“A gate to drive in and out of, that slides?”
“Yeah. There’s a few of them in that area.”
“Tamara, think hard about the street name. Forget about the guy. Just let your mind relax and let the name of the street come to you.”
If she would just have said Witmer or Whitman or Wymer or, God forbid, Wytton — I would be there in five minutes. I looked at Frances while I waited, my eyes wide but not seeing anything, looking right through her. Then I closed them. I tried to will that street name into Tamara’s mind.
“Like it’s hard to relax when you’re talking to a cop?”
“My girlfriend says the same thing.”
She giggled. She was quiet for a long beat.
My heart was beating so hard I could feel my ribs hitting my shoulder holster.
“I’m feeling like really stupid.”
“You’re not stupid. Let it come.”
“It won’t.”
“Okay. All right, Tamara. Answer this for me and the street name will come to you. What medicine were you delivering?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know the names. It was some kind of tube of something. Like a cream or ointment.”
“For the skin?”
“I don’t know. Wait. The street was something like Lomsdale, or Plumb Stem or Lump Street maybe?”
My heart sank. Then it recovered.
“Lumsden?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“That was your customer’s name, Tamara. You’re getting close. He uses that name all the time. It’s a fake name and he usually gives a fake address to go with it. But he gave his real address to you, because you had to bring him something he needs. You’re close. Think about that street name—”
“—But you’re making me like rilly nervous again and—”
I could feel the pulse in my neck, going about a thousand beats a minute. “I’m sorry, Tamara,” I said as meekly as I could. “I just get excited, too. I apologize.”
“That’s okay.”
“Hey, while you think, I was wondering about this. I’ll ask you this while you think of that street name, okay? Now, you said he came to the door. That’s good, but how did you get past the gate?”
“I meant he came to the gate. He came out because we’re supposed to drop the delivery in a slot in the wall and not ring the bell. Not bother him ’cause he’s so important. And he came out and like yelled at me ’cause I didn’t know. Like I already told you?”
“What did you do then?”
“I’m drawing like a total blank on the street. I could take you guys there. I know right where it—”
“—That’s too slow for us now, Tamara!”
“God, I’m just—”
“—I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t mean to snap. I apologize again.”
“You were more like yelling.”
“I’m just getting so much pressure here at work to get this guy, you know? I take it personally. All right I’ll be cool. I promise. So, can you tell me what you did when he came out and yelled at you?”
“Oh, and he had rilly bad breath.”
Heart in my ears. Beating like it was trying to fly. Scalp tight and mouth going dry. The pen in my right hand snapped and left a splotch of dark black ink on my fingers. I dropped the pieces on the floor and wiped the ink on my pants.
“Good! Great, Tamara. So... what did you do after he yelled at you and you smelled his breath?”
“Oh, well I threw this flower at him and walked off. I don’t have to take that kind of—”
“A rose?”
“Totally! This old man like lives next door? He had this rose and he says he grows them and asked me if—”
I cupped the phone and turned to Frances.
“It’s 318 Wytton Street in Tustin. Get Johnny and two of our units there ASAP, but keep them a block back until they get a go-ahead from me. But first, Frances, get Chopper Two to pick us up on the roof. Now!”
A minute later we lifted off the pad, the Civic Center receded beneath us, then the bird banked hard and threw my head back as we climbed fast toward the southwest. Stansbury was the pilot. Frances radioed Johnny down in Irvine and about-faced him to Tustin. I could hear his voice over the rotors and the deep roar of the engine.
“Unit 83 to Airborne Two, Frances, I’m running under lights and siren, still six or eight minutes out. Okay.”
“Stay the course, 83, we’ll be less than five.”
“Dispatch has me holding a block out. I’m unmarked, man.”
I told Frances to let him onto Wytton, but to hold until we put down, then find us.
“Unit 83 reads, over and out.”
I asked Stansbury if his piece of shit chopper went any faster. He just smiled and eased onto the fuel, shooting us across the black Orange County sky and into Tustin. I navigated us in by the map, then by my memory of old town. We were spiraling down along First Street when I saw Wytton, then, in the sudden beam of the helo’s searchlight, the towering sycamores over David Lumsden’s guest house.
“No lights, Stan!”
“Just making the ID, Terry. Fret not.”
“Put us down on the street behind Wytton,” I said. “If he’s there, I don’t want to spook him.”
“I’ll drop you down his chimney if you want.”
“Behind Wytton, far end of the block.”
“You’re there.”
Then the chopper dropped like a rock and my stomach bounced off the roof of the cockpit. Frances said “Woooh,” and steadied herself while she drew and readied her sidearm, then reholstered it under her coat.
“If he’s not there yet?” she asked.
“We’ll wait.”
“This thing is making me sick.”
“Think pleasant thoughts.”
“That’s why I checked my Sig.”
The helo swept into a big semicircle and came in low onto Hurst Street, just behind Wytton.
“Put us down at the far end,” I said. “We’ll go over the fence.”
“Roger,” said Stansbury. “So it is written, so it is done.”
I dropped to the asphalt of Hurst Street, road gravel stinging my face as I ducked the rotors and made for the sidewalk. Frances ran behind me. Johnny Escobedo and two prowl cars pulled up silently to the curb. There we were, a magnificent seven.
We huddled while I used my notepad to sketch the general layout of the Lumsden place. I ordered one deputy around to the main house to block the drive with his car, jump the wall and take the front door. Another one at the back of it, and one on each side of the guest unit. Johnny would follow me in, then Frances.
“Vests and shotguns,” I ordered.
Hypok lay in the half light on the bed and ran his gloved hand over the pale blue dress, over the hip of Item #4. He lay behind it, but not too close, turned as it was toward the big cage. He remote-shot a couple of images of them on the digital cameras tripoded behind and above him. The smell of years came from his mother’s old red wool bedspread and Hypok felt like his mind was anchored not in the present at all, but free to skip back and forward in time, a nimble, lively little water bug glancing upon the tops of things. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
“Valeen?”
“Umm-mm-MMM!”
“There you are! I’m here, too. What’s Collette doing in the potty?”
Hypok, propped on one elbow, looked across the Item to Moloch’s world, pleased to see him curiously tasting the air with his tongue, patrolling one wall of his cage with excruciating patience. He looked down at himself, pressed out hard against the new skin like a shiny tent. He began the undulation.
“What’s Collette doing in the potty?”
“Hmm-mmm-MMA!”
He giggled. “Umm-hmm. She is?”