The Driver

“Get out,” Brady said.

* * *

Trip was waiting in the car. Milton leant across towards him and used his right hand to reach inside his coat. His fingers touched the butt of a small gun. He pulled it out. It was a small .25 calibre semi-auto, a Saturday Night Special. Milton slipped the gun into his own pocket.

“You’re an idiot,” Milton said. “What were you thinking?”

He stared out of the window. “I had to do something,” he said with a surly inflection that made Milton think how young he really was. “Someone had to do something.”

“And so you were going to threaten him with a gun?”

“You got a better plan?”

“You would’ve gone to prison.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do. And so do I. And, anyway, it would all have been for nothing: he didn’t do it.”

The boy frowned, confused. “How do you know that?”

“Brady is a talker. He likes to be the centre of attention. He has enemies in the neighbourhood, too, and maybe those enemies like other people to believe that he’s up to no good. Victor Leonard and Brady hate each other. If you ask me, Leonard put us onto Brady because he wants to see him in trouble. But he’s got nothing to do with this. If he’s guilty of anything, it’s being a fantasist and a braggart.”

“I don’t buy that,” he said, although Milton could see that he was getting through to him.

“So are you going to let me drive you back into town?”

“You said you had something”

“I do. I have a very good lead.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I know what happened to Madison.”

35

Arlen Crawford drove around the block three times until he was sure that he was not being followed. It was an abundance of caution, perhaps, but Crawford was an operator, experienced enough to know all the tricks. He knew staffers who had been tailed before, heading to meet a friendly journalist to leak something explosive, only to find that their meeting was photographed and reported and, before they knew it, they were the story and not the leak. There was no way that he was going to let that happen to him. He was too good. And the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

Not for this.

The guys operated out of a warehouse in Potrero Hill. It was a low-slung building in the centre of a wide compound surrounded by a perimeter of ten foot high wire. Floodlights stood on pylons and there were security cameras all over. The warehouse was owned by a company that distributed beer and the compound housed three trucks. Empty kegs had been stacked against the wall of the warehouse and, next to that, five big motorcycles had been parked. An old Cadillac Eldorado had been slotted alongside the bikes.

Crawford drew up against the compound gate and sounded his horn. The single black eye of the security camera gleamed down at him, regarding him, and then there was the buzz of a motor and a rusty scrape as the gate slid aside. Crawford put the car into gear and edged inside. He parked next to the Caddy and went into the warehouse. The main room had been fitted with comfortable chairs, a large television and a sound system that was playing stoner rock. The place smelt powerfully of stale beer; it was strong enough that Crawford felt like gagging.

The five men were arranged around the room. Their leader was a tall, ski

Kerrigan got up and stretched, leonine, before sauntering across to him.

“Mr. Crawford,” he said, a low Southern drawl.

“Jack.”

The air was heady with dope smoke; Crawford noticed a large glass bong on the table.

“How’s our boy doing?”

“He’s doing good.”

“Good enough to get it done?”

“He’ll win,” Crawford said. “Provided we keep him on the right track.”

“That’s all that matters.”

Crawford nodded at that, then scowled a little; he had forgotten the headache he had developed the last time they had dragged him out here. It was the dope, the droning music, the dull grind of necessity of making sure the dumbfuck rednecks stayed on the right path.

“Wa

“No thanks.”

He nodded at the bong. “Smoke?”

“What do you think?”

“Nah, not your scene. All business today, then. I can work with that. What’s up?”

“We’ve got a problem.”

“If you mean the girls — I told you, you need to stop worrying.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“I have a little update on that, something that’ll make you feel better.” He stooped to a fridge and took out a bottle of beer. He offered it to Crawford. “You sure?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “What update?”

Jack popped the top with an opener fixed to his keychain and took a long swig.

“What is it, Jack?”

“Got someone who knows someone in the police. Friend of our persuasion, you know what I mean. Fellow soldier. This guy says that they have no clue. Those girls have been out there a long time — all that salty air, the animals, all that shit — there’s nothing left of them except bones.”

“Clothes?”

“Sure, but there’s nothing that would give them any idea who they were.”

“I wish I shared your confidence, Jack. What about the others?”

“You know, I can’t rightly recall how many there were and I ain’t kidding about that.”

“Four.”

“It’ll be the same. You might not believe it, but we were careful.”

“They’re all in the same place.”

“Give or take.”

“You think that’s careful?”

“The way I see it, the way we left them girls, all in that spot and all done up the same way, police are go

“I heard that on the TV already,” one of the other man, Jesse, chimed in. “They had experts on, pontificating types. They said they was sure. Serial killer. They was saying Zodiac’s come back.”

“Son of Zodiac,” Jack corrected.

Crawford sighed.

“They’re go

“The Headlands Lookout Killer. That’s what they’re saying.”

“Exactly,” Jack said with evident satisfaction. “And that’s what we want them to think.” He took a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it. “It’s unfortunate about our boy’s habits, but if there’s one thing we got lucky on, it’s who they all were. What they did. In my experience, most hookers don’t have anyone waiting for them at home to report them missing. They’re in the shadows. Chances are, whoever those girls were, no-one’s even noticed that they’re gone. How are the police going to identify people that they don’t know is missing? They ain’t. No way on earth. And if they can’t identify them, how the hell they go

“I don’t know,” he said impatiently.

“I do — I do know. They ain’t.” Jack said it with a sly leer. “Make you feel any better?”

“Oh yes,” he said, making no effort to hide his sarcasm. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I would’ve felt even better if you’d done what I asked you to and made them all disappear.”

“What happened to them, Mr. Crawford, it’s the same thing. They are disappeared. You’ve got to relax, man. You’re go