Bestiary

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Even though he knew it wasn’t true, the funny thing about the al-Kalli estate was that it had been laid out as if it were designed to withstand an assault. There was only one road that led up to it, it commanded the high ground from all sides, it was surrounded by a stone wall with only one other entrance apart from the main gate. Still, there were plenty of things Greer saw that could use improvement. For instance, there was no reason not to place some razor wire atop the back and side walls; yes, there were all kinds of codes and property restrictions for Bel-Air homeowners, but if you didn’t actually ask permission, it couldn’t be refused, right? And if you concealed the wire with some vines and shrubbery — which wasn’t hard — what was the problem? That back gate, the one where Greer had first penetrated the grounds, also needed some serious attention. It should have had a dual-focus, night-vision surveillance camera mounted above it, and the feed should go either to a control center in the main house or at least to the front gate, which was manned twenty-four hours anyway. Greer had mentioned a few of these things to al-Kalli, who’d simply said, “Do what you think is necessary,” and then kind of brushed him aside. Greer had the sense that something else was really on his mind.

He could guess what it was. It was that weird damn menagerie he kept. The place gave Greer, a guy who had seen plenty of bad shit in his time, the creeps. From the outside, you couldn’t hear or see or smell a thing; it was sealed up tighter than a drum. But at least once a day, Greer felt he ought to look in as part of his routine patrol. This morning, he’d found that paleontologist, Carter Cox, in there with Rashid. Rashid, in his usual white coat, was trying to explain something about one of the animals — the one that had spat the green crap on Greer’s neck — and Cox, Greer could tell, was just waiting for him to finish with the blather so he could tell him what was really up.

“The air,” Cox finally said, “is very pure — I understand that.”

“We have the best filters, imported from Germany,” Rashid rattled on, “they are made for nuclear facilities.”

Cox had glanced over at Greer, nodded, then replied to the indignant Rashid. “The air is too pure,” Carter said. “That’s part of the problem.”

“How can good air be bad?” Rashid challenged him.

“These creatures have very elaborate breathing mechanisms,” he said. “They actually need to act as their own filters, to take in and process the particulate matter. It acts as a kind of stimulant.”

Rashid looked baffled.

“It keeps their airways and lungs clear and operative.”

“The humidity does that,” Rashid said. “We keep a constant level in the facility at all times.”

Cox looked increasingly impatient. Greer had the feeling this Rashid guy was putting up nothing but resistance. “The saichania—”

“The basilisk,” Rashid corrected him.

“Okay, the basilisk is capable of humidifying the air for itself. It needs to do that. If the air comes in too wet, it just gets wetter once the basilisks take a breath, which is why they’re having so much trouble with their respiration.”

Greer wondered how Cox could know any of this. And yet he had the sense that he did. And even Greer could see that these animals were in a bad way. They lumbered around in their pens like they were drunk; they dropped clumps of fur on the carefully raked ground; the bird — if you could call that massive flying contraption a bird — left bright red feathers floating in its wake. Greer could never wait to get back outside again and clear his own lungs; the place smelled vaguely like an animal shelter where he’d worked one summer as a kid.

But those animals had been regularly put down.

When he was done with his rounds of the estate, Greer usually hung out on the grounds for a while; he wanted to look like he was earning his money and not just taking pay-offs to keep his mouth shut. And he thought, if he put his mind to it, he might actually be able to make something of this gig; he had a natural bent for security concerns (having broken into plenty of houses up until now), and if he did this right, maybe he could think about setting up his own kind of Silver Bear operation. He could hire other vets, even a couple of the guys he knew from the rehab clinic, line up a bunch of rich clients, and then just sit back and collect the money. Wouldn’t Sadowski be pissed about that?

He’d been looking for Sadowski ever since those other fine Sons of Liberty — Tate and Florio — had tried to take him down in the parking lot at the VA. And now that he’d done pretty much everything he could do today at the estate, he figured he’d stop off at the Blue Bayou and see if he could stir up a little trouble there. He was dying to show Sadowski that he was on top of his game and not backing down.

