The Two Minute Rule Part 35

"You're f.u.c.king up our s.h.i.+t, Holman. We tried to be nice, but could you take the hint? You're f.u.c.king up our s.h.i.+t."

When they lifted him to his feet, Holman saw that everyone in the burial party was now watching them. The two motorcycle cops who had escorted the hea.r.s.e were walking over, but Fuentes was trotting out to meet them.

Holman said, "They're witnesses, G.o.dd.a.m.nit. They're gonna remember this."

"All they're going to remember is some a.s.shole getting arrested. Stop being stupid."

"Where are you taking me?"

"In."

"Why?"

"Just relax, man. You're going to be fine."

Holman didn't like the way Vukovich told him he was going to be fine. It sounded like something you heard before you were murdered.

They stood him up outside their car and went through his pockets. They took his wallet, keys, and cell phone, then checked his ankles, waist, and groin. Fuentes came back and the two motorcycle cops returned to their funeral. Holman watched them go as if they were life preservers drifting away on the current.

Vukovich said, "Okay, load'm up."

Holman said, "What about my car?"

"We'll get your car. You're in the limo."

"People know, d.a.m.nit. People know what I'm doing."

"No, Holman, no one knows anything. Now shut the f.u.c.k up."

Fuentes drove away in Holman's Highlander as the two new guys pushed him into the backseat of their car. The larger man got into the back with Holman and his partner climbed in behind the wheel. They pulled away as soon as they had the doors locked.

Holman knew they were going to kill him. The two cops didn't speak to each other or look at him, so Holman made himself think. They were in a typical Crown Victoria detective's car. Like all police cars, the rear seats and windows locked from the front. Holman wouldn't be able to open the doors even if he could get his hands free. He would have to wait until he was out of the car, but by then it might be too late. He tested his wrists. The plastic ties had no give and did not slide over his skin. He had heard cons say these new plastic ties were stronger than steel, but Holman had never worn them before. He wondered if they would melt.

Holman studied the two cops. They were both in their thirties with solid builds and burnished faces as if they spent time outdoors. They were fit men and young, but neither had Holman's heavy shoulders and weight. The man seated beside Holman was wearing a wedding ring.

Holman said, "Did either of you know my son?"

The driver shot a glance in the mirror, but neither answered.

"Was it one of you f.u.c.kers gunned him down?"

The driver glanced again and started to say something, but the backseat man cut him off.

"That's up to Random to tell him."

Holman figured Random was probably the fifth man, but now Vukovich, Fuentes, and these two guys were also part of the action. Add in Fowler, Richie, and the other two, and that made nine. Holman wondered if anyone else was involved. Sixteen million was a lot of money. There was still plenty to go around. Holman wondered what they knew about Pollard. They had probably followed him from his apartment and they would have seen her at the cemetery. They probably didn't like the idea of stirring up the FBI, but they wouldn't be willing to take the chance. When they got rid of him they would get rid of her.

They drove for about fifteen minutes. Holman thought they would take him out into the middle of nowhere or maybe a warehouse, but they turned off Centinela onto a cluttered middle-cla.s.s street in Mar Vista. Small houses set on narrow lots lined both sides of the street, separated by hedges and shrubs. Fuentes had already arrived. Holman saw his Highlander parked ahead at the curb. Fuentes wasn't in the car and no one was standing nearby. Holman's heart started to pound and his palms grew cold. He was getting close and he would have to make his move soon. It felt like walking into a bank or circling a hot Porsche. His life was on the line.

They pulled across the drive of a small yellow house. A narrow drive ran past the side of the house under an arching carport to a garage at the rear of the property, and a blue sedan was parked beneath the arch. Holman didn't recognize the sedan. Fuentes was probably already inside, but he didn't know about Vukovich and Random. The entire house might be crawling with people.

The driver shut off their car and unlocked the back doors. The driver got out first, but the backseat man waited. The driver opened Holman's door, but stood close as if he wanted to block Holman's way.

"Okay, dude. Get out, but don't move away from the car. When you're out, stand straight up, then turn to face the car. You understand what I'm telling you?"

"I think I can handle it."

They didn't want the neighbors to see that Holman's hands were bound behind his back.

"Get out and turn."

Holman stepped out and turned. The driver immediately stepped up behind him and took a firm grip on his wrists.

"Okay, Tom."

Tom was the backseater. He got out, then moved to the front of the car, waiting for Holman and the driver.

Holman took in the surrounding houses. Bikes in the front yards and knotted ropes hanging from trees told him this was a family neighborhood. An outboard powerboat was parked in a drive two houses away. He glimpsed low chain-link fences through breaks in the shrubs. No one was outside, but people would be inside with their air conditioners, mostly women with small children this time of day. He could scream his a.s.s off, but no one would hear. If he ran, he would have to go over fences. He hoped none of these people had pit bulls.

