The Black Echo

there.
    “What?” he managed to say. “Wh-wha… do you mean?… Chance?”
    “What I mean is coincidence. You getting the callout on Meadows. That wasn’t part of the plan, Bosch. You believe that shit? I wonder what the odds are. I mean, Meadows is put in a pipe we knew he had crashed in before. We’re hoping maybe he won’t be found for a couple of days and then maybe it takes two, three days for somebody to make the ID off the prints. Meantime, he gets written off as an OD, a no-count. The guy’s got a hype card in the files. Why not?
    “But what happens? This kid reports the body right off the fucking bat”-he shook his head, the persecuted man-“and who gets the call, a dipshit dick who actually knew the fucking stiff and ID’s him in about two seconds. An asshole buddy from the tunnels of Viet-fucking-nam. I don’t believe this shit myself.
    “You messed everything up with that, Bosch. Even your own miserable life… Hey, still with me?”
    Bosch felt his head raise, the gun barrel under his chin.
    “Still with me?” Rourke said again, and then he poked the barrel into Bosch’s right shoulder. It sent a shock wave of red neon pain searing down his arm and through his chest, right down to his balls. He groaned and gasped for air, then took a slow-motion swing with his left hand at the gun. It wasn’t enough. He only got air. He swallowed back vomit and felt beads of sweat running through his damp hair.
    “You don’t look so good, buddy,” Rourke said. “I’m thinking maybe I won’t have to do this after all. Maybe my man Delgado did it right with the first shot.”
    The pain had brought Bosch back. It pulsed through him, leaving him alert, albeit temporarily. He could already feel himself fading. Rourke continued to lean over him, and he looked up and noticed the flaps hanging from the chest and waist of the FBI agent’s jumpsuit. Pockets. He was wearing the jumpsuit inside out. Something clicked in Bosch’s brain. He remembered Sharkey saying he saw an empty tool belt around the waist of the man who pulled the body into the pipe at the reservoir. That was Rourke. He wore the jumpsuit inside out that night, too. Because it said FBI on the back. He didn’t want to risk that that would be seen. It was a bit of information that was useless now, but for some reason it pleased Bosch to be able to put it in place in the puzzle.
    “What are you smiling at, dead man?” Rourke asked.
    “Fuck you.”
    Rourke raised his foot and kicked at Bosch’s shoulder but Bosch was ready for it. He grabbed the heel with his left hand and pushed upward and out. Rourke’s other foot gave way on the slick bed of algae and slipped out from under him. He went down on his back with a splash. But he didn’t drop the gun as Bosch had hoped. That was it. That was all there was. Bosch made a halfhearted effort to grab the weapon, but Rourke easily peeled his fingers off the barrel and pushed him back against the wall. Bosch leaned to his side and vomited into the water. He felt a new flow of blood coming from his shoulder, running down his arm. That had been his play. There was nothing else.
    Rourke got up out of the water. He moved in close and put the barrel of the gun against Bosch’s forehead. “You know, Meadows used to tell me about all that black echo stuff. All that bullshit. Well, Harry, here you are. This is it.”
    “Why’d he die?” Bosch whispered. “Meadows. Why?”
    Rourke stepped back and looked up and down the tunnel before speaking.
    “You know why. He was a fuckup over there, he was a fuckup here. That’s why he died.” Rourke seemed to be reviewing a memory in his mind and he shook his head disgustedly. “It was all perfect except for him. He held back the bracelet. Little jade dolphins on gold.”
    Rourke stared off into the darkness of the tunnel. A wistful look played on his face. “That’s all it took,” he said. “See, the plan relied on complete adherence for success. Meadows, goddammit-he didn’t do that.”
    He shook his head, still angry at the dead man, and was quiet. It was at that moment that Bosch thought he could hear the sound of steps somewhere off in the distance. He wasn’t sure if he had heard it or if it was what he hoped to hear. He moved his left leg in the water. Not enough to cause Rourke to pull the trigger, but enough to make the water slosh and to cover the sound of the steps. If they were even there.
    “He kept the bracelet,” Bosch said. “That