The Hunger of Crows, page 25
Carla yanks out gauze patches and tape and helps Shire bandage the entrance and exit wounds with efficient skill. Shire says, “There’s a lot of blood. Let’s hope it didn’t nick an artery.”
He looks at the bandages. “Good job, Shire.”
“Seaman’s training,” she says.
D’Angelo is woozy but pleased by their equanimity, their apparent competency. “Thanks.” He pulls his bloody shirt down over the bandages. He can hear Crockett starting the excavator. He picks the photo up off the table, glances at it. “Okay, let’s go. And tell me how he grabbed you, Shi—” He tries to stand but falls back into the chair.
“Cosmo,” Carla says. “Rest a minute.”
He’d like to argue, but he’s not going to be able to stand up anyhow. “One minute,” he says. “Shire, tell me what happened.”
“At the cop shop, I gave the birthday-party story to the desk sergeant, Artie Veggich, and got your photo out of the headliner, but when I got back to my car, that guy stuck his gun in my ribs. He pushed me into the driver’s seat and climbed in back between the girls’ booster seats. He wanted to know what I took out of Carla’s truck. I showed him the picture of the twins.”
D’Angelo says, “He was watching the impound yard. He had the same problem we had, couldn’t get to the truck in broad daylight. Then he saw you go through it and come out with something in your hand and thought he was golden.”
“How did he know my truck is in impound?” Carla asks him.
“Volker. Sidewinder sent the thug to the Orca first thing. He talked to George. I hope he left the stupid hippie alive.”
Shire says, “He told me to take him to you or he’d kill my girls.” She looks at D’Angelo. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go. I thought if I brought him here, at least you would know how to stop him.”
D’Angelo manages a smile. “Oh, yeah, you can see how well I handled him.” He holds the old photo up. “Here it is, folks. The last true fact about Gordon McKint. It can’t be denied, altered, or faked.” He gasps in pain. “Man, I hope this thing is worth what just happened here.”
He fights the growing nausea, his head whirling, his pulse erratic. The damage is a lot worse than he’s let on. Carla and Shire hover around him. They look a bit ashen themselves but seem tough enough for just about anything. He’s more worried about Crockett. He can hear the heavy diesel growling of the big excavator approaching from the gravel pit. Not everybody is ready to blow a man’s head off and then dig a hole to put him in. He makes a mental note to refer to Scott by his first name now.
“This is my fault,” he says as evenly as he can. “I thought we had more time before they shipped a professional here. They must be in a big hurry to put a lid on this if they’re using homegrown goons like that guy. Carla, we need to get you and this picture out of here. Right now.”
He pushes up off the table. For a second he thinks he’s going to fall back again, but he stays on his feet this time.
“Shire, you need to get out of here. Now. Go!” He gulps air again, sweating.
Carla grabs Shire’s hand. “When am I going to see you again?”
They both look at D’Angelo. He shakes his head. “Carla, don’t put Shire in danger by contacting her. Think about the kids. Understand?”
Carla nods, eyes tearing up.
They walk out. D’Angelo gets as far as the porch railing and has to stop again. Carla and Shire walk down to the driveway and stand near Shire’s car, saying their good-byes, their backs to the body lying on the ground next to Crockett’s truck.
D’Angelo takes the moment to check the bandages. The bleeding seems to have slowed, but he certainly isn’t going to be able to drive all the way to Anchorage with Carla. The nausea builds. He leans on the railing, thinking he’ll vomit.
He gets his stomach under control as Scott shifts the big machine’s levers and deftly scoops the dead man off the driveway with a few inches of bloody gravel. Ordinary people can be tough when they have to be.
Scott swings the boom around in the direction he brought the machine from. With a belch of exhaust, the excavator jerks forward. One bloody arm flops out between the huge steel teeth of the bucket. A thin veil of gravel sifts down to the ground as the machine lurches over to the waiting hole.
Ordinary people can be very tough.
