Thicker Than Blood (27 page)

She swiveled to face Hank and sat back on her heels. “Jason, Lonnie, Harry, Charlotte, Pop.” Her voice quavered on the last. “You knew all of them, too, except Lonnie, and maybe he was a coincidence.”

Chapter Forty-three

“You think I had something to do with all this?” Hank’s voice almost squeaked.

“Did you?” Rachel asked bluntly.

“No! For God’s sake! How can—?”

She cut him off. “How long have you been with InterUrban?”

“Why?”

“It’s a simple question,” Rachel said.

With each word, the lines in her forehead deepened until the mistrust hung like a spiderweb in the air between them.

At length he said, “A long time. They took me on as a diver when I was fresh back from Brazil and the Peace Corps.”

“A diver?”

“Someone has to go down in the reservoirs to check algae and stuff. That was my first job.”

“And then?”

Hank examined a spot just over her head. “And then I finished school, moved into plant operations, then to headquarters as a lab tech in water quality.”

She studied his face. Something there seemed to still her suspicion and she asked more calmly, “What was Jason like?”

Hank sighed and brought his eyes to hers. “You keep asking that. He was a mixed bag. When he wanted to, he could charm a rattlesnake. But he could go mean in an instant and turn on you.”

“That ever happen to you?”

“Once. He wanted me to jigger water supply statistics.”

“When was that?” Rachel asked.

“A couple years ago.”

“Did you do it?”

Hank shook his head. “I wouldn’t do it myself, but I went along with it.” He glanced at Rachel then down at his feet.

“Jason did this sort of thing often?” she wanted to know.

He seemed intent on examining his shoes. “Not often, I guess.”

“But that wasn’t the first time?”

Hank sank onto the sofa. “Water is not a squeaky-clean enterprise,” he said. “There are a lot of dirty hands.”

“Like who else?”

“The farmers.”

Rachel blinked at that, but said nothing.

“The greens,” Hank added. “About a year ago, they were after Jason to join them in some big campaign against agriculture.”

He paused, then went on: “We are approaching a time when there just won’t be enough water to protect everything from minnows to kangaroo rats, and still grow food, run industry, and water landscapes down here where it doesn’t rain six months at a stretch.”

“Did Jason climb on the environmental bandwagon?”

“He had other ideas. He had us documenting a lot of statistics on all the endangered species that really weren’t endangered, starting with the snail darter that killed the Tennessee project. He compiled thirty years of data on every time the EPA screwed up.”

Rachel gnawed at her lip. “Not exactly a Ben & Jerry’s kind of guy.”

“He was an attorney. I guess he was mounting a defense. Or an offense.”

“Nice business,” she said.

“No worse than a lot of others.”

“Maybe not.” Rachel frowned at the glimmer of something just beyond the view of her mind’s eye. “Better than running drugs, I guess.”

The floor creaked under Hank’s feet as he crossed the room to peer out the window. “If you think you’ll be all right here till tomorrow,” he said, “I could go home and pack and call in sick.”

She was staring at the ceiling beams, her mind quietly opening—an oyster exposing a tantalizing pearl.

“Hey.” He snapped his fingers in front of her.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice small, like a little girl’s. “Yes. Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Chapter Forty-four

Late sun was slanting across the dusty desert road, leaving its shadows in the ruts. The Toyota’s underside bounced twice on rocks, skidded into brush once, but the wheels kept crawling along. According to the topographical map Rachel had picked up from a sports shop in San Bernardino, the road ended at Coyote Reservoir.

At what seemed about the right distance, she wrestled with the steering wheel, persuaded the complaining automobile to turn around, put it in park, and set out on foot.

The lake was still out of sight, but she figured it couldn’t be far. In her pockets were the small flashlight and a wedge of ground beef wrapped in butcher paper. She hadn’t forgotten the dog.

Sandy soil sucked at her feet, tiring her legs. Tall tufts of coarse grass had taken over most of the landscape. As she rounded a bend, the top half of what appeared to be a long, windowless wall hove into sight.

Three strands of barbed wire blocked the road, which had become little more than a wheel-rutted path. She squirmed through with only a minor scratch. Now she could see that a vast opening in the wall was sealed by an enormous metal panel, a giant blind eye facing the sunset.

