his cunning, his winning out in the end like he always has. I suspect he'll want to do everything to her he wasn't able to do to Dylan. Fact is, our only chance to save her is if he keeps her alive as long as he can to torture her. We need time and a lucky break.”
Hank crossed the room and joined Winter to stare at a large satellite picture in a heavy cypress frame. It was a remarkably crisp aerial photograph of rural, industrial acreage. The photo was centered around a storage tank farm.
“You used to be able to call NASA and order one of these on a whole city, or just your neighborhood. I saw a picture just like this in the offices of an oil exploration company of an operation in Alaska. You could see elk grazing in it, not a quarter mile from the derricks.” Hank touched the glass. “That's a towboat pushing a double line of barges. Mississippi River.”
Winter studied a tanker moored at a dock from which three large white pipes ran up and through the levee, then over the road before they dropped down on the other side of a fence and entered a building. Smaller pipes exited the control house and channeled liquids out to each of the thirty storage tanks, each capable of holding maybe millions of gallons. A black lid on a tank had the company's initials painted on it in white letters. When he spotted something at the edge of the marsh, outside and south of the farm's fences, he took the picture down from the wall. “I know where she is, Hank.” He twisted it-the glass breaking as the frame snapped apart. He pulled the picture out, folded it and slipped it into his jacket.
A SWAT team member standing in the hall ignored them as they passed. As soon as they reached asphalt, they ran back up the driveway and across the grass, toward the Jeep. As they crossed the road they saw the red lights of approaching ambulances.
Injured SWAT team members and dazed technicians were huddled near Archer's corpse. Through the drizzle, they looked like wet birds on a line, waiting for the sun.
97
The plane was parked on the tarmac east of the sixty-foot-tall Quonset-shaped hangar. The four cutouts in dark all-weather coats disembarked carrying equipment cases, which they loaded into the rear of an ebony Chevrolet Suburban 4x4 before driving off. The rain obscured their view of Lake Pontchartrain and the twin bridges that stretched twenty-five miles to the north shore, but they weren't on a sight-seeing mission.
Thirty minutes after leaving Lakefront Airport, Lewis turned off River Road onto the road marked only by a NO TRESPASSING sign. He was only a quarter-mile short of the tank farm but couldn't see the tanks through the wall of gray. The road he turned off on had been built to give access to the property when the owners had wanted to turn it into a business park. The oil bust in the late '80s had ended the developer's dream.
During the half-mile drive down the narrow road, the quartet passed two more signs warning illegal dumpers to void their truck beds elsewhere and one promising prosecution to the fullest extent for depositing waste.
Lewis glanced in the rearview at Apache, his eyes drinking in her features. She was beautiful and no more than five-five. She had sharply defined muscles, long flowing black hair, narrow lips, and high cheekbones. Her professional name was Apache because she was half Apache and half African-American, raised by a whiskey-blind grandfather. She had been discovered by talent scouts who spotted her in an FBI arrest report. She had been arrested for taking on four large white men who were imposing their will on her when she took a folding knife from one of them. She had sent three of them to the hospital and one to the morgue. Later, she had taken on three reservation cops-two of whom she disarmed and handcuffed together before the third clubbed her unconscious with a weighted nightstick.
The paved road ended at a cul-de-sac surrounded by what appeared to be a good start on a mountain range constructed entirely of rubbish.
Tomeo sat in the backseat next to Apache. He was Chinese-American and wore his thick black hair combed straight back. He was almost six feet tall and had been a Navy SEAL. His easy smile and sense of humor gave people the impression that he was the opposite of what he actually was.
Mickey, the team's fourth member was in the front passenger seat. “We've got company,” he said.
“I see him,” Lewis said evenly.
A battered Ford pickup truck of indeterminable color was backed into a tall horseshoe of garbage. A short, bandy-legged man wearing a yellow plastic rain poncho stood beside the open tailgate trying to look innocent of violating warning signs against dumping refuse. Lewis parked the big Suburban broadside to the truck, blocking it in, and lowered his window. Trapped, the man took tentative steps toward the invading vehicle, peering out from under the poncho's plastic hood.
Lewis lowered the window and studied the man. He could have been in his fifties or seventies-the lack of teeth made guessing his age difficult. Beneath a crop of wild white hair, his face was crisscrossed with crevasses and he peered at Lewis through eyes whose muddy irises appeared to have been laid in ancient ivory.
“How y'all do nah?” he inquired, grinning uncertainly.
“You taking that trash out for me,” Lewis said, “or dumping?”
“I was taking,” the dumper replied, nodding suddenly as though the motion was necessary to power his next breath. “Lots a good stuff in here people trow away, you know.” He opened his arms like a welcoming store owner.
“No signs threatening anyone for taking the shit away,” Tomeo said.
“This heah you place?” the man asked, his voice cracking. “I don't mean no trespass atall.”
“You out here alone in this nasty weather?” Lewis asked him.
“Yeah, was jus' bout to leave out wit' my little load here.”
A broad-faced pit bull with chewed-up pyramid-shaped ears leaped down from the truck's open window and approached the strangers in the Chevrolet. He stopped beside his master and measured the Suburban's occupants by sniffing the air with his upraised nose. Not liking what he discerned, he growled and the hair on his neck rose.
“He don't bite, though,” the man said. “Get on back in the truck, Badger,” he said. “We be going now, if you let us pass on by.”
“I never cared for dogs,” Lewis told the man.
“He all right, though, this one,” the man said defensively.
“They're plain stupid. Don't know when to growl and when not to.”
“Don't we have work to do?” Apache sounded annoyed.
Lewis looked in the rearview at Apache in the seat directly behind him. His hand rose to the window's ledge. He squeezed the trigger before the man standing in the rain saw the pistol. The SOCOM's silenced bark was not much louder than the sound of the dog falling over on its side. Its stiff legs quivered. The dumper was speechless, his now-open mouth a hole ringed in pink gums.
“What you wan' do dat for?” the old man asked.
“I like your clothes,” Lewis said. “Take 'em off.”
The dumper slowly removed his coat and handed it to Lewis through the window. He pulled off the flannel shirt, his boots, and his overalls, and Lewis took each with his free hand while maintaining his aim.
The old man stood bent and shivering in the rain beside his dog. He looked down at the animal and crossed himself. Before he looked back up, Lewis squeezed the trigger twice again, making holes in the old man's throat and in the silver triangle of hair between his breasts. The dumper took two steps back and collapsed.
“Aw, Lewis, that was fucking cold, man,” Tomeo said. “You should have done the old guy first.”
“Why?” Lewis asked.
Apache shifted in her seat. “Because, Lewis, that old man just watched you clip his best friend. He died knowing that his dog was dead,” Apache said. “For Christ's sake, it's like shooting a child in front of its mother.”
“I did it to spare the dog's feelings,” Lewis said. “That noble beast died thinking he was protecting his master.”
“What's wrong with shooting a kid in front of its mother?” Mickey said jokingly. “I mean, if shooting a kid was necessary.”
