Judas Horse_ An FBI Special Agent Ana Grey Mystery - April Smith [122]
Before, the forest was treacherous.
Now, it is incendiary.
“Figured you wouldn’t leave town without saying good-bye.”
“Course not,” says Stone, climbing down the slope. “I owe you, big.”
“No problem, it was a lot of laughs,” says Mr. Terminate. “I see you still got your shadow.”
“Hi, John,” I say, just so he can ignore me one last time.
Stone bums a cigarette and puts one foot up on the log.
“Megan is dead.”
“Really? Oh shit! Oh man!”
Toby’s eyes grow round in surprise. “Deepest condolences, my friend. What happened?”
“They mowed her down. About how many bullets would you say she took, Ana Grey?”
“I don’t know, Dick.”
“When I was on the Los Angeles bank robbery squad, we ambushed a gang of bandits in an alley. The guy driving the getaway car—it was a convertible—took a hundred thirty-two hits. He was hamburger. Those were the good old days, am I right? I’ll make them suffer a thousand times worse. A hundred thousand. I should have followed the very first rule: Never negotiate with terrorists. It’s the Bureau I’m talkin’ about.”
“We know exactly what you’re talkin’ about.” Toby lays trembling fingers on his friend’s arm.
“But, no,” says Stone, squeezing his face up. “I talked to them, and she walks into an assassination.”
I stare at the thick bed of mulch under my feet. I am thinking how many papery layers of brown oak leaves have been laid down over how many centuries and with what patience, and about the beetles gnawing dumbly through the fertile dregs.
“Make no mistake,” says Mr. Terminate, his growl downshifting to first. “She was a good lady.”
Stone smokes some more.
“Anything I can do?” the biker asks.
“I have some thoughts.”
Mr. Terminate nods. A switchblade appears like the tongue of a snake from his hand.
“Then we split the turquoise. Three ways.”
Stone sighs. “There is no turquoise. It’s just a rumor, John. A story I made up to mess with their minds.”
“I knew it.” Toby slaps his own leg.
Mr. Terminate is not convinced. “Why are you carrying a shovel?”
“To cover up…whatever.” He jerks his head toward me.
Whatever’s left.
Mr. Terminate considers. He gets up from the log. Yeah, okay. He walks toward me, the knife held low.
“It’s cash,” I say.
“Come again?”
“Dick calls it ‘the turquoise,’ but that’s a cover, so he can cheat his best friends. He stole a hundred and fifty thousand dollars from the FBI, and it’s buried right there.”
Mr. Terminate squints at Stone. “You wouldn’t cheat me.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” cries Stone, fed up and totally frustrated. “This is the turquoise!” And he pulls the PalmPilot from his pocket. In the sage forest light, the plastic cover sparkles like sea green semi-precious gems.
“O-kay,” says Mr. Terminate slowly.
Toby blinks. “It’s blue.”
“You dumb fucks. This is my manifesto. This is the truth. This will sink the FBI. Names, records, and documents going back to the seventies, when they fucked Megan and they fucked me, and who was in charge of the undercover operation? My own boss. Peter Abbott. I’ve got his signature on memos that approved the whole damn bag of dirty tricks. But that’s nothing. That’s just the warm-up. I’ve got the drop on his fucking corrupt father, too.”
Mr. Terminate has planted his feet like a gunslinger.
“I stood by you. All these years, I delivered the goods.”
“I’ll get you the money,” Dick Stone says impatiently. “After we take care of business.”
Mr. Terminate isn’t stupid. “You didn’t have to bring her all this way to do the deed.”
“I came to collect some papers I’ve got stashed. Buried in a metal box. I’ll show you.”
“Papers?”
“Travel documents.”
“Cash! He’s lying to you, John. He’s a psycho liar.”
“I’ll bet it’s over here,” says cocky Mr. Terminate as he heads for a boulder veined with rose quartz. The rock is standing in a growth of chokecherry. The distinctive