Jonathan Kellerman – Monster

“Pull a Koresh,” said Whitworth. “How old’s that girl?”

“Fourteen.”

“Course, there’s nothing to say he hasn’t already done her.”

Milo said, “Put the choppers on standby. Get me two, three more cars. Along the same lines, we drive into Fairway quietly, no lights, no sirens.” To me: “Where do the

Bunker people hang out?”

“There’s a guardhouse right past the entrance.”

“Okay,” he said to Whitworth. “Meet you at the main entrance. Alex, give him directions. You’re the only one who’s actually been there.”

39.

THE MEN IN the powder-blue shirts weren’t happy.

Three guards, surprised as they sat in the mock-Spanish guardhouse. Soft music on stereo. The shirts freshly pressed.

Neat, clean building, outside and in, cozy interior: spotless kitchenette, oak table set with four matching chairs, blue hats on a rack. On the table were the remains of takeout Mexican food. Taco Fiesta, Valencia address. Next to a half-eaten bur-rito, a Trivial Pursuit board. Three little plastic pies, blue, orange, brown, the last half-filled with tiny plastic wedges.

The door had been unlocked. When Milo and Mike Whit-worth and I entered, all three guards had stood up, grabbed for guns that weren’t there. Across the room, a metal locker said WEAPON DEPOSITORY. Next to it was a plaque with the crossed-rifles logo of Bunker Protection.

Now we were all outside in the peach-scented air, under a sky surprisingly deprived of stars. The Bunker guards kept their eyes on the CHP cruisers that blocked the entrance to Fairway Ranch. Inside the cars, the barest outline of men behind night-darkened windshields.

As we’d driven in, Milo had eyed the low white fence, muttered, “No gate. They could’ve cruised right in.”

Moments later, Mike Whitworth coasted up on his Harley and said something to the same effect.

“So you haven’t searched yet,” Milo said to the tallest guard. “E. Cliff.” The one who’d protested loudest until Milo hushed him with a scolding index finger.

“No,” he said. “It’s past two in the morning, we’re not going to wake up the residents. No reason to.”

“You’d know if there was a reason?” said Whitworth.

“Absolutely,” said Cliff. Adding a barked “Sir.”

Whitworth stepped closer to him, using his size the way Milo does. “The way you’re set up, anyone could get in-is it Ed?”

Cliff tried to smile as he backed away. “Eugene. Not correct. Anyone entering can be spotted from the guardhouse.”

“Assuming the drapes are open.”

Cliff’s head jerked toward the building. “They usually are.”

Milo said, “I’m usually charming.” He moved in on Cliff, too. “So tell me, what category would two murderers driving right past you fall into? Sports and Leisure?

Arts and Entertainment?”

“Sir!” said Cliff. “There’s no reason to get disrespectful. Even with the drapes closed we see headlights.”

“Assuming there were headlights-I know, there usually are.”

“There’s no reason-”

Milo stepped closer. Cliff was over six feet, but reedy, an elk confronting bears.

He looked at the other two Bunker guards. Both just stood there.

Milo said, “There’s every reason to search the premises, friend, and we’re going to do it, right now.”

“I’m sorry, sir, in terms of your jurisdiction…” Cliff began. Milo’s nose moved a half-inch from his, and the voice tapered. “At the least, I’ll have to clear it with headquarters.”

Milo smiled. “In Minneapolis?”

“Chicago,” said one of the other guards. Nasal voice. “L. Bonaface.”

“Call,” said Milo. “Meanwhile, we start. Give me a map of this place.”

“There isn’t one,” said Cliff.

“None at all?”

“Not a real map, with coordinates. Just a general layout.”

“Jesus,” said Milo. “This isn’t arctic exploration, hand it over. Before you call.”

Cliff looked at Bonaface. “Go get it for him.” Bonaface went inside the guardhouse and returned with several sheets of paper.

“I brought a bunch,” he said.

Milo grabbed the maps and distributed them. A single page of crude, computer-generated diagram. English street names printed in Gothic, the shops and golf courses, Reflection Lake dead center. No indication a mountain range loomed to the east.

Whitworth said, “Except for the golf courses, it’s a small area-that’s in our favor… Already divided into six zones, and I’ve got five officers plus me. How’s that for karma?”

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