This morning's L.A. Times had held no mention of Walker Jameson or Dean Kagan. In the five weeks that had passed since Walker's shooting, they-and the arrested Vector employees-had slipped farther back in the paper, the headlines moving on to terrorist chatter and earthquakes in India, until they finally fell off the back page. Tim's colorful career had left him familiar with the wax and wane of public interest. There'd be an upsurge before the trial, scheduled for early next year.
The task force had found no direct evidence linking Pierce to Walker. Morgenstein could've acted on his own, though they all knew he hadn't. His body had been found the morning after he'd been shot, the end of Walker's blood trail. The city was pressing forward with a suit against Pierce for his creative plumbing, but that would be months, if not years.
Tim threaded through the run-down community and parked in a long shadow across the street.
In his front yard, Sam Jameson crouched over the rebuilt anthill, his younger friend watching apprehensively from a few feet away. Sam lit a match, dropped it into the hole, and stood back. His little friend turned, ready to run. Red ants spilled out, swarming the top of the hill, and Sam giggled.
Kaitlin's voice sailed through the screen door. "What are you doing out there?"
Sam shoved the matches into his pocket. "Nothing."
The boys waited to see if she'd emerge, but she didn't. Sam picked up his Coke and carefully poured a rivulet down the side of the anthill, rewarding his charges.
They watched the ants dine.
A thrumming of bicycle tires over asphalt, and then the bully on the Huffy pedaled into view, approaching. Sam's head snapped up, his body tensed for fight or flight, but rather than slowing, the burly kid hoisted himself up on the pedals, lowered his head, and pumped harder. He flew past in a blur, his dirt bike curving out of sight into the park at the street's end. After a moment Sam relaxed.
Tim wondered what the hell that was about.
Kaitlin stepped outside and settled into a wicker chair on the porch, looking sad and tired and fulfilled. After a few minutes, she glanced over. Tim raised a hand in greeting, but she remained expressionless. She called out to Sam, then rose, the screen door knocking behind her. Sam said good-bye to his friend and headed in for dinner. He paused on the porch, his back to Tim. Somehow Tim knew he'd just registered his presence.
Walker Jameson had moved through prison bars and clawed his way from the trash-filled earth to avenge his sister, but in the end what he'd found to offer was a piece of himself. Blood type O, in all its universal glory. He'd balanced a cosmic account, spending his life to grant another.
On the porch Sam turned and looked across the street. He held Tim's gaze for a moment. His eyes were bright and curious, the sclera white as ivory. His mouth curved in a partial smile.
Then he went inside.
Tim stared at the dusty screen door for a few minutes before starting the drive home.
Chapter 80
The alarm chimed at 2:00 A.M. Dray's complaint was unintelligible. Tim got dressed quietly. She made a more forgiving moan when he kissed her on her sleep-soft cheek on his way out. The Typhoon had managed to flip upside down so his head was pressed to the footboard. Tim rearranged him, gripping his sweaty torso tightly so he wouldn't slip free.
Tyler flopped back onto his pillow, chuckled to himself, remarked, "Elmo wearing diapers," and resumed sleeping.
Tim enjoyed his first traffic-free drive to Pasadena. When his headlights swept the house, he was oddly relieved to see that the lawn had been cropped, the bushes fastidiously tended. Cleanly shaven and smelling of aftershave, his father opened the door before Tim could ring. He wore a double-breasted charcoal pinstripe that looked new. Tim wondered if he'd bought it for the occasion. They nodded at each other like competing salesmen. Tim's father stepped out and locked the door, then regarded the keys in his palm for a moment before sliding them under the mat. He followed Tim down the path to the Explorer.
Tim said, "What are you doing with the house?"
"I know a guy."
Tim nodded and pulled out. Corcoran State Prison was up the 5, between Bakersfield and Fresno. The trip would take the better part of three hours. They coasted wordlessly along the freeway, his father sitting still as a mannequin, watching the scenery roll by. As they headed over the Grapevine Pass, Tim realized he hadn't had time to check to make sure his father's prison sentence was real, that Tim wasn't being deployed on leg one of a scam. All through the flat wasteland of Kern County, Tim kept alert, waiting for his father to redirect him, for a car-jacking, some new twist, but they just drove straight and silent. A glow came over the big squares of farmland flying past on either side, the first half hour looking more dusk than dawn. It wasn't until the sally-port gate came into view that Tim fully believed it was going to happen.
Corcoran caged six thousand inmates, Ginny's murderer among them.
And soon Tim's father.
Navigating through the two perimeter fences, in the shadow of the gray modules, Tim flashed his creds. Eyes lingered each time, the second correctional officer offering him a respectful nod. Tim's identity, duly noted, would be whispered into the right ears. Tim parked by the pedestrian entrance that led back to Inmate Processing. A prison bus dropping off cargo from Men's Central rattled in, and he and his father sat and watched the inmates unload. Many had to stoop to pass through the door.
Tim glanced at the man in his passenger seat. Fifteen years inside, even cut down by various sentence reductions, was too long for someone his age to be among men like this. It seemed improbable that he'd pass back out through these gates under his own power.
Tim checked the clock: 6:52. His father was due to report by 7:00.
"Well," Tim said.
"Well." His father did not move.
Though the sun was barely free of the horizon, heat was already radiating off the black dash. A road-worn Oldsmobile eased up beside them, forcing them to be privy to a weepy parting scene between a young couple. The tattooed kid ambled inside, wiping his face. Tim's father watched, lip curled with disapproval.
"Why would you do this?" Tim asked. "Submit to this indignity? You despise me. Why have me take you in?"
The clock changed, another precious minute gone. Tim's father's skin was dry, white dust by the mouth. His Adam's apple jerked with a swallow. "Mugsy's doing a dime. Frank got waxed last year. Mickey and Goose were rolled up. There's no one else."
6:57.
6:58.
Tim's father climbed out. He'd sweated through his dress shirt, something Tim had never seen him do. He pulled on his jacket, fastening the inner button with an expert tweak of his fingers. Erect and dignified, his father took a few steps. He paused, turned his face to the sun, closed his eyes.
He cleared his throat. "Maybe sometime I could meet my grandson."
"We'll see."
"Maybe he should see the world's ugly parts. Give him a shot to turn out better than me or you."
"I'd say that's a statistical inevitability, wouldn't you?"
With perfect posture his father started for the door. A correctional officer emerged.
"Move it along, pal. Door locks on the hour." The CO's face shifted with recognition when he looked at Tim, and he lessened the aggressiveness of his stance.
Tim stayed by his father's side. They reached the CO, the door.
Tim's father turned to face him. "I could count on you, Timmy. Despite everything, I could always count on you."
He offered his hand, and Tim shook it, and then the CO took him into custody with a respectful nod at Tim and led him away. He did not look back.
Dazed, Tim walked back and sat in his Explorer. He stared at the barbed wire, the chain link, the sally-port gate. Ten minutes passed. Then another ten.