"Depends what's in the script," I said.
"The script?" said Whitworth.
"He's following some sort of story line. In terms of how he'll react to a direct threat, the problem is we don't know enough about his arousal level to predict safely."
"Arousal? This is a sex thing?"
"His general physiological state," I said. "Psychopaths tend to function at a quieter level than the rest of us-low pulse rates and skin conductance, high pain thresholds- except when tension builds up. Then they can be extremely explosive. If we confront Crimmins when he's still relatively calm-scheming, planning, taking control-it's possible he'll fold his tents and run, or just give up. But if we catch him at a peak moment, he might just go for the big ending."
"Pull a Koresh," said Whitworth. "How old's that girl?"
"Fourteen."
"Course, there's nothing to say he hasn't already done her."
Milo said, "Put the choppers on standby. Get me two, three more cars. Along the same lines, we drive into Fairway quietly, no lights, no sirens." To me: "Where do the Bunker people hang out?"
"There's a guardhouse right past the entrance."
"Okay," he said to Whitworth. "Meet you at the main entrance. Alex, give him directions. You're the only one who's actually been there."
Chapter 39
The men in the powder-blue shirts weren't happy.
Three guards, surprised as they sat in the mock-Spanish guardhouse. Soft music on stereo. The shirts freshly pressed.
Neat, clean building, outside and in, cozy interior: spotless kitchenette, oak table set with four matching chairs, blue hats on a rack. On the table were the remains of takeout Mexican food. Taco Fiesta, Valencia address. Next to a half-eaten burrito, a Trivial Pursuit board. Three little plastic pies, blue, orange, brown, the last half-filled with tiny plastic wedges.
The door had been unlocked. When Milo and Mike Whit-worth and I entered, all three guards had stood up, grabbed for guns that weren't there. Across the room, a metal locker said WEAPON DEPOSITORY. Next to it was a plaque with the crossed-rifles logo of Bunker Protection.
Now we were all outside in the peach-scented air, under a sky surprisingly deprived of stars. The Bunker guards kept their eyes on the CHP cruisers that blocked the entrance to Fairway Ranch. Inside the cars, the barest outline of men behind night-darkened windshields.
As we'd driven in, Milo had eyed the low white fence, muttered, "No gate. They could've cruised right in."
Moments later, Mike Whitworth coasted up on his Harley and said something to the same effect.
"So you haven't searched yet," Milo said to the tallest guard. "E. Cliff." The one who'd protested loudest until Milo hushed him with a scolding index finger.
"No," he said. "It's past two in the morning, we're not going to wake up the residents. No reason to."
"You'd know if there was a reason?" said Whitworth.
"Absolutely," said Cliff. Adding a barked "Sir."
Whitworth stepped closer to him, using his size the way Milo does. "The way you're set up, anyone could get in-is it Ed?"
Cliff tried to smile as he backed away. "Eugene. Not correct. Anyone entering can be spotted from the guardhouse."
"Assuming the drapes are open."
Cliff's head jerked toward the building. "They usually are."
Milo said, "I'm usually charming." He moved in on Cliff, too. "So tell me, what category would two murderers driving right past you fall into? Sports and Leisure? Arts and Entertainment?"
"Sir!" said Cliff. "There's no reason to get disrespectful. Even with the drapes closed we see headlights."
"Assuming there were headlights-I know, there usually are."
"There's no reason-"
Milo stepped closer. Cliff was over six feet, but reedy, an elk confronting bears. He looked at the other two Bunker guards. Both just stood there.
Milo said, "There's every reason to search the premises, friend, and we're going to do it, right now."
"I'm sorry, sir, in terms of your jurisdiction…" Cliff began. Milo's nose moved a half-inch from his, and the voice tapered. "At the least, I'll have to clear it with headquarters."
Milo smiled. "In Minneapolis?"
"Chicago," said one of the other guards. Nasal voice. "L. Bonaface."
"Call," said Milo. "Meanwhile, we start. Give me a map of this place."
"There isn't one," said Cliff.
"None at all?"
"Not a real map, with coordinates. Just a general layout."
"Jesus," said Milo. "This isn't arctic exploration, hand it over. Before you call."
Cliff looked at Bonaface. "Go get it for him." Bonaface went inside the guardhouse and returned with several sheets of paper.
"I brought a bunch," he said.
Milo grabbed the maps and distributed them. A single page of crude, computer-generated diagram. English street names printed in Gothic, the shops and golf courses, Reflection Lake dead center. No indication a mountain range loomed to the east.
Whitworth said, "Except for the golf courses, it's a small area-that's in our favor… Already divided into six zones, and I've got five officers plus me. How's that for karma?"
"Karma's for believers," said Milo, "but yeah, do the golf courses first, then the public buildings and the lake, then door-to-door at each residence. Prioritize any place with anything Jeep-like parked nearby. If the vehicle's got any film equipment in the back, get really careful. If we're right about Crimmins trying to film something, there may be telltale lights."
I said, "In his notes he debated learning how to use the film cameras or sticking with video. He's not one for honest labor, so I'll bet on video. That means he may just be using a handheld cam, keeping it very low-key. Also, I doubt he'd be on either of the golf courses. Too open."
"Assuming he's even here," said Cliff.
"I'm assuming you've got golf carts," Whitworth told him.
"Sure, but they're the property of-"
"Law enforcement." Whitworth turned to Milo. "You're doing the mountains?"
"If I can get out there. We'll stay in radio contact."
"How're you going to travel?"
"Got a four-wheeler?" Milo asked Cliff.
The guard didn't answer.
"Hard of hearing, Eugene?"
"We have basically one Samurai, over behind the golf shop, with the carts. It's a relief vehicle, just in case."
"In case of what?"
"In case we have to go out back. Like an old person getting lost. But that's never happened yet. We don't use it, I can't even say if the tires have air or if it's gassed up-"
"So you'll inflate and siphon," said Milo. "Bring it over."
Cliff didn't respond.
Milo bared his teeth." Pretty please, Eugene."
Cliff snapped, "Go," at Bonaface. Again, Bonaface hurried away.
Milo asked Whitworth the helicopters' estimated time of arrival.
"I could only get one," said Whitworth. "They're holding it at Bakersfield-five, ten minutes."
"Eugene, is there a road leading from Fairway out to the mountains?"
"Not much of one."
"How much of one?"
Cliff shrugged. "It's maybe a quarter-mile long. It was supposed to be for hiking, but none of the residents hike. It goes nowhere, just ends, and then all you've got is dirt and rocks." He gave a small smirk, decided to hide it by covering his mouth with his hand.
Whitworth drew Milo and me away from him. "The Ott girl was shot, so they've got some kind of firepower. We have vests; how about you?"
"One," said Milo. He looked at me. "None for you. Sit this out."
"Love to," I said, "but you'd better consider using me. It's a hostage situation with two hostage takers, each with a different psychological makeup, in both cases poorly understood. I'm as close to an expert on Peake and Crimmins as you're going to get."
"Makes sense," said Whitworth. "I think we've got an extra vest."
Milo shot him a sharp look.
Whitworth said, "Not that I want to tell you how to-"
"I've been through worse," I said, knowing what was going on in Milo's mind. An undercover situation last year had gone very bad. He blamed himself. I kept telling him I was fine, the worst thing he could do for me was treat me like an invalid.