said it'll leave at eleven. If I'd known the security checkpoint lines would be so short, I could have left home an hour later.”

“Then the lines would've been out the door. Post-September Eleven air travel—always an adventure.”

“I was upgraded to first class, so now I can sleep.”

“Good. Whatcha gonna do for the next hour?”

“I brought a book.”

“Well, relax and don't worry about Emma and me, we'll be fine. Call tomorrow after you see the doctor.”

“I will. I'd better go.”

“Me, too. I'll miss you.”

“I love you, Dave.”

He didn't answer.

“Dave?”

He didn't answer, but the line stayed open.

She increased the volume. “Dave?”

She heard something hit the floor, then the line clicked and went dead. She punched the End button. “Bad reception inside the building,” she muttered.

She leaned back, glanced around to be sure no one she knew was watching her as she slipped on her secreted Dr. Dean Edell reading half-glasses, and opened her book. It was
RH Disease and You—Delivering a Healthy Baby
.

E
VERY
J
ANUARY THE
M
ID
-
W
INTER
Fifties Jubilee drew Woodies, Street Rods, and Cruisers to a two-day bash at the Wharf-Boardwalk. Car owners showed off, checked out paint jobs, ogled chrome flathead V-8s, sat on tuck 'n' roll upholstery, and swapped lies. Sunday night they cruised up Ocean Street, around the Town Clock, and down the mall to the beach where Boss Rod was crowned. The owner got a trophy and a check for a thousand dollars.

The Monday, January 6,
Santa Rita Centennial
headline reported
PRIEST HOT-RODS FOR GOD
above a color photo of Reverend Jason Ryan beside his red Deuce Coupe holding the Boss Rod trophy. It said Ryan donated the thousand dollars to his parish's youth ministry.

•   •   •

An SUV swung into the alley behind Blessed Mother Catholic Church, Reverend Jason Ryan's parish. Wipers slapping, it idled along, fat tires crunching wet pea gravel. When the headlights lit up the red Coupe nosing into the carport behind Reverend Ryan's tiny bungalow tucked into a corner of the church grounds, it pulled in.

The driver climbed out, unsheathed a Buck BUD110 automatic lock-back knife, stuck the four-inch blade into the Hot Rod's tires, then returned to the SUV and punched a number into his cell phone.

 

“Hello?” He could see Jason Ryan answer the phone through the kitchen window.

“Reverend, this is California Highway Patrol Dispatcher Allison. Officer Stanfield reported a red Deuce Coupe in Grovers Alley behind your house with four flat tires. DMV shows it's registered to you. Probably vandalism. Your insurance will want a police report. Could you meet Stanfield by your carport? He'll shine his patrol car's red light in your window so you know it's him.”

 

He slipped a red lens over the portable spotlight and shone it over the redwood fence.

 

“I see the red light but—”

“I understand you're nervous. Here's the CHP number. Hang up and call me back.”

Ryan jotted down the number, pressed the Disconnect button, released it, and dialed.

•   •   •

His cell phone chirped. “California Highway Patrol, Allison speaking.”

 

“Sorry for being such a pain.” Ryan apologized.

“Better safe than sorry, Father.”

“I'll be right out.”

 

The stun gun dropped the priest instantly to the damp concrete floor. He dragged the body into the shadowy space between the car and the fence and leaned against the Deuce's radiator.

When Ryan stirred, he slapped the priest's face. “Stay awake. Are you afraid?”

“God, yes.”

“I know the feeling. Open your mouth.”

He stuck the pistol barrel between the priest's teeth and pulled the trigger, splattering jagged skull fragments and shredded brain on the award-winning, candy-apple-red Deuce Coupe.

He rolled the priest's head to the side, picked up the mutilated bullet carefully, swished it around in a puddle of rain water to wash off the blood, and dropped it into his pants pocket.

