“See that, Moses?”
“What?”
“Infrared cameras-they're all over the place.”
Moe radioed Juan Silva. Silva said, “We saw it, were just gonna call you. We're putting on helmets. Tell everyone we could encounter some preparedness. And let's lower it to a crawl-two m.p.h. No action whatsoever until I say okay.”
♦
The Hummer came to a stop at the mouth of a broad plateau, leaving just enough room for Moe to inch his Crown Vic in.
Beyond an open wooden arch was empty dirt turned silver-gray.
According to the county assessor, Lem Dement's spread was sixty-three acres but from what Moe could see only three or four of that was flat, the rest a repeating pattern of overlapping hilltops that bled into darkness.
Just left of the entry to the plateau, maybe twenty yards back, was a corral. What used to be a corral-two sides of collapsed fencing shouted nonfunctional. So did the absence of horseshit perfume.
Moe lowered his window another couple of inches. The place smelled of nothing.
As the Humvee sat there, Moe's attention shifted to right of the arch-deeper in than the corral.
The nearest structure was a substantial house-the large rectangle that had showed up on Aaron's Google Earth aerial. Farther back sat several smaller outbuildings-shacks or cabins peppering the base of the foothills. Moe counted four but darkness could be concealing others. A field the size of a baseball diamond separated the house from its satellites. Three oaks sprouted haphazardly in the dirt, twisted branches and sere foliage cookie-cutting chunks out of the sky.
No sign of any church, no construction vehicles. But the dirt patch on the aerial map was obvious: off to the far right, thirty or so paces from the main house.
Big stretch of dirt ringed by taut string on wooden stakes.
Preliminary layout for some sort of project, but no groundbreaking.
That said nothing about hand-digs.
As the Hummer continued to idle, Moe wondered about engine noise. But no lights had gone on in the house or the outbuildings.
That could mean anything.
Weird place to raise your family-talk about isolation. And nothing Hollywood about it. Lem Dement had squirreled away a fortune from his alleged faith flick but you'd never know it from his homestead.
The main house was generous enough, but not fancy. Low-slung, log-sided, with a swooping roof hosting a satellite dish that listed sharply and a full-length covered porch furnished with a few folding chairs.
The property had once been a summer camp. This had probably been the administration building/dining hall.
Hundred bottles of beer… no short-sheeting tonight.
Several cars were parked in front, but the Hummer blocked them from Moe's view.
Aaron whispered, “Not exactly Hearst Castle. More like your basic shitkicker hunting lodge.”
That filled Moe's head with pictures. Heads over mantels. Trophies no decent person would want to look at. He kept silent.
Half a minute passed before Juan Silva radioed, “We're going to park up by that horse corral, but you guys stay in place.” As he spoke, the Humvee rolled to one of the battered fences, came to a halt, switched off its engine.
Now Moe could see the entire front of the house and there, parked dead-center, was a prize: Ahab “Ax” Dement's black Ram truck, a likely source of forensic treasure.
Eight other vehicles were lined up, perfectly parallel to one another. As if precision mattered to someone.
Aaron identified the black X5 as Gemma Dement's ride. The others conformed to the reg info Moe had obtained: Lem Dement's Mercedes coupe with LEMDEM plates, the director's Escalade truck tagged LDTOO, three baby Benzes that were the designated wheels for son number two/Ax look-alike Japhet, and teens Mary Giles and Paul Miki. Last and quite least, an old Jensen Interceptor on four flat tires, some serious dents highlighted by heavenly glow.
Time chugged along as the fugitive guys sat and planned in their armored vehicle.
Dark windows everywhere, still not a peep. Did the infrareds feed somewhere useless? Was Dement security-whatever that meant- falling down on the job?
Was the entire family peacefully beddy-bye and about to have the worst nightmare of their collective lives?
Juan Silva radioed, “I'm getting out to check.”
Moe watched the tall helmeted figure glide silently around to the back of the log house. Silva emerged moments later and got back in the Humvee.
“There's another porch out back and we've got two back doors, nothing serious, crappy locks. I saw kids sleeping in the back, so that's a complication. Any idea who or what's in those cabins out back?”
Moe said, “No.”
“Well, I saw three kids in one room with bunks, two more in singles. That leaves two more kids plus the parents, and the house is several rooms deep, so they could be anywhere. We're going to want max manpower to ensure quick control. That means us six leading and the rest of you uniforms as backup. Okay, Captain Neihrold?”
Neihrold said, “Sure.”
Silva said, “I know we never found any records of live-in staff, but it's logical there'd be some with a place this big. Maybe they're unregistered, that could be who's in those cabins. At this distance, we'll consider them medium-risk, so you detectives can keep a watch. Should be boring unless someone's got long-range military hardware.”
Moe said, “Don't see any missile launchers.”
“It's what you don't see that can bite you, Detective.”
Aaron mouthed, Funny guy.
Silva said, “Use those trees for cover, keep your eyes and your radios open. We're hoping for a smooth one, but once we start popping the tab on this can it could get interesting.”
One by one the raid vehicles rolled up to the plateau, parked near the corral, disgorged their occupants.
Another brief, whispered meeting among Silva and Neihrold and Moe.
At four seventeen a.m., Silva gave the thumbs-up and led his squad to the big house. Helmeted figures fanned out, surrounding the structure. Sheriff's deputies stood just behind. Moe and Petra and Raul hustled for the trio of oaks.
John Nguyen remained in Petra's car, happy to be there, because he hadn't gone to law school to play G.I. Joe.
Aaron got out of the Crown Vic and joined his brother behind a tree.
Moe looked at him. Shook his head. Resignation, not debate.
The go signal.
Simultaneous battering of the front door and the pair at the rear of the big house.
Splintering wood, shattered glass, the usual bellowed warnings.
Light on in front.
No reaction from the cabins out back. Moe's attention-everyone's attention-shifted to the action.
The first fruits of the raid appeared within seconds: Ax Dement, ponytailed, bare-chested, pajama bottoms fastened under a pendulous gut, was hustled outside by the two biggest fugitive cops. Cuffed at the back, head down, eyes barely open, shuffling as the helmets dragged him forward.
Next: brother Japhet, in shorts and a T-shirt marked Occidental College. Cuffed and bewildered and tripping several times as sheriff's deputies led him to one of their cruisers.
No longer a look-alike: he'd lost about thirty pounds, shaved his beard, trimmed his hair to a neat, blond brush cut.
Not a bad-looking kid-more Gemma than Lem, thought Aaron. He watched for her to appear. Felt bad for her. Beaten for years, a murderous psychopath for a kid.
What would she say if she saw Aaron tonight?
Flattering himself that she'd care.
Sheriff's deputies brought out three more people-the youngest Dement kids. One broke down and cried and a khaki lifted the child into his arms and kept going.
Next, two teens-Mary Giles in a pink bathrobe. Tall, slim, with long dark hair and her mother's angular good looks. Unrestrained but for hands on both arms. Suddenly she fought to break free.