Pike ran back to his Jeep, backed from the garage, and told Jon Stone to meet him in Mecca.
33
Joe Pike
The house in Mecca contained even less. The plywood had been removed, and the screw holes filled with painter’s putty. No sign remained of Cole or anyone else.
Stone said, “Now what?”
“His car.”
“What?”
“Can’t leave his car at the Burger King.”
“I meant where do we go from here?”
“I know what you meant.”
They left Pike’s Jeep at the Palm Springs airport. Stone drove them to the Burger King, where Pike picked up Cole’s Corvette. He had a key. They would take the Corvette home, get some sleep, and Stone would drive them back in the morning. They would pick up Pike’s Jeep, and sit on the bodies. If nine bodies had been dumped, there might be a tenth.
Two hours and forty-six minutes later, Pike rounded the last curve to Elvis Cole’s A-frame, and guided the old Corvette into the carport.
The house was dark, but Pike knew Cole’s house as well as his own. He turned on the kitchen light, then a table lamp in the living room, then pushed open the glass sliders to Cole’s deck.
The canyon below was dotted with lights. Some of the houses were so close Pike saw the flickering color of televisions, while others held the sky blue shimmer of pools. Pike liked Cole’s deck. He had helped Cole rebuild it when termites attacked the framing, and helped stain the wood every three years. The night air was chill, and smelled of wild fennel.
Pike said, “I hear you.”
The snick-snick-snick of approaching claws, then Cole’s cat bumped against his legs.
Pike looked down at the cat, and the cat looked up. It was a ragged animal, with pale scars lacing its black face and shredded ears.
Pike squatted, and ran the flat of his palm from the cat’s lumpy head along the peak of its spine. The cat enjoyed this for a moment, then stepped away. The fur along his spine rippled. His ears folded, then straightened, and his warrior face grew angry.
Pike said, “He isn’t here.”
Pike went inside. He found an open can of cat food and a bottle of Abita beer in the fridge. He forked the remains of the can into a clean dish, then put out fresh water, the food, and a saucer of beer.
The cat stood by the food, but did not eat.
Pike drank most of the remaining beer, turned on the carport light, and stared at Cole’s car. Filthy. Pike washed his Jeep every day, and waxed it every two months. Cole’s home was neat and orderly, and Cole was fastidiously clean when he cooked, but his car was a mess. Pike did not understand it, though he often wondered if it revealed some truth Pike was unable to understand.
Pike found a mop bucket and towels in the laundry room, squirted dish soap into the bucket, and took the bucket and towels out to the car. An armada of bugs swirled and spiraled around the carport ceiling light.
Pike pulled the hose from the side of the house, filled the bucket with sudsy water, then rinsed the car. He began at the nose, rubbing the car with his hand to slough away the dirt. The cat came out to watch. The water splashed his fur with liquid shrapnel, but the cat did not move.
Pike worked the dirt loose from the hood and sides and tail, then soaked a towel in the soapy water and went over the car again. He rubbed hard, and when the body was clean, he worked on the tires and wheels, then rinsed the body again. He dried the car with the remaining towels, then wiped down the interior.
When Pike finished, he tried to remember when he had last seen Cole’s car this clean. He couldn’t, and didn’t care. It was clean now. When Cole came back, his car was good to go.
Pike dumped the bucket and went inside. He stripped off his clothes, put them in the wash with the towels, then showered in the guest room bath. The cat followed him through the house, and back again when he put his clothes in the dryer.
While the clothes were drying, Pike went upstairs for Cole’s gun-cleaning supplies, and brought them down to the dining table. Cleaning lubricant, cotton patches, a bore brush and cleaning rod, a soft cotton cloth.
Pike unloaded the pistols, and broke down the Kimber. He could take the Kimber apart and reassemble it blindfolded, in the dark, and under any conditions. He did not have to think about what he was doing. His hands knew the way.
The cat watched from the far end of the table. Pike pushed cotton patches wet with cleaning lubricant through the barrel and over the frame and slide and the recoil spring assembly and breech face. Pike glanced at the cat as he worked, and noticed the cat wasn’t looking at Pike; it watched the parts as they were brushed and wiped.
Pike set the recoil spring assembly into the Kimber’s frame, replaced the slide, and fitted the slide lock pin into place. When the Kimber was reassembled, Pike set it aside and worked on the Python. He glanced at the cat again. Its eyes had narrowed into smoldering cuts and its tail flicked like a dangerous snake.
Pike swabbed lubricant through the Python’s cylinder chambers and barrel, then over the recoil plate and under the cylinder star. He ran the brush through the barrel and chambers, then swabbed the steel clean, but did not look at the gun while he cleaned it. He watched the cat.
The cat paced at the far end of the table, stalking from one side to the other, its tail snapping violent strikes that stung the air as the fur on its spine rippled.
Pike reloaded the Kimber. He pushed one fat, golden. 45 ACP hollow point after another into the Kimber’s magazine until it was full, then seated it. He rocked the slide to chamber a round, and set the safety.
The cat came toward him, paced away, then returned. Its dark face was as fierce as a Maori. The fur on its spine was spiked like a Mohawk warrior.
Pike put the Kimber aside and loaded the Python. He opened the cylinder and slid a long. 357 magnum cartridge into a cylinder chamber.
The cat came closer.
Pike dropped in a second cartridge, then a third, and now the cat stood only inches away, but it no longer looked at the gun. It stared at Pike, and its molten black face was furious.
Pike finished loading the Python. Six chambers, six cartridges. He closed the cylinder, but held tight to the pistol, and stared at Cole’s cat. Elvis Cole’s cat.
The cat licked its feral lips, and made a low growl.
Pike nodded.
“Yes. I’m going to get him.”
He put the guns in their holsters, drank a bottle of water, then called Jon Stone.
“Come get me. I’m not waiting until morning.”
Stone picked him up a few minutes later.
Jack and Krista: seven days after they were taken
34
One day after the beating, Jack opened his eyes, blinked, and looked at her. His pupils were dilated.
“Whush on TV?”
“Can you see me? I’m here.”
His eyes rolled, and came back to her.