The nice thing about the Bayou was that, no matter what time you came in, it was always midnight inside. The lights were low, except on the runway, and the music was loud, and the bartender Zeke always had a wide selection of choice pharmaceuticals. Greer took a stool, ordered a beer, and looked around at the few lame oddballs hanging around at this hour. On the runway, a girl with long blonde hair was down on all fours, with her ass high in the air, swaying to Aerosmith’s “Crazy.”

“Haven’t seen you around as much,” Zeke said, mopping up a wet spot on the bar.

“Been working.”

Zeke laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Why did everybody think the very idea was such a big damn joke?

“Haven’t seen much of your old pal, either,” Zeke added.

“You mean Sadowski?”

“Yeah. Maybe he’s moonlighting somewhere.”

Possible. “He’s got so many talents,” Greer said evenly, “it’s hard to say.”

“Ginger says he’s got something big going down.”

“She does, huh?” That was interesting. “She here by any chance?”

Zeke looked around the place. “She must be in back.” The Blue Room. “With a customer.”

Greer could wait. He drank his beer, watched the blonde girl skillfully play an old man until he’d dropped probably his whole month’s social security on the stage, and wondered what Sadowski’s big operation was. Were the Sons of Liberty planning a Bring-the-Family Fourth of July barbecue?

Ten minutes later, he saw a geeky guy with masking tape on his glasses — what was it with these guys, hadn’t they ever even heard about Scotch tape? — being led out of the back room by his hand; Ginger was wearing an electric blue tube top, a matching thong, and glittering blue platform shoes. She was self-conscious, he knew, about her height and always liked to add a few inches.

She spotted Greer immediately, but she wasn’t done working the geek yet. She held his hand that extra split second, like she just couldn’t bear to let go, then smiled and sauntered away, letting him work himself up for another lap dance later.

“Hi,” she said to Greer, sliding onto the stool next to his. “If you’re looking for Stan, he’s not here.”

“Why would I be looking for Stan when you’re right here?”

She raised a finger to Zeke, who brought her that green drink she favored. “Why’s he so mad at you, anyway?”

“He’s mad at me?” Greer asked.

“You cheat him?”

Greer wondered just how much she knew about their past activities — most notably, the home burglaries her boyfriend had helped set up. Knowing how bright Sadowski was, probably everything. But then Greer could kick himself for ever having told him about the zoo on al-Kalli’s estate; that wasn’t very bright, either. Yeah, he’d sort of been in shock when he first saw it, but that was no excuse. Information was power; never share it unless you have to. Greer knew that he needed to start following his own advice more closely.

“What is that stuff, anyway?” he asked, just to change the subject.

She took the glass away from her lips. “Crème de men-the,” she said. Her lips were still frosted with it. “Want a taste?”

Greer didn’t move, but Ginger leaned in and brushed his lips with her own. He’d tasted it once before, and that time, too, it had been on her lips. It was the last time she’d given him a lap dance. Maybe she remembered, too. Maybe that’s why she’d just done it again.

“Zeke tells me Stan’s got something big going down.”

She made a fake frown, balled up a wet cocktail napkin, and tossed it at Zeke, who was standing down the bar.

“What’d I do?” he said.

“Tattletale.” But she didn’t look as though she really cared. “All I know is, he’s too busy to pick me up after work anymore. He’s too busy to fix the muffler on my car — he’s been saying he’ll do it for me all month. He comes over to my place at around four in the morning most nights, expects me to service him — I told him, there are plenty of girls out there who get paid for that — and he stinks.” She made a face and said, “Phew!”

“He’s been working out at a gym?”

“He’s been working out his trigger finger.” She sipped from her drink while scanning the two new customers who had just let a bolt of late-day sunlight stream into the club. One of them was black; Greer wondered if she’d still risk violating Sadowski’s code and give the guy a lap dance. “All his clothes,” she went on, idly, “smell like gunpowder and that other stuff — what is it?”

“You mean cordite?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Just hunting wouldn’t do that. A couple of shots popped off in the great outdoors was nothing. If your clothes reeked of smoke and cordite, then you had to be in a firing range. And Greer knew which one it would be.

“I told him,” Ginger said, “that a bunch of my girl-friends were going to Las Vegas for the Fourth of July weekend and I told him we should go, too. Elton John’s doing a show there, and I was thinking of using some of his songs in my act; it would be really great for me professionally.”

