Close to the Ground Read online

  Most bank robbers failed to consider too carefully the likelihood that they would someday get caught. But most bank robbers did get caught — it was too high-profile a crime, and too many people came looking, and too many witnesses lived to testify. Kate tried to calm herself with the knowledge that, no matter what happened here, tonight, these guys would not remain free.

  Of course, it would be better if she were there to see them locked up. Her dad would appreciate it, too — he had just retired from the force, and she knew he’d like his daughter’s career to continue even though his was over. So all in all, dying tonight would be a less-than-optimal end to the workday.

  But at the same time she knew that it was out of her hands. She had surrendered her weapon to desperate felons. The police were out there now. The crooks were in here, with her. They were scared. They were surrounded. They’d split up — two in the front part of the bank, watching to make sure the police didn’t get too close to the building. Two had gone back to the tunnel opening to make sure no one came in that way. That left two with Kate. Their job, she knew, was to kill her if either of the other pairs gave the word.

  In her mind’s eye she pictured the scene outside. She’d been part of it often enough that she had a better-than-passing familiarity with it. To the untrained eye it would look like utter chaos. There were police cars everywhere, parked at awkward angles, parked on sidewalks, parked perpendicular to one another. Most of them had their light bars flashing and their headlights on — at least, those with headlights facing the front of the bank. There were also, by now, banks of floodlights on metal stands, powered by portable generators, and those also faced the bank. Behind cars, mailboxes, benches, in doorways and windows — behind anything that offered some degree of protection — there were men and women of the LAPD pointing their weapons at the bank. Some of them wore body armor, heavy Kevlar vests that, on hot nights, functioned like mini saunas. This night, she knew, had finally cooled to the point that the officers wouldn’t be sweating off the pounds in them, but they were still uncomfortable.

  They stopped bullets, though, which was the important thing.

  There would also be a trailer outside, somewhere close by. In the trailer there would be communications equipment, computers, and one or two hostage negotiators. Two, she suspected, because she was LAPD, so Parker Center, L.A.’s main police headquarters, would want one of its own on the scene. But this was a bank robbery in progress, and robbing banks was a Federal offense, so the FBI’s hostage negotiator would be there, too.

  Goatee had, a few moments ago, released a long string of obscenities into the ear of one of them and slammed the office phone down into its cradle. He sat in a swivel chair behind a desk, which he slammed with the flat of his hand.

  “More time,” he ranted. “They keep asking for more time.”

  “All we’re askin’ for is some cars and stuff,” the surfer said. This one leaned against the wall by the doorway, listening for any signals from his buddies. Kate sat on an uncomfortable straight-backed guest chair.

  “Was that Riddle, or Hopgood?” Kate asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Goatee demanded.

  “The negotiator,” Kate explained. “Riddle is our guy, LAPD. Hopgood is the FBI’s man in Los Angeles. He’s good. He’s been doing it since the late seventies. I’m just a little partial to Riddle, you know. Home team.”

  “I guess it was Hopgood,” Goatee said, a little more calm. “Called himself an old man.”

  “That’s Hopgood, then. Most patient man to ever walk the Earth, I believe.” She was glad she’d steered the conversation in this direction. Part of the negotiator’s job was to make the hostage taker think of his hostages as people, not just bargaining chips. Kate hoped that if she could humanize the negotiator, maybe he could do the same for her.

  “Why do they need more time to get some stupid cars?” the surfer asked.

  “Think about it,” Kate said. “You asked for cars that would blend in, right? They can’t give you squad cars, and that’s all they’ve got out there. They can’t give you your old car back — that’s probably already been towed away, stripped down, and dusted for fingerprints. So they have to somehow get their hands on some cars that they can afford to give away, and that they’ll probably have to shoot at sooner or later. They can’t just grab them off the street or the impound lot — some citizen would complain for sure. So yes, it’ll take some time to come up with a couple of spare cars for you. Why not just take one car, anyway?”

