“We got this bastard. You had a good plan.”

He would have stood over Frank Meyer exactly like that. Pike saw him shooting Frank in exactly the same way.

Pike raised his gun, and shot the man who had run in with Darko. Darko stood slack-jawed for a moment, as if he didn’t understand, then lifted his gun and fired.

Pike pushed Cole out, and followed, ducking behind the big door as the SRT teams identified themselves over their P.A. systems and demanded that everyone surrender. Two or three might have surrendered, but the gunfire continued.

Cole said, “He’s out the side door. He’s running.”

Darko.

Pike ran hard along the front of the building through the chaos of the fight. The SRT operators and arriving ATF agents were spreading along a perimeter, taking men into custody.

Pike ran past them.

He reached the corner of the building, and saw Darko halfway down its length, far beyond the action. Pike started after him. Darko suddenly turned toward the street. He saw Pike following, and popped off two shots, but Pike didn’t slow.

Darko ran across the street, jumped high onto the chain-link fence, and clawed his way over. He dropped into the sandy brush, staggered to his feet, and fired three more shots. One of his bullets sparked off the tarmac at Pike’s feet, but Pike kept running.

He heard Kelly Walsh shouting behind him.

“Stop it, Pike! You stop! He’s mine!”

Pike ignored her.

He hit the fence at a hard run, and crashed down into dead scrub that tore into his skin. Pike couldn’t see Darko or hear him, so he traced the fence until he found the spot where Darko climbed over. The signs were easy to follow, even as Hurwitz’s voice echoed over the P.A.

“Stand down, Pike. We are moving into the area. We’ll get him. Now stand down.”

Pike picked up his pace.

The footprints and trail scuffs led up a low rise, then down into a depression overgrown with chaparral and sage. Pike pushed through the hard scrub, so thick and dense he was unable to see anything except the ground at his feet.

The chaparral thinned as the ground rose, and tabled out into a small clearing. Darko’s footprints continued across. Pike paused to scan the far side of the rise for movement. Ballona Creek was visible about three hundred yards ahead. It was a wide creek with concrete walls, and a current that pushed to the sea. They were very close to the ocean. If Darko made it to the creek, there was a good chance he could escape.

Pike set off across the clearing, pushing even faster.

Pike was less than halfway across when Michael Darko exploded from a ball of chaparral, and crashed into him. He had circled back to wait in the brush, and had done a good job of it.

Darko was a heavy man, and strong, but Pike spun with the contact and pushed him past. Darko staggered sideways, then caught his balance. He was winded and out of shape, and breathing hard to show it. He wasn’t holding a gun. Dropped it, fighting his way through the brush.

Pike said, “No gun?”

Darko stared at Pike’s gun, still sucking wind like a bellows.

Pike tossed the pistol to the ground at Darko’s feet.

“How about now?”

Darko dropped for the gun. His hand was on the grip when Pike hit him with a roundhouse kick that snapped his humerus like a wet stick. He made a deep grunt, then Pike caught him from the other side on the outside of his knee, and swept his legs from under him. Darko landed on his side, then rolled onto his back.

The pistol was next to him, but Darko made no move for it.

Pike was staring at him when the brush moved, and Elvis Cole stepped out. Cole took in the scene, then moved a little closer.

“You got him. We’re done here, Joe.”

Pike picked up the gun. He held it with a relaxed grip and jiggled it, still looking at Darko.

Cole said, “You good?”

Pike didn’t know if he was good or not. He thought maybe he was, but wasn’t sure.

Cole said, “It’s over.”

More crashing came up the hill, then Walsh burst into the clearing. She had her service piece, and immediately beaded up on Pike.

“Put it down! Move away from him and put it down, Pike. Do it!”

Pike jiggled the gun again.

Cole slowly stepped between them, putting himself in front of her gun.

“Take it easy, Walsh. We’re cool.”

She angled sideways to see her target.

“He’s mine, goddamnit! You step away from there, Pike! That bastard is mine!”

Pike tossed the little pistol toward her. It landed in the sand.

Pike glanced down at Darko again, but saw Frank and Cindy. Frank, Cindy, and their two little boys.

Cole stepped up beside him, and put a hand on Pike’s shoulder.

“We’re done. You got him.”

Pike followed his friend out of the brush.

Part Five. Rest

45

CINDY’S SISTER ARRANGED THE memorial. She did not know Pike, Jon Stone, or Frank’s friends from that earlier time, so Pike was not invited. Cole saw a notice for the memorial when he read the Meyer family’s obituary. The obituary was published as a sidebar to a longer article in the Los Angeles Times about East European gang wars, the death of Milos Jakovich, and the conviction and sentencing of Michael Darko to three consecutive life sentences for the murders of Earvin Williams, Jamal Johnson, and Samuel Renfro, as well as the murders they committed on Darko’s behalf. Darko did not stand trial. He accepted a plea agreement that let him escape the death penalty. The obituary noted that a memorial for the Meyers would be held at the United Methodist church in Westwood on an upcoming Sunday.

Cole pointed out the memorial.

“You should go.”

“I don’t know.”

Pike told Jon Stone about it, and asked if he would go, but Stone refused, not because he didn’t care about Frank, but because he hated funerals. They made him depressed, and he always showed up drunk.

Pike decided to go. He wore a black suit over a black shirt and black silk tie. Frank, Cindy, Little Frank, and Joey were represented by poster-sized photographs set up on easels, along with an enormous blowup of a family portrait.

The people in attendance were mostly Cindy’s family, but a significant number were people who knew the Meyers from school, their business, and church. Two cousins from Frank’s side showed up, both listless men with scabbed hands and coarse skin who looked like they worked hard for a living. They attended only because they brought Frank’s mother-an overweight woman of meager means who had difficulty walking. She sat in a front pew with the two awkward cousins as if she was out of place, and knew it. Her clothes were cheap, and her hair was bad, and when the memorial was over she would go back to her trailer in San Bernardino.

Pike introduced himself, and shook her hand.

“Frank was my friend. We were in the service together.”

“This is so terrible. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“I’m sorry about your son.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Pike shook other hands. When people asked, he told them he knew Frank from the service, but didn’t say where or when, and provided no details. These people knew the Frank they wanted to know, and the Frank that Frank and Cindy wanted them to know. Pike was fine with it.

Pike left in the middle of the service, and drove to Frank’s house. The yellow tape was down, and someone had replaced the broken front door. A For Sale sign had sprouted on the front lawn.

Pike took off his jacket and tie, then rolled his sleeves. He let himself through the side gate, walked around to the back, then stood beneath the huge maple tree beside the still pool. The relatives would be through the house soon, dividing and sharing the mementos, deciding what to do with the possessions. Pike went to the French doors, but did not enter. He had what he wanted. He peered into Frank’s house, then faced the pool and the trees. It was easy to imagine Frank tossing his sons in the air, but imagining it didn’t make him hurt less.