Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand
Knowing the variables of karma, Crowe hesitated to call it deterministic but it was almost as if the woman had no choice in the matter. He recalled an infamous quote from Hitler: “I go the way Providence dictates for me, with all the assurance of a sleepwalker.”
Where would Cassidy go? Crowe checked the transits against her chart. Her ruling planet Mercury had just entered Taurus in the ninth house. The ninth ruled long-distance travel but Taurus was a fixed sign and Mercury was under the influence of Saturn, which was always a drag. He figured she would run but wouldn’t get far.
He unfolded the map of the Southwest to have a closer look at New Mexico. Thus far his investigation into Janis Stockwell’s murder had centered on three areas: New York, San Francisco and Santa Fe. But he might just as well substitute Albuquerque for Santa Fe since that’s where Munson was when all three deaths occurred.
Crowe drew three lines connecting Albuquerque, Santa Fe and Los Alamos. In his mind’s eye he compared it to a larger triangle connecting New York, San Francisco and Santa Fe. Both were roughly the same triangle he’d seen in the cracked pavement where the NYPD had outlined Janis Stockwell’s outflung hand.
Crowe studied the area around Los Alamos where Dr. Cassidy had died in a car fire, possibly caused by a bomb. The map’s topographic features caught his eye. In the mountains west of Los Alamos was the crater of an ancient volcano, a caldera ten miles wide. Crowe thought of the hole in Dave Munson’s face caused by the bowling ball. He reflected on Dr. Locard’s exchange principle – every killer left a little piece of himself at the crime scene and took a little piece away. Although Locard had referred to material evidence, in Crowe’s worldview that was only the grossest element on a broader spectrum of manifestation.
A gory image floated into his mind’s eye: Munson’s face with the bowling ball driven into his forehead. Blood from his right eye socket had run down his cheek. Crowe superimposed this image onto the map of the Jemez Mountains. From the volcanic caldera, a rift descended from its southwest quadrant and ran down a valley through a place called Jemez Springs.
It wasn’t much to go on but it was a piece of the puzzle. Even if it didn’t make sense, that could change overnight. Starrett and Hutchins were now running down leads, assembling information. This was like a jigsaw puzzle. Sometimes you had a piece in your hands but you didn’t know what to do with it until you recognized the pattern in the surrounding pieces and then everything fell into place.
SATURDAY
Chapter 67
San Francisco
Crowe awoke at four in the morning. It was seven back in Toronto and if it hadn’t been for the late hour he’d gone to bed last night he’d have accused himself of sleeping in. He showered, put on a bathrobe and meditated for half an hour. Afterwards he went out onto the balcony to inhale the dawn air. He could barely see the street through the fog that had crept like dense smoke between the sleeping buildings. From out in the bay came the sound of a distant foghorn.
He dressed and left the hotel. On Sacramento Street a homeless man sang to himself as he pushed a shopping cart of belongings along the sidewalk. Aside from a street-sweeping vehicle, a few taxis and a police car, there was no traffic at this hour. As Crowe walked, store signs in English gave way to Chinese. At Grant Avenue, the spine of the famous Chinatown strip, he turned south a few blocks, then east on California, looking for a small street ran parallel to Grant.
He found the entrance to a small park. It contained several benches and children’s swings, with a street lamp at either end. On a plot of grass a man in a track suit practiced moves involving chops and kicks. Crowe recognized Ken Ataka, the Berkeley Karate Club instructor. Having finished the last move of his sequence, Ataka bowed to Crowe and beckoned him with a sweep of a hand.
Crowe approached. Ataka didn’t offer to shake hands. Crowe placed his palms together at chest level and bowed briefly from the waist. Ataka’s hair had turned salt-and-pepper since his Berkeley days but his face was as ageless as the Buddha heads Crowe had seen in the windows of antique shops on Grant.
“Thank you for meeting me, Ataka-san. I am grateful for your assistance.”
