The next two messages surprised her. Both were left by Denny Ramira from The Times. And both calls were made within the last fifteen minutes. Ramira sounded upset again and wanted to talk. But like the last time, the reporter didn’t give her any details. Just more smoke.
Lena tossed her phone on the passenger seat and pulled out. As she exited the garage and hit the bright sunlight, she could feel the dry heat and still air. According to the thermometer on the dash, it was already seventy-five degrees. A winter day in the desert wasn’t usually so warm or forgiving.
It took about half an hour to clear the city and suburbs. Once the city finally vanished in her rearview mirror, she spent another fifteen minutes on paved roads, then more than ten miles on gravel. It was brighter here, warmer-the open desert, raw and untouched. As the road dipped and curved and seemed to melt into the sand, she finally spotted a mailbox. But as she got closer, she saw the burned out house and kept moving. After five more miles, another mailbox appeared on the right. This time the house that went with it was still standing. She could see it a hundred yards off the road.
She pulled behind a sand dune, looking at the dust trail she had just left. If Bloom was anywhere near a window, then he knew that someone was here.
She got out of the car, trying not to think about it. Climbing the dune, she lowered her body onto the sand and peered over the top.
The house shimmered in the distance, its windmill standing motionless in the still air. She could see Bloom’s pickup parked in front of the garage. Behind the house she noticed a shed. From this distance everything appeared weatherbeaten. Dried out, windswept, and so quiet and undisturbed that it didn’t feel right. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. The rhythm between her breaths.
And then something started rattling in the car.
Lena slid down the hill and looked inside. It was her cell, beating against the map on the passenger seat. She checked the display and flipped it open. It was Ramira again, and he sounded panic-stricken.
“I need to see you,” he said. “The shit’s hitting the fan.”
Lena moved back to her position on top of the sand dune. “What is it, Denny?”
“The shit’s hitting the fan. What more do you fucking need? How soon can you get here?”
“Where’s here?”
“My place. We need to meet and I’m ready to talk.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me what this is about?”
Ramira paused just as Lena expected he would. She looked back at the house.
“I can’t reach my contact,” he said finally. “I think they got to him. I think he’s dead.”
“The senator?”
“Not West. My contact.”
“Who’s your contact, Denny?”
Ramira shut down again. Lena was losing her patience and thought about hanging up.
“I get it,” she said. “You’re still not ready to talk.”
“It’s not that. It’s just that I can’t tell you the guy’s name. I’m a reporter.”
“What difference would it make if he’s dead?”
“But I promised. And I don’t know that he’s dead.”
“Like I said, Denny, you’re not ready to talk. And I’m out of town and too busy to fool around. If the shit’s really hitting the fan, you know what to do. Hang up and call nine-one-one. If it can wait and you change your mind and really want to talk, I’ll be back sometime late this afternoon.”
He didn’t respond. Lena waited a beat, then slipped the phone into her pocket.
Smoke.
She looked over the dune, scanning the property and trying to put Ramira out of her mind. She took in the house and shed-the Ford F-150 parked in front of the garage and the windmill that wouldn’t turn. The place reeked with bad vibes. It felt too remote. Too much like the last stop on the train. Too much like a place someone would live if his life had gone dark four years ago just like Bloom’s had.
Lena checked her wristwatch. It was still early enough that she had options. She no longer wanted to approach him here. She could drive down to the end of the road and spend a few hours waiting him out, then follow his pickup to the market or the bank. Any public place would be better than here. If he stayed home, she still had time to drive back to Vegas and work the meeting through the LVPD.
She turned away from the house. Turned and heard the slide rock back on a semiautomatic pistol. Turned and saw the man standing beside her rental car.
“Are you the one who called?” he said. “The one asking for Jennifer McBride?”
Lena’s eyes zeroed in on the gun Bloom was holding. It was another Glock-a.40 or a.45. Either way, she knew that he only needed to fire a single round.
She nodded, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her fear. “Did you know her?”
Bloom’s eyes narrowed. He motioned her toward him with the gun, then slammed her body against the car. He was bigger than her, stronger than her, at least five inches taller with dirty blond hair and sunburned skin. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Like he didn’t get much sleep. He spun her around and frisked her. His search was quick and professional and left nothing to chance. He pulled her gun and ID and slipped them into his pocket. He found her cell and tossed it inside her car. Then his large hands rolled over every inch of her body, from her neck down to her ankles. Satisfied that he had found everything, he pointed the gun at her and backed away from the car.
Lena turned and watched him light a Marlboro. Bloom stared back at her like he meant business.
“Jennifer said that if anyone ever asked for her and used that name, they were trouble.”
“I’m a police officer,” Lena said.
“You think I give a shit? Welcome to Vegas, bitch. Now, get in the car and drive.”
“Where?”
He moved around the car, limping slightly, then climbed into the passenger seat with the gun on her. “Down the driveway to my pickup,” he said. “This piece of shit won’t go anywhere in the sand.”
37
She pulled the rental car up to the garage, unable to ignore the dread weighing her down. As they got out and walked over to Bloom’s pickup, her legs felt weak and mushy. She couldn’t think her way out of this. Nothing was coming. Just Mike Bloom with his Glock.
“Get behind the wheel,” he said. “You’re driving.”
She climbed in, then watched Bloom enter. He tossed over the keys, pointing at the desert that began at his driveway and didn’t seem to end.
“That way,” he said. “Now let’s roll.”
She pulled off the gravel into the sand, trying to keep Bloom’s house in the rearview mirror for as long as possible. She checked the odometer, noting the mileage. She could see her fingers trembling as she gripped the wheel. When she tried to say something, he told her to shut up.
They drove in an eerie silence. Pushed forward over the brush, crossing a dried-out stream bed and bouncing over the rough terrain. She knew that her only real chance of surviving was to appeal to Bloom on some personal level. But as she glanced over at him and saw the madness in his eyes, the brutal determination on his face, the hope flickered out and died. About two miles into the desert, she steered the pickup around a hill and came to a clearing.
“This looks like a good spot,” Bloom said. “Pull over and get out.”
Lena did as she was told, watching the man grab a shovel out of the bed and throw it at her.
“Start digging,” he said.
She picked up the shovel and stared at him, calculating the distance between them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Your eyes are all big. You’re breathing heavy. You’re all revved up because you’re about to die. And now you’ve got that shovel in your hands. You’re thinking maybe this is your chance to take me out. Well, forget it, bitch. It takes one point five seconds for a human being to travel twenty-one feet-the same amount of time it would take me to draw my weapon and fire. It’s called the twenty-one-foot rule. Only you’re more than twenty-five feet away, and this gun’s out and ready to rock and roll. Now start digging.”