Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

“Do you know what Dia de los Muertos is?” I asked.

“It's a holiday down in Mexico. Day of the Dead.”

“It's also a religious belief,” I said. “In the village where my wife was born, they believe the spirits of the dead watch over us, and that it's our responsibility to treat their memories with respect. If we don't, those spirits will haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

“Do you believe that, Jack? Do you believe the victims will haunt you if you don't find out what happened to them?”

I nodded solemnly. It was my only explanation for how far I'd gone over the past six months.

“Then I guess we'll have to make Perez tell us,” Linderman said.

We were beginning to sweat and went outside. I peeked around the corner of the shed at the house. A portable radio sat on the kitchen windowsill, and I heard Neil Bash's abrasive voice. It made me shudder, and I wondered how long it would take Perez to realize Bash's show wasn't being broadcast live.

“We're running out of time,” I said.

Linderman didn't ask me to explain. He called Theis.

“Let's get this show on the road,” he said.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Any cop will tell you that there is no more frightening sound than a shell being jacked into a shotgun. I knew the sound still sent chills down my spine, and I watched Linderman pump his Mossberg and march out from behind the shed.

I drew my Colt and followed Linderman across the backyard with sweat pouring down my back. Through the open kitchen window came Neil Bash's voice on the radio. There was something otherworldly about hearing Bash and knowing he was dead. Buster's cold nose pressed against my leg.

“Time to lose your fiancé,” Linderman said.

I pointed at a shady spot beside the house.

“Sit,” I said.

My dog made me proud and went into a perfect sit in the shade.

Linderman stopped at the back door and raised his leg. The door was dead bolted and took several hard kicks to bring down. We both rushed inside. The kitchen was L-shaped, with fading linoleum floors and stacks of dirty dishes piled high in the sink. On the radio Bash was talking about a heavy-metal concert that had taken place several months ago.

“Damn,” I said under my breath.

Linderman was moving fast. I followed him down a short unlit hallway into a living room with mismatched furniture and a weight bench in the corner. Jonny Perez, his brother Paco, and a dark-skinned guy whom I assumed was Alberto stood in the room's center, pointing automatic handguns at Theis and Cheever, who stood inside the front doorway with their arms stretched to the ceiling. A pair of binoculars lay on the couch by the window.

“FBI,” Linderman announced. “Drop your weapons.”

Jonny Perez glanced suspiciously over his shoulder at us.

“No. You drop your weapons,” he said in perfect English.

“That's not an option,” Linderman said.

Perez whispered in Spanish to his brother. Paco turned and pointed his automatic at the far wall of the living room.

“If you don't drop your weapons,” Perez said, “my brother will shoot through the wall and kill the girl in the bedroom.”

“Do that, and we'll kill you,” Linderman said.

“I ain't afraid of dying,” Perez said.

“Me neither,” Paco said.

The third guy, Alberto, simply grunted.

Linderman hesitated. He didn't want to lose Theis and his hostage. Sensing weakness, Perez let out a sickening laugh.

“Jack,” Cheever called out.

I focused on my friend while continuing to train my Colt on the others. Cheever was sweating as badly as I was. But his face was defiant.

“Don't you dare trade with them, Jack,” Cheever said.

“Shut up, Claude,” I said.

“Don't do it.”

“I said shut up.”

“No, you shut up,” he said, his voice rising. “You'll only end up dead, and so will both of us. I'm telling you not to do it. Hear me?”

I looked into Cheever's eyes and realized he meant every word of what he'd just said. Then I looked at Theis. The FBI agent dipped his chin, making it unanimous. They were both wearing bulletproof vests, while Perez, Paco, and Alberto were not. It was the last thought to go through my mind as I squeezed the Colt's trigger.

Paco was the closest to me, so I shot him in the chest. The bullet penetrated his heart—what cops call a kill shot. The gun dropped from his hand, and he fell onto the couch as if he'd decided to take a nap.

At the same time Linderman's shotgun let out a deafening roar. The blast hit Alberto in the waist, doubling him over like he'd been sliced in half. Alberto fell backwards and joined Paco on the couch.

Perez was not touched, and he fired several rounds into Cheever and Theis, causing both men to groan and crumple to the floor. Perez glanced over his shoulder at me, then took off running. Within moments he was out the door. I ran after him.

“Take him out,” Linderman shouted.

I stopped at the open doorway. The school bus had dropped a slew of happy kids onto the sidewalk. They were playing tag, oblivious to what was going on. I blocked them out as best I could, aimed at Perez, and fired.