Kingdom of God Read online

  “Okay,” the detective stated. “If we have everyone in position, let’s move.”

  “You’ll wanna hang back for this one, chief,” Sool said. I’ll take a look.”

  “I need to see what’s going on in there.”

  “Just let me take a crack at it, then I’ll call you.”

  “He’s right, detective,” Jen interjected. “Let Guy go in alone on this one, then we’ll reassess.” Michael drew another breath through his nose. He loosened his stance and removed his hand from the sidearm.

  “Go ahead then.”

  Blaylock and Dowd raised their rifles to high ready. With some slack on his leash, Bronco led Blaylock up the driveway on his hind legs toward the gate to the backyard. It was ajar. Sool trailed behind the two sergeants with his hands at his side.

  Blaylock took hold of the wooden gate and drew it open. From the MTVR, Michael saw the bright green, well-manicured lawn in the backyard. An overturned playhouse, plastic baseball bat and bicycle were strewn across the grass. A green garden hose was off its reel with water dribbling out. A patch of brown, trampled grass appeared at the end of the running hose.

  Michael stepped to his right to get a better look at the toolshed in the back corner of the yard. He regarded Blaylock, Dowd and Sool making their way toward the shed. Bronco was still tugging at the leash.

  The shed door was closed. Blaylock pushed it open with the barrel of his rifle. Bronco began barking again, baring his teeth and spitting saliva. Blaylock jerked the dog back and patted his side again. Bronco calmed.

  Shadows enveloped the shed’s interior. The two guardsmen backpedaled from it, and Sool walked inside. He shut the door behind him. Michael’s eyes narrowed. Sool was now out of sight. The detective took a few small steps toward the open gate.

  “What’s going on in there?” he asked.

  “Just wait until we see what he has,” Jen assured him. Michael craned his neck forward. A hallow sound rushed through his non-functioning hearing aid.

  “What the hell’s going on in there?”

  “Just wait.”

  Michael stormed up the driveway.

  “Detective, please just wait. Let him do his work.”

  He marched through the open gate, into the backyard and up to the shed. He reached for the door handle and tried to yank it open. It was locked. He threw his shoulder into the door. It would not budge.

  Blaylock, Dowd and Jen witnessed Michael impotently try to get inside. He threw his shoulder into the door again. It would not move. He slammed on the door with open palm and shouted in frustration. He reactivated his hearing aid, but heard only a high-pitched ring and the buzzing from the chopper overhead. He could hear nothing inside.

  The three streetlamps over Eagle Drive illuminated amid the strobing lights of four police cruisers, two fire engines and an ambulance. A dozen news vans crammed behind two lines of police tape lashed to the Obsidian Hills sign. Three police snipers lay atop the hipped rooves of the surrounding homes. The black police helicopter hovered a hundred feet off the deck. Five news helicopters circled above it.

  Darkness blanketed the backyard. Four paramedics huddled by the open gate. A fifth sat on one knee. Their gaze was fixed on the toolshed. Dowd and Blaylock stood a few feet away from the paramedics. They conversed with their backs turned to the plastic shed. Michael was pacing back and forth behind the MTVR with his arms folded. Sweat beaded on his forehead and neck. A few feet away, Jen stood with one hand pressed against her ear. She attempted to talk on the phone over the clamor of the helicopters overhead.

  Through the noise, Michael heard Jen utter the word “Harris.” In the hours since Sool’s internment, forensics had confirmed the identity of the man in the van’s driver seat as Christopher Harris, a government employee from the San Ramon Valley region. Texts and emails inundated Michael’s phone with speculation that that Harris perpetrated the bombing, and that police were currently engaged in a standoff with another suspect. He did not respond to any of the messages.

  Blaylock and Dowd turned around. The paramedic on one knee rose to his feet. The other four paramedics prepared a stretcher. Michael stopped pacing and stared intently at the shed.

