“He’s holding your car hostage. But, hey, it’s just until he gets his truck back.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“It might be a little touchy at the moment trying to get the truck out of the Rattlesnake base, know what I mean? But don’t worry, I’m working on that too. Good night, Jimmy.”
“Sol-” He hung up. I stood there with the receiver in my hand feeling like a fool. Why did I let him talk me into this?
While wondering what to do next, I heard a knock at the door. I answered it. Framed in the doorway stood a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. She was squarely built, with wide shoulders and thick arms, and there was no visible waist hidden under the flower-print housedress she wore. Her face, which, long ago, might have been pretty, had a look of grief about it now. Her hair, once blonde, was mostly gray, and the blonde strands that remained were the yellowish color of old paper stored in a musty attic. Folded over her arm was a pair of pressed Levis and a checkered shirt.
“Hello, Jimmy. I am Betje, Herman’s wife. I brought you some fresh garments. Socks and underwear are in the drawer in the small bedroom.”
After thanking her I stepped aside, and Betje Van den Berg entered, draping the clothes over the back of the sofa.
She turned and studied me intently for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Herman told me you looked like him, same size. My God, you have the same blue eyes. Herman was right.”
“Who, Mrs. Van den Berg? Who do I look like?”
“Oh, my goodness,” she said and covered her mouth. Finally, after a few seconds, she dropped her hands and said, “You sound like him too. You could be brothers.”
“Who, Mrs. Van den Berg…”
“You call me Betje, yaw? I’ll call you Jimmy.”
“Okay, Betje.”
“You are exactly like our son, Joris. Herman told me, but I had to see for myself.”
“Does your son live with you?” As soon as I asked the question, I knew what the answer would be. It was etched in her face.
She turned and fussed with the clothes, straightening the shirt, refolding the jeans. When she turned back to me, there were no tears in her eyes. They had dried long ago, I could tell, but the hurt was still there. “Vietnam,” she said. “Joris was the commander of a little boat, patrolled the rivers in the jungle. They told us-Herman and me-when they give us his medal, they told us Joris was very brave, saved his men at the cost of his own life.”
“I’m so sorry, Betje,” I said, and after a moment added, “Your son died a hero.”
“Yes.” Her voice trailed off and she made a move for the door. When her hand touched the knob, she paused and turned back. “This country is wonderful. When Herman and I moved here from Friesland-you know Friesland?” I nodded. “When we came here, we had nothing, not even one cow. Now we have many. America gave us everything, and we gave America everything back when we gave our son. We still have the cows, though.”
We stood motionless without saying a word, letting the silence wash over us and soothe our wounds, mine superficial and visible, hers deep and raw.
Finally, she said in a soft voice, “Are you a hero, Jimmy? You’ve been hurt. Herman told me you were hurt trying to save a boy who had lost his soul.”
“No, ma’am, I’m not a hero, and I’m not really hurt. What pain I’m feeling now will pass, and I’ll be fine.”
“No, you are having pain, real pain. But you must fight. Don’t let what you are fighting for slip away. Do you understand?”
I glanced at the phone, then back at Betje. “Could I borrow a car? There is something I must do.”
“Herman took our sedan to a city council meeting, but you can use the El Camino.” She tucked her hand into a big pocket on her housedress and pulled out a set of keys.
CHAPTER 35
My plan was to catch Bickerton at the college where the broadcast originated and lay it on the line; browbeat him until he came clean about his involvement with Moran and the Rattlesnake Lake base.
The idea flashed in my mind as soon as I saw the TV show. Moran and Bickerton were working together. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was. It all fit together; it had to. I figured that Bickerton, through his Holy Spirit Network, recruited the troubled teens, snagged them with the funky entertainment, then pitched the drug program and captured them with his religious mumbo-jumbo, like the Pied Piper had mesmerized kids with his magic flute. And what about Robbie killing the professor-the man who was dead set against the sale of the college station? Could he have been a pawn, brainwashed by Bickerton or Moran and sent out to deliberately eliminate the only obstacle standing in their way? Perhaps I was overreaching, seeing conspiracies where none existed. But I couldn’t stay cooped up in the dairy barn and do nothing until Hammer pinned a murder charge on me.
Before I asked Betje to loan me a car, I thought about calling Sol back, but I knew he’d try to talk me out of going to see Bickerton. He wouldn’t feel as strongly about my hunch as I did. And even if he did, he’d want to wait until morning. He’d want to have backup, pack a lunch. Christ, he’d want to make a production of it. No, if my plan had a shot at all, I’d have to catch Bickerton by surprise tonight, while he was off guard.
I also realized I was being optimistic. Bickerton wouldn’t want to talk to me. At first he’d deny any suggestion that he was involved with Moran, of course. But I’d keep pressing. I’d pound it into him that Sol and I knew the whole story, had the evidence-I’d make that part up-and I’d tell him how if he didn’t cooperate, he’d be indicted for murder. Even if he didn’t participate in the activity at the base or in the professor’s homicide, I’d explain how he’d be indicted anyway for conspiracy, which in the eyes of the law is the same as if he’d wielded the knife himself. And as a kicker, I’d offer him a deal. TV stations had recording equipment. He could record his testimony, then I’d give him twenty-four… no, make it forty-eight hours to get out of the country, time enough to grab some cash and flee, before I’d turn the tape over to the authorities.
If he was as smart as I thought he was, he’d take the deal. But the truth was, down deep, I doubted that I could pull it off. My chances of succeeding were about a billion to one. But I knew I had to try. Betje said to keep fighting and that’s all I could do.
I fired up the Chevy El Camino and charged out of the dairy, heading north on Artesia Boulevard. I’d have to hold the sporty pickup to the speed limit; God forbid, I didn’t need some cop pulling me over. But I’d have to hurry. I figured I had a couple of hours to catch Bickerton there. The TV show had just started and would be on the air for at least an hour. Then it would take another hour or so for the dancers to shed their makeup and costumes and change into street clothes before Snavley locked up. I wondered if Bickerton would stick around that long. My guess was that he would. He seemed to be a control freak; I doubted that he’d leave Snavley in charge of his big musical extravaganza.
Golden Valley College looked just as it had before-no ivy-covered walls or gray stone Gothic structures-all space-age, tarted-up architecture and rolling acres of blacktop, an homage to the gods of functionality. Except now it was nighttime. But the darkness didn’t help; they had floods everywhere.
I slowed on Reseda Boulevard to make the turn into the parking lot, and suddenly a black Mercedes 600 limousine darted out directly in front of me. It missed the El Camino’s right front fender by inches. It was Bickerton, the back of his huge leonine head prominent through the limo’s rear window. In an instant the traffic subsided and the limousine pulled away, its bright red taillights growing dim as it receded in the distance.
I was too late. I was always too late. I slid down in the seat and stared straight ahead, fuming. I’d never catch him now; the limo was moving fast, and I’d have to punch it. The cops would pull me over for sure. I was devastated; I’d never get another chance like this. By tomorrow morning, Moran would have clued him in about my foray onto the base, and Bickerton would put up his guard. I wouldn’t be able to crack him now. Damn. He’d barricade himself inside a fortress of silence as thick and impenetrable as the concrete bunkers on Normandy Beach.