High Country Nocturne

Chapter Twenty-seven

A century earlier, the Great War was raging. It swept away four empires, sixteen million lives, the first great era of globalization, and it changed everything. The belief of constant progress in the West was forever destroyed. A foolish, harsh peace set up an even deadlier world war twenty years later.

We live in the shadow of the Great War still, even if most people don’t realize it. Right down to the vernacular: no man’s land. Trench coats. Blotto. Brass Hats. Shell shock. Push up the daisies.

It was the last war fought by poets.

In Flanders fields the poppies grow…

Dulcet est. Decorum Est.

Kipling, who lost a son in the war, echoed the book of Ecclesiastes, providing the words engraved in the ubiquitous British monuments: Their name liveth forevermore.

He also captured the cynicism of the later war-poets and the Lost Generation:

If any question why we died

Tell them, because our fathers lied.

My grandfather was too old to be drafted and already married. Grandmother told me much about the war when I was a child, especially how she blamed it on “Kaiser Bill.” Newer scholarship would dispute it but I doubt that would change her mind. She was ahead of her time in blaming Woodrow Wilson for the flawed peace. Some revisionists argue that the United States should not have entered the Great War at all.

Arizona was only two years past statehood when war broke out in Europe. Phoenix’s population was about fifteen thousand. The cotton farmers made big money from the war. Frank Luke, born in Phoenix, became the state’s first ace and the first airman from anywhere in America to win the Medal of Honor. He died in action in 1918. He was twenty-one years old.

Their name liveth forevermore, but Kipling has been out of fashion for decades and is mainly remembered as an apologist for British imperialism.

I meditated on these events as I crouched behind a neighbor’s bougainvillea with a clear view of our house. In my hands was the close-quarters battle receiver M-4 carbine with a night scope. To that I had added a titanium suppressor so I could work with as little noise as possible. I locked and loaded a thirty-round magazine and clicked the fire selector to semi-auto.

It was two a.m. Tuesday.

Earlier, walking back to the car beneath CityScape, the parking garage had been empty of people. Too empty. No one was following me, right? I couldn’t be sure. I was glad to drive out of that vast concrete crypt.

It was too late to visit the address Melton had given me. So I went to Durant’s and sat at the dark, comfy bar, let them fix me a martini and steak. It was the first real meal I had eaten since Saturday night.

Sharon called to tell me nothing had changed in Lindsey’s condition except that they had ruled out the worst viruses. The fever persisted.

As the Beefeater burned my throat, there was no risk of being that cold, detached spectator. The world is full of imponderables but that never stopped me from stewing, especially as some of the doctors’ warnings and comments came back. How the surgery had removed torn flesh and bone. How another round on the operating table might be required to drain the wound, to “revise” it for clean edges to promote healing…

“You okay, David?”

It was the bartender. I nodded and realized my shoulders and head had dangerously slumped.

“Yes.”

Better to channel Lindsey’s uncommon blend of wit, intelligence, and street sense. What would she tell me now?

Stay safe.

Come home to me. (Back at you, baby).

Don’t wait for Strawberry Death to find you.

Find her first.

The only way to do that, lacking Kate Vare’s cooperation, was to lay a trap. So after relieving Sharon at Mister Joe’s, I stayed only thirty minutes and left for home. I parked the Prelude prominently in front of the house, went inside, and took another nap.

Strawberry Death liked to work under cover of darkness. The night before, she had visited our office on Grand Avenue. Maybe tonight she would come here. As Vare said, I had something she wanted.

At a quarter to two, I dressed all in black and set up my sniper’s position. It was down in the forties, cold for Phoenix. A wind was coming from the north, fresh and enchanting. I had always loved these winds from the High Country, but there was no time to dream.

The bougainvillea was more than three feet tall and lush. I smelled the dirt beneath me. This had been farmland a century ago, with the closest houses being the bungalows that still stood, beautifully restored, two blocks away. My spot was only a few feet from our carport. If all went according to plan, I could claim I was in the carport. No Maricopa County jury would convict me. Kate Vare could suck it.

