Quentin shrugged. "Right here in the carport, as far as I know."
By the time Quentin finally managed to unlock the back door, Mitch Johnson was fairly dancing with anticipation-like a little kid who has waited too long to go to the bathroom. After watching the house for weeks, Mitch Johnson was ready to be inside. He had always planned on invading Brandon's home turf as part of the operation. As the door finally opened, Mitch felt almost giddy. All those years he had been moldering in prison, Brandon Walker had been living here in what he believed to be a safe haven. Well, it wasn't safe anymore.
Carrying the bag with its few remaining goodies, it didn't take long to distribute them. Mitch directed Quentin to leave the tongs in the kitchen sink and the cassette tape under his stepmother's pillow.
Quentin seemed puzzled. He held the tape up to the light and examined it. "What's this for?" he asked.
"It's just a little something Lani wants your dad and stepmom to have. It's their anniversary pretty soon, isn't it?"
"I guess so," Quentin agreed. "So how do you know Lani?"
"We met at her job," Mitch said. "At the museum."
Mitch couldn't help being a little in awe of Quentin's capacity. Based on how much booze he had probably drunk, that little bit of scopolamine should have laid the guy low. As it was, Quentin Walker's mental faculties were noticeably dim, but he was still walking and talking.
"Why are we doing all this?" Quentin asked, leaning up against the doorway to steady himself. "And why's it so hot?"
"I already told you," Mitch said. "It's a favor for your sister."
"Oh," said Quentin.
The last room they entered was Brandon Walker's study. Quentin had told Mitch that was where Brandon Walker kept his guns, and that was what they went looking for-Brandon's gun cabinet. While Quentin pawed through the top desk drawer, searching for the key to the locked cabinet, Mitch Johnson surveyed the room. He was fine until he saw the framed plaque hanging on the wall along with any number of other awards.
The 1976 Detective of the Year award had been presented to Detective Brandon Walker by Parade Magazine as a result of his having solved a homicide case, one in which two men were murdered and another was severely injured.
The plaque on the wall didn't say that, didn't reveal all those details. It didn't have to. Mitch knew them by heart. This was the award-the recognition-that had come to Brandon Walker for arresting Mitch Johnson himself. For arresting a man who was engaged in the wholly honorable pursuit of protecting God and country from the invading hordes. Those wetbacks had been illegal trespassers on U.S. soil, intent on taking jobs away from real Americans who were out of work. Mitch was the one who should have been given a medal for getting rid of that kind of scum-a medal, not a jail sentence.
The rage that hit Mitch Johnson on seeing that framed award went far beyond anything he had ever imagined. Years of pent-up frustration boiled over when he saw it. That was the worst part of the whole operation, the moment of his greatest temptation.
Years ago, in similar circumstances, Andy had simply fallen victim to Diana's body, losing his focus and purpose both, in satisfying his biological cravings. By resisting the pull of Lani's tight little body, by not tearing into her when it would have been so easy, Mitch Johnson had already proved to himself that he was a better man than his mentor. Seeing that plaque sitting smugly on the wall was far worse for Mitch than merely wanting to be inside some stupid woman's hot little twat.
What Mitch wanted to do in that moment was take a gun-any gun would do, but preferably an automatic-and mow through every picture in the place. It would have been easy. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Quentin Walker was in the process of handing Mitch a Colt.357 that would have blasted the whole room to pieces. And brought cops raining down on them from miles away.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Mitch caught himself just in time. He dropped the weapon into his pocket. "What's all this shit?" he said, gesturing.
"What?" Quentin asked. "The stuff on the wall?"
Mitch nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Dad used to call it his Wall of Honor."
"Knock it down," Mitch said. "Knock that crap down and break it."
"All of it?" Quentin asked, staring from frame to frame.
"Why not?" Mitch told him. "Your father never did anything for you, did he?"
"No, he didn't," Quentin agreed, reaching for the first piece, a framed diploma from the University of Arizona. "Why the hell shouldn't I?"
Raising the diploma over his head, Quentin smashed it to pieces in a spray of glass in the middle of the floor. While Quentin worked his way down the wall, Mitch took the Detective of the Year Award off the wall. He studied it for a moment with his fingers itching to do the job, but that wouldn't have worked. Quentin's prints wouldn't have been on the frame.
"Do this one next," Mitch said, handing it over. Even as he watched the piece smash to pieces on the tiled floor, he gave himself full credit and gloated over the victory. His was the triumph of rational thought over base emotions.
Had Quentin Walker's mental faculties been a little less impaired, he might have noticed that from the moment they climbed inside his newly purchased Bronco, Mitch Johnson had been wearing latex gloves. Quentin wasn't.
He didn't notice; didn't even question it. To Mitch's way of thinking, that made all the difference.
Do exactly as I say, Lani was thinking.
As the phrase spun through her mind, she suddenly realized that the words to Nana Dahd 's war chant, the ones she had sung to Davy so long ago in order to save his life, were also important to Lani-to save her life as well.
She remembered Mr. Vega's instant fury the moment she had disobeyed him. Obviously whatever drug he had given her-both earlier on the mountain and later at his house-was something that produced compliance, that made her do whatever he said. If Lani was going to save herself-and it was unlikely anyone else would-then she had to make sure that he didn't give her any more of it. She would have to watch for a chance to get away. If the opportunity presented itself, she would be able to take advantage of it only so long as she remained clear-headed.
That was the moment when she heard the tailgate of the Subaru swing open. A moment later she heard someone fiddling with the outside of the crate, as though they were opening a padlock hasp. Lani had been lying with the tiny people-hair medallion clutched in her hand, gleaning as much comfort as she could from the tightly woven coils. Now, though, before Vega opened the door on the crate, she stuffed the tiny basket back into the pocket of her jeans. Then she forced herself to lie still, closing her eyes and slowing her breathing. By the time the door swung open, Lani Walker appeared to be sound asleep.
"Come on, sweetheart, rise and shine," Vega said, grabbing her by the ankle and dragging her once again across the rough, splintery floor of the crate. "Wake up. We're going for another little ride."
Yanked upright, Lani found herself standing between the Subaru and an idling sport utility vehicle, an old Bronco. A sleeping man was slumped against the rider's side door. "Come on around to the other side," Vega ordered. "Can you walk on your own, or am I going to have to carry you?"
Lani, planning on acting dazed, didn't have to fake stumbling. Her legs felt rubbery beneath her-rubbery and strangely disconnected from her brain and will. When she staggered and almost fell, Vega grabbed her hair, hard, and held her up with that. The pull was vicious enough that tears came to her eyes, but it also helped clear her head. In a moment of quiet, she heard a readily identifiable squeak and realized that the fist knotted in her hair was encased in a rubber glove.
Desperate to get away, she looked around. They were standing in one corner of a large gravel parking lot. There were no other people visible anywhere. The only other vehicles were parked next to the darkened hulk of a building half a block away-too far to try running there for help.