L.A. Heat

by P. A. Brown

  Killing his lights David edged a few feet closer to the barely visible BMW. Gravel and dirt crunched under his tired Chevy as he glided to a stop.

  He eased the window down and listened. The soft tick of his cooling engine was barely audible above the sighing of tree branches overhead. Close by an owl called; farther away another one answered.

  The door clicked softly when he pushed it open. He fumbled for his cell phone, wondering if he’d get a connection, glad he was near the top of the canyon rather than down below.

  The phone rang at the other end.

  She answered on the second ring; David knew then she’d been waiting by the phone.

  “Y-yes,” she said.

  “Mrs. Ruben?”

  “Yes. Is this Detective Laine? Did you find my husband?”

  “Ma’am, I just arrived,” David said. “Could you tell me what kind of vehicle your husband was driving?”

  “He drove the BMW. I told him he should use the four-wheel truck—what’s happened to him, detective?” Her voice rose. “Where is my husband?”

  “What four-wheel truck is that, ma’am?”

  “The Explorer.” She took a deep breath. “After Tom started driving it, my husband was only too happy to have his BMW. He just about gave the boy that thing.”

  “Do you mean Tom Clarke?”

  “Yes.” Disapproval thickened her voice, driving out the fear. “He spoiled that boy something fierce.”

  “Do you know where Tom is now, ma’am?”

  “Tom? No. Why on earth would you be interested in Tom, Detective? Is he in some kind of trouble again?”

  Monday, 1:30 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains Chris skidded backward, tangling in Saul Ruben’s outstretched legs. He fell, rolled, and scrambled to his knees. Praying the darkness would cover him, Chris half ran, half crawled toward a dark rectangle he hoped was a door. He had a brief glimpse of Tom framed against the kitchen door, moonlight dappling his hunched figure, then he dove through the doorway.

  The darkness lay like thick velvet, cloaking sounds as well as vision. Behind him Tom muttered in a pain-soaked voice. “Get you, motherfucker.”

  Chris’s eyes had adjusted to the wavering darkness. Even when the moon moved behind a frieze of clouds there was still enough light to give shape to forms and keep him from a fatal, noisy blunder.

  This time he was in a bedroom. A tall armoire filled one narrow wall; a single bed was positioned under a small curtained window.

  He crouched and sidled from the armoire to the foot of the bed. He’d have to stand on it to reach the window. He would be a target when he tried to climb out the window if Tom entered the room.

  Chris clenched his jaws to keep them from chattering. In shock from fear and pain, his entire body was covered with goose bumps.

  Shuffling feet. The wheeze of harsh breathing, or was it only the far-off creak of an old building settling into its foundation? Every sound made him jump, magnified by the smothering silence all around. Adrenaline helped keep him preternaturally alert and even made him feel warmer, but how much could his body produce before it crashed in shock?

  His muscles were already growing stiff from oxygen depletion.

  He slid toward the door, the pool cue raised. He poised on the balls of his feet, the wooden floor cold underneath his toes.

  He didn’t have a clue how long he’d been unconscious in Tom’s car. Thirty minutes, an hour? Two? They could be anywhere between Antelope Valley and Santa Barbara, or beyond.

  At the door, he held his breath, listened. Silence. Was Tom on the other side of the half-closed door, waiting? Or had he missed Chris entering the room and moved on to other parts of the house?

  Chris waited for the telltale creak of the floor or Tom’s stuttering, injured breathing.

  Monday, 1:40 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains David slid out of his car and approached the BMW. A hand on the hood told him the car had been there a while. It was cold. “Do I still have permission to enter the house, Mrs. Ruben? I’d like to check it out, make sure everything is okay.”

  “Of course, detective. The key is under a loose stone by the back door.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you call me back, detective? Will you let me know what has happened to my husband?” “I’ll do that, ma’am.”

  David immediately dialed Martinez.

  “Hola, amigo, what’s up?”

  “How fast can you get to Topanga Canyon?”

