The Boys from Santa Cruz

Humboldt County sheriff’s departments.”

“That’s a tad thin, don’t you think?”

“Steve, please, don’t go all Bureau on me now. I have one of my bad feelings about this one. I think this kid’s alive, I think he’s out for revenge, and I think more people are going to die unless we catch him soon. The way I see it, either we pursue this aggressively before he kills again or we sit around with our thumbs up our asses as per usual, waiting for the next corpse to turn up.”

McDougal said nothing; neither did he break off eye contact. “Put me in, coach,” pleaded Pender. “This is what I do, this is what Liaison Support is for.”

His boss sighed, shook his head like a mark who’d just made his choice as to which shell the pea was under, and wasn’t at all sure he’d gotten it right. “I’ll give you a provisional okay. Here are the provisions. First of all, what with the manpower drain from Oklahoma City, the Bureau is seriously understaffed. So I want this handled expeditiously. I’ll give you two, three days, then I want you back at your desk. Secondly, it’s only May and our budget’s already shot to shit, so you’re going to have to fly coach, rent a compact car, and stay at a Motel Six or the equivalent. And third, you are not to step on any toes, local or Bureau.”

“Three days, on the cheap, no toes,” said Pender, who was already halfway out the door. “I read you five by five, and I guarantee you, you will not regret this.”

He closed McDougal’s door behind him. Pool beckoned him over to her command station/front desk.

“I hear and obey,” muttered Pender, veering toward her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Here, this is for you.” She handed him a small gray rectangular object with a plastic faceplate, telescoping antenna, and rounded corners.

“What is it, a new pager?”

“No, it’s a cell phone.”

“Kind of small, isn’t it?”

“That’s how they’re making them nowadays. I’ve put my number on speed-dial and set the ring tone for ‘Moon River,’ if that’s all right with you.”

“Peachy.”

“And here, this device is to charge the battery, and this one is for charging it when you’re in your car. So from now on, no excuses, no road trip disappearances. You can reach us twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and we can reach you.”

“Oh, swell,” said Pender.

6

Without the magic words Federal Bureau of Investigation after his name, it took Skip a little longer to track down Dr. Gallagher than it had Pender. But what he lacked in official standing he more than made up for by his refusal to take no for an answer. Or yes, for that matter. Even after Sergeant Bagley of the Santa Cruz County Coroner’s Office finally agreed to pass on his request for information to the appropriate forensic pathologist, Skip continued to pester him. After his second follow-up call, he received a chewing-out from the beleaguered sergeant. “What the hell’s your problem, Epstein? I gave her the message. If she wants to get back to you, she will, so don’t call me again.”

Skip apologized as meekly as you can when you’re grinning from ear to ear, then popped into the bull pen, waved a twenty in the air like Captain Ahab holding up the golden doubloon, and offered it to the first man or woman who could come up with a name and contact number for a female forensic pathologist who worked with the Santa Cruz coroner. His operatives, an independent-minded bunch who would have bitched about, forestalled, or even ignored a direct order, dropped everything they were working on and threw themselves into the challenge.

The winner was Sandy Pollock, a tiny, T-shirted, jeans-wearing single mother in her mid-thirties whose forearms were blue to the elbows with tattoos. “There’s only the one,” she said, handing him a slip of paper with one hand and snatching the twenty from Skip’s fingers with the other. “Dr. Alicia Gallagher. Contract pathologist. The first number’s her office at U.C. Santa Cruz, the second’s her cell.”

“Fine work,” said Skip, to a chorus of grumbling. “Thank you, one and all.”

He made the call from his office, spinning his chair around to face the picture window overlooking the Marina Safeway parking lot. “Hello, Dr. Gallagher. This is David Epstein, Epstein Investigative Services in San Francisco. I’ve just been talking to Sergeant Bagley. I believe you were the lead pathologist on the Meadows Road investigation?” All true statements-just not connected.

“And…?”

“I’d like to ask you about your identification of one victim in particular, name of Luke Sweet.”

Long pause. Long, long pause.

“Dr. Gallagher? You still there, Dr. Gallagher?”

“I’m here.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Luke Sweet-is there a possibility he’s still alive?”

“That’s, um, currently under review.”

“Which means there is a possibility he’s still alive.”

“Which means precisely what it says.”

That was all Skip could get out of her, but more than he’d expected. Obviously there was now some official doubt as to whether Luke Sweet had perished in the Meadows Road fire. This didn’t necessarily mean he’d killed his grandparents or kidnapped Judge Brobauer, thought Skip-just that, alive, he’d be the number one suspect. And at the moment, there was no number two.

7

The answer is in the Book.

Asmador opens his eyes. The light in the tumbledown barn is dim and fawn-colored; dust motes dance in columns of sunlight shining through holes in the riddled roof. He unzips his sleeping bag to the waist, then reaches in and feels around at the bottom of the bag until his fingers brush the familiar, nubbly-textured faux-leather cover. He opens the Book at random on his lap, positioning his magnifying glass between the page and a pencil-thin shaft of sunlight. Even with the glass, the microscopic text is difficult to decipher-Asmador’s low forehead is furrowed in concentration-but luckily he only needs to make out a few words to fill in the rest from memory.

And at the bottom of the imaginary shoe box, reads the illuminated paragraph, there’s one last, dim snapshot of the traitor Epstein waving good-bye as they drag me away…

Epstein! A younger man than Brobauer, presumably with a stronger heart. Maybe this time the vultures can be tricked or persuaded to tear off a hunk of some living flesh-that’s a little wrinkle Asmador came up with all on his own, for extra credit with the Infernal Council, as it were; just thinking about it energizes him, motivates him out of his sleeping bag.

He stumbles outside, his joints still stiff from sleeping on the dirty wooden floor, and relieves himself against the side of the barn, then hurries back inside to get dressed: denim shirt, jeans, denim jacket. He peels a dozen or so bills off a brick of twenties from under the floorboard of the abandoned van to replenish his roll, checks to make sure the.38 is loaded and ready in the glove compartment of the BMW.

It takes half an hour to drive to the Marshall City Public Library. The librarian behind the checkout desk glances at Asmador disinterestedly as he enters, then turns away. His senses on full alert, he heads directly for the wall of yellow-and-black California telephone directories in the back. Having neglected to bring the Book along with him, he closes his eyes to visualize it, then mentally flips through the pages until he finds the part he’s looking