Rourke stared off into the darkness of the tunnel. A wistful look played on his face. “That’s all it took,” he said. “See, the plan relied on complete adherence for success. Meadows, goddammit-he didn’t do that.”
He shook his head, still angry at the dead man, and was quiet. It was at that moment that Bosch thought he could hear the sound of steps somewhere off in the distance. He wasn’t sure if he had heard it or if it was what he hoped to hear. He moved his left leg in the water. Not enough to cause Rourke to pull the trigger, but enough to make the water slosh and to cover the sound of the steps. If they were even there.
“He kept the bracelet,” Bosch said. “That was it?”
“That was enough,” Rourke said angrily. “Nothing was to turn up. Don’t you see? That was the beauty of the thing. Nothing would turn up. We’d get rid of everything except the diamonds. And those we’d keep until we were done with both jobs. But that fool couldn’t wait until the second job was completed. He palms that cheap bracelet and pawns it to score dope.
“I saw it on the pawn reports. Yeah, after the WestLand job, we went to LAPD and asked them to send over their monthly pawn lists so we could check ’em out, too. We started to get ’em at the bureau. The only reason I made the bracelet and your pawn guys didn’t was I was looking for it. The pawn detail has to look for a thousand things. I only looked for that one thing.
“I knew somebody had held it back. There was a lot reported stolen from that first vault that wasn’t in the shit we took out of there. Insurance scammers. But the dolphin bracelet I knew was legit. That old lady… crying. The story behind it with her husband and all that sentimental value shit. Interviewed her myself. And I knew she wasn’t scamming. So I knew one of my tunnel people had held the bracelet back.”
Keep him talking, Bosch thought. He keeps talking and you’ll end up walking. Out of here. Out of here. Someone’s coming, my arm’s humming. He laughed in his delirium and that made him vomit again. Rourke just went on.
“I bet on Meadows right from the start. Once on the needle… you know how that goes. So when the bracelet turned up he was the first one I went to.”
Rourke drifted off then, and Bosch made more water noise with his legs. The water now seemed warm to him and it was the blood that ran down his side that was cold.
Rourke finally said, “You know, I really don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you, Bosch. You cost us millions on this job, but then again my share of the first one sure has gone up now that three of my guys are dead. Probably even out in the end.”
Bosch did not think he could stay awake much longer. He felt tired, helpless and resigned. The alertness had run out of him. Even now when he managed to reach his hand up and throw it against his torn shoulder, there was no pain. He couldn’t get it back. He lapsed into contemplation of the water moving slowly around his legs. It felt so warm and he felt so cold. He wanted to lie down and pull it over him like a blanket. He wanted to sleep in it. But from somewhere a voice told him to hang in. He thought of Clarke clutching his throat. The blood. He looked at the beam of light in Rourke’s hand and tried one more time.
“Why so long?” he asked in a voice no louder than a whisper. “All these years. Tran and Binh. Why now?”
“No answer, Bosch. Things just come together sometimes. Like Halley’s comet. It comes around every seventy-two or whatever years. Things come together. I helped them bring their diamonds across. Set the whole thing up for them. I was paid well and never thought otherwise. And then one day the seed planted all those years ago came out of the ground, man. It was there for the taking and, man, we took it. I took it! That’s why now.”
A gloating smile played across Rourke’s face. He brought the muzzle of the weapon back to a point in front of Bosch’s face. All Bosch could do was watch.
“I’m out of time, Bosch, and so are you.”
Rourke braced the gun with both hands and spread his feet to the width of his shoulders. At that final moment Bosch closed his eyes. He cleared his mind of all thought but of the water. So warm, like a blanket. He heard two gunshots, echoing like thunder through the concrete tunnel. He fought to open his eyes and saw Rourke leaning against the other wall, both his hands up in the air. One held the M-16, the other the penlight. The gun dropped and clattered into the water, then the penlight. It bobbed on the surface, its bulb still on. It cast a swirling pattern on the roof and walls of the tunnel as it slowly moved away with the current.
Rourke never said a word. He slowly sagged down the wall, staring off to his right-the direction Bosch thought the shots had come from-and leaving a smear of blood that followed him down. In the dimming light, Bosch could see surprise on his face and then a look of resolve in his eyes. Pretty soon he sat like Bosch against the wall, the water moving around his legs, his dead eyes no longer staring at anything.
Things went out of focus for Bosch then. He wanted to ask a question but couldn’t form the words. There was another light in the tunnel and he thought he heard a voice, a woman’s voice, telling him everything was okay. Then he thought he saw Eleanor Wish’s face, floating in and out of focus. And then it sank away into inky blackness. That blackness was finally all he saw.
PART VIII
Bosch dreamed of the jungle. Meadows was there, and all the soldiers from Harry’s photo album. They stood around the hole at the bottom of a leaf-covered trench. Above them a gray mist clung to the top of the jungle canopy. The air was still and warm. Bosch took photographs of the other rats with his camera. Meadows was going into the ground, he said. Out of the blue and into the black. He looked at Bosch through the camera and said, “Remember the promise, Hieronymus.”
“Rhymes with anonymous,” Bosch said.
But before he could tell him not to go, Meadows promptly jumped feet first into the hole and disappeared. Bosch rushed to the edge and looked down but saw nothing, just darkness like ink. Faces came into focus, then slipped back into the blackness. There was Meadows and Rourke and Lewis and Clarke. From behind him, he heard a voice he recognized but couldn’t place with a face.
“Harry, c’mon, man. I need to talk to you.”
Then Bosch became aware of a deep pain in his shoulder, throbbing from elbow to neck. Someone was tapping his left hand, lightly patting it. He opened his eyes. It was Jerry Edgar.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Edgar said. “I don’t have much time. This guy on the door says they’ll be here anytime now. Plus he’s due to go off watch. I wanted to try to talk to you before the brass did. Would’ve been by yesterday but this place was crawling with silk. Besides, I heard you were out most of the day. Too delirious.”
Bosch just stared at him.
“On these things,” Edgar said, “I’ve always heard it’s best to say you can’t remember a thing. Let them put it whatever way they want. I mean, when you catch a round, there’s no way they can say you’re lying about remembering. The mind shuts down, man, when there is traumatic insult to the body. I’ve read that.”
By now Bosch realized he was in a hospital room and he began to look about. He noticed five or six vases of flowers, and the room smelled putridly sweet. He also noticed he had restraining belts across his chest and waist.
“You’re at MLK, Harry. Um, doctors say you’ll be all right. They still have some work to do on your arm, though.” Edgar lowered his voice to a whisper. “I snuck in. Think the nurses have a change of shift or something. Cop on the door, he’s over from Wilshire patrol, let me in ’cause he’s selling and he musta heard that’s my gig. I told him I’d take his listing for two points if he gave me five minutes in here.”