  “Topanga—how fast do you need me there?”

  “Yesterday. The damn sheriff’s caught in some highway accident.”

  “You found him?”

  “I found him.”

  “Give me an address.”

  David did, then Martinez said, “I’ll contact the sheriff’s department again.”

  “Just tell them to make their approach low-key. I don’t want some blue flamer spooking this guy.”

  “Gotcha,” Martinez said and hung up.

  David turned the cell off, not wanting its ring to give him away. He eased his Glock out of its holster and made his way around the parked vehicles, keeping them between him and the house.

  The house was dark. Not even an outside light. The side of the house was covered in beds of trimmed ficus, evening primrose, and other bedding plants. The air was heavy with their perfume.

  Suddenly a light appeared to his right. It flickered in and out of the bush as he moved, and David realized it was a neighboring property.

  Should he check in and see what the man might have heard? Or should he try to enter the house with the key?

  He was breaking regs by not waiting for backup but every nerve in his body screamed at him to do something. Chris was in that house.

  He compromised by deciding he would walk the perimeter. Cop instincts told him to wait for backup. Safety lay in numbers. Fear drove him on. Chris might not have time to wait.

  Gun in hand, the blunt muzzle pointed toward the ground, he walked stiff-legged toward the deeper shadows in the rear of the house. Frosted moonlight glinted off a window, shadows pooled in a doorway. His eyes darted from side to side, seeking out anything that didn’t belong.

  The flowerbed was buried in shadow, but he easily spotted the large stone near the back step. Keeping one eye on the door, he crept along the grass bordering the bed of raised earth and knelt to pry the stone up. The key felt small in the palm of his hand. He slid it into pocket of his pants and brushed clammy dirt off on his thighs.

  He slipped past the door, toward the back of the house.

  Monday, 1:45 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains Chris knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Tom must be looking for him. He eased away from the door, crossed to the bed, and gingerly stepped onto it. It bowed under his weight, but thankfully didn’t squeak.

  The window made a grating sound as he opened it, and Chris held his breath, waiting for a shape to charge out of the darkness.

  Pushing the screen off, he eased one leg over the sill, then the other. He jumped.

  There was nothing but air under his feet and he fell, stumbling into the damp earth. He squirmed at the prickly feel of ground cover and the sharp dig of pruned bushes on his bare skin.

  Overhead, the moon slid behind a bank of silvering clouds. The darkness was more solid than any Chris had experienced. He prayed it would hide him.

  Monday, 1:50 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains A sound halted him. David tensed, both hands locked on the Glock, muzzle still pointing at the ground.

  The sound came again.

  The slight scrape of wood on wood. A window sliding open.

  David crouched behind a twisted mass of musk-scented sage as a pale figure slipped out of the newly opened window. In the wan light he could barely make out that the figure was unclothed.

  David drew in a sharp breath. It was Chris. Glancing at the walls of the house, wondering if Tom was close behind, David eased forward.

  Chris stepped away from the house,
brushing past the ficus. David knew he dare not speak, nor allow Chris to make any noise that might alert Tom. In a half crouch David slid the Glock into his shoulder holster and wrapped one arm around Chris, blocking his mouth with the other hand at the same time he dragged him into the protective shadows behind the sage. He felt Chris’s startled intake of breath against the skin of his hand before his palm pressed down on the other man’s mouth, sealing it.

  Chris fought savagely. David scrabbled for purchase on the uneven ground as he dragged Chris backward, away from the open area. Chris even tried butting his head against David’s, but he was totally off balance. He bit the fingers that covered his mouth and David grunted in pain. Thrashing, Chris bit harder. David hauled him upright and hissed in his ear, “Chris! It’s me.”

  Chris went limp, and only David’s grip kept him from tumbling to the ground. He spun Chris around and gathered him into his arms. “Oh God,” he whispered, holding Chris’s frozen body against his. “I didn’t think I’d find you in time.”