The neighbors were long asleep and had no dogs. The street was empty except for the Prelude and the comforting yellow glow of two streetlights. No FBI watchers. Maybe Horace Mann had a tracking device on the car and didn’t think he had to worry about me. That was fine.

It was 2:42 by my watch when headlights swung off Third Avenue and a car crept down the street. It was another dark Chevy four-door, the kind of car you got at a rental outfit. Passing our house, it sped up, crossed Fifth Avenue with a rolling stop, and continued another block to Seventh where it signaled a right turn.

The night-vision binoculars allowed me to get a tag number.

I was about to relax for a long night when headlights came from the west, from Seventh Avenue. The driver approached very slowly, stopping for a full minute at Fifth Avenue even though there was no cross traffic. Then the car crossed Fifth and coasted through our block. A person could walk faster.

Arizona was a cheapskate state with no front tag. But the car looked the same. My heart was thudding against my breastbone even though I was sure my position was hidden. The car came to the stop sign at Third Avenue, signaled, and turned north.

Five minutes, no more, and headlights again painted Cypress Street from the east. Same Chevy, same tag. It pulled to the curb two houses beyond our place and the lights switched off.

I watched through the binoculars, which were little help against the darkened glass of the vehicle. Nobody got out. This was not a neighbor getting home from a party in Scottsdale or late-arriving guests.

The muted sound of a car door opening. A head emerged and looked directly at me. Beneath the watch cap, was the wholesome pretty face of the assassin. There was no uncertainty. It was her.

The sensible response was to call the police. Surely I wasn’t going to start a firefight on Cypress Street. Instead, I set down the binoculars, picked up the carbine, and steadied it for a good aim and to prevent it from kicking up once I opened fire. My back was against the neighbor’s wall and my knees were raised to support my hands gripping the weapon.

Strawberry Death was forty feet away, all in black, moving in my direction. She walked down the sidewalk toward our house as if she were taking a very early morning stroll. I could have taken her down right then but waited. I was in the bushes of the house to the east; she was coming from the west. Then I realized my mistake.

Our Spanish-Colonial Revival style house faced Cypress Street in a backward L shape, with the short leg of the L being the master bedroom sticking out beyond the living room. It was closest to me and would block my view of her at the front door.

I could have set up at the house to the west, but the shrubbery was not as full. I could have set up across the street, but they had a dog. I was stuck.

Sure enough, when she made a ninety-degree turn and walked up our front walk, I lost contact.

I made myself stay. The front door was solid wood from 1928. Even if she were successful in prying it open, the alarm would go off. So what would she do? What would I do? Knock to see if anyone was home. If they were there and answered, shoot them, and call it a night. But that wasn’t her style. Too much potential noise. Not enough fun.

She had promises to keep.

So she would look through the picture window, see the darkened house, and make her way to the backyard to disable the alarm and come through the back door. To intercept her, I would have to leave my shooting position and go through the carport on my side of the house. But that was only if she went on the far side of the house, which would require climbing a higher wall that was close to the neighboring windows.

Suddenly, she reappeared, coming across our lawn toward me. She crouched and moved under our bedroom window, careful not to step in the flowerbed and leave tread marks from her shoes. She briefly rose up and peered inside. I had left the lights off and the blinds drawn, so she would see nothing but darkness.

Another ten feet and she would reach the dark sanctuary of the empty carport and beyond it a rickety fence with a gate to the backyard.

I could have painted her with the laser, ordered her to freeze.

No.

My mouth silently formed the word, “police.” And then, noiselessly, “halt.” I aimed for her chest, took in a breath, let it out slowly, and smoothly squeezed the trigger.

Three rounds came out fast as a lightning strike.

Sure, I wanted to empty the magazine into her, but that would have risked stray rounds going through the houses of neighbors. This rifle was good to five hundred meters. So I did one pull, fired a short burst.

With the suppressor, the carbine made a sound like pebbles falling.

The impact threw her backward like a discarded doll. She landed on her back in the grass and didn’t move.

I picked up the spent cartridge cases and slipped them in my pocket. I would place them in the carport to support my story for the police: I fired protecting my home from an armed burglar.