Ataka nodded. “I have a sympathetic ear for anyone willing to trade the comfort of a warm bed for the chill of the dawn.”
“I’m accustomed to it. Four to six in the morning is what the Hindus call brahmamuhurta, the hours for meditation.”
Ataka moved toward a nearby bench beneath a tree. Crowe followed and they sat together. Ataka crossed one leg over the other and placed his hands in his lap. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, releasing his breath in an extended sigh. He turned to look at Crowe.
“So you sit in zazen?”
“In the manner of my Hindu guru.”
“I admire the Indian traditions even though they seem to lack a martial art.”
“Actually there are several – some with weapons, some without. They are largely unknown because Hindu philosophy holds non-violence to be a prime virtue.”
“But you know these arts?”
“Yes.”
“And you have fought?”
“To my regret, yes.”
“Regret?” Ataka looked puzzled. “Is it not honorable to defend a noble cause or protect the innocent?”
“My regret lies with my failure to resolve a situation through logic or diplomacy.”
Ataka extended an open-palmed hand. “Those who can’t learn from this must be taught with something firmer.” His forearm curled back with a serpentine fluidity until his hand, thumb and fingers now bunched together like the hooded head of a cobra, cocked at shoulder height and ready to strike.
“My guru taught me to familiarize myself with the way of snakes but not to sleep with them.”
Ataka lowered his hand back into his lap. “Was he a man of the world or a recluse?”
“A wrestler in his youth, lawyer in his middle years, teacher in his maturity. The Bengal Tiger, they called him in Calcutta. He said his life had been built on one struggle after another – pinning opponents to the mat, winning courtroom cases, dispelling ignorance. He said the biggest challenge was to transfer the arena of combat from the gross to the subtle. Ultimately, our greatest enemy is our own desire.”
Ataka inhaled deeply and released an audible sigh. “You’re fortunate to have found a worthy teacher.”
“I am grateful he found me a worthy student.”
Ataka studied Crowe. “So tell me. What’s this puzzle you’re trying to solve?”
Crowe gave Ataka the Karate Club photocopy from the Berkeley yearbook. He pointed to Stockwell in the picture. “Do you remember this man? He was a student of yours fourteen or fifteen years ago.”
Ataka peered at the picture, his thumb and finger feeling the paper, as if its texture were a stimulus to his memory. He nodded as it came back to him. “He was nimble on his feet but had no stamina. If you kept pressing him he crumbled.”
Crowe pointed to Dave Munson. “What about this one?”
“No concentration, no discipline. Drugs, I believe. And he was afraid of being hurt.”
Crowe pointed to Carrie Woods. “And her?”
Ataka squinted a moment. “Ah, yes. Our little kamikaze.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what the other students nicknamed her.”
“Why?”
“She was fearless. She’d pursue the most aggressive attack no matter what risk of injury. Compared to these other two she was from another world. She could take a blow and come back even stronger. And she wouldn’t quit. She was like a snake with its head cut off but still thrashing.”
“Did she attain a black belt?”
Ataka shook his head. “We encountered an obstacle. I couldn’t take her beyond the brown.”
“What kind of obstacle?”
“Anger,” Ataka said. “If you can’t control your basic emotions, you can’t master the higher disciplines.”
“More a question of your refusal, ra
“It would have been like giving an angry child a sword to play with her friends. Someone would have lost their head. It was my responsibility to prevent that happening.”
“Everyone has their limits. Many things my guru never taught me. At one time, I resented his withholding them. Later I understood it was only my insatiable ego he was attempting to restrict.”
“Even in matters of honesty, your guru taught you well.”
Crowe bowed his head. His eyes filled with tears, reflecting upon the years it had taken him to achieve even a shadow of the humility that was second nature to Guruji. His heart brimmed with love for the man who’d shown him the path through a bramble thicket of ignorance and misperception. As he blinked back his tears he saw the first rays of the rising sun illuminating the wall of a neighboring building upon which someone had painted a red Chinese dragon.