  “We want to be able to split up, in case we’re followed,” the surfer told her.

  “In case? Of course you’ll be followed.”

  “Better not be,” Goatee said with a scowl. “Told them we wanted a clear road and safe passage.”

  “Think about it from their point of view,” Kate said. “You are wanted for murder. Now you’ve kidnapped a cop. You think they can let you just drive away?”

  “They don’t, you’ll just be one more cop funeral,” Goatee replied. “They still play those, what are they, bagpipes, at cop funerals?”

  “They will at mine,” Kate said. “But if you kill me, I don’t think you’ll get any music at yours.”

  Angel ran down the freeway’s shoulder. The stink of hundreds of idling cars spitting exhaust into the air smelled to him like L.A. itself: noxious, dirty, poisoned, but ripe with the promise of better times ahead; the traffic would clear, movement would happen, soon they’d be rushing toward their individual futures in the golden city by the sea.

  At first only a few people noticed him, a dark shape moving quickly through the dark night. Then the headlight of someone stopped at an odd angle, in the midst of a lane-change, caught him and illuminated him for a split second, and someone called out to him.

  As he continued — wondering where the next exit was, and wishing it was closer — more and more seemed to notice he was there. The occasional shout became a constant, and as people sat in unmoving cars or stretched their legs on the freeway, the din moved ahead of him, so that people actually began to look for him coming.

  By the time he reached the exit, it was a steady roar. The words were hard to make out, and probably meaningless. It was more a matter of voices raised in recognition of someone stopped in traffic who had finally done something about it. The traffic was going nowhere, so by running he was outpacing it dramatically. These people wouldn’t abandon their vehicles; they knew that sooner or later whatever had blocked the roadway would be cleared and they could continue their car trips. But that guy, that one guy in the long black coat, they’d tell their friends and families, that guy didn’t put up with it. He ran. He ran and he ran and then he ran some more.

  At the front of the pack there was a moving van on its side. It had jackknifed and overturned, and its contents — all the furniture and possessions of some unlucky family — were spread across the lanes. Movers and motorists and police officers were trying to gather it all up, and had made what looked like a homey sitting area off on the shoulder, with a big easy chair and a floor lamp and a coffee table. They all stopped their work as the roar of the stranded drivers reached them, and looked up, and saw Angel coming toward them. As he passed them they joined in, clapping and applauding as if they were at some kind of interstate sporting event.

  Then Angel hit the exit ramp, just beyond where the van had gone over. It was empty and dark, and he left the sounds of his public behind. Within a few moments after reaching the surface streets below the freeway, he couldn’t hear anything except the hiss and rumble of regular street traffic.

  He kept running.

  “You really don’t think they’ll let us get away?” the surfer asked Kate.

  “Of course not,” she replied.

  “Shut up!” Goatee growled. “She has to say that, man. What are you, some kind of idiot?”

  “I ain’t no idiot,” the surfer said. “I been to school, man. I got a two-year degree.”

  “Yeah, in being a idiot,” Goate
e said. “Just don’t talk to the lady, okay?”

  “But you were —”

  “I’m the one talking to the negotiator, right? I’m the one’s gotta get our demands met so we can get outta here. I wanna talk to her, I can.”

  “Sure, okay,” the surfer agreed. “Whatever.”

  “You don’t have to listen to me,” Kate pressed. “Ask Hopgood. Ask him what your chances are, out there. Half of the cops in L.A. are just itching for an excuse to shoot you. The only hope you have is to go out there with me, and show them your hands. If you go out unarmed and surrender, then not only do you not upset the cops, but the judge is likely to be more lenient on you. Judges are pretty harsh when it comes to cop-killers.”

  “You said it yourself, cop,” Goatee said. “We’re already wanted for murder. What’ve we got to lose?”

  “Can it be proven?” she asked. “Did you leave your fingerprints on the bodies, or the bullets? Are you still using the same guns?” A panicked expression flitted across the surfer’s face. “Oh, no,” Kate said, suddenly filled with dismay at just how clueless these people really were. “You’re still using the same guns you shot people with? What were you thinking?”