  The door creaked open. The paramedics rushed inside. Both Dowd and Blaylock turned around and resumed their conversation. Michael unfolded his arms and stormed up the driveway.

  A body lay atop the stretcher carried out of the toolshed. The feet were wrapped in a white cloth. A thick blanket covered the body’s arms and torso. One paramedic ordered Michael to stand back. The detective could see the rotund stomach and breasts of the supine figure. The dim light from the street illuminated small portions of gray skin on her body. Her eyes were closed. A breathing apparatus covered her mouth. A layer of soot coated her cheeks and forehead.

  They carried the woman out of the backyard amid a flurry of camera flashes and loaded her into an ambulance. Michael turned back to the shed. A wave of heat struck him as he approached the open doorway. The combined scents of gasoline, sweat and urine wafted under his nose. A lit match illuminated the shed’s interior. Sool was crouched in the corner igniting another cigarillo. A large puddle lay at his feet.

  “We need to talk,” Michael fumed. Sool exhaled a large puff of smoke.

  “Okay.”

  “In the truck.”

  Sool stood up and sauntered out of the shed. His face possessed a dark red hue. His sunglasses hung from his sweat-soaked collar. He paced across the healthy lawn with Michael following closely behind. As he approached the gate, Sool pulled the sunglasses off his collar and put them on his face. A deluge of camera flashes met the two men as they exited the backyard.

  They walked over to the parked MTVR. Michael opened the rear door, and Sool jumped inside. The detective climbed in after him and slammed the door shut. Sool traipsed to the far end of the vehicle’s rear and sat down on the bench. The smoke from the lit cigarillo started to fill the enclosed bed. He removed his sunglasses and held up a recorder to Michael.

  “Here’s that testimony you were looking for.” Michael stormed over to him and snatched it out of his hand.

  “We’re crossing the border right now, we’re going straight to the consulate, and I am dumping you off wherever the hell you came from.”

  “Hey-”

  “You’ve completely compromised this investigation, okay? You could’ve killed that woman. You’ve ruined the scene. This is going to set us back months, you understand? Maybe years. Nothing in trial would stick. It doesn’t matter if we get these guys. We might as well let them go and save us all the time you wasted.”

  The rear doors creaked open. Jen poked her head inside. She climbed up into the bed with her cell phone and a full bottle of water in each hand.

  “Detective?” Jen called.

  “I don’t know who you are or whatever the hell you think you’re doing, but I’ve had enough of this...I don’t know, cowboy bullshit. I want you out of my sight as soon we get to Mexico.”

  “Detective, we can’t do that.” Michael turned around to face the special agent.

  “I don’t care. I want him out of here.”

  “It’s Joe’s orders. We’re sticking together through the dispatch in Mexico, okay? One unit like the-”

  “Yeah I know.

  She offered the water to Sool. The man took it, screwed off the top and took a heavy swig from the plastic bottle.

  “We need to name a suspect now,” she said.

  “No.” Michael shook his head. “Absolutely not. We don’t have any information yet.”

  “It’s been over twenty-four hours. We’ve used too many resources to not have anything yet. Who are we naming?”

  “I’m not naming anybody yet. This guy’s so certain it’s two brothers. I don’t know where he got that from. All he’s done is follow a dog and treat ground zero like an astray.”

  “We’re not calling it that.”

  “What?

  “Ground zero. That implies this was an
act of terror.”

  “We’re still not calling it an act of terror.”

  “No.” Michael inhaled a few short breaths.

  “Then it was one hell of an accid-” Michael started to choke on the smoke that consumed the truck’s bed. He retreated toward the rear doors of the MTVR. Jen stepped into Michael’s place next to Sool.

  “Can we name Los Hermanos?” Sool took another drag of his cigarillo.

  “No. No no no no. I don’t want them running. I want them to feel comfortable. Stay put. Get back into everyday life.”

  “That’s if they’re alive.”

  “They’ll be easier to bring home if they’re not.”