As the machine clanks off, he hears Shire say, “Listen to me, Carla, get yourself settled somewhere and find a decent guy. You can’t just keep sticking a dipnet into a school of men and taking home whatever you haul in. You hear me? Find a real keeper this time. You owe it to yourself.” Shire pauses. “And at your advanced age, you better do it fast.”
“Fuck off!” Carla laughs, and hugs Shire. “I’m not going to miss you, you know.”
“I know,” Shire said. “I’m not going to miss you either, honey.”
Shire breaks free and waves to D’Angelo. He summons the strength to say, “Wh–when I get stitched up, I’ll come by with the engagement ring.”
She laughs and gets in her car.
As he scans the end of the driveway and the forest around the house, the nausea washes over him again. It’s not the first bullet he’s ever taken. But the sickness in his gut and the crashing energy tell him this one is serious. The pain in his side races along his ribs to his collarbone. He has to talk to Scott and Carla and modify the plan.
Shire’s car backs down the driveway and disappears up the road, leaving Carla alone. “Carla.” He waves her up onto the porch. “I need to tell you some things.”
He hangs on the railing. The chugging of the excavator drones on from the gravel pit. He feels his blood pressure crashing and clutches the railing to brace himself, dizziness flooding his brain. He fights it off and stays very still, closes his eyes for a moment listening to the rumbling of the excavator. Nothing hurts for the moment. He’s drifting.
“Cosmo! Are you in there?”
It’s Carla. She’s standing on the porch next to him.
He opens his eyes. She peers into his face. He waves her off. “I’m fine.”
He’s not.
The excavator goes silent. In a moment, Scott pounds up onto the porch, shotgun in hand. He takes one look at D’Angelo and gasps. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says. “Listen to me.”
Scott is dazed. Eyes unfocused, lips trembling. D’Angelo has seen the look before—on the faces of men who’ve killed someone for the first time. He’s sure he once wore it too.
“I won’t make it to Anchorage. Scott, walk me to your truck and drive me to my car. It’s just up the road. I’m going to drive myself down to the hospital in Homer.”
They object and sputter. He cuts them short with his fiercest stare, and they go quiet.
Scott holds one elbow and helps D’Angelo down the porch steps. Every step is a grinding pain in his side. He’s squeezing the stair railing so hard he can feel the wood grain. “You drive Carla to Anchorage in your truck. Drop her off at the airport first so she can call my guy, and then you take the photo to the FBI office. I’ll give you the name of the agent there. Have them call him at home, get him out of bed, whatever. You tell them my name. Who I work for.”
He gasps, swallows hard. His throat is tight. “Carla, you have to be there before midnight. That’s when Mr. Plan B will toss the phone that goes with the number I’m going to give you. You understand? You call from a pay phone in the airport. No cell phones.”
They nod. They help him into the back seat of Scott’s truck. He falls back against the seat, sweating again, shaking with chills. His feet are on top of the power tools on the floor, his knees even with his chest. “This person on the phone will tell you where to pick up the new ID. Do exactly as he says, okay?”
Carla leans into the open door, face taut with concern. “Sure.”
She opens her mouth to add something. He holds up his hand. “Scott,” he says, “take this.” He hands him the photo that has brought all this trouble down on them. “Put it in an envelope and write Agent Mel Ritchie on it.” He spells it. “My guy in DC has assured me that Ritchie will get it to him.” He pauses, once again dizzy, nauseous. “I have to trust them. I have no other choice now. This is for Kevin Dykstra. And for my daughter.”
“You can’t drive yourself to town,” Scott says. “You’re bleeding to death.”
D’Angelo groans. “I’ll be at the hospital in twenty minutes. It’s all downhill from here. Literally. I can stay alive that long. Take me to my car. Now.” He adds, “And Scott, bring this”—he hands Scott his pistol—”and the shotgun too.” He struggles to reach into his jacket pocket and turns to Carla. “This is for you.”
“A flashlight?” she says, looking at the small black tubular metal item in his hand.
“It’s a stun pen. Look.” He pushes a button, and Carla grimaces when an obviously powerful electric arc crackles between two metal points on the end of the device. “You press that end against anyone who grabs you and hold it on them until they’re down. Got it?”