Holman said, "You'd better tell me what you want me to do so I don't fall."

"We're going around the front of the car."

"We going to the front door?"

"Straight down the drive to the carport."

Holman had already guessed they would use the carport. The front door was open, but the kitchen probably opened under the arch. The door would be hidden. Holman wasn't going to let them bring him into the house. He figured he would die in the house. If he was going to die he wanted to die out in the open where someone might see, but Holman didn't plan on dying that day. He glanced at the powerboat again and then at his Highlander.

Holman stepped away from the car. The driver closed the door, then nudged him toward the front. Holman slowly shuffled forward. Tom waited for them at the drive, then walked a few paces ahead, and would reach the door first.

The driver said, "Jesus, you can walk faster than that."

"You're b.u.mping my feet. Why don't you back off and give me some room, for Christ's sake. You're going to trip me."

"f.u.c.k that."

The driver moved up even closer behind him, which was what Holman wanted. He wanted the driver as close behind as possible in the narrow s.p.a.ce between the house and the blue sedan.

Tom stepped under the arch between the house and the car and went to the door. He waited for Holman and the driver, then opened the screen. When the screen door was open, Tom was on one side and Holman and the driver were on the other, sandwiched between the house and the blue sedan.

Holman didn't wait for the door to open. He swung his right foot high against the house and shoved the driver backwards against the sedan as hard and fast as he could. He jerked his left foot up to join with his right, and crushed hard with both legs, pressing so hard the sedan rocked. He slammed his head backwards and the solid bone-on-bone impact made his eyes sparkle. He hammered backwards again, driving with his thick neck and shoulders and felt the driver go limp as Tom realized what was happening.

"Motherf.u.c.k--hey!"

Tom scrambled to get the door closed, but Holman was already running. He didn't look back. He didn't run across the street or away from the yellow house. He cut hard across the front yard, then turned again, racing for the backyard. He wanted to get out of sight as quickly as possible. He plowed headfirst through bushes and shrubs and fell across a fence. He heard someone shouting inside the house, but he didn't stop. When he reached the rear of the house he rolled over another fence into the neighbor's backyard and kept going. Limbs and branches and sharp things tore at him, but he couldn't feel their claws. He sprinted across the neighbors' yard head-on into a wall of shrubs and kicked his way over another fence like an animal. He landed on a sprinkler head. He struggled to his feet and ran, falling over a tricycle as he cut across their yard. Inside, a small dog snarled and snapped at him through a window. He heard shouts and voices two houses away and knew they would be coming, but he moved up along the side of the house toward the street because that's where he had seen the boat. The boat was in the drive.

Holman crept to the corner of the house. Vukovich and Tom were in the street by their car, Vukovich holding a radio.

Holman crept forward to the boat with its big Mercury outboard motor. He twisted around to push the plastic tie onto the edge of the propeller blade and sawed as hard as he could, hoping that con was wrong about these things being stronger than steel.

He pushed with all of his weight and sawed the tie back and forth. He pushed so hard the tie cut into his skin, but the pain only drove him to push harder and then the tie popped and his hands were free.

Fuentes and Tom were now moving in the opposite direction, but Vukovich was walking down the middle of the street in his direction.

Holman crabbed backwards away from the boat, then slipped across the backyard in the direction from which he had come. They were fanning away from the house and wouldn't expect him to double back, but this was an old trick he learned as a teenager when he first started breaking into apartments. He jumped back over the fence into the next yard and saw a stack of patio bricks. He took one, and he would need it for what he had planned. He continued across the yard, not cras.h.i.+ng across as he had before, but moving quietly and listening. He eased over the fence and was again behind the yellow house. The backyard was empty and quiet. He slipped along the side of the house toward the street, stopping, starting, listening. He couldn't take too much time because Vukovich and the others would return when they couldn't find him.

Holman slipped along the side of the yellow house, staying beneath the windows. He could see the Highlander sitting in the street. They would probably see him when he made his move, but if he got lucky they would be too far away to stop him. He edged closer, and that's when he heard a woman's voice coming from inside the house.

The voice was familiar. He slowly raised up enough to see into the house.

Maria Juarez was inside with Random.

Holman should never have looked. He knew not to look from years of breaking into houses and apartments and stealing cars, but he made the mistake. Random caught the movement. Random's eyes widened, and he turned for the door. Holman didn't wait. He lurched to his feet and crashed through the shrubs. He only had seconds, and now those seconds might not be enough.

