Indigo Slam

Robert Crais Indigo Slam

The seventh book in the Elvis Cole series, 1997

Dedicated with love and admiration to Wayne Warga and Collin Wilcox, two worthy men, always overhead.

Acknowledgements

The author appreciates the invaluable help of several people: Howard A. Daniel III of the Southeast Asian Treasury regarding foreign currencies and printing techniques; Kregg P.J. Jorgenson for his insights into Seattle, the U.S. Customs Service, and crime in the Pacific Northwest; and Gerald Petievich for opening many doors at the United States Secret Service, and to the agents there who, requesting anonymity, shared their technology and expertise. Any errors contained herein are the author's sole responsibility.

A novel is a world built by many hands. Thanks to Patricia Crais, Lauren Crais, William Gleason and Andrea Malcolm, Jeffrey Liam Gleason, Carol and Wayne Topping, Aaron Priest, Norman Kurland, Robert Miller, Brian DeFiore, Lisa Kitei, Marcy Goot, Chris Murphy, Kim Dower, Samantha Miller, Jennifer Lang, and, especially, Leslie Wells.

SEATTLE

At two-fourteen in the morning on the night they left one life to begin their next, the rain thundered down in a raging curtain that thrummed against the house and the porch and the plain white Econoline van that the United States Marshals had brought to whisk them away.

Charles said, 'C'mere, Teri, and lookit this.' Her younger brother, Charles, was framed in the front window of their darkened house. The house was dark because the marshals wanted it that way. No interior lights, they said. Candles and flashlights would be better, they said.

Teresa, whom everyone called Teri, joined her brother at the window, and together they looked at the van parked at the curb. Lightning snapped like a giant flashbulb, illuminating the van and the narrow lane of clapboard houses there in Highland Park on the west side of Seattle, seven and one-half miles south of the Space Needle. The van's side and rear doors were open, and a man was squatting inside, arranging boxes. Two other men finished talking to the van's driver, then came up the walk toward the house. All four men were dressed identically in long black slickers and black hats that they held against the rain. It beat at them as if it wanted to punch right through the coats and the Hats and hammer them into the earth. Teri thought that in a few minutes it would be beating at her. Charles said, 'Lookit there at that truck. That truck's big enough to bring my bike, isn't it? Why can't I bring my bike?'

Teri said, 'That's not a truck, it's a van, and the men said we could only take the boxes.' Charles was nine years old, three years younger than Teri, and didn't want to leave his bike. Teri didn't want to leave her things either, but the men had said they could only take eight boxes. Four people at two boxes a person equals eight boxes. Simple math.

'They got plenty of room.'

'We'll get you another bike. Daddy said.'

Charles scowled. 'I don't want another bike.'

The first man to step in from the rain seemed ten feet tall, and the second seemed even taller. Water dripped from their coats onto the wooden floor, and Teri's first thought was to get a towel before the drips made spots, but, of course, the towels were packed and it wouldn't matter anyway. She would never see this house again. The first man smiled at her and said, 'I'm Peterson. This is Jasper.' They held out little leather wallets with gold and silver badges. The badges sparkled in the candlelight. 'We're just about done. Where's your dad?'

Teri had been helping Winona say good-bye to the room they shared when the men arrived fifteen minutes ago. Winona was six, and the youngest of the three Hewitt children. Teri had had to be with her as Winona went around their room, saying, 'Good-bye, bed. Good-bye, closet. Good-bye, dresser.' Beds and closets and dressers weren't things that you could put in eight boxes.

Teri said, 'He's in the bathroom. Would you like me to get him?'

Teri's dad, Clark Hewitt, had what he called 'a weak constitution.' That meant he went to the bathroom whenever he was nervous, and tonight he was very nervous.

The tall man who was Jasper called, 'Hey, Clark, whip it and flip it, bud! We're ready!'

Peterson smiled at Teri. 'You kids ready?'

Teri thought, of course they were ready, couldn't he see that? She'd had Charles and Winona packed and dressed an hour ago. She said, ' Winona!'

Winona came running into the living room with a pink plastic Beverly Hills 90210 raincoat and a purple toy suitcase. Winona 's straw-colored hair was held back with a bright green scrunchie. Teri knew that there were dolls in the suitcase, because Teri had helped Winona pack. Charles had his blue school backpack and his yellow slicker together on the couch.

Jasper called again, 'C'mon, Clark, let's go! We're drowning out there, buddy!'

The toilet off the kitchen flushed and Teri's dad came into the living room. Clark Hewitt was a thin, nervous man whose eyes never seemed to stay in one place. 'I'm ready.'

'We won't be coming back, Clark. You're not forgetting anything, are you?'

Clark shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

'You got the place locked up?'

Clark frowned as if he couldn't quite remember, and looked at Teri, who told him, 'I locked the back door and the windows and the garage. They're going to turn off the gas and the phones and the electricity tomorrow.'

Someone with the marshals had given her father a list of things to do, and Teri had gone down the list. The list had a title: Steps to an Orderly Evacuation. 'I just have to blow out the candles and we can go.'

Teri knew that Peterson was staring at her, but she wasn't sure why. Peterson shook his head, then made a little gesture at Jasper. 'I'll take care of the candles, little miss. Jasper, get 'em loaded.'

Clark started to the front door, but Reed Jasper stopped him. 'Your raincoat.'

'Huh?'

'Earth to Clark. It's raining like a bitch out there.'

Clark said, 'Raincoat? I just had it.' He looked at Teri again.

Teri said, 'I'll get it.'

Teri hurried down the hall past the room that she used to share with Winona and into her father's bedroom. She blew out the candle there, then stood in the darkness and listened to the rain. Her father's raincoat was on the bed where she'd placed it. He'd been standing at the foot of the bed when she'd put it there, but that's the way he was – forgetful, always thinking about something else. Teri picked up the raincoat and held it close, smelling the cheap fabric and the man-smell she knew to be her father's. Maybe he'd been thinking about Salt Lake City, which is where they were going. Teri knew that her father was in trouble with some very bad men who wanted to hurt them. The federal marshals were here to take them to Salt Lake City, where they would change their names. Once they had a Fresh Start, her father had said, he would start a new business and they would all live happily ever after. She didn't know who the bad men were or why they were so mad at her father, but it had something to do with testifying in front of a jury. Her father had tried explaining it to her, but it had come out jumbled and confused, the way most things her father tried to explain came out. Like when her mother died. Teri had been Winona 's age, and her father had told her that her momma had gone home to see Jesus and then he'd started blubbering and nothing he'd said after that made sense. It was another four days before she'd learned that her mother, an assistant night manager for the Great Northwest Food Store chain, had died in an auto accident, hit by a drunk driver.

Teri looked around the room. This had been her mother's room, just as this house had been her mother's house, as it had been Teri's for as long as she could remember. There was one closet and two windows looking toward the alley at the back of the house and a queen-size bed and a dresser and a chest. Her mother had slept in this bed and kept her clothes in this chest and looked at herself in that dresser mirror. Her mother had breathed the air in this room, and her warmth had spread through the sheets and made them toasty and perfect for snuggling when Teri was little. Her mother would read to her. Her mother would sing 'Edelweiss.' Teri closed her eyes and tried to feel the warmth, but couldn't. Teri had a hard time remembering her mother as a living being; she remembered a face in pictures, and now they were leaving. Good-bye, Mama.