Then he attached the portable voice changer to his cell phone and punched in a number. The line was busy. When the answering service came on, he dialed in a deep male voice and said, “I tried to call but your phone's busy. Answer next time, if you want to stop me.”

T
HE SKINNY CONCRETE
driveway beside Miller's 1950s house ended at a detached garage where a wooden gate opened into a large, grassy backyard. Dormant apple, plum, and pear trees stood among the rose and hydrangea bushes, waiting for the warmth of spring to arouse their reproductive urges and give birth to another crop of sweet summer fruit.

Miller opened the gate and unlocked the back door, and he and Escalante kicked off their wet shoes, peeled off their socks, and draped their jackets over twin brass claw hooks in the utility room. The winter-morning cold clung wetly to the walls so he cranked the thermostat up to seventy-two degrees, gave her a thick white Turkish towel and washcloth, and shut the bathroom door behind her.

In his bedroom, he stripped off his damp clothes, slipped on Levi's and a black T-shirt with dolphins on the chest over the letters
DSFD
, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

The shower started as he was grinding aged Sumatran beans in a Krups, and he was whisking minced onion, chopped cilantro, and ground cumin into a Pyrex bowl full of beaten eggs when his wall phone chirped.

He considered ignoring it but couldn't. “Miller.”

“Soy yo.” She stood on a rug outside the shower, the pounding water almost drowning out her voice.

“Why are you phoning the kitchen from the bathroom, Doña?”

“You said to call you if I need anything. I'm on my cell phone.”

“I meant ‘call' like in ‘shout.'”

“Oh. You speak in English colloquialisms or slang that I sometimes don't understand.”

He laughed. “¿Qué necesitas?”

“Champú.”

Hot, wet bathroom air slapped him in the face when he cracked the door, but through the fogged-up shower glass he could make out a vague female form that slipped tantalizingly in and out of focus, like a swimmer at the bottom of a deep pool.

“Hand me the shampoo, please.” She stuck a hand over the shower door. When she did, her body pressed against the glass and swept away the fog like a squeegee.

He handed the shampoo over the top. “Anything else you need?” He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out hard, stirring up eddies that rippled visibly through the steam-impregnated air.

“Sí.” She slid the shower door open. “You.”

She shimmered and glowed like a nymph in an impressionist watercolor under the running water. It splashed over her jet-black hair and dripped from her nose and chin, then sheeted over her chest, finally gathering at her hips and tumbling down her slender legs.

She leaned out and kissed him, then pulled his shirt over his head, and tugged off his Levi's.

He stepped into the shower.

“Do you really think I am sweet to eat like a plátano?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Soon, she pushed him against the back of the tub, kneeled over him so her breasts brushed his face, and lowered herself, slowly consuming him. He watched her for a moment, then shut his eyes.

“Why did you stop looking at me?”

“Because you're like a sunset—too beautiful to look at for very long without hurting.”

“You are a poet.”

“I haven't been with a woman for a long time,” he told her, his voice hoarse. “I can't wait any longer.”

“It's all right, come with me now.”

Afterward, they lay together under the water. When she felt it start to run cool, she suggested they get up.

“Ice-cold water
would
ruin the mood,” he agreed. “Besides, I'm famished.”

When the omelets, toast and jam were gone, they sat back in their chairs and sipped coffee.

“What does the DSFD on your shirt mean?” she asked.

“‘Deep, silent, fast, and deadly.' A long time ago, when I was young and foolish, I served in the U.S. Navy Submarine Service. It's our motto. Silly, huh?”

“Not at all.” She finished her coffee, set her cup down reluctantly, and said, “I should go.”

“I know. Are you going to call Mackay in Cleveland and fill her in?” he asked.

“I cannot tell her about us yet.”

“I meant last night's murder.”

“Oh. No, there's nothing she can do about it, and she has plenty on her mind right now.” She checked her watch. “It's eleven o'clock in Cleveland. She's probably at her doctor's office.”