THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  That set the pattern for the flight. Maura explaining procedures and the little adjustments she made from time to time, and in between dispensing comments about the landscape and the habitations we flew over. It was barren down there. Only the I-95 highway, a crooked grey stripe slicing through the semi-desert, proved that civilisation was only a few thousand feet down.

  We had been in the air about an hour when I asked her if she was going to let me in on her big secret.

  ‘Be patient, Drew. You’ll know soon enough. There’s a good reason I don’t want to pre-empt it. You’ll understand when you ... I mean when the time comes. I hope.’

  ‘I’ll certainly try,’ I said with feeling.

  She began to speak, stopped, reddened becomingly, began again.

  ‘I was ... wondering something.’

  ‘You were? Okay, if you want to wonder it aloud, be my guest.’

  ‘It’s just ... I mean ... are you married?’ She spoke sotto voce, as if she didn’t really want me to hear. ‘Or in a relationship of any kind.’

  ‘No and no. I was married, a long while back.’ The images that went with the memories strove to insinuate themselves, as they always did.

  ‘You’re divorced?’

  ‘She died.’ I didn’t see the point in explaining how. Nor did I care to. ‘Thirteen, fourteen years ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ A small lull, the whine of the engines suddenly more intrusive. Then, haltingly, ‘I guess you’re over it now.’

  ‘I guess. It was a long haul.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  Thinking about Marion was bad enough. Pronouncing her name was painful.

  ‘Marion,’ I said, through reluctant lips.

  Her glance was sympathetic.

  ‘It still hurts some, right?’

  I just nodded. To my relief, as if she understood the extent of the hurt, she let the subject drop and reverted to pointing out the sights.

  Apart from a few bumps as we crossed over the lower slopes of the Grapevine Range, our flight continued uneventfully. At around 11.15, as we began our descent, a large lake shaped like a light bulb rose above our right wing. From up here it was aquamarine in colour.

  ‘That’s Mono Lake,’ Maura said. ‘Our destination. It’s the crater of an extinct volcano.’

  ‘So, Amelia Earhart, what’s the trick to making a smooth landing?’

  ‘The trick? Easy. Don’t try to land.’

  I gaped at her. ‘That makes a lot of sense. In a sailing context, it’s like saying the trick to entering port is not to try to enter port.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ she said, with a splutter. ‘Well, then, listen up, ignoramus, and I’ll explain. Speed governs the ability of an aircraft to stay aloft. Reduce speed and you automatically lose altitude. With me so far?’

  ‘I’ve nowhere else to go.’

  ‘So you have to compute altitude, distance from touchdown point, and speed. I know my altitude –’ She pointed at the altimeter, showing 1400ft, ‘– I know my speed and my stall speed, and from my GPS I know how far we are from the airfield. All I have to do is reduce the speed to the level at which the airflow won’t support the plane any longer and make sure my wheels touch the runway at that precise moment.’

  I blew out my cheeks. ‘You make it sound as natural as jumping off a wall. What happens if you get it wrong?’

  The look she gave me said all that she needed to say.

  Lee Vining Airport was about a mile to the west of the lake. It didn’t amount to much. A single strip with a couple of huts at the end. It was unmanned, so no clearance to land was required. As we entered our glide path, Maura was running through her check list. A large white 33 painted at the start of the strip flashed beneath us. The touchdown went as smoothly as the take-off.

  As we slowed to walking pace, she guided the Seneca to the right then made a loop to the left, so that we were facing the way we had come.

  ‘Do we walk to the lake?’ I said, as we taxied back to the apron, where a solitary single-engined aircraft was parked. No control tower, no refuelling facility, no other airport users. Just two anonymous huts.

  ‘We’ll be met,’ she said shortly.

  When we finally came to rest, she went through her post-flight checklist with the precision of a very attractive robot. Finally she killed the engines and switched off the power.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, grabbing her shoulder bag from the seat behind.

  Although the sun still blazed, Maura warned me it would be chilly outside.

  ‘We’re over seven thousand feet above sea level,’ she told me. ‘I’m just going to the rest room,’

  Before she could open the door I restrained her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Maura?’

  She started to speak, then slumped back in her seat. A sigh escaped her, so deep it was almost a groan

  ‘Nothing, and everything,’ she said finally. ‘You’ll see. I still need your help. Wait here, I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’

  Outside the aircraft we donned our parkas. Maura strode off towards the nearer of the two huts. While I mooched around, hands in pockets for warmth, taking in the scenery that consisted of packed sandy earth and scrub, plus the buildings of the community of Lee Vining at the foot of a slope going down from the airport. A boxy black vehicle turned into the road that linked Lee Vining to the airport, trailing a nebula of dust. As it approached, its silhouette hardened into a Jeep Grand Cherokee, the latest model with xenon headlights.