He ran for the Highlander as hard as he could and heard the front door open behind him. Vukovich was already on his way back and broke into a run. Holman shattered the Highlander's pa.s.senger-side window with the patio brick, then reached in and unlocked the door, Random screaming behind him.

"He's here! Vuke! Tommy!"

Holman threw himself inside. Chee had given him two keys, and Holman had left the spare in the console. He jacked it open, fished out the key, then pushed himself into the driver's seat.

Holman ripped away from the curb and didn't look back until he was gone.

Chapter 41.

HOLMAN WANTED to dump the Highlander as quickly as possible. He turned at the next intersection, punched out of the turn, and powered up the street. He resisted the urge to turn again at the next cross-street because turning and zigging were sure ways to lose a pursuit. Amateur car thieves and drunks fleeing arrest always thought they could shake the police in a maze of streets, but Holman knew they couldn't. Every turn cost speed and time and gave the police an opportunity to draw closer. Speed was life and distance was everything, so Holman powered forward.

Holman knew he had to get out of the residential neighborhoods and into an area with businesses and traffic. He hit Palms Boulevard on the fly, turned toward the freeway, and jammed into the first and largest shopping center he found, a big open-air monster anch.o.r.ed by an Albertsons supermarket.

The Highlander was large, black, and easy to spot, so Holman didn't want to leave it in the main parking lot. He turned into the service lane behind the shops and stores, and drove along the rear of the shopping center. He pulled over, shut the engine, and looked at himself. His face and arms were scratched and bleeding and his s.h.i.+rt was torn in two places. Streaks of dirt and gra.s.s stains striped his clothes. Holman slapped off the dirt as best he could, then spit on his s.h.i.+rt tail to wipe away the blood, but he still looked like h.e.l.l. He wanted to get away from the Highlander, but the remaining plastic restraint was still attached to his left wrist. Holman had cut the right loop on the boat's propeller, and now the strands from the severed loop dangled from his left wrist like two strands of spaghetti. He studied the clasp. The restraints worked like a belt except the buckle only worked in one direction. The tongue of the belt could be slipped through the buckle, but tiny teeth prevented the tongue from being withdrawn. The plastic ties had to be cut, only now Holman didn't have a blade.

Holman started the engine again, turned the air conditioner on high, then pushed in the cigarette lighter. He tried not to think about what he was going to do because he knew it was going to hurt. When the lighter popped out, he pulled the tie as far from his skin as possible and pressed the glowing end onto the plastic. Holman clenched his jaw and held firm, but it burned like a sonofab.i.t.c.h. He had to heat the lighter three more times before the plastic melted through.

Vukovich had taken his keys, wallet, money, and cell phone. Holman searched the floorboards and console, and came up with seventy-two cents. That was it. That was all he had.

Holman locked the Highlander and walked away without looking back. He made his way through a pet store filled with cages of chirping birds and found a pay phone outside the Albertsons. He wanted to warn Pollard and he needed her help, but when he reached the phone he couldn't remember her number. Holman stood with the phone in his hand, drawing a total blank. He had programmed her number into his cell phone's memory, but now his phone was gone and he couldn't remember the number.

Holman started to shake. He slammed the phone into its cradle and shouted.

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?"

Three people entering the store stared at him.

Holman realized he was losing it and told himself to calm down. More people were looking. His cuts were bleeding again, so he wiped at his arms, but all that accomplished was smearing the blood. Holman scanned the parking lot. No patrol cars or anonymous Crown Victorias crept past the store. Holman began to calm down after a few minutes and decided to call Chee. He didn't remember Chee's number, either, but Chee's shop was listed.

Holman fed in his coins, then waited while the information operator made the connection.

Chee's phone rang. Holman expected someone to answer on the first couple of rings, but the ringing went on. Holman cursed his lousy luck, thinking the operator had given him the wrong connection, but then a young woman answered in a tentative voice.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"I'm calling for Chee."

"I'm sorry, we're closed."

Holman hesitated. It was the middle of the day during the work week. Chee's shop should not have been closed.

"Marisol? Is this Marisol?"

Her voice came back, even more tentative.

"Yes?"

"This is Max Holman--your dad's friend. I need to talk to him."

Holman waited, but Marisol didn't respond. Then he realized she was crying.

"Marisol?"

"They took him. They came--"

She broke into full-blown sobs and Holman's fear level spiked.

"Marisol?"

Holman heard a man saying something in the background and Marisol trying to answer, and then the man came on the line, his voice also guarded.

"Who is this?"

"Max Holman. What's she talking about? What's going on over there?"

"This is Raul, man. You remember?"

Raul was the kid who put together Holman's driver's license.

"Yes. What was she talking about? Where's Chee?"

"They hooked him up, man. This morning--"

"Who?"

"f.u.c.kin' cops. They arrested him."