Then I heard a sound that was half gasp and half muffled scream. I wondered if the neighbors were enjoying middle-of-the-night sex.

In that instant of absent-mindedness, flashes came from the woman on the ground. Was she using a flashlight?

No.

The arms and leaves of the bougainvillea shattered. Something heavy and fast sped past my cheek. Something pulled quickly on my sleeve.

It all happened in silence, except for a slight spitting sound, the snap of shrubbery, and the smashing of bullets on the wall behind me.

The heap on the lawn had rolled over and was firing at me, using a silencer.

I fell to the ground, tried to make myself part of it, remembered everything I had read about the infantryman and the dirt below him.

She was wearing ballistic armor. The sound I had heard was her recovering from my bullets hitting her vest but only knocking the air out of her.

They made fun of my Colt Python, my “wheel gun,” but if I had shot her with the.357 she wouldn’t have gotten up, ballistic vest or not. Now it was too late.

My heart was about to gallop out of my chest but I steadied the M-4 and squeezed off another short burst. It stitched up the lawn. But she was already up and moving. I aimed but she dodged. The risk of a stray shot was too great. That wasn’t even my biggest fear. That would be that she was coming to kill me. She was better than me. Way better.

By the time I could get a good aim, she was in the Chevy. The brake lights glowed red. I dropped to one knee and fired at the back window. It crumpled and the sound of more pebbles broke the silence of the street. My wits returned and I put another round in the left taillight. Then I was running for the Prelude as she sped off. The sidewalk was painted with a blood trail. I had hit her with effect at least once.

The first time George Washington saw combat, he commented, “I have heard the bullets whistle, and, believe me, there is something charming in the sound.” I hated to disagree with the Father of Our Country, but there was nothing charming in the whistling I had heard. It was somehow made more sinister by our firefight with suppressors. I checked my sleeve. It had been sliced as with a knife. Fortunately, I wasn’t bleeding.

She turned south on Fifth Avenue, screeching rubber, by the time I had the Prelude cranked up. I followed with my lights off. She was nearly to McDowell, her lights on, but the telltale rear light shot out. The car swung east onto the thoroughfare.

I could call 911, but that would eventually bring Kate Vare and questions I didn’t want to answer now that I was in pursuit. So I left the phone in my pocket and jammed the engine up to seventy to make the green light. I flipped on the headlights and slid in a CD of Ornette Coleman. Charlie Haden was on bass. “Change of the Century.” “Lonely Woman.” The improvisation, eccentric chord structures, and dissonances calmed me.

From the time we began dating, I taught Lindsey jazz and history, how to make and enjoy a dry martini. She taught me about computers and contemporary music, good stuff not pop crap. She taught me about Russian literature. It was a profitable exchange. We laughed a lot. God, I wanted her back.

The light at Central almost caught me but I made it through on yellow, the Phoenix Art Museum flashing past. Light rail wasn’t operating this late and few cars were on the wide roads. The north-south grid changed from numbered avenues and drives to numbered streets and places.

I closed the distance with the Chevy to three blocks. Strawberry Death drove straight east, keeping to the speed limit. I did, too. The secret to driving in the city of Phoenix was if you stayed at the speed limit, you would hit all the green lights. There were exceptions-the Piestawa freeway, Forty-fourth Street, a few others-but in general it worked.

I fingered the tear on the left sleeve of my jacket where a bullet had passed through. A few inches in the other direction and I would be dead in the neighbor’s shrubbery. Why didn’t I think to put on a bulletproof vest?

In only a few minutes, we had traveled nearly three miles and she turned left on Twenty-fourth Street, another insanely wide highway masquerading as a city street. If she was wounded, it wasn’t serious enough to affect her driving. My fusillade into the rear window apparently hadn’t harmed her further.

A Phoenix Police SUV slipped past me as we crossed Thomas Road and for a moment I thought he would pull her over for the darkened taillight, the suspiciously missing rear glass. Then I could back him up and this nightmare would be over. But he turned onto a side street. Going to a call.

When I was a little boy, much of this area had still been citrus groves with creeping subdivisions and good new schools attracting the middle class. You could still buy oranges and grapefruits at roadside stands. Now much of it had turned shabby, lawns gone weedy or left to become dirt, another linear slum in the making.