  It drove onto the apron and stopped with its front bumper an inch from my legs. Two men dismounted. One was African-American, tall, bearded, in blue denim above and below; the other of medium height, shaven head, in cords and a dark green blazer with brass buttons. An unlovely pair.

  ‘Who’re you?’ the denim suit demanded.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ I shot back.

  The redhead jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the Seneca.

  ‘That’s Maura’s kite.’

  ‘True. We just landed in it.’

  ‘You saying you came with her?’ Denim Suit sounded hostile.

  ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

  Redhead’s fist acquired an extension, in the shape of a snub-nosed revolver.

  ‘Where is she?’ he said, moving around me in an arc, forcing me to backpedal to keep them both in sight.

  ‘In the john.’

  At that moment the she in question reappeared. She took in the scene and came over at a half-run to whack Redhead on his gun arm with her shoulder bag.

  ‘Put that away, you moron! Do you want someone to see it and call the police?’

  Redhead shoved the gun into his pocket and looked sheepish.

  ‘How was I to know?’ he mumbled.

  Maura made an exasperated sound and hurled into the back seat of the Jeep. Taking my cue from her, I climbed in from the other side. The two guys filled the front seats.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Maura commanded, and we went.

  Everybody seemed to know what was happening except me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked her. I was becoming increasingly jittery at the train of events. The guys were known to her that was clear. If this was all an elaborate set-up to get rid of me, it would mean she was in on it.

  ‘It’s all right, Drew, really,’ she said, connecting her seat belt. ‘No need to prove to me you can kill a guy just by scratching your nose. We’re going to meet someone.’ She turned her gaze towards me; I was startled to see tears in her eyes. ‘Someone very, very special.’

  FIFTEEN

  Mono Lake was flat calm, a mirror for the blue of the sky. It contained three islands that looked like fortifications, probably pushed up by volcanic activity. In places along its circumference were beaches of sorts, the sand grey like ash. The surrounding hillsides were dotted with stunted evergreen trees. Lower down, at lake level it was mostly tufts of grey-green grass. A bleak setting.

  We drove into a parking area. No other vehicles were present.
In a corner of the lot was a bench-table combo. On the nearest beach, about fifty yards away, were a woman and a small blonde girl: the woman had black hair and sunglasses to match, and was sitting on a rug of some kind, looking towards us. The girl was crouching at the edge of the water and interested only in what she had found there.

  I made a point of exiting the car before Redhead, who was sitting in front of me. As he opened his door and swung his legs out, I slammed it shut, the lower edge of the door mashing his shins against the sill. He howled. I wrenched the door back, got one hand on his throat and used the other to relieve him of the gun. It was, as I had thought, a Colt Python with a two-and-a-half inch barrel. I thumbed back the hammer.

  Blue Denim was thundering around the front of the Jeep, reaching inside his jacket. Stepping away from the vehicle, I let him see the Python, while he was still fumbling for his own piece in the depths of his denims.

  ‘Take it out slow and easy,’ I said, ‘and keep your finger off the trigger.’

  He brought out a dinky automatic that looked like a toy in his paw.

  ‘Drew!’ Maura was right behind Blue Denim, and not at all pleased. ‘For God’s sake, I told you to chill! This isn’t necessary.’

  ‘Your friend ...’ I inclined my head towards the still moaning Redhead, now slumped to the ground, hugging his shins, ‘needed teaching a lesson. It’s not polite to point a gun at someone without a good reason.’

  Planting herself in front of me, Maura steamed, ‘Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?’

  ‘I have a good reason, he didn’t.’

  ‘No, you don’t, goddammit! What are you trying to prove?’

  ‘Only that you can depend on me, gun or no gun.’

  Her mouth popped open. She deflated immediately. To demonstrate goodwill, I uncocked the Python, and laid it on the Jeep hood. After a beat of indecision, Blue Denim put up his automatic then, at a glare from Maura, stowed it away.

  Mollified, Maura tugged at my sleeve. ‘Come on, and stop being so macho. We’re not here for a trial of strength contest.’

  We left Redhead still moaning his heart out, and trekked down a paved path lined with white rocks, to where the woman sat. As we drew closer, I recognized her as Carl Heider’s wife, last encountered at the villa in Perpignan. Allegedly French.

  She stood up to greet us, tossing