  “D-David.” Chris shook so hard he could barely speak for the chattering of his teeth.

  Shock.

  Without another word David stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around Chris’s shaking shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “We have to go. Martinez will be here soon, but I want you out of here.”

  Chris clung to David; goose bumps marbled his flesh. David rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his thin jacket.

  “H-h-how—”

  “Becky told me about this place. I talked to Ruben’s wife. He’s missing—”

  David’s hands were busy bringing life back to Chris’s frozen limbs. Finally he was able to speak.

  “H-he’s dead. Tom shot him.”

  David frowned. He hadn’t expected Tom to have a gun. That made their situation more precarious.

  “Come on, let’s get you to the car.”

  Chris stumbled wearily on the rough ground and stifled a cry as he nearly went down.

  David hauled him upright, ignoring his hiss of pain.

  “Hang on, we’re almost there—”

  Gunshot cracked. David saw the flash of light at the same time Chris grunted. His arms were no longer around David. David had the barest glimpse of his face; eyes round in shock, mouth open as he fell away.

  “Chris!”

  Tom stepped away from the shadow of the house. David stared down the barrel of the blunt-nosed Walther nine-millimeter Tom held unwavering in both hands.

  Monday, 1:55 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

  “Ironic, don’t you think?” Tom’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. David’s answer, when it came, was a faint whisper, unintelligible.

  “It was Uncle Saul’s,” Tom said. “For protection.”

  Chris hunched forward, wondering why his shoulder felt so numb. Why was he lying on the ground? It was cold and damp against his bare skin. Something lay atop him and it was a moment before he realized it was David’s jacket, still draped over him.

  Memories returned. He tried to roll over; the numbness in his shoulder gave way to a spreading ache that encompassed his left side. He could see Tom with his arms out in front of him, holding a heavy-barreled handgun in both hands. Pointed at David. Despite Chris’s efforts to suppress it, a groan emerged.

  Looking up he met David’s eyes. Pain and relief co-mingled on his lover’s face. Chris opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged.

  “Ah, sleeping beauty’s back with us,” Tom said. The gun swung around, and Chris found himself staring down the bore of what looked like a cannon. “Good. That makes this a whole lot simpler. Drop your gun, detective.”

  Chris stared at the weapon in Tom’s hands, at the stiff finger hovering over the trigger, finally at the man behind it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw David take a step forward.

  Without blinking, Tom squeezed the trigger. Chris twisted away. Dirt sprayed his twitching flesh. He felt the breeze of the bullet’s passage on his shrinking skin.

  “Move again and I punch a hole in his pretty face.”

  Chris pulled air into his lungs, fighting the terror. His heart hammered in his chest.

  “What do you want?” David’s hoarse voice was nearly unrecognizable.

  “I want out of here.”

  “Then leave.”

  “Drop your gun.” Tom motioned toward David. “I have to admit I didn’t think you’d find the place so fast. How long before your buddies get here?”

  “I don’t know—”

  The gun spat again. Searing pain erupted above Chris’s hip; he screamed.

  David went white. His weapon tumbled from his hand and hit the grass at his feet.

  Splattered dew glistened on the dark frame. He spread his arms.

  “How long?”

  “Sheriffs’ men could be here anytime.”

  Tom’s smile faltered, then returned. He stepped closer to Chris, who struggled to move away, sure he was going to die this time.

  “Jesus, don’t—” Chris said. “Tom—”

  Tom’s dress shoe nudged Chris’s thigh. He spared a brief glance at the prone man.

  “Get up, Chrissy.”

  “What—?”

  “You’re coming with me. That way I know your boyfriend will keep the pigs off my ass.”

  Chris struggled to rise, pain stroked his side, a flaming branding iron rippled along his nerve endings. He collapsed with a gasp.

  “I can’t—”

  “No,” David said.

  David took a step forward. He froze when Tom’s gun hand twitched. Grimly he folded his arms over his barrel chest.

  “He’s not going with you.”