  “What about the woman in the shed?” Jen flipped on her phone and started scrolling through dozens of messages.

  “She had nothing to do with it. She’s cooperating. Making her a prime suspect will make her clam up. We need her on our side.”

  “Okay. Um...” Jen stopped scrolling. “They’ve named Chris Harris. They announced-”

  “Who did?”

  “It wasn’t my call, okay? They had a press conference, they had to name every victim. Now it’s gotten out of hand. And you know, if we just...” Jen looked up from her phone. Sool was shooting daggers at her. She bowed her head and returned to the phone. “Okay, we won’t name him. That just leaves de la Cruz. We can put him at the scene and-”

  “Fine.”

  “Then that’s who we’re naming. I’ll notify the office.” She spun around and headed back toward the rear doors. Michael was still standing by the door clearing his lungs.

  “We have to get moving. Get the unit back here. I’ll start making final checks before we cross.”

  Jen pushed the doors wide open and lowered herself to the ground. Michael remained hunched over in the doorframe. He clutched Sool’s recorder against his hip. He looked back at the smoking man at the end of the truck’s bed. He was still slouched over on the bench. He darted glances between the recorder and Michael’s face.

  “You going to listen to it or what?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Did you know Chris Harris?” Sool stood up and took a few steps toward Michael. “What do you know about him? I worked with him a couple months on the other side. He’s from Danville. Worked eight years in the CIA. Had a wife and two kids. Two little girls. I don’t give a shit if you don’t like the way I do things, but don’t you ever for a goddamn second think that I don’t care. I’m going to whatever it fucking takes to find the guys that did this, so you better get out of my fucking way if you’re not ready to do the same.” Michael took in a few more breaths before climbing out of the truck.

  * * *

  Fifty yards from the border crossing, the MTVR sat in silence in the left lane of an empty thoroughfare. A white sign displaying the words “Otay International Border” stood on the median next to the truck. There were no tents, sirens or vehicles at the crossing. The hum of brightly glowing streetlamps overhead filled the cab. A light breeze rustled the dry palm bushes on either side of the road.

  Crammed against the passenger-side door, Michael was fixated on his phone. The bright screen cast a large pool of light onto his face. He tapped the “Refresh” button again and again to receive completed portions of the woman’s statement. He also browsed a message from Officer Lincoln. It confirmed that the woman in the shed was admitted to Mercy Hospital in Arcadia Heights. Her condition was unknown.

  Jen squirmed between the detective and Sool. Their bulletproof vests rubbed up against one other in the tight cabin. The ten guardsmen in the vehicle’s bed were still. Jen rifled through pages on her notepad while Sool kept his eyes on the border crossing ahead. Black earbuds were stuffed in each ear. His head listed to the right.

  Three minutes passed without an update. Michael raised his head and peered at the crossing ahead. An unmarked cruiser idled under the canopy. A patrolman in a Policia Tijuana uniform loitered beside the passenger-side window. He chatted with the driver.

  “I thought they’d be ready for us this afternoon,” Michael said.

  “It should be cleared up soon,” Jen replied.

  Sool removed the earphone out of his right ear and placed it in his lap. A heavy metal rock song blared throughout the cab.

  “We check hospitals yet?”

  “We’re still looking at it.”

  “Hey is there, like, a registry of retards?” Michael turned and looked at Sool.

  “What?”

  “Is there a registry of retards or something?”

  “Like a list of people with special needs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They got something that in America,” Garcia piped up from the back. “They’re called registered Democrats.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” another guardsman rebutted.

  “I just thought...that chick thought one of Los Hermanos was retarded. Wouldn’t they write that down if he was in the hospital? On like a form when he gets checked in? Then we got a record of him. They got to have something like that.”

  “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

  “Well sorry, doc. I don’t know the ins and outs of every hospital, but if you got a better way of identifying-”

  “Aren’t they Caucasian?” Jen said. “We can just ask if they admitted any white patients.” Sool did not respond. His eyes remained fixed on the crossing ahead.