A human-size door was at the far end. Rachel’s pulse sped and stuttered as she contemplated what she had to do.

Feeling obvious as a solitary ink blot against snow, she moved past the pale walls of the warehouse to the door. It was locked, but at the bottom was a metal plate with hinges and a hook-and-eye lock. She stooped to examine it. Once the hook was removed from the eye, a nudge from her hand swung it inward. A doggie door.

Kneeling, Rachel pushed her head through the opening. Huge, angular shapes squatted in a jungle of darkness. Fighting down a fear of getting trapped, she wormed her way through the opening and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The flashlight beam was limited, but strong enough to prove she had found what she expected to find. A dark, brooding hulk took up most of the space.

Even in the dimness its identity was obvious: the mangled carcass of a plane. Pointing straight at her, in the pale light from two windows high in the wall, was a very broad wing.

But what did it prove? She and Hank knew they had seen a plane crash. They both knew the cargo was drugs. And everyone in Los Angeles now knew the water quality lab was full of drugs. But what did all of that mean? Was the plane smuggling the drugs the lab made out of the country? Not likely. And it was too small a craft to take them any great distance on this side of the border.

Containers stood about the dented corpse of the plane like passengers about to board. Not knowing what she was looking for, Rachel searched the hodgepodge of boxes, then slowly scanned the rows of cartons that had been stacked along the walls. The boxes she had seen in the plane’s cargo were relatively small, probably to make it easier to scoot them across the border from Mexico. The drugs themselves would be long gone, maybe already on the streets.

Having found exactly what she figured was there, she was strangely disappointed. What did you expect? A neon sign pointing to the guilty?

She glanced toward the dog door, then decided that as long as she was here, she might as well have a look inside the plane.

The rungs to the cockpit were blocked by boxes too heavy to move, but behind the wing stood an aluminum ladder, all four legs splattered with paint. It screeched against the warehouse floor as she drew it closer, and wobbled as she mounted. Rachel inched along the damaged wing to the cockpit, lowered herself into the bucket seat, and swept her light around the cargo space behind it. The floor looked as if it had been swept.

Running her hands along the floor behind the cockpit, her knuckle struck a small solitary carton wedged under the seat. A heady excitement flooding through her, she wrestled it free and ripped it open. But a plastic lining stubbornly resisted her efforts to reach the interior, and the beam of the flashlight merely bounced off.

She searched the cockpit for something sharp, found nothing, tried again to puncture the plastic with her fingernails, but with no success.

The light was growing perceptibly weaker. She berated herself for not having bought fresh batteries and switched it off. Darkness descended like a dense cloud. The box weighed only a pound or so, she would just take it with her. It might prove nothing, but at least it was something tangible.

Rachel twisted and writhed back through the cockpit window and slithered along the wing. Hanging on to the box made her efforts awkward. She reached the ladder and started down. Her left foot was blindly seeking the next rung when a snarl erupted from the darkness below.

Something lunged against her leg. Pain blazed from her heel to her hip. The ladder teetered, dumping her suddenly to the concrete floor. The dog gnashing at her shoe backed off when the ladder crashed to the cement with a clanging crescendo.

As the noise faded, Rachel could hear the dog’s panting breath somewhere to her left and knew he would soon size things up and be back.

Hastily righting the ladder, she snapped the crossbars down, crawled into the conical cage it formed, slammed one open side against a tall box and pulled a large carton toward her until it blocked the other side.

The pain in her leg had dulled. Her trembling fingers found a gash in her calf, but it was small and the blood was already clotting. Rachel swept the floor around her with her hands. Where was the box she had taken from the plane?

Big, and blacker than the shadows, the dog began snuffling at the spaces between the ladder’s rungs.

Scooting back, Rachel bumped her elbow against a cardboard corner. She reached behind her and brought out the box, its plastic lining still intact. From the pocket of her jeans, she took the soggy packet of meat. Mashed to a thin, ragged blob, it was warm from the heat of her body.

