McGarvey crossed the backyards of the three houses between Rautanen’s and the edge of the apartment complex. Two of the small ranch styles had been foreclosed on and abandoned, but the middle one was still lived in, though no lights shone from any of the windows this night.
A half-dozen or more black kids had started a small trash fire just off the street at the front of the parking lot. A boom box sitting on a dilapidated folding chair was playing some tuneless rap song the sounds of which echoed off the front of the building.
What little traffic there was at this hour did not linger, even though it was early—before ten o’clock. The drivers counted themselves lucky if they got through this neighborhood without trouble.
Some old junk cars were parked at the rear of the complex. Two of them were up on concrete blocks, minus their wheels. Another was totally trashed; all of its windows broken out and its seats and dashboard cut apart. One had its trunk lid open.
Some of the windows in the half-dozen three-story buildings were lit, but most of them were in darkness. Laundry hung from the railings on several small balconies. Stopping just at the corner of the first building, McGarvey got the distinct sense that he was being watched. Yet the entire complex, like the neighborhood, had the air of abandonment.
From where he stood he had a good sight line of the west side of Rautanen’s house, including the carport and the Hummer. The lights were out: Pete was watching from a bedroom in the rear, and Rautanen from a living-room window in front.
In the far distance a fire truck siren echoed across the lake, and somewhere he thought he heard a train whistle. Night sounds, lonely. Most good people were at home watching TV or getting ready for bed. The predators were out prowling like wild animals in the dark, looking for prey.
Stepping around the corner, McGarvey walked to the front where the black kids stood around the fire in a small metal barrel. It wasn’t cold outside; the fire was merely something to do, a gathering place for them.
The kids turned around, and one of them shut off the music.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” McGarvey said. He stopped about ten feet out. “Got a question for you. Fact is, I need your help.”
For several long beats the kids—who ranged in age from their midteens to maybe nineteen or twenty—were silent. One of them pulled out a knife and another a pistol, which looked to McGarvey like an old .38 Saturday Night Special.
“We’re going to help you into the ground, you dumb sucka,” the older one said.
The kid with the pistol took a step forward.
“You know the guy lives in the house at the end of the block?” McGarvey said. “The one you think is nuts? He needs your help.”
All of them laughed.
“You’ve heard of bin Laden,” McGarvey said, addressing the older kid. “The guy down the block was on the team that went over to Pakistan to take care of him.”
“So?”
“Their government has sent people over to kill him—name’s Greg.”
“Just get your honky ass out of here before we waste you.”
“The people are coming here tonight. If you get in the way they’ll kill you. Thing is, I’m pretty sure they know that I came over to set a trap for them, so I’m number one on their hit list. And they’re carrying more than a couple of knives and one shit-hole pistol that’ll probably blow up soon as the trigger’s pulled. It’s why I need your help—so that I’ll have a chance to stop them from pulling it off.”
“What’s it to us?” the one kid said. A couple of the others looked over their shoulders down the street.
“Thing is, these people have already killed two of the SEALs who took out bin Laden. That, and they murdered the families. Like I said, I’m here to stop them.”
“You a cop?”
“I used to work for the CIA.”
The older kid—their spokesman—was impressed. “No shit?”
“No shit,” McGarvey said. “So this is what I want you guys to do for me.”
The kid with the gun came forward all of a sudden, the pistol pointed straight out.
Before the kid could react McGarvey snatched the pistol out of his hand. The one with the knife started forward, but the older kid put out an arm and stopped him.
“He didn’t come here talking all his honky bullshit for nothing,” their spokesman said.
“That’s what it is, nigger, honky bullshit,” the kid who’d had the pistol slammed back.
“Maybe, but this time’s different.”
McGarvey held out the gun, handle first. “I’d get rid of this before you get hurt.”
Slowly the younger kid took the gun. He turned and walked back to the fire, but he didn’t put the pistol back in his belt.
The entire city seemed to fall silent, except for the crackling of the small fire, which gave off black smoke and the acrid odor of burning rubber. McGarvey had been in a lot of foreign places in a career of a couple of decades, but here and now it almost seemed as if he were on another planet—yet still in his own country.
“So what do you want?” the older kid asked.
McGarvey told him. None of them were happy.