The toffs who made it a point of pride never to go south of Camelback, or even Bell Road many miles to the north, called this area “the Sonoran Biltmore,” a slur for the changing demographics.

The real Biltmore was getting closer. We hit green at Indian School, Campbell and Highland, then the fancy midrise condos, offices, and Ritz-Carlton at Twenty-fourth and Camelback Road loomed up.

Camelback turned red and I slipped onto a residential side street behind the glassy Esplanade office tower. The low-slung houses here once had views of the mountains. Then a future governor, developer Fife Symington, built towers terribly out of scale with their surroundings and this street began a slow decline. Symington later got in trouble with the law but he’d made his money and wrecked a neighborhood. So very Phoenix.

For me, the street provided a sanctuary as I turned off the lights and did a one-eighty, then slid slowly back toward Twenty-fourth.

The light was green now and the Chevy was a block ahead, passing Biltmore Fashion Park. Where the hell was she going?

Less than half a mile on, I got the answer: She turned right into the entrance to the Arizona Biltmore. I saw that the guardhouse was unmanned and flipped off the headlights again. The Chevy drove on. We were enveloped in shadowy trees, perfectly manicured lawns, and very expensive real estate.

The hotel was some distance from the street. Many people thought it was the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, but the architect was actually his former student Albert Chase McArthur. Either way, the resort was a jewel. Fancy houses surrounded it, too. The Chevy took a right on Biltmore Estates Drive, a parkway that wound a lazy half-circle around the golf course and was lined by expansive older mansions. Plenty of diamonds here. Historic diamonds. Conflict diamonds. Legitimate diamonds.

What the hell was Strawberry Death doing here?

A few years ago, some of the local leaders had convened a series of salons to discuss big ideas for Phoenix’s future. They had been held at a developer’s house on this street and I had been invited as the token historian. Not much had been accomplished other than good booze and company. This particular house had hosted Ronald and Nancy Reagan as guests in the 1950s.

We drove past that place and the Chevy slid into a circular drive of another property. I coasted to a halt, car lights still off. I was unable to see through the landscaping but soon lights started coming on in the house. Making note of the address, I turned around and left, amazed that this fifteen-year-old Honda Prelude hadn’t attracted attention.

A mile south, back in the Sonoran Biltmore, I pulled into the parking lot of a tumbledown shopping strip and tried to figure out my next move. The answer came with a tap on the driver’s window. It was a skinny young man in a hoodie, an Anglo. I almost shot him.

“Do you have any cash to spare?”

“No.”

“Is there anything I could do to earn it?”

I looked him over. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old but he was getting by hustling on the streets.

“Get in the car,” I said. As he walked around, I stowed the carbine in the back seat.

He sat in the passenger side and used his hands to slick back his onion head of dark hair.

“Are you a cop?” He zeroed in on the Python in its holster on my belt.

I shook my head. “Do I look like a cop?”

He studied me. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’re a cop.”

He pulled up his hoodie and shirt. “I ain’t wearing no wire. I’m not the police. I used to be a student.”

“Why did you quit?”

“The money ran out,” he said. “I got to like the meth way too much. Let’s drive somewhere private.”

“We can do this here. How much?”

“Twenty-five bucks to suck your cock, forty if you want me to swallow. It’s better than you’ll get from your wife.”

I doubted that. As I wrote on a notepad, he shivered in the seat. I peeled off four twenties and held them out.

I said, “You have a phone?”

“Yeah.”

“You can have the money if you call this number and read these words, only these words, and then hang up.” I flipped on the dome light.

The number went to Silent Witness, which was less likely to have advanced tracing equipment than calling 911 directly. His time on the phone would be short, but long enough to say that he had spotted the woman who shot the deputy’s wife Saturday night, the one on television, and she’s at this address right now.

He read the note, moving his lips. “Seriously?”

I ran my fingers over the twenties. “Easy money. Then you get lost and forget you ever saw me.”

He reached for the bills but I pulled them away. “After you make the call.”

The boy pulled out a cell phone and started to dial.