At the smell of it, the dog began butting the ladder. If she tossed it to him now, he’d just gobble it on the spot. She wrapped it again and shone the flashlight full into the canine eyes. The beam wasn’t strong enough to back him off more than a few inches, but her eye caught a sharp pucker of split metal where one of the ladder legs had buckled in the fall.

Grasping the open carton, she twisted a little of the plastic between her fingers and raked it across the barb of broken metal. On the second try, it punctured. The spilled contents were soft and grainy, like beach sand, and even in the dim light she was suddenly certain what it was.

Rachel ripped away some of the lining, folded the plastic around a small handful of the powder, tied the corners twice and slipped it into her pocket, then reached for the meat and kneaded the mound of spilled powder into it.

How much would it take to stop a dog? Or would it stop a dog at all? It might be just some harmless substance, a detergent maybe, tossed into the plane by someone too lazy to store it properly. But Rachel didn’t think so.

She tossed half the chunk between the rungs of the ladder.

The dog snarled and with a harsh bark snapped up the hamburger, then lay down, watching the place the food had come from. The back of the ladder had only two crossed strips of aluminum. If he veered in that direction she wouldn’t be able to protect herself. She worked a little more of the powder into the remaining glob of meat.

The dog’s jaws clamped around it before it hit the floor. He lay down again, watching.

Please let it be a nice, good poison, Rachel prayed and sat down. And please let it be quick. The dull throb from the wound in her calf made it agonizing labor to sit still on the cold concrete.

On the underside of the wing, she could dimly see narrow steel piping. Very slowly, she stood up, training her eyes on the dog, whose head was lowered, still watching her. When she glanced at the wing from this angle she could make out small nozzles arranged at intervals along the piping.

Where had she seen this before? On the farm? No.…

Yes. Recognition snapped into place. This was a crop duster. She remembered Marty calling her, when she was about nine, to watch the plane sweep down and over their fields. It was very risky, he told her. And the pilot had to be an artist. Only test pilots and stunt pilots matched the skills of the duster pilot.

Rachel remembered being mesmerized by the rhythm of it. The plane’s belly seemed to snuggle to the earth, only to drown it in fog. The way a squid cloaks its prey, she thought now. It was like a long, slow dance. Up, a graceful turn, then the leisurely dive. The closer to the unsuspecting earth, the better. There had been something disturbing about it too.

An ideal aircraft for smuggling, she realized. No one would notice a crop duster moseying up to the border and slipping across. Once over the vast farmland in the Imperial Valley, there are probably as many crop dusters as cars.

The dog seemed less alert, his breathing slower, but when she moved her arm quickly, he growled. Slowly, she sat back down. To pass the time, she studied the plane. Behind her, the fuselage jutted. Near the end, a row of large numbers was stenciled in black. She recited them to herself. Once, twice, then tested her memory.

She could no longer hear the dog breathing. She snapped her fingers. Clapped. He didn’t move.

But now another sound edged its way into her consciousness. Muffled, businesslike, almost angry thuds that faintly jarred the earth beneath her.

In the cage of her own creation, Rachel froze.

A key clicked in a lock, a bolt scraped, and air whooshed over her face. Between the boxes she could see bright light thrusting through the open door framing a large, thick man. The buckle on the wide belt that shored up his potbelly gleamed in the sun.

“Max,” he shouted. “Here, Max.” The dog didn’t move. “Fine damn guard dog,” he muttered. “Where the hell are you?” Then, after a pause, “Prob’ly chasin’ a damn rabbit.” The man lumbered back through the doorway and slid the bolt home.

Chapter Forty-five

It was nearly full dark by the time Rachel began her clamber through the tiny opening in the door. Max had been totally silent for what seemed like hours, unconscious or possibly dead. But not knowing where the man might be, Rachel had stifled her desire to bolt and forced herself to wait.

Fear drummed a tattoo in her ears and shortened her breath to puppy-like pants until she was free of the door.

Then she ran.

The wall of the warehouse seemed to stretch into outer space. The western horizon was a purplish bruise where the sun had been excised. The stars were already clear. Her jacket snagged when she dove under the barbed wire. Rachel jerked it free. When she could run no longer, she stumbled as fast as she could along the road between the tire grooves.