. . . 27 Hours and Counting . . .

Justin celebrated his birthday alone. He did it by pretending the buried van was a submarine and the white pipe was his periscope. For a short time, the game kept his mind off of his predicament. All too soon, however, he found he was unable to ignore the dark, dank prison he was trapped in. He sighed and looked around his tiny world. He thought that he really should be doing something for himself, instead of waiting for others to do it for him; his mother always told him that. But what to do?

He thought about the trip they had taken to the primitive campsites around Donner Pass last summer. There had been no toilets there, either. His father had set up a small shovel with a roll of toilet paper slipped down over the handle. The idea was to go off into the trees and dig a hole when you had to go. Deciding that was a good idea, he set up one corner of the van with a pile of loose, sandy earth. That would serve him for a catbox, of sorts. The idea made him giggle in the darkness. His food he placed in an empty box at the opposite corner of the van, far from his sand pile. He didn’t eat all his food at once, either, although he was ravenously hungry. Instead, he ate only half of the remaining cheetos and drank six swallows of water.

It was hot up above, he could feel it in the fresh air that came down the pipe, but it stayed cool down in the darkness. He thought about it, and decided that all in all, he liked being down in the van more than being on the highway with Spurlock. At first, he had been scared of the dark, but then his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Now the circle of light at the bottom of the pipe seemed like a glaring beacon from another world. At times, he felt he was suffocating. To relieve the feeling, he laid down under the bottom of the long pipe and breathed in the infrequent puffs of air from the surface. Occasionally, the earth that entombed him shifted, sending a cascade of pebbles and sand skittering down the skin of the van and sifting into his hair. He had already become accustomed to that, too.

The only thing that worried him now was his lack of food and water. Instinctively, his young mind knew he needed a supply of both. But how to get them?

He raised hunger-sunken eyes to the pipe in the ceiling. Everything he needed was out there, somewhere. Freedom, his mother and father, all the food and soda he wanted, it was all above him.

He picked up the coffee can, dumping its load of stale cigarette butts onto his cat box pile. He looked up the pipe again, listening for any sign of the van man. He heard nothing.

All he had to do, he knew, was dig.

#

Sarah arrived at Ingles’ place with her heart fluttering in her chest. She stopped in the driveway, climbed out of the car and headed for the back porch. Everyone always went in through the back door, as the house was situated so that the driveway and garage met there. She raised her knuckles to rap on the screen door, but hesitated. She walked inside instead. Calling Robert’s name, then Ray’s, she walked from room to room, terrified of what she might find. In the living room, on that couch with the duck pattern she had always hated, she found splattered blood.

She sucked in her breath and headed back out the way she had come. Agents Vasquez and Johansen met her on the porch.

#

“How in the hell did he find you?” asked Spurlock. He glanced back into the bed of Ingles’ silver Ford Ranger. There Vance was sprawled, head lolling and thumping loosely when the Ranger bounced over a pothole.

“He’s a gifted man,” said Ingles.

“Huh,” grunted Spurlock, “he’s gonna be the only man in the state gifted with a headache bigger than mine tomorrow. If he sees another tomorrow, that is.”

“He will,” said Ingles firmly.

Spurlock glanced at him. He had already taken a strong dislike to the cocky bastard, and he had only just met him in person. He was even worse in person than on the phone. Spurlock had always disliked foppish, over-educated types that figured they were the only ones in the world with any brains. He figured he could probably shark his weight in pants off these snooty university-types, given the chance.

“Just give him to me, with transportation, and I know people who will take care of the rest,” he repeated. He knew people who specialized on making people disappear in L.A. They would have preferred the boy, but that was a done deal now.

Ingles made no response.

“What are you planning?” Spurlock asked again. As he asked, he reached into his front jeans pocket and touched his little metal squirt gun. He wondered if he would ever do anything more than beat peoples’ heads in with it.

“You’ll see,” said Ingles in that maddening tone of his. “There, it’s right up ahead.”

They were barreling along through the almond orchards. Off to the left of the dirt track (Spurlock hardly considered it a road) was a canal. The canal had sun-bleached concrete walls and a slimy trickle of water at the bottom. Spurlock looked ahead, and spotted a small building of concrete blocks. It sat near the canal and had thick rusted pipes that spread out from it like tree roots.

“It’s a pump house,” explained Ingles, seeing his blank look.

“I know what the friggin’ thing is.”

Ingles shrugged.

“I saved your ass back there, you know,” Spurlock told him. “Or rather, the rest of your toes.”

“I believe I’ve already expressed my gratitude in that regard.”

“Gee, fucking thanks a fucking lot,” snapped Spurlock. “I want that locker number, not a pat on the head, man.”

“As I said,” Ingles replied evenly, “we’ll discuss that when we’ve solved the current crisis.”

“He’s not my problem.”

“Oh no, you are quite incorrect there, my friend. He is your biggest problem. And mine.”

“Crazy fucker,” muttered Spurlock. Even he wasn’t sure whether he meant Ingles or Vance. Quite possibly, he thought to himself, he meant both of them.

Ingles squealed the Ranger’s brakes to a bumpy stop. He got out and limped to the pump house door. Somehow, he had quickly stopped the bleeding and even managed to get a shoe over his bloody bandaged foot. Spurlock watched him work on the rusty padlock. As soon as his back was turned, Spurlock automatically checked the ignition. The keys were gone.

As if in answer to Spurlock’s silent observation, Ingles waved the jingling keys over his shoulder at him. “Need them for the lock,” he said.

“Crazy psychic bastard,” muttered Spurlock. He hated when Ingles did shit like that, predicting your thoughts and actions. It was a good trick, but it got old fast. It made you want to surprise him somehow.

Ingles disappeared inside the pump house. Spurlock had worked in such places, and knew that inside were exposed heavy voltage lines. They ran these pumps on 440 volts AC, which was a lot of power. They could fry a man right down to his boot-stumps in a few minutes. He hoped Ingles, for all his brains, would make a mistake in there. While he waited, he climbed out of the truck and eyed Vance. Bruised, but alive. Murder One had, as yet, been avoided. But then, the day was young.

Soon Ingles came out with three huge rolls of silvery duct tape.

“What’s that—” began Spurlock, then he got it. “Ah, I see you are a man of learning. We’re gonna gift-wrap him! My buds in L.A. will like that. The Arabs do this all the time in Israel, you know.”

Ingles gave him a questioning glance, as if surprised that Spurlock knew there were people called Arabs and such a place as Israel. Spurlock ignored the look.

Quickly, they set to work taping up Vance. Soon, he looked like a silver mummy.