“The bad guys all lie,” she said. “But I can print you a copy of his application if you want.”
“I want.”
Ben Adams’s unit was D-32, an “extra-value” unit. Laney led the way in a golf cart, red hair lofting, and stopped in front of the corrugated steel door. I parked behind her, shut off my engine, and stepped out.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said. “I’ve got what I need to get in.”
“If you’re going in, I’m going in,” she said, climbing from the cart. “Don’t make me change my mind. I want to see what this son of a bitch is hiding, same as you do.”
She opened a large black toolbox on the rear platform of the cart, pulled on a pair of leather gloves. Then hefted out an enormous power cable cutter. A bulky, futuristic white-and-red polymer body, wide black jaws. It looked like something from a Star Wars movie.
“The Milwaukee Force Logic Cable Cutter with ACSR jaws,” she said. It was heavy enough that she needed both hands to carry it to the door. “Seventeen hundred bucks online from ToolBarn. Delivered. I keep it charged. Stand back, please.”
It was a good keyed padlock, available at most hardware and home-improvement stores. I’d seen it advertised as lock-cutter-proof. Laney cut through the shackle with a loud ringing snap, set down the cutter, and twisted off the lock in one gloved hand.
“That’s satisfying,” she said.
While she put her things back into the toolbox, I squatted and lifted the rolling door. Felt the shudder and clank of the jointed panels, the rasp of steel wheels in steel runners. A white curtain lilted out and brushed my face. Made my heart jump. It was too heavy to see through, split down the middle.
I considered, parted it, and stepped inside.
Laney gasped.
It all came at me in a rush, the gun racks bristling with carbines and assault rifles; the handguns dangling on pegs; Hector’s janbiyas from the Treasures of Araby displayed like museum pieces; ammunition canisters stacked in one corner; produce crates overflowing with extra magazines, straps, and holsters; a weirdly humanoid coatrack hung with black sweaters and camouflage shirts and pants, watch caps, and balaclavas.
A large poster of the California state flag hung on one wall, the state misspelled “Caliphornia” and the iconic grizzly bear padding headlessly through his own blood.
Two card tables stood edge-to-edge in the middle of the room, littered with what looked like notebooks and loose sheets of printer paper. Fast-food bags in a trash can. Three folding chairs.
I read the careful handwriting on the cover of one notebook. “SDSU Student Union.”
The penmanship wasn’t Caliphornia’s elegant English/Arabic calligraphy but a beginner’s clumsy approximation of it — Hector, I thought — imitating his friend and mentor.
Laney had hardly moved. She stared at the flag with a sickened expression. I moved past her, turned on the lights, and pulled down the metal door, leaving it up a couple of feet for fresh air. The fluorescent tubes flickered and the curtain settled.
“I signed him up,” she said. “Nice-looking young man, early twenties. A surf-dude type. Never saw him after that. I only work weekdays. I can’t believe this stuff is his.”
“Is his rent check always on time?”
“Late once years ago, but after that never a problem. I’ve had guys try to cook meth in my units. Gassed themselves pretty good. Had two young people breeding pythons. Some others shooting porn. I’ve had more stolen property in and out of here than I even know. But never anything this... scary. Can I do anything to help you?”
“Go back to the office if you need to.”
“I’m sticking with the good guy and his gun right now.”
“Don’t touch things,” I said.
“I know the drill.”
I climbed into the back of my truck and opened the steel storage container bolted to the bed, behind the cab. Pulled out the blanket, then moved the CD box and the air compressor and the gallon of water and the long-handled lock cutter that seemed sticklike and primitive compared to Laney’s futuristic contraption. Also moved the pistol box and the shotgun case and the road flares to get to one of my work cameras in its sturdy canvas pack. Slung it over my shoulder, locked the storage box, and hopped down.
Back inside, I put in fresh batteries, stills and video, macro to micro, and plenty of it. The guns were mostly inexpensive AR and M16 knockoffs. Plastic stocks, open sights, and high-capacity magazines. I opened one to see if it had been modified to fire on full automatic. It had. The ammo boxes were either full or nearly full of factory-new rounds. Shot pictures of the California state flag poster, and the coatrack heavy with commando gear, and the tables with the notebooks and papers strewn about.
Letting the camera hang around my neck, I picked up the “SDSU Student Union” notebook.
Page one was a sketched floor plan of the SDSU Student Union, entrances and exits noted, along with the closest parking.
Page two was an action plan, written out in what looked like a fourth-grader’s simple, clear block letters. H was to enter the San Diego State University Student Union, “casually work his way to its center,” and start shooting the students. When the panicking students ran out, C — “dressed in custodial clothing supplyed by H” — would be ready outside the main entrance/exit and cut them down with automatic weapons fire. When they were finished, K would be waiting in the “escape vehicle” in the parking lot nearest the Student Union entrance.
The “peek killing hours” for students in the Student Union were from eleven a.m. to two p.m., Monday through Thursday, as noted in the page margin.
The most effective weapons for H would be handguns, easily concealed in a backpack, and janbiyas for “close killing.” For C, one fully automatic rifle hidden inside a wheeled trash can that “will fit in the car and look natural with C’s custodial uniform purchased at thrift store” would be best. The trash can would, of course, be left behind in the chaos.
Inshallah, written at the bottom.
If God allows.
I set the notebook down with the others. Felt the strangest of brews running through me: adrenaline, rage, revulsion.
Laney joined me at the table. “What’s all this? Looks like homework.”
“Yeah, homework.” I handed her the SDSU Student Union notebook.
Then browsed some of the other material on the tables. Our students of slaughter were also planning a “Clairemont-Mesa Traffic Signal” attack, where they would go car to car at rush hour on the Clairemont-Mesa on-ramp, shooting the motorists trapped in their cars. Three other on-ramps “would work, but offer less casualtys.” All had “functional getaways.” Someone had calculated “kill-to-survival rankings” for each potential target — no suicide missions for these holy warriors. Also a sketch of the Clairemont-Mesa on-ramp to the 163 Freeway, notes on “best traffic hours” written off to one side.
Inshallah again.
Other notebooks with other plans. I scanned through them, reading quickly:
“Oceanside Walmart.”
“Kensington Preschool.”
“Bowling Alley, Escondido.”
All of them, Inshallah.
Some were detailed, others were little more than the name.
Then, what I expected but didn’t want to find: a simple but clear sketch of what looked like a long, rectangular-shaped dining room. Doors and windows, round tables of clumsily drawn diners.