Greer had to remind himself that Ginger did not consider herself a stripper: she was a dancer and performance artist (who just happened to take off most of her clothes). “You want to go to Vegas,” Greer said, “I’ll take you to Vegas.” What might yank Sadowski’s crank more than that?

“You will?” Ginger said, quickly calculating all the angles. “This weekend?”

“That’s a little short notice.”

“But that’s when Elton John’s going to be there. And Stan said there was no way he could go this weekend. The Sons of Liberty — I call ’em the Sons of Bitches,” she said, with a laugh, “but he hates that. Anyway, he says the Sons of Liberty are staging their big operation, whatever that means. I asked if he meant a circle jerk, and he almost took a swing at me.” She got serious. “I told him, if he ever did hit me, that was it. I’ve been hit before, and I never wait around for the second punch.”

The two new customers had taken a table by the runway and were waiting for the next dancer to come out. Greer could see that Ginger was sizing them up and anxious to get back into action.

“Am I keeping you?”

“Huh?” She turned her face to him. “Oh, yeah, well, the manager gets pissed at me if I sit around too long.”

Greer knew what she was getting at.

“You want to go back to the Blue Room?” she asked with a sly smile. “I could give you my pre-Vegas special.”

“Save it for the Bellagio,” he said, sliding off his stool and giving his left leg that extra second or two to kick back into gear. “I’ve got to be somewhere.”

The Liberty Firing Range. Suddenly he had an overwhelming urge to do some target practice.

“You mean it about Las Vegas?” she said. “Because Stan and me, we’re not exactly married, if you know what I’m saying.”

Greer had to think about it for a moment but then he realized that, yes, he was serious. “Yeah. Let’s do it in a couple of weeks.”

“But what about Elton John?”

“He can come, too,” Greer said, grazing her cheek with one finger and then heading for the door. He tried his best not to limp; he always hated the thought that somebody would be watching him walk away and thinking about his damn limp.

On the way to the Liberty Range, he had to stop and get gas. He never could do that without thinking about Iraq — about the towering oil derricks and the burning oil fields. Twenty dollars. Twenty-five. Thirty. The pump just kept on ringing. Christ, what was the point of going over there if they didn’t just take all the goddamn oil that they wanted? The army should have just come in and put up a nice big—very big — electrified fence around all the drilling and processing plants, and left a battalion of soldiers to guard each one. Who cared what happened to the rest of the country? The Iraqis didn’t seem to give a shit, and they sure as hell didn’t want the Americans around anymore. Greer never could understand exactly what the point of that whole exercise had been, and when his leg acted up, as it was doing now, he understood even less.

Going to the firing range wasn’t exactly as easy, or as safe, as heading into neutral territory like the Bayou. Here, if he found Sadowski, he’d find him armed, and surrounded by his fellow Sons of Liberty. One thing made sense now that Greer thought about it — if you’re a Son of Liberty, wouldn’t the Fourth of July be the perfect time to pull off your grand patriotic demonstration?

In the parking lot, he wasn’t sure if he could spot Sadowski’s car — there were half a dozen black SUVs, some Harleys, and a new Hummer 3—just like the one Tate and Florio had been driving. He felt like he’d just hit a trifecta. He drove down the block, turned around so that his car would be heading toward the nearest freeway entrance, then parked under a burned-out street lamp. There was no point in trying to bring his piece inside; there were metal detectors on the way in, and you had to surrender any firearms at the front counter — before you even got inside the security door. If you wanted to shoot some practice rounds with your gun, they’d give it back to you once you were inside, but Greer wasn’t shelling out any money to step onto the range today.

At the front desk, there was no sign of Burt Pitt. An old man with a glass eye was running the place, and through the tinted bulletproof glass Greer could see only one guy on the range. So what accounted for all the cars outside? Greer could guess.

“If you want to shoot, I’ll need to see your driver’s license and one other form of photo ID,” the old man mumbled, but Greer said, “Maybe later. Just want to get some stuff right now.”

He picked up a wire basket and started to rummage around the stacks of ammo piled up by the counters, the scopes and mounts and visors and gloves. There was the muffled roar of gunshots from the range — Greer guessed that he was hearing a double-pump, twelve-gauge shotgun — but nobody was in the store area, either. The old man was counting the till, and Greer gradually made his way toward the back, where the bathrooms — and the safety instruction classroom — were located off a long hall, out of sight of the front desk.