  “All right.” He placed the earphone back in his ear. Michael leaned closer to Jen.

  “Los Hermanos are white?” he whispered.

  “Yes. We’ll go over the profile at the meeting tomorrow morning.”

  The taillights of the police cruiser lit up. The border patrolmen stepped away from the vehicle and waved the MTVR forward. The truck’s engine whirred to life, and the driver put the vehicle into motion. A second unmarked cruiser tailed the MTVR down the deserted Otay Mesa Freeway. They were the first vehicles to cross the border in over twenty-four hours.

  They proceeded down the Boulevard de Los Aztecas, passing an endless line of stationary cars on the northbound side of the road. The cruiser ahead steered right onto Calle del Laurel. The streetlamps overhead disappeared. The road was shrouded in darkness.

  The cruiser’s taillights brightened again. The three vehicles slowed to a crawl. The guardsmen in back lifted their rifles to low ready and switched the safeties off.

  Michael craned his neck to get a better look at the road ahead. He lowered his hand down to the sidearm on his belt. The cruiser swerved left, blared its siren and flashed its red-and-blue lights. Out of the corner of the MTVR’s headlights, a large group of people gathered on the embankment. Food carts and several blankets with jewelry laid out on top of them appeared on the side of the road. Three children were running alongside the truck, ignoring the police car’s lights and siren. The MTVR picked up speed as it passed the swath of people. The guardsmen lowered their rifles back to sling ready.

  Sool muttered something under his breath. Michael peered over the top of Jen’s head to get a better look at the man.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” Sool replied. “Fucking kids should be asleep.”

  “You got any kids?”

  “Nope.”

  Jen looked up from her notepad. She glared at Michael.

  “Sorry. I’ll keep chatter related to the case.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. She turned to face forward. “Joe said we can, uh...loosen up a bit. He thought it would help. Congrats you on your daughter getting into college.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you have any other children?”

  “Yeah, two boys. One’s a sophomore in high school. The other is, uh...he’s five.” Sool removed one of his earphones.

  “Five?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Little old to have a five-year-old.”

  “Well, things happen.”

  “Sorry I brought it up,” Jen said. She lowered her gaze back to her notes
.

  “Maybe we should see if they have a registry for Asperger’s too.” Sool did not reply. His eyes were locked on the road outside.

  The convoy slowed again. It turned right and proceeded through a ten-foot-tall, black iron gate. A packed parking lot with a beige, rectangular building illuminated by spotlights lay ahead of them. The night sky shrouded the surrounding area. The MTVR and two cruisers swerved around three concrete barriers and into the parking area. The truck came to a stop at the building’s windowless north side. The guardsmen bolted out of their seats, jumped out of the back and formed two lines beside the vehicle. They marched toward a large green tent erected in a verdant field beside the parking lot.

  Michael, Jen and Sool climbed out of the cab. Jen led the other two investigators toward the front entrance. Michael pressed the “Refresh” button on his phone once more before pocketing it. Sool placed his hand on his neck and started twisting his head back and forth.

  Shouts of anger and frustration echoed throughout the main lobby of the consulate. The marble floors and wood-paneled walls amplified the commotion. The noise reignited the ringing in Michael’s hearing aid. The three investigators passed a crowd of men, women and a few children cramming behind a row of metal detectors. A trio of security guards ordered the crowd off the grounds and to return to their hotels and homes. A short woman screamed at one of the guards. Her voice was hoarse. Her eyes were bloodshot.

  After bypassing the detectors, an older woman stepped out from behind the wide, semi-circular front desk. She approached Michael.

  “Hey, I’m Tonya Agee. You must be Detective Barrish.”

  “Yes. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you too. And good to see you two again.” Jen acknowledged Tonya with a nod. The administrator turned her attention back to Michael. “Have you ever been to the consulate before?”

  “No, ma’am.”