“I've got a better idea.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I called Ken Linderman. Even though I'd abandoned him a few hours ago, I knew he'd help us. He wanted Skell as bad as I did.
“I need your help,” I said.
I explained our situation without going into specifics. Cell phone conversations could be picked up by a variety of monitoring devices, and I didn't want to tip our hand to Perez or anyone else who might be electronically eavesdropping. Twenty minutes later, Linderman was standing on the sidewalk with us. Theis was with him.
“That was a shitty thing you did this morning, Jack,” Linderman said.
“What happened after I left?” I asked.
“Goddamn police grilled me for an hour like I was a perp,” he said. “If Coffen hadn't shot at me through his desk, I'd probably still be talking to them.”
“Did everything get resolved?”
“Yes, no thanks to you.”
I was past the point of apologizing for my behavior, and led the FBI agents down the alley. I pointed over the fence at the back of Perez's house. “Melinda Peters is being held inside that house by Jonny Perez, his brother Paco, and a guy named Alberto,” I said. “They're going to kill her once Skell gets here. Skell has told them he wants to watch.”
Linderman and Theis acted stunned.
“How do you know this?” Linderman asked.
I had decided not to tell Linderman about our encounter with Neil Bash. It would only get Cheever in trouble.
“A little bird told me,” I said.
We walked back to the street, and Linderman unlocked the rear of his 4Runner. The backseat had been replaced with a metal footlocker, and he removed two Kevlar vests and a pair of Mossberg 500 shotguns. He tossed the vests to Cheever and me.
“I remembered this time,” he said.
Cheever and I put on the vests. Then the four of us went into a huddle.
“Here's the game plan,” Linderman said. “Theis and Cheever will go to the front door of Perez's house posing as deliverymen. At the same time, Jack and I will come through the back door and trap Perez and his buddies. We'll coordinate our steps using our cell phones. Any questions?”
There were none. We wished each other good luck and broke up. I grabbed Buster and followed Linderman down the alley.
“What is it with you and that dog?” Linderman asked.
“We're getting married,” I said.
We stopped at Perez's place, and I tossed Buster into the yard, then hopped the fence. Linderman handed me his shotgun and climbed the fence as well. His cell rang, and he took the call standing behind the shed.
“Damn it,” he said, hanging up. “Theis just spotted a school bus. He wants to wait until it's left the neighborhood.”
Storming a house with children around was never a good idea, and we went inside the shed. Linderman took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. As he smoked he propped his foot on one of the coolers lying beneath the workbench.
“Perez put the victims' bodies in those,” I said.
Embarrassed, he removed his foot from the cooler.
“They're empty now,” I added.
“Any idea where he disposed of them?” Linderman asked.
“No,” I said. “But before this is over, I'm going to find out.”
Linderman ground his cigarette into the dirt floor.
“What if Perez won't tell you?” he asked.
“Then I'll make him,” I said.
Linderman gave me a long, hard stare.
“Are you ever going to let go of this?” he asked.
It was a question I'd asked myself a hundred times. I gathered my thoughts before responding.
“Do you know what Dia de los Muertos is?” I asked.
“It's a holiday down in Mexico. Day of the Dead.”
“It's also a religious belief,” I said. “In the village where my wife was born, they believe the spirits of the dead watch over us, and that it's our responsibility to treat their memories with respect. If we don't, those spirits will haunt us for the rest of our lives.”
“Do you believe that, Jack? Do you believe the victims will haunt you if you don't find out what happened to them?”
I nodded solemnly. It was my only explanation for how far I'd gone over the past six months.
“Then I guess we'll have to make Perez tell us,” Linderman said.
We were beginning to sweat and went outside. I peeked around the corner of the shed at the house. A portable radio sat on the kitchen windowsill, and I heard Neil Bash's abrasive voice. It made me shudder, and I wondered how long it would take Perez to realize Bash's show wasn't being broadcast live.
“We're running out of time,” I said.
Linderman didn't ask me to explain. He called Theis.
“Let's get this show on the road,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Any cop will tell you that there is no more frightening sound than a shell being jacked into a shotgun. I knew the sound still sent chills down my spine, and I watched Linderman pump his Mossberg and march out from behind the shed.
I drew my Colt and followed Linderman across the backyard with sweat pouring down my back. Through the open kitchen window came Neil Bash's voice on the radio. There was something otherworldly about hearing Bash and knowing he was dead. Buster's cold nose pressed against my leg.
“Time to lose your fiancé,” Linderman said.
I pointed at a shady spot beside the house.
“Sit,” I said.
My dog made me proud and went into a perfect sit in the shade.
Linderman stopped at the back door and raised his leg. The door was dead bolted and took several hard kicks to bring down. We both rushed inside. The kitchen was L-shaped, with fading linoleum floors and stacks of dirty dishes piled high in the sink. On the radio Bash was talking about a heavy-metal concert that had taken place several months ago.
“Damn,” I said under my breath.
Linderman was moving fast. I followed him down a short unlit hallway into a living room with mismatched furniture and a weight bench in the corner. Jonny Perez, his brother Paco, and a dark-skinned guy whom I assumed was Alberto stood in the room's center, pointing automatic handguns at Theis and Cheever, who stood inside the front doorway with their arms stretched to the ceiling. A pair of binoculars lay on the couch by the window.
“FBI,” Linderman announced. “Drop your weapons.”
Jonny Perez glanced suspiciously over his shoulder at us.
“No. You drop your weapons,” he said in perfect English.
“That's not an option,” Linderman said.
Perez whispered in Spanish to his brother. Paco turned and pointed his automatic at the far wall of the living room.
“If you don't drop your weapons,” Perez said, “my brother will shoot through the wall and kill the girl in the bedroom.”
“Do that, and we'll kill you,” Linderman said.
“I ain't afraid of dying,” Perez said.
“Me neither,” Paco said.
The third guy, Alberto, simply grunted.
Linderman hesitated. He didn't want to lose Theis and his hostage. Sensing weakness, Perez let out a sickening laugh.
“Jack,” Cheever called out.
I focused on my friend while continuing to train my Colt on the others. Cheever was sweating as badly as I was. But his face was defiant.
“Don't you dare trade with them, Jack,” Cheever said.
“Shut up, Claude,” I said.
“Don't do it.”
“I said shut up.”
“No, you shut up,” he said, his voice rising. “You'll only end up dead, and so will both of us. I'm telling you not to do it. Hear me?”
I looked into Cheever's eyes and realized he meant every word of what he'd just said. Then I looked at Theis. The FBI agent dipped his chin, making it unanimous. They were both wearing bulletproof vests, while Perez, Paco, and Alberto were not. It was the last thought to go through my mind as I squeezed the Colt's trigger.