Carla cringes as he puts the weapon in her hand. “I don’t know if—”
“Just take it. Let’s go. I’m fading.”
Scott hops in the truck and drives him to the stolen Subaru. They help him out of the truck and into the small car. It’s almost more than he can stand. “This town and its goddamned Subarus.” He gasps for air. “Scott, there’s a bag in the back seat with all my things in it. I don’t need the local cops going through it at the hospital. Hang on to it for me?”
Scott puts the bag in his truck.
D’Angelo starts the Subaru and rolls the window down. Carla and Scott look at him gravely. “Listen,” he says, “I know you two have gotten attached. Are you going to be able to split when you get to Anchorage?”
They both insist they will. Sure.
“Because you do have to disappear, Carla. Phil Lundren is trying to put a lid on this. To put a lid on you.” He grits his teeth against the pain. “You understand?”
“I get it. I need to disappear.” Carla runs up to the Subaru’s window and kisses him on the cheek. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
Crockett says, “What about you, D’Angelo? What if they come after you again?”
“I can take care of myself.”
Carla scoffs. “Oh, you’re doing just fucking great.”
D’Angelo grimaces and puts the car in gear. “Give this to Volker.” He holds out the bloody cell phone. “And Scott, I’ll be back for that bag someday, with a new name and a new look. We’ll cook something good. Osso buco, maybe. While you’re in Anchorage, see if you can find some Italian anchovy sauce. Colatura.” He gasps, somehow manages a smile. “It’s sort of like Thai fish sauce, except it doesn’t smell as much like sex.”
He puts the car in gear and drives, not at all sure how far he’s going to get.
CHAPTER
48
WHERE THE GRAVEL road meets the pavement, D’Angelo turns left toward Homer and the hospital. In his rearview he sees Scott’s truck turn right, heading north. It’s six thirty PM. They still have time to get to Anchorage before Mr. Plan B disappears. But not a lot extra. And what about him? How much time does he have? He’s fading, but he thinks he can make it.
He drives the stolen Subaru on the narrow, winding two-lane to the highway in a fog of pain and light-headedness. With two miles to go to the Homer hospital, his vision becomes so blurry the highway seems to be floating side to side. Twice he nearly veers off and into the weeds. When the big parking area overlooking the bay lunges into view on his right, he careens into it without using the turn signal. A horn blares. A howling “Dickhead!” roars from the pickup truck tailgating him. God only knows how slowly he’s been driving, or for how long.
He rolls to a halt in the parking lot and noses into a spot facing the guardrail overlooking the cliff. He’ll just pause a bit, get his breath back, clear his head. Then he can rejoin the procession of tourists and fishermen descending on the town, roll down the long road to the hospital. Nothing to it. He only needs a few moments to rest.
The seat is pushed back as far as it goes, and he lies back against it and peers out at the view from under his hat brim. The ocean. That’s where people go to relax, right? Who needs a little relaxation more than he does? And there it is, right in front of him. Several hundred feet down, of course, and not the open Pacific, just this long narrow bay where he’s spent the past twenty-four hours or so. This peaceful place would be a lovely respite and refuge from the world of intrigue and violence he’s survived in all his years—if he hadn’t dragged all that along with him here.
He presses his hand against the entry wound. There’s no pain now, just a thick, leathery feeling on that side of his body, and a similar one settling over his brain. A groggy, letting-go feeling of surrender that is so seductive. Is this how Jennifer felt at the end, when the cancer was running amok like a wave of fanatics overtaking every outpost of her immune system? It’s the kind of feeling that could convince a man to put his weapon down and his hands up.
That thought jolts him alert. How did he come to be here soaking in his own blood, on the edge of a cliff in Alaska, so far from all the war zones he’s seen in his life? Is this the ignominious end he faces? Death in a parking lot full of happy tourists instead of surrounded by his brothers in arms?
