The Road to the Mountain
6. View from a diner in California, February 2001
"Stone! Oh my god, Stone! Where the hell you been? You went back to the Big Apple, but you never said you were never coming back to L.A.!" She's a small woman, close-cropped dark hair, piercings and tattoos on view, tight tanktop, jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt. She's carrying one of those plastic pet carriers. She's standing beside Stone, punching his shoulder.
Zeke assumes that he must know her.
She's carefully placed the carrier on the floor, and dropped down on the next stool at the counter. She starts to swivel it, back and forth, barely contained energy. "No, I mean, how freaky is this, huh? I'm just coming back from the vet with Buster here, and here you are! I mean, what are the odds, huh?"
"Have a cup of joe?" he asks. If she just gives him a moment, he'll get this.
"What? You're buyin'? You're on!" She waves a hand at the waitress, calling, "Teresita, he's buying me coffee!" They both laugh about that. Stone figures the joke will be clear to him soon enough.
"So, you've got a cat?" Stone says. He tilts back a bit for a better look at the carrier. What he can see through the small door grill is yellow and striped. It looks just like his and Ros's cat, and that makes him uneasy. "I used to have a cat like that once, back when I was married," he tells her. "Named him Buster, too."
She blinks rapidly. "Well, yeah," she says. Whatever Zeke just said that bothered her, she throws it off quickly enough. "So how ya been, huh? Why'd you never come back? I mean, I still got your stuff in storage, you know? Well, what there is of it. Room just couldn't just stay empty like that."
"No, I guess not," he agrees. Room. His stuff. He has a key in his pocket with a number on it, but he wasn't sure where the lock was. His feet had found their way to Ros's house across town, but someone else was living there. Next he'd let them lead him to this diner. Zeke knows he's been here before. "So, yeah, hey," he says. He tries on a smile. "Long time no see."
"Yeah. Long time," she agrees. Now she's looking uncertain. "But seriously. What you been up to?"
"This and that. The usual." He's sent over forty of the damned back to hell in the past few years, but Zeke suspects he's finished with the easy kills. The most recent targets have been smarter, stronger; three of them had been too impatient to wait their turn, and they'd come for him first. Each one is taking more time, sometimes months on end; Zeke's got a goal, and it's frustrating as hell -- he yanks his attention away from the job, back to his coffee cup. He idly stirs his coffee and his memory both; it's soothing. He came to this diner for a reason, and he's almost got it. The waitress clatters down the woman's coffee, distracting him.
"Never sure what the usual was, Stone." She punches his shoulder again. "Mr. Man of Mystery."
"That's me," he says drily.
"So, um, maybe you got back together with your old lady? What's her name -- oh, yeah, Rosalyn, right?"
Zeke stiffens, gripping his cup. He can't think of any situation where he might have talked about Ros. The more people who know about her, the less safe she is.
The woman suddenly inhales. "Oookay," she breathes out, reaching down for the handle. "Look. Y'know, if you didn't want to talk to me, you should have just said. I can take a hint. I'm not stupid."
Zeke scrambles for damage control. "No, that's not -- it's not that. I do want to talk to you." He adds, earnest as he can manage. "Stay. Just, I just need a moment here."
She frowns. "I know you got issues by the truckload, Zeke, but I gotta tell you -- even for you, you're being weird."
Issues. That's what he needed -- he's got her now. "Maxine. You're Max," he blurts, then immediately he kicks himself. He can usually cover his gaps better than that. He'd just been surprised, was all.
"Yeah," she says, "I'm Max. Stone, what the hell --" She cuts off, and her look of disappointment's suddenly replaced by a look of pity. That sort of thing doesn't bother Zeke anymore. He knows he's a little pathetic; he can own his issues.
Own his issues. It's another one of Max's pet phrases. He's reeling in more of this now, and he fumbles for his notebook, irritated. He needs to start writing more of this stuff down. He doesn't have so many friends these days that he can let them get wiped off his slate this quickly.
"So you really forgot me?" Max says, watching him scribble notes to himself, but now it's a teasing tone. "Here, I figured I was unforgettable."
"You are, Max. Trust me," he assures her wryly, "just, like I said. Sometimes it takes a few minutes."
Now she's stirring her own coffee, looking too thoughtful. Which, he figures, is completely understandable. "Okay. You told me once," she ventures, "that you got shot in the head. That that's why you were retired from being a cop and all. Um. This have something to do with that?"
Zeke had been shot in the head. More specifically, repeat fire, point blank to the face. He's never bothered to find out, but he's pretty certain he got the closed-casket treatment. Ros can tell him later; they'll need to air out all of this after they're back together. "Well, uh," is what he says.