The classroom door was closed, and the sign said SAFETY SESSION IN PROGRESS. NO ADMITTANCE. Greer put his ear to the door, and he could hear Burt’s voice. But what he could make out sure didn’t sound like a routine lecture on proper gun handling. Burt was keeping his voice down, but Greer heard him say, “Timers all have to be coordinated precisely.” You didn’t use timers on any guns Greer knew of. Then his voice grew fainter. He must have been pacing up and down the front of the classroom while he talked. The next time he got close, Greer heard him say, “And don’t get some Japanese piece of shit — get a Timex.”

There was a round of laughter from inside — sounded like maybe a dozen guys — and then Burt said, “If they don’t go off when they’re supposed to, and where they’re supposed to, it’ll be too easy to contain. Once it gets going, it’s got to be completely unstoppable.” He was standing right on the other side of the door; Greer stopped breathing.

Somebody in the room asked something else that Greer couldn’t make out, and Burt replied by saying, “All the forecasts are good — Santa Anas if we’re lucky, hot and dry either way.”

“How about a break?” somebody called out. “I got to make a pit stop.”

“Good idea,” Burt said. “I soaked through my Depends ten minutes ago.”

There was more laughter, and then, almost before Greer had time to pull his ear away from the door, the handle was turning. He whipped around and ducked into the nearest door behind him — the ladies’ room — just as he heard Burt and the other Sons of Liberty taking their break. It was a small room, with two stalls, a cracked mirror, and a withered bar of soap on the sink. Greer couldn’t imagine that it did much business. But then it occurred to him that it was possible — if unlikely — that the Sons of Liberty included a daughter or two. Shit. He ducked into the far stall, locked it, and prayed.

Burt’s voice was coming from the hall right outside—“perfect conditions,” he was saying “better than you could ask for”—and then, as he went into the neighboring men’s room, it became muffled, but still clear, and coming from overhead. Greer glanced up, where he saw a flat, dusty vent. A Son or two had entered the men’s room with him. A urinal flushed. Burt was saying something about a test run he’d made. Greer gently stepped on top of the toilet seat and raised his head to the vent level.

“—and the choppers made it there in less than fifteen minutes. I timed it.” His voice came in loud and clear.

“But we had some fun that day anyway,” another man said, “didn’t we?”

Greer knew that voice, too — it was Sadowski.

Burt chuckled. “Might have had more if we hadn’t been interrupted.”

Greer wondered what the hell they were talking about; he didn’t remember Sadowski ever telling him anything that would correlate.

A third man said something Greer had trouble hearing — something about aliens. Somebody was taking a loud, splashing leak.

“If we set it up right,” Burt said, “they will.”

“Make sure you bring all the stuff and leave it the way you’re supposed to,” Sadowski said. He added something else that was lost under the sound of rushing water from the faucet. At least somebody’s washing his hands, Greer thought; those Sons of Liberty didn’t strike him as the most hygienic bunch.

“Incoming!” he heard loudly as somebody rapped hard on the ladies’ room door. He just managed to duck his head as he heard a guy barge in. “It’s empty,” the intruder called out to someone else in the hall, then Greer heard a zipper being pulled down and the door to the other stall — thank God — being flung open. But what if this guy’s pal joined him?

Greer teetered on top of the toilet seat, his left leg starting to quake; it was one thing to stand on top of it, it was another to have to crouch down and hold your balance.

The guy lifted the toilet seat with his foot, then let loose with a powerful stream that went on and on and on. How many beers, Greer thought, his palms flat against the cold tile wall, his leg cramping, did this guy have in him?

The bathroom door swung open again — Greer could hear several men horsing around in the hallway — and another man came in. Greer wondered what the hell to do — maybe he could put his feet down now, slowly, and the new guy would think he’d been there all along. There was no way he could burst out and run for it — his leg was going to need a few minutes just to get fully operational again.

But the stall door stayed latched; Greer held his breath as he turned his head. There was about a half-inch slit between the door and the side of the stall. Through it he could just make out the back of a guy standing in front of the mirror, lovingly combing and styling a thick head of oily black hair. On his forearm, he had a tattoo of the Liberty Bell.