He forces himself to peer out the windows and assess his environment the way he’s been trained. The tranquility of the place is frightening. The sun is high in the northwest, hours of daylight yet to go, the sky cloudless again for the moment. Beneath it the sea is silver-blue and flatter than he’s seen it at any time since arriving here. Ant-like boats crawl across the silky surface, trailing strings of sunlit diamonds in their wakes. The lonely cone of an island volcano, a perfect Mt. Fuji replica, seems to quiver on the waves. On the far shore, the mountains stand watch, a white, serrated horizon.
Behind him the parking lot thrums with the sounds of unhurried people on vacation. No hostiles, no enemies, no threat here, he tells himself. He can hear the woosh of traffic. He looks in the rearview mirror. A pickup towing a big aluminum boat races down the hill, fishing rods bristling from their holders. Those guys waste no time gawking at the scenery. There are nonnegotiable tides to consider, fish who need to be reminded where they’re perched on the food chain. The world is on fire, a conflagration of hatred and mayhem on nearly every continent, and they’re going fishing. He envies them their insouciance. If he lives long enough, one day he’ll take up the sport, see what all the excitement is about.
He grips the wheel, pulls himself up a little more. All he has to do is make it as far as the emergency room curb and roll out of the car and onto the pavement. Somebody will take it from there. That’s what hospitals are for, right? To yank people back from the brink of death. That’s what doctors do. The good ones. But not always. Not Jennifer’s doctors. The best that money could buy. Not that they didn’t do everything possible. They did. They said so, over and over, as horrified and surprised by the cancer’s explosive final assault as he and Jennifer’s mother were. “Everything possible.”
His right side is numb to his shoulder. His head weighs a hundred pounds, his body a thousand. He falls back against the seat again. Lights sputter at the corners of his eyes. Maybe he should just throw the door open and fall out, right here in the parking lot? Even in the midst of the spectacular scenery, somebody will surely notice a six-foot-four-inch man sitting in a pool of blood. Maybe.
He’ll wait a minute longer, see if he can summon the strength to drive.
Squinting, he tries to focus on the finger of land jutting into the bay. The spit. That’s where he’ll open his joint, Tentacolis, just down the beach from the End of the Road Hotel & Resort. He’ll serve fried calamari rings drizzled with his own secret Sicilian aioli. There’ll be stimpirati: squid cutlets sautéed with capers. Stuffed squid tubes in tomato sauce. A cold salad with tentacles and fava beans. An invertebrate feast.
He’ll cook everything himself, putting the chef’s personal touch on each dish. The David Chang of Homer, Alaska. He’ll only be open from lunch through cocktail hour. Sleep late mornings, make good strong coffee, walk on the beach. Cook all afternoon. Have evenings off to make new friends—mostly female, of course. For a moment, he’s aware that he’s dreaming of food. And women. Again. A sound startles him. A squawk. He’s awake. Maybe.
A grimly black raven pitches out of the sky toward him, a gang of crows behind it in pursuit. Is it the same aerial skirmish he witnessed this morning on the balcony of the hotel? He, of all people, knows that wars go on and on. But why this one? What was that word Crockett used? Corvids. The raven and the crows are all corvids. Why are they fighting among themselves? Sectarian differences?
The birds wheel straight at him, as if hurled against the land mass by the wind. But there is no wind. As they pass low over his car, the harassed raven rolls one glistening eyeball at D’Angelo and speaks to him in the secret language of corvids. D’Angelo understands it perfectly: The strong will always be assailed by the envious weak.
It’s something he’s heard Gordon McKint say.
Then the birds are gone.
Now he’s at the stove of a sunlit kitchen, a glass of vodka in one hand, a sauté pan in the other. He can smell the garlic melting in the shimmering oil, feel the noisy popping splatters stinging his knuckles. He can taste the breaded tentacle clusters, rubbery between his teeth, salty on his tongue.
Out front, the commercial fishermen, the sport anglers, the charter captains and deckhands, the shop owners and artists, the bartenders and waitresses of Homer, are lining up for his food in the endless Alaskan summer light. Carla Merino is there. So is Jennifer, his daughter. Rebecca, his ex-wife. Every woman he’s ever known. He should welcome them. He pushes open the door and feels the sun on his face, as bright and warm as a smile from God Himself.