"You could have said," she points out.
"Nah, not really a problem," Zeke says. He didn't know it was a problem at the time; he doesn't let it be a problem now. He has other things to worry about. He smiles. "It's all here, I just need to keep dusting it off." It's not a subject he wants to talk about, so he changes it. He's remembering Buster the Second now, too. He was Ash's uncooperative sacrifice, the proof that her plans don't always work out. He hadn't intended the catsitting to be permanent, but he's grateful she kept him. "So how's Buster doing? He's been giving you trouble?"
"No, nooo way, we're golden," she says with a laugh. "Just getting him his booster shots, y'know? Rob was gonna take him over for me, but I had the day off, figured I'd do it myself. So, y'know, it's just weird running into you all of a sudden. Like, what a coincidence!"
Zeke's pretty sure it's not a coincidence. Those don't happen to him often. But he doesn't know what to make of this one.
"So, uh, speaking of, I gotta meet Rob," she says, hastily gulping down the rest of her coffee, "but you gonna stop by the hotel later? I'm still living in the manager apartment. Y'know," she squirms, like a dance move, "see our boy Buster out of the box, you could pick up your stuff?"
"Sure," he says. "I'm in town for a few days. I'd like to drop by."
"All right! Lemme give you the hotel's address," she says, taking it all in stride, just as she always did. She pokes his notebook repeatedly. "C'mon, Stone, write it down!"
When she leaves, she yells, "Hey, Teresita, don't let him forget to pay for me, too!" Zeke shakes his head. Max, subtle like a brickbat. He's missed her. It worries him that he didn't know that.
"A cat's far too much trouble anyway, Mr. Stone, for someone with your busy lifestyle," says the customer on the next seat. "They're such willful creatures. Lazing about, begging for food, always wanting their own way, never doing as they're told. Not like you, Detective."
Zeke ignores that. "One of the tattoos disappeared on its own last month." He'd been on a city bus at the time; Zeke's yelp of surprise and the smell of burning flesh had triggered a minor panic among his fellow passengers.
"Did it, Mr. Stone?" He takes a bite of his piece of chocolate cake, and, after a moment, muses aloud, "I've rather missed the cake here. You're having a hard enough time simply looking after yourself these days, aren't you, Ezekiel? Perhaps you should more graciously accept such interventions."
7. View from a motel in Idaho, October 2003
When he sees Ash again for the first time in five years, Zeke's sitting in a cafe in Boise, Idaho. Suddenly his breakfast doesn't seem so appealing after all. He returns to his motel room, retrieves a faded card from his notebook, and places a call. He doesn't think about how he's going to pay for it; he doesn't care.
Lieutenant Fraker of the Los Angeles police department is now Captain Fraker, and he's out of his office. Zeke is still sitting on the bed, staring at the phone and waiting, when Fraker finally gets around to returning Zeke's call about three hours later.
"Why it's Mr. Zeke Stone," Fraker says. He sounds more satisfied than surprised. "Can't say was I glad to get a call from you. So I-da-ho, is it?" He draws out the syllables, some sort of joke. "That why you haven't been flapping around the edges of my crime scenes like a crow? Those famous potatoes pretty tasty?"
Zeke lets that pass, cuts to the chase. "I was watching CNN this morning."
"So you got one of those newfangled tee-vees up there on the farm? Good to hear!" Zeke bites back the urge to return fire. Somehow he'd forgotten that Fraker only put up with him because of Ash. Zeke shouldn't have.
"It was one of those podium pieces out of D.C." Everywhere Zeke went these days, TVs seemed to be sitting on counters, mounted on walls, blaring away; the cafe this morning was no exception. The camera was on the politician droning on about appropriations and budgets and agendas, then it pulled back. As it panned the anonymous, bored lineup behind him in their folding chairs, Zeke forgot breakfast. Ash was wearing in a nice suit; she looked attentive. Ash's hands were neatly folded in her lap, and she applauded in all the appropriate places.
Ash is in fucking Washington, D.C.
"Nice work if you can get it," Fraker says. He sounds wistful. "Department of Homeland Security. The Sarge is doing real good for herself these days. Ditching our L.A. asses and moving on was the right thing to do."
Zeke is speechless for a moment. "You knew about this," he says. "You knew where she was." Zeke's not angry. Angry isn't going to get him what he wants. He can save angry for later.
"'Course I did," Fraker says, like Zeke's an idiot. "The Sarge's stayed in touch with her homeboy. She's been real good about updating her contact info for when I need to go over old cases."
