BOSCH LEANED AGAINST the stainless steel wall of the elevator as it descended. He realized how different his feelings were from those that he held while the elevator had been carrying him up. He had ridden up with hatred pounding in his chest like a cat in a burlap bag. He didn’t even know the man he carried it for. Now he looked upon that man as a pitiful character, a half of a man who lay with his frail hands folded on the blanket, waiting, maybe hoping, for death to come and end his private misery.
Bosch believed Conklin. There was something about his story and his pain that seemed too genuine to be dismissed as an act. Conklin was far beyond posing. He was facing his grave. He had called himself a coward and a puppet and Bosch could think of nothing much harsher that a man could put on his own tombstone.
In realizing that Conklin spoke the truth, Bosch knew that he had already met the real enemy face to face. Gordon Mittel. The strategist. The fixer. The killer. The man who held the strings to the puppet. Now they would meet again. But this time, Bosch planned to make it on his terms.
He pushed the L button again as if that might coax the elevator to descend faster. He knew it was a useless gesture but he did it again.
When the elevator finally opened, the lobby seemed empty and sterile. The guard was there, behind his desk, working on his word puzzle. There wasn’t even the sound of a far-off TV. Only the silence of old people’s lives. He asked the guard if he needed him to sign out and he was waved off.
“Look, sorry I was an asshole before,” Bosch offered.
“Don’t worry about it, partner,” the guard replied. “It gets to the best of us.”
Bosch wondered what the “it” was he was talking about but said nothing. He nodded solemnly, as if he got most of his life lessons from security guards. He pushed through the glass doors and headed down the steps into the parking lot. It was getting cool and he turned up the collar of his jacket. He saw the sky was clear and the moon as sharp as a sickle. As he approached the Mustang he noticed the trunk of the car next to it was open and a man was bent over, attaching a jack to the rear bumper. Bosch picked up his pace and hoped he wouldn’t be asked to help out. It was too cold and he was tired of talking to strangers.
He passed the crouched man and then, not used to the rental car keys, he fumbled as he tried to get the proper key into the Mustang’s door lock. Just as he got the key in the slot, he heard a shoe scuff along the pavement behind him and a voice said, “Excuse me, fella.”
Bosch turned, trying to quickly think of an excuse for why he couldn’t help the man. But all he saw was the blur of the other man’s arm coming down. Then he saw an explosion of red the color of blood.
Then all he saw was black.