  “Hey,” Goatee said. “I don’t tell you how to run your business.”

  “Well, I’d be better than you at yours,” Kate insisted. “You always ditch a gun you’ve killed someone with. It’s just common sense. I mean, come on.”

  “You just shut up,” Goatee said. “I don’t want to hear any more from you, you understand?”

  “Got it,” Kate agreed. “But really —”

  “Shut up!”

  Kate shut up. She’d let them stew in the juices of their own stupidity for a while. Soon the phone would ring again, and Hopgood would go to work on them. Between herself and Hopgood, she was starting to think that maybe she’d live to see morning after all.

  The prospect was an attractive one.

  But the sounds of a commotion from deeper in the bank brought her reverie to an end. There was shouting, and then there was a sharp report that could only be one thing. A bullet. There was a scream, and then there was a scuffling sound, coming closer.

  “What’s goin’ on?” the surfer called down the hall.

  “It’s okay!” one of the robbers shouted back. “Just got us a new hostage.”

  Kate heard the sounds of someone being manhandled down the hall. A new hostage? Who? she wondered.

  The phone on the desk started to ring.

  “That’ll be Hopgood,” she said. “Wondering about that shot that was fired. Wondering if I’m okay.”

  “Hopgood can wait,” Goatee said.

  “Not too long,” Kate said. “He thinks I’m dead, there’s nothing that’ll keep them from storming the place.”

  Goatee snarled and snatched the phone off the hook. “She’s fine!” he said. Then he held the phone out to Kate and ordered, “Tell him!”

  “It wasn’t me!” Kate shouted. “A shot was fired, but I don’t know what at! I’m okay!”

  Goatee held the phone to his ear again. “Got that?” he asked. “Good. I’m busy here.” He slammed the phone down again.

  And from the hallway another of the robbers appeared. This one was heavy, with a big round nose set in the middle of a big round face, and an oddly tiny mouth below it. He tugged on someone’s arm, and drew that someone into view in the office doorway.

  “Brought you a present,” he said. “From the tunnel.”

  Kate gasped.

  Glenn Newberry.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It wasn’t hard to tell where the action was.

  There probably hadn’t been this many people on the streets at this hour, in this neighborhood, since . . . well, ever, Angel guessed. It was like the block party to end all block parties. Except that the locals, the area’s residents, were out on the streets in pajamas with coats or robes pulled over them, or shirtless, or in hastily assembled jeans and T-shirts. The ones in party wear were the police, dozens of them — maybe a hundred, he estimated — in uniforms, some with body armor, some with helmets, a few with SWAT stenciled across the backs of their jackets.

  Lights everywhere. Cars everywhere. The press had shown up, and were held back away from the bank by a phalanx of law enforcement. Helicopters circled overhead, their blades pounding out a soundtrack to the scene.

  Angel moved through the crowd like a shadow, slipping across the police line unnoticed. He looked for a familiar face and finally spotted one — Trevor Lockley, Kate’s father. Angel had accompanied Kate to her dad’s retirement party, as a favor to her, and had met the man there. He drifted up behind Trevor.

  “Hi, Mr. Lockley,” he said.

  Trevor turned, blinked a couple of times, and then recognition set in.

  “Angel,” he said. “Kate’s inside.”

  “I heard. What’s going on?”

  “They’re keeping me in the loop,” Trevor said, his words clipped with tension. “There’s a negotiator talking to them. FBI, not ours. Feds are here, LAPD’s here. The place is surrounded, but we can’t go in without risking Kate’s life. There was a shot fired a couple of minutes ago, but nobody knows who fired it or why. The negotiator heard Kate’s voice after the shot, saying that she was okay, so it wasn’t that, thank God.”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  “Still, I’m worried, I can tell you that.”