Zeke catches that undertone, a whole working relationship packed into it that he had no part of, that he knew nothing about. He's not sure what to do with that anymore. "She told you not to tell me."
"On the contrary," Fraker drawls at him. "She asked me to let you know exactly where she is and to give you her number -- y'know, if you asked for it." No mistaking the bitter coloring his tone now. "You never did, Stone. Looked to me like once she wasn't useful, you didn't give a shit."
Zeke's misinterpreted the evidence, what he's assumed based on the facts. Zeke forgets that there's other perspectives on all this. He's never once figured what it looked like to Fraker.
Fraker, who doesn't know his partner was a creature from hell. Fraker didn't seem upset after Ash left; he joked about it. Zeke gets it now: Fraker was still talking to Ash. Impartial, noble Ash, woman scorned, who put her job before her feelings, who asked Fraker to keep helping Zeke out regardless. Zeke, the bastard who messed with Fraker's partner.
Zeke twists, looks it from the new angle. The result's pretty conclusive: Fraker hates him.
"Look," Zeke offers lamely, "it was complicated."
"Yeah. I bet everything's complicated for you," Fraker tells him. Zeke can hear the contempt now.
"So why don't you spell it out for me, Fraker?" he says. "What's going on?"
Fraker laughs then; he's still pissed off. "Mr. Stone, maybe you could tell me. How about that? All I know is Sergeant Ash up and quit one day. She was all busted up, gave her notice, walked out on the job, walked out on her cases, walked out on me. She's never said, but it was pretty damned obvious the whole thing had to do with you. And from what I could tell? Just business as usual for you. Nice, Stone. Real nice."
Zeke waits him out, silent, while Fraker takes a breath to collect himself. The equanimity in Fraker's voice is back. "But whatever. I'm just a cop, punching my timeclock, doing my job. I do not know what's going on with you two crazy kids. What I do know is that I'm happy enough that you're not screwing with my cases anymore. I don't want to play the middleman in your little spat with the Sergeant, so take her damn number and do not bother me with this again. You hearing me, Stone?"
"Yeah," Zeke says. "I hear you."
Zeke's burned this bridge down to the bedrock, but mostly Zeke blames Ash for putting Fraker in the crossfire. Zeke writes in his notebook as Fraker recites, office address, telephone numbers. Everything's here; it's been here all along. Ash's had to wait a long time for this trap to spring. She must think Zeke's an idiot by now.
"Listen," Zeke says. "Thanks, Fraker."
"Few years too late for that, Stone." Fraker hangs up on him.
8. View from a motel in Idaho, October 2003
Zeke is waiting for Ash's administrative assistant to put through his call. That's what they call secretaries these days. Zeke's on hold, listening to acoustic guitar; a recording interrupts once in a while to thank him for his patience with the Department of Homeland Security's domestic antiterrorism branch. Ash is something executive now, with a secretary and a calendar and appointments. Ash has desks, and computers, and filing cabinets, and a copy machine, and a coffee maker, and those little office plants. Ash has suits, and an apartment, and a new car. It's a little hard to fill in the blanks on Ash when all Zeke has is a defunct badge, ten dollars, the clothes on his back, and a motel room near an interstate in Idaho to work with, but Ash is giving him plenty of time.
Ash's secretary finally comes back on the line and tells him that the assistant director is still in her staff meeting right now. If he'll leave his number, she'll return his call when she's available.
Ash has coworkers and staff. That's what they call minions these days.
Zeke flips open his ID case to flatten it. He stuffs it and his old driver's license into the Gideon's bible. He drops the book and his notebook into the drawer of the bedside table. The local phonebook, tourist pamphlets, and delivery menus go right back on top.
Ash only makes him cool his heels a half hour.
"Mr. Stone," she says briskly, "what can I do for you?"
"Well, Sergeant Ash," Zeke says.
"Five years ago, Stone," she says, "and I'm busy, so get to the point. What do you want?"
"How you doing these days? Caught you on television."
"I suppose I've been on any number of times," she says. She sighs. "Stone, I have high-level security clearance. Do you have any idea what that means and who you're dealing with? And what have you got?"
"I've got a gun, Ash. I've got your location." He adds, helpfully, "I'm going to kill you."
"Thank you, Zeke. That's just what I needed to hear." She hangs up the phone. Less than a minute passes before the knock on the door. Room service wants to change the sheets. Room service has a deep, male voice.
Zeke gets out his gun; he's already decided on the easiest route. He lifts it, puts two rounds into his heart.
Playing a corpse isn't much of a stretch for Zeke, so he's gone with DOA a few times in the past. The hardest part is remembering he can't scratch his nose.