  “Then he’s a dead man—” Tom raised the gun’s barrel and Chris steeled himself for the shot.

  “No.”

  Tom froze, his smile finally fading altogether.

  “You want a hostage,” David said. “You take me. I’m not letting you take him anywhere.”

  “I’ll kill him, I swear—”

  “You’ll kill him anyway. A bullet here’s a lot quicker than what you have planned for him.”

  Chris stared at David. Mesmerized by his words. David’s face was flat, devoid of expression. The hated cop face.

  Tom seemed equally mesmerized. Then he grinned and waved the muzzle of the handgun languidly toward the front of the house.

  Obediently David stepped over his fallen gun. He spared Chris a glance, but his expression never changed.

  “David...” Chris whispered. But instead of David, Tom turned. He raised the gun, bringing it around in a shallow arc. “Right,” he said. “Almost forgot—”

  David swung around and caught Tom in the solar plexus. The smaller man stumbled back, his gun discharging in a shattering roar. David grunted and a dark stain blossomed above the pocket of his white shirt. He looked at Chris in surprise, then crumpled to the ground.

  Chris screamed David’s name. Pain forgotten in a surge of rage, he threw himself at Tom and the two of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs. The gun discharged a second time and Chris felt the zing of its passage through the short hairs on his temple.

  He attacked with frenzy, knowing only rage fed his fight.

  “You killed him. You bastard. You bastard—” He pummeled Tom, madness lending him new strength. “Bastard. You killed him.”

  He wept in fury and pain as he slammed into David’s killer. He didn’t care if Tom turned and shot him, didn’t care if he wound up dead too.

  Wanting Tom dead more.

  They rolled across the ground, struggling for possession of the gun still in Tom’s hand. Chris bit and punched and screamed in fury.

  Tom shoved Chris off and stumbled to his knees. He tried to raise the gun, and Chris kicked him. The gun flew from his hand, vanishing into the shadows that clung to the edges of the house.

  Chris snarled more curses and tried to scramble upright. Tom swung his fist into Chris’s chin, and everything exploded. Chris screamed a
nd tumbled backward. Light flared in his head when Tom’s fist connected with his temple, glancing off his skull.

  Chris pummeled back, but he was too weak. His strength ebbed; half his body no longer responded to his commands. Tom’s next blow slammed into his jaw.

  He cried out and went down. Tom advanced. Chris rolled so that Tom’s foot smashed uselessly into the flesh of his ass. Chris kicked his shins as he rolled again. Tom’s next attempt was even farther off the mark, barely brushing his thigh.

  But it was only a matter of time. If he couldn’t get to his feet, Tom was going to kill him right here. His next kick put the toe of his shoe into Chris’s already injured hip and pain ripped through him. Tom grunted and kicked again, catching him in the same place.

  Chris roared at the pain. A third time the shoe descended, catching him in the kidneys this time. His vision grayed and Chris knew that with any more blows he’d succumb to the black peace that unconsciousness offered.

  Blood patterned the ground around him. He caught sight of David’s body in the encroaching light and an enervating sorrow filled him. Why was he fighting so hard?

  David was dead.

  Except that would be giving in. Something David hadn’t done, right to the end. Could he do less? He—

  David moved.

  Tom’s foot slammed into Chris again, laying a trail of fire across his naked belly and ribs. Less than a yard away David lay on his back, a flowering crimson stain covering his upper shoulder. Chris blinked and strained to see through the spreading light. Had he really seen David’s hand twitch?

  His hand moved again.

  With new hope came renewed energy. Chris lurched to his knees. Tom’s eyes blazed with gleeful fury. He was fully aroused now, reveling in the destruction he caused.

  With a yell, Chris made the final push to his feet, and ducked to avoid the next swing of Tom’s fist. It glanced off his back.

  He caught Tom around the hips and once more they ended up on the ground. Tom punched his head, hitting him on his cheek, another on his throat. Chris tried to strike back, but his arms could do little more than fold him in an empty embrace.