  “I know.” Angel touched the man’s shoulder. “She’s a tough lady.”

  “She is that,” Trevor agreed. “Raised her that way.”

  “I’m sure you did. Do we know where they tunneled in from?”

  “Abandoned filling station around the corner,” Trevor said. “FBI has the end sealed up, but they can’t go in that way. The crooks are probably watching the tunnel as well as the door. If only someone could get inside there,” Trevor said. “And . . .” He looked around.

  Angel was gone.

  The ground beneath the city of Los Angeles is honeycombed with tunnels of varying sizes. Sewers, electrical access shafts, remnants of an old subway system and the beginnings of the new one . . . there were thousands of miles of underground passageways, and no one on Earth knew every mile of them.

  Angel knew more than most. After getting his bearings, he realized that the bank robbers wouldn’t have needed to tunnel half the distance they did if they’d been aware of the sewage layout in the area. The manhole he wanted was right in front of the bank, in fact.

  But there were about two hundred cops standing on top of it. Instead, he went around the corner, down the street, and around another corner. A block out of his way, but he could make that time up in a hurry. And there was nobody here; the action was all on the next street over.

  He pried the manhole up, started down the rungs cemented into the wall, and scraped the manhole back into place over himself. In the dark he went down.

  That was the thing about sewers, they were dark. Most people, if they were willing to put up with the smells, the rats, the occasional underground dweller, still needed to carry a light.

  Angel didn’t bother with one. The dark had ceased to bother him a long time ago.

  When he reached the bottom of the ladder, he put his feet onto solid ground — more or less solid, anyway, but coated with a slick layer of moss and fungus and who knew what else? There were times that Angel wished the whole undead thing involved losing his sense of smell. He paused for a moment, listening.

  It was quiet. Choosing the right branch of the tunnel, he crouched and began his trip.

  Special Agent Glenn Newberry sat on the floor, his back against the wall, next to Kate’s chair. There was blood at the shoulder of his jacket, a dark patch that was spreading quickly.

  “You okay?” Kate asked him.

  “No,” he replied. “Took a hit. I’m feeling a little light-headed.”

  “This man needs a doctor,” she announced.

  Goatee glared at her. He was good at that, the glaring thing. “He’
ll get a doctor when we get our freaking cars.”

  “What are you even doing here?” she asked Newberry. “I thought you were calling for backup and waiting at the gas station.”

  He stared glumly at their captors. “I didn’t,” he said.

  “Didn’t call, or didn’t wait?”

  “Didn’t either. I went into the tunnel. Didn’t know they had you, so I figured I could come up behind them. But they were waiting.”

  “So now they’ve got two hostages. Two heads are better than one, I guess.”

  Special Agent Newberry didn’t smile.

  “You two lovebirds want to shut up?” Goatee asked. “I don’t want to listen to any more cop talk.”

  “Sorry,” Kate said. “I’m sure bank robbers make much more stimulating conversation. And the tunnel digging stories you must be able to tell.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Goatee responded.

  “I’m sure.”

  Approaching a T intersection, Angel heard voices. He froze, waited, then silently pressed himself against the dank wall of the sewer pipe. It was taller here, bigger around, and he was able to stand upright. He walked to one side to avoid the inch or so of water that flowed through.

  The voices were male, speaking in hushed tones.

  “. . . another hour, maybe,” one of the men was saying. “No longer than that.”

  “I was on one in Kansas City, took fourteen hours,” the other replied. “Three hostages were killed, two came out of it.”

  FBI, it sounded like. If they saw Angel in here, it would all be over.

  He edged his way to the intersection, risked a glance around the corner. Two men, in blue windbreakers with FBI stenciled on the back in white letters. They carried guns and steel-cased Maglite flashlights.

  And they were between Angel and where he needed to go.

  They didn’t show any indication that they’d be getting out of his way anytime soon.

  He turned back. Another couple of blocks out of his way, then. He could come in ahead of where they were. It would just cost him another fifteen minutes or so.