Ataka gave him back the photocopy of the Berkeley Karate Club. “Why are you interested in these people?”
“They’ve been playing with swords of their own. Innocent people have been killed.”
“Why is that your affair?”
“One of the victims was the sister of a friend, a good woman who used her wealth and influence to help those in need. Her death leaves a void in the lives of many.”
“And now you’re a vigilante?”
Crowe shook his head. “More like a bloodhound. The police will follow up on whatever I find and do what must be done. I want to keep my hands clean but I can’t close my eyes in the face of injustice.”
“You’re a good man too. I wish you success.”
“Thank you, Ataka-san.” Crowe stood and bowed to the older man.
Ataka uncoiled from his seated position and stood. “Won’t you stay a while and fight me? I’d like to see what your guru taught you.”
“Perhaps another time. I have a plane to catch.”
Before Crowe turned to go, Ataka extended his hand. Crowe shook hands with him. Ataka’s grip was gentle but Crowe felt strength like a coiled spring within the older man’s palm. In the brief seconds during which they were thus bonded, Crowe felt the electric current of two ancient traditions intertwine like the coils of mating serpents.
Ataka nodded as he released him, placed his palms together and bowed.
Chapter 68
San Francisco
Crowe returned to the hotel where he found his express checkout bill and today’s San Francisco Chronicle. He glanced at the newspaper headlines. A front-page story read ‘Pentagon Awards Fort Hunter Liggett $50 million.’ The article recounted how the largest Army Reserve Command Post in the country had received funds to upgrade its training facilities.
Crowe packed his bag. Last night he’d checked the flight schedules out of San Francisco International airport. There was an America West departure at 7:05 AM this morning, connecting in Phoenix, arriving in Albuquerque at noon.
He caught a taxi to the airport. En route he called Detective Starrett, thinking to leave him a message, but Starrett picked up on the first ring. His voice was gnarly, like someone who’d stayed up all night drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. He and Hutchins had pulled an all-nighter.
“Any luck?” Crowe took out his phone and started his astrology app. Across the bay, a pink sky outlined the San Leandro Hills.
“Yes and no,” Starrett said. “Three hundred passengers traveled from New Mexico to the Bay Area yesterday. Twenty-one rented white Sunfires. We phoned them all. Since we woke them up in the middle of the night, it was rather unpleasant.”
“Any passengers you couldn’t locate?”
“Yeah, and for lack of a better reason, he’s our suspect. A guy named Brian Hunter flew out of Albuquerque, connecting in Phoenix. But the contact number he gave the airline was out of service.”
“Hunter?” Crowe recalled the front-page lead about Fort Hunter Liggett in this morning’s newspaper. “What area code?”
“New Mexico, Alamogordo area.”
Crowe studied the chart on his phone. The ascendant, Sun and Moon were all in Aries at this moment, giving the archetypal fire sign a singular importance. This drew his attention to Mars, the warrior planet that ruled Aries.
“Any military bases near there?”
There was a pause at Starrett’s end. “I think the F-117 Stealth squadrons are based in southern New Mexico. Why?”
“He’s connected with the armed forces.”
“How do you know?”
Crowe looked out the taxi’s left window. Mars was in the 12th house of the horary chart. He could see it at this very moment, about thirty degrees above the horizon. It was still within a few degrees arc from Venus, brighter and more elevated. In Vedic myth, Mars was Kartikeya, the god of war; Venus was Shukra, the guru of the Asuras, a demonic class of deities. This was a war the warrior couldn’t win.
Crowe didn’t answer Starrett directly. “Don’t most airports have a designated serviceman’s lounge? If he’s military, Hunter might have used the one in Phoenix while waiting for his connecting flight. Maybe someone remembers him.”
“That’s a bit of a long shot.”
“Got any better ideas?”
Starrett cleared his throat but said nothing, reluctant to admit it.
“Any news from New York?”
“NYPD took Stockwell into custody last night. So far he denies any wrongdoing but we’ll get someone to ID him on the Larkspur surveillance and then we’ll see.”
“Tell Levinson to lean heavily on him.”
“He’s probably lawyered up by now.”
“What about Carrie Cassidy?”
“Santa Fe called me back last night. She’s disappeared but they’ve got the airports and borders covered. Hopefully it’s just a matter of time.”
“Speaking of airports, don’t forget what I said about the serviceman’s lounge.”
“I’ll check it out,” Starrett said.
~~~
At the airport, Crowe queued at the security gate. The line was long but moving briskly. Another Orange Alert day. He marveled at how the flying public had become dulled to the omnipresent security threat. He dumped his things into trays and placed them on the conveyor belt. He was on the other side of the scanner when his phone rang.
“I checked with Sky Harbor Airport,” Starrett said. “Hunter did use the serviceman’s lounge in Phoenix. But he’s got no record so he’s not in our system. And I can’t access military files.”
“What about DMV?”
“An address on Mesquite Road, Holloman Air Force Base.”
“Where’s that?”
“Alamogordo.”
“So now what?” Crowe took his bag and headed for the departure gate.
“I spoke to the New Mexico State Police. They’ll exercise my warrant to pick Hunter up for questioning.”
“You going down there?”
“No. Our budget’s tight and my Chief watches the bottom line like most women watch their waist lines.”
“What? You don’t watch yours?”
“Don’t bust my balls.”
“What about the FBI?”
“I contacted their Albuquerque office and gave them a heads-up. With Dr. Cassidy dead and his wife a bona fide suspect in a three-way conspiracy, Hunter looks like the missing link between Cassidy and Munson.”
“Will they act on it?”
“They’re very tight-lipped. Between me and you, I get the idea the Cassidy case was being treated as a national security matter. I think originally they had it pegged as some kind of terrorist thing but couldn’t get beyond the theory. With a lead on Hunter, maybe now the pieces will fall into place. At least they can gain access to his military records.”
“Can you give me the coordinates for the agent you spoke to?”
“No,” Starrett said. “You’re not even supposed to know what I just told you. And if it ever comes up, you never heard me mention national security. But I’m very grateful for how you he
~~~
Crowe arrived at his departure gate just as they announced boarding for his flight. As the other passengers presented their boarding passes, Crowe called his client in New York.
Blaikie answered. “Hi, Axel. What’s up?”
“I don’t have time to share details but things are developing quickly. Seems I stirred up a hornet’s nest with my visit here.”
“No kidding! The police arrested Jeb but they won’t tell me anything other than he’s wanted for questioning out there. What about that woman from Santa Fe?”
“We’re pretty certain she had something to do with your sister’s death. There’s a warrant for her arrest but she’s disappeared. I’m leaving for Albuquerque now.”
“Disappeared? How will you find her if the police can’t?”
“Kevin, I need you to pull some strings for me but legally, it’s a bit murky. You might be putting someone at risk.”
“I’ve got a few favors in reserve. What is it?”
“Do you know anyone in New Mexico who works for the military? I need someone with Department of Defense security clearance.”
Blaikie sucked in his breath. “You like to play in the big leagues, don’t you?”
“If we’re going to take a swing at it, let’s put it out of the park.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Crowe had just put his phone back in his pocket when it rang. It was Tracey.
“How’s your weekend going?” he said.
“I’m in the office,” she said.
“You need to get a life.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “But we just got a break. You know we fingerprinted the vehicles adjacent Janis Stockwell’s body. We matched one print on file but as it turned out the felon in question was miles away with an airtight alibi at the time. But after we followed your lead and identified Carrie Cassidy as the woman from the Southwest, we dusted her hotel room and ran every print lifted against prints from the crime scene. We got a hit!”
“A match between hotel and crime scene doesn’t prove anything. If she’s got no record, you don’t have her prints.”