Zeke also gets bored waiting for the morgue to clear out enough so that he can leave, but he's had a lot worse company. The evidence room attendant berates him, predictably, when Zeke strolls in to pick up his gun, his wallet, and his fingerprint cards.
"With your callous disregard for common sense," he says, "one wonders if you're even trying, Detective."
"Easier this way," Zeke tells him. "Don't have to shoot a lot of people."
"I fail to see why that's any concern," he says. Zeke knows he doesn't, so there's no point in arguing about it.
Zeke stops by the motel to retrieve his stuff, and leaves town tucked into the undercarriage of a semi. He doesn't have everything Ash has, but Zeke's doing all right.
9. View from a phonebooth in Nebraska, November 2003
Zeke picks a phonebooth in Nebraska for the next call. He has a few ten-dollar quarter rolls, some time to kill, and a clear view in all four directions. This time Ash takes his call right away. He's let her make her point; they're done with the exhibition game.
"So I'm informed that your militia group liberated your body from the clutches of the New World Order," Ash says. "Good for you, Stone."
"Sure. I still got friends in low places." He plugs in more change to stave off the recording, and leans against the booth's glass wall.
"He's not your friend, Stone," she points out unnecessarily. "So how was the morgue? Not too cold?"
"Nah, it was fine," he says. He'd been bagged, tagged, and shoved aside, pending a biohazard review. He never bleeds much from that kind of damage; it worries people.
"I wish you'd stayed longer, Stone. I intended to requisition copies of your autopsy photos."
"Do they have support groups for necrophilia, Ash?"
"You tell me," she retorts mildly. "I'm willing to curb my insatiable lust for you, Zeke, to get a better look at those tattoos. I want to see all of them."
"Yeah, I thought maybe you had a tattoo thing. But there's only one that ought to concern you."
"Actually, Zeke, there's only one that should concern you."
Her flat tone sounds like a warning. "What's that supposed to mean, Ash?"
"You're the detective, Detective. Figure it out. Or, I don't know, Zeke, has the brain rot finally set in?"
He doesn't have nearly enough quarters to waste on insults. "So, how's tricks? Guess you're in a good place to find more recruits for your cause, huh."
"My division does document and track domestic terrorists, if that's what you mean," she agrees. "My experience with them from the force in L.A. made me a good choice for this office."
"That's pretty hilarious."
"And, yes, Zeke, it's useful to me," she says, sounding tired, "and the current political climate has helped as well. But none of this is what you want to talk about, is it?"
It's really not. "Listen, Ash--"
"You listen," she cuts him off. "Now you know the kind of access I have. Or were you planning to try carrying that gun into a government building? Or stalking me through the streets of Washington? You can't get to me here."
"I'll wait for the next election. I'm patient."
Ash laughs. "I'm not a political appointee, Stone. Do you still remember those machines they have now, called computers? Find someone to do your homework."
"Funny."
"No, Stone. It's not." Her tone's gone exasperated, and Zeke shifts, uncomfortable. "It's not funny at all. There are things are going on right now, and you have none of the facts. You're blundering around in a mine field. I'm still willing to take you in, you know. You could be useful to me, Zeke."
"Screw politics, Ash. You tried to kill my wife." The connection's getting fuzzy, buzzing in his ear.
"I'm not talking about politics. And she's your widow, Zeke," she says. "I offered to become her. The only way you'll ever have her. You don't even know how much it meant that I offered that, do you? You weren't hearing a word I said. All you could think about was--"
"You smeared blood on Ros's face. You put a knife to her throat. You slept with my wife, Ash. I'm going to kill you."
"Zeke, dammit, for one minute will you just try--"
"You're going back to hell, Ash. I'm sending you there," he says. "Two bullets, both eyes."
"You can't even talk about this, can you?"
"You hurt Ros. No talking." Zeke's shaking; the phone in his hand cracks. "Just dying."
Ash sighs at him. "Very dramatic." But she waits him out.
"So," he asks finally, "you putting me on some sort of watch list?" He's under control again, but this phone booth is never going to recover. The metal shelf is crumpled, and the overhead light's blown for some reason.
"No," Ash says, and he clenches his jaw at her oh-so-patient tone, "I put you on the watch list a long time ago, Stone. Not that you'd board a plane without your gun, but you should be more careful when you're annoying the police at crime scenes."
"Thanks for that," he says.
"My pleasure." Then she says, "I know you think you're different from us, Ezekiel. Obviously you are different in many ways. But in the only way that matters, you're exactly the same. If you ever come to your senses, give me a call."
She hangs up on him. Zeke lurks around the area a little longer, just to see what happens. No one shows up this time to roust him.