waited, then emptied Tim's bullets from the cylinder and let the revolver fall over the headrest onto the passenger seat. He settled back, hands out of view in his lap but positioned so Tim knew he was holding a gun. His right T- shirt sleeve was hiked up, revealing what looked like half of a yin-and-yang tattoo.
He studied Tim's reflection in the rearview. 'You're softer than I thought you'd be. Married, right?'
'That's right.'
'Kids?' Walker returned Tim's nod. 'Explains it.' He looked out the window at the house.
The venetians were mostly closed, but Tim could make out Dray's figure at the table, serving Tyler breakfast.
'You got the microcassette before I had a chance to listen to it. I want it back.'
'You're in luck. I always carry irreplaceable, crucial evidence in my pocket.' Tim rolled his right hand over, nudging it against his left, trying to get a stray finger beneath the watch to the handcuff key taped there.
'You do when it's illegal for you to have it.'
'You got a point there.' Out of view, Tim's finger worked against the edge of the hidden key. He sensed anxiety pounding beneath his heartbeat and realized it was due to the proximity of Dray and Tyler. He'd vowed never to let the violence of his work touch his family again. Less than thirty yards away, Dray wiped something off Ty's face.
'My wife's gonna notice the car still sitting here and come check it out. She's a sheriff's deputy.' It was all bluff; the tinted windows hid them nicely, and it wasn't unusual for Tim to sit out in the Explorer before starting the commute, reviewing files out of Tyler's earsplitting range.
Walker said, 'Retired, isn't she?'
'You want to take that up with her Beretta?' Tim drew the key out from its hiding place and buried it in his fist. 'We'd better move before she gets suspicious.'
Walker's grip closed like a mechanical claw on the back of Tim's neck, his thumb digging into the pressure point just behind the ear. His voice came right beside Tim's head. 'Open your hand.'
Tim complied, and Walker reached past him to grab the key. When Walker's fingertips brushed Tim's hand, Tim jerked his head free and snapped it back into Walker's face. A satisfying crunch of bone, and Walker fell away to the cushioned seat. Tim leaned on the horn with his full weight, but it made no sound, and then he heard the gruff tick of Walker's laugh and felt the gun barrel pressed to his neck.
A trickle of blood darkened Walker's upper lip, but it didn't seem he was going to retaliate. Not yet. Tim opened his fist. Empty. Walker had somehow managed to hold on to the handcuff key.
'And let me save us another round.' Walker pointed to the dashboard radio. The cord on the push-to-talk mike had been cut. Tim noted the hatched scars on the underside of Walker's forearm-nicks from combat knife kills. Cutting throats from behind took a surge of adrenaline and a well-honed blade. If the knife penetrated too deep into enemy flesh, it wound up slicing your own arm, the one used to brace the head.
'I need you to tell me where that tape is.'
'My partner took it last night. Go wrestle him for it.'
'You know how the game is played.' Walker nodded to the house. 'I could go in and have a look.'
Tim's heart seemed to hold beatless for a suspended moment. 'If you threaten my wife or my boy, I will kill you.' He sat upright, bringing his glare within a foot of the mirror. 'Look at me. I will kill you.'
'You been trying. So far you're not doing real well.'
Walker reached for the door. Tim's rage flared, and he thrashed against the cuffs.
When he came to, he felt some good pain through the buzz, his head bent forward across the wheel. It took a moment for him to realize that Walker wasn't pressing the gun to the base of his skull, that the throbbing he felt was the aftereffect of getting pistol-whipped. Walker sat relaxed against the backseat, shuttling the dubbed copy of the microcassette across his knuckles like a casino chip. Tim's badge and wallet were spilled on the seat beside him. The clock showed 7:05; Tim had been out less than a minute. Dray was gone from the kitchen, probably fighting Tyler into his clothes. That could take a while.
A band of shadow darkened Walker's face, but Tim could make out his amused eyes. 'Must be something. To feel like that. To have that kind of…' He sucked his teeth and looked away. 'Most people fake it. Want to give themselves a sense of purpose. Something to do. Some people, though, like you, it's the real deal. Tess was that way. My ex, sure, her, too. Same genes, me and Tess, but I'm not built that way. That's where I have an advantage over you, Rackley: I don't give a fuck.'
From what Tim knew of Walker, he rarely spoke, let alone for so long. He wanted to talk. He already had what he'd come for and could've just split while Tim was unconscious.
Straightening himself in his seat, Tim fought through the blur of pain to find a way to keep him engaged. 'It's not about giving a fuck. It's instinct. How would you react if I threatened your nephew?'
'I don't give a shit about him. That's what people like you can't get.'
'How about your ex-wife? She seems like a hell of a woman. If you don't care about anything, how'd you land her?'
'Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and again.'
Tim still expected him to bolt with the tape, but he just sat there, studying Tim's house.
Walker said, 'You got a nice family.' Not a threat. Envy. 'You were a killer once. I checked up on your record in the Rangers, too. How do you get from that to this?'
Tim tried to figure out if Walker saw Tim's settling into his life as an advance or a degeneration. Probably both. He stared at Tad Hartley's lawn, wondering why, on this of all mornings, Tad had decided to take a pass on his yard work. No joggers in sight. Living in a cul-de-sac meant no through traffic. 'You give up the stuff you think matters the most to you. And you do it before you find out that it never really mattered to you anyway.'
Walker made a noise, and his chin dipped in faint acknowledgment. 'If you get in my way, I'll kill you. You're a husband. A father. You really want to put your life on the line for these scumbags?'
'Not for them.'
'For what, then?'
'For me. It's my job.'
'To protect rapists and murderers?'
'My preferences don't figure in here.'
'They used to.'
'I was foolish and self-righteous and pissed off. Like you.'
Walker's face was drawn, menace etched in the squint lines. 'Man, you haven't learned a damn thing. People like us get used. There are no rules for the policy makers and the baby kissers. There were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.' A good-natured smirk. 'There didn't have to be. We brought our own. Depleted-uranium bullets. Gulf War syndrome-and its sequel-ain't no syndrome. It's low-level radiation poisoning. I got buddies whose wives can't sleep with them no more. Stings when they cum. We pack off on a lie and a flag and come back broken, and nobody gives a shit.' He wiped the trickle of blood from his lip. 'I was supposed to deploy for six months, wound up in the dirt almost two years. Cost me my marriage. People drift. I sure as hell did. But, hell, I paid the price and I shut up. I even served my time when they put me behind bars for doing the right thing to the wrong person. But meanwhile, back here'-he firmed his mouth, rage overpowering a flicker of something more tender-'back here they can haul your sister into a limo and rape her, then kill her for her troubles. I don't get it. Maybe you do. You're a guy like me. How come it worked out so much better for you?'
Tim could produce no judicious reply, so he kept his mouth shut.
Walker shifted across the seat toward the door. 'Stay the hell out of my way. You might catch a bullet.'
'I'm gonna keep coming. You know that.'
'Course. That's our ROEs.' Walker smiled, genuinely amused. 'If there's one thing you are, Rackley, it's dependable. I can count on you. Ain't that right?' He kicked open the door. 'You get me in your sights, you'd better shoot straight.'
He vanished, jogging around the corner to whatever vehicle he'd stowed unassumingly on the middle-class street. Tim hit the disabled horn again, more from habit than anything else, then sat and watched the empty cul- de-sac. His keys were by the gas pedal, and even if he could retrieve them with his foot, he couldn't get them to his hand. He worked off his left boot, then wedged his heel beside the seat, finally reaching the controls. The driver's seat whirred back until the tracks came visible. And the tip of an antenna. Hunched forward so the metal wouldn't grind at his wrists, he fought his sock off using his other boot, leaving red streaks down his shin. He clutched the