It was Florio.

Which meant Tate was probably the guy still pissing in the next stall.

Which also meant that if they found him there, he stood almost no chance of leaving in one piece. Or leaving at all.

“You think it’s gonna work?” Tate said, finally finishing off, then audibly zipping up.

“Who the fuck cares?” Florio said, patting down some stray hairs. “If it does, that’s great. If it doesn’t, so what? A lot of rich shits find out they’re not so rich anymore.”

Tate laughed and came over to the mirror. “Can I borrow that?” he said, reaching for the comb.

“No,” Florio said, sticking it into the back pocket of his jeans. “What do you need it for anyway?”

Florio sauntered out, and Tate, unfazed, ran some cold water on his hands, then slicked his own thinning brown hair straight back on his skull. Greer felt the toilet seat he was perched on starting to tilt, and he prayed it wouldn’t fall. Tate opened his mouth and put his face closer to the mirror, looking, it appeared, for something stuck in his teeth. The tremor in Greer’s left leg was fast becoming a full-blown shake. Tate put a finger in his mouth and pulled a cheek to one side, inspecting something within. Greer’s hand, sweating, started to slip on the tiles, and his left knee felt like somebody had just lighted a match inside it. The seat creaked, softly.

But Tate must have heard it because he glanced backward in the mirror.

“Somebody there?”

Greer let his legs slip down to the floor.

“Yeah,” he grunted.

“Shit, I didn’t know anybody was in here.”

Tate bent down to look under the stall door. He could see Greer’s feet facing the wrong way.

“Got a prostate the size of a softball,” Greer muttered in mock frustration.

“That so?” Tate said, a tinge of suspicion still in his voice.

Greer knew he had to say something to allay it. “Tell Burt I’ll be there when this fuckin’ dam breaks.”

The mention of Burt seemed to do it. “Yeah, well, don’t take all night,” Tate said, taking hold of the door handle, “we’ve still gotta get our final instructions.”

And then he was gone — and Greer could lean forward with his head against the wall and let out a low moan of agony. His hands went to his leg and squeezed it tight, trying to block the pain signals from making it up to his brain.

He could still hear some commotion in the hall outside, and he waited till it died down. Then he fumbled in his pocket, found some Vicodin, and left the stall. He listened again for any noise in the hall — there was none now — then ran some cold water into his cupped hand and swallowed the pills. He opened the door slowly, poked his head out. The classroom door was shut, and he could hear muffled voices inside.

He walked past and back to the merchandise and display cases. The old man at the counter was collecting the lone shooter’s safety gear and settling up the bill. As Greer moved past them toward the exit, the old man said, “Looking for something special?”

“Nah, just looking,” Greer said. He went out the door and into the still hot night air. He limped down the boulevard, praying that the painkillers would kick in soon, and got into his battered Mustang. The only thing sparkling about it was the new window on the driver’s side, the one he’d had to replace after Tate had taken it out with the baseball bat.

Tate. And his Hummer 3.

In that same instant, his hand reached under the seat and found the Weight Watchers box with the Beretta inside.

He put the car into gear and drove up slowly along the curb until he was just short of the Liberty Firing Range parking lot. Then, leaving it in gear, the door half-open, he walked casually into the lot. Stopping at the Hummer, he looked around, saw no one, and then, with the butt of the gun, tapped, hard, on the driver’s-side window.

The horn started bleating, the headlights flashing.

Even though there was no way the glass in this Hummer would be the same bulletproof and shock-resistant consistency of the ones in Iraq, it had still withstood that first tap. Greer stepped back, and this time took a harder swing. The glass splintered, but held again. Shit. He bent his elbow back and really whacked it this time, right on the fracture, and the window dissolved into a thousand tiny blue pebbles, some spilling into the leather interior, some raining onto the concrete.

But now that he had the right method, he strolled around to the other side and took that window out, too. That blaring horn was deafening.

Then he stuck the gun back in his belt, ducked back into his idling Mustang, and — after carefully checking in his side mirror for passing traffic — pulled away.

As he sailed through the green light at the corner, he could hear angry voices spilling into the Liberty parking lot, and whether it was from the pills or the sheer joy, his leg already felt better.