Enigma (FBI Thriller 21)

“Yeah, well, a man’s weak, ain’t he? That’s what Sally always says.”

“All of us are weak, Dougie. I heard you tell my friend you haven’t seen Manta Ray come around either last night or this morning?”

“That’s right.”

Ruth thought a moment. “Okay, then, have you seen anything odd, anything unexpected, since the police took Manta Ray away? Something that made you pay attention? Something that surprised you?”

“Well, yes, Ruth, all of us had a really big surprise, ended up with dirt in my hair until I pulled my towel over my head.”

“What did you see?” Jack was bending down close. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dougie cocked his head, said to Ruth, “Don’t know why he’s so pissed off, neither of these two kid cops asked me about nothin’ else but Manta Ray.”

Ruth pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Spill it, Dougie. No, no more, you’ve already fleeced us enough.”

He gave her a cunning look, but Ruth shook her head, stared at him and waited. He said in his scratchy smoker’s voice, “Well, all right, if you’re going to be a hard-ass. A fancy white helicopter came right down here early this morning, at first light. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The sucker landed right over there.” When he shifted to point, the towel fell away from his dirty grizzled gray hair. “It ain’t all that big a place for a helicopter, but it set itself down nice and smooth, right there in front of that warehouse. Didn’t bother to turn off those noisy blades, either; they kept whirling and kicking up dirt.

“I couldn’t believe it, Ruth, I mean I hadn’t seen no helicopter ever land around here. The noise woke everybody up, scattered dust something fierce, like I said. Is that strange enough for you?” Dougie rearranged the threadbare dingy gray towel with a faded Marriott printed on it over his head. “If it was bigger, I could tie it under my chin, you know, if that chopper comes back and stirs up the dirt.”

Ruth smiled at him, her hand still on his arm. “You’re doing good. Tell me more, Dougie.”

“No one got out of the helicopter, but then I heard this guy shout, he was using a bullhorn, I guess, ’cause it was loud—he shouted for Humbug to get over there, quick. And sure enough, I look up and

see Humbug staring down at the helicopter from out of his third-floor window, and he shouts back that he’s coming and waves. I don’t know how they could have heard him, what with those blades whirling around so fast, sounded like a war down here they was so loud, and enough dirt was kicking up to blind you. Got in my hair, right? Humbug had to bend over, cover his face with his hands and run, the dirt was so thick, like one of those African siroccos, got all over all of us. He trotted over to that helicopter and I couldn’t believe what he did—he climbed right in, and after a while he climbed back out again and the helicopter lifted right straight up. That’s why I’m wearing a towel, in case it comes back, I don’t want no more sand on my head.” And again, he patted the towel on his head.

“That’s smart, Dougie,” Ruth said, her voice patient. “But you didn’t see Manta Ray?”

“No siree, Ruth, only heard that bullhorn voice.” He looked up at Jack. “Can I keep the bucks?”

“Sure,” Jack said, and stuck out his hand. “Dougie, I’m Jack and this is Cam. Was Humbug carrying anything when he ran to the helicopter?”

“Yeah, it was one of them leather carryalls, brown I think. Don’t know where he got it, why he had it, and why he took it to that helicopter. Don’t know nothing more, Ruth, not a blessed thing.”

Cam said, “Is Humbug in that warehouse right now?”

“Nope, not yet, but Hummer’ll be back. He always comes back.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

Dougie looked from Jack to Cam. “You guys cop partners?”

“We are right now,” Cam said.

“If you weren’t so pretty, missy, I’d say you drive the bus, but I don’t know. This guy, he’s all tough-looking, hard—” He shook his head, as if getting his brain back on track, and gave them a smile, showing surprisingly white teeth.

“Come on, Dougie,” Cam said, “tell us about Humbug.”

“Yeah, well his name’s really Hummer, calls himself Major Hummer, doesn’t like us calling him Humbug. He sometimes lives here, sometimes goes back to that other world out there, but four, six months later, he’s back again, babbling about all the jerks and cheats out there trying to kill him. Then he needs a drink and disappears into his room in the warehouse.”

Cam interrupted him, she was so excited. “Dougie, did you say Hummer is his real name?”

“Sure, he’s Hummer. He says Humbug means he’s supposed to hate Christmas, only he doesn’t, not really. He gave me this towel around Christmas, I think.” Dougie smoothed it over his ears, shook his head, gave Cam a sweet smile. “You know what else? Humbug is always rantin’ how if only the Feds had let him and his men loose he could have won that first shoot-out with Saddam in Iraq. He wouldn’t of stopped, nope, he’d have marched his ass to Baghdad and wiped out those damned terrorists, not let that Saddam fellow wiggle his way out of it like he did. Sometimes he gets so worked up he don’t make much sense, but sometimes—” He shook his head again, brought himself back. “I guess all I know about that war was it was a long time ago. Long time.”

Dougie’s towel had slipped again. This time, Ruth smoothed it back around his head.

“Ruth, it’s funny, you know? Here Humbug fought in the U.S. military and he’s Irish. Isn’t that strange? I mean, why would he give a crap about terrorists hurting the United States? But I guess we’ve got all sorts over there throwing bombs at each other. It beats me how anybody knows who the good guys are.”

“Irish,” Ruth repeated. She leaned down and gave Dougie a big hug, then smiled really big up at Cam and Jack. “Humbug is Irish. Sounds to me Manta Ray may have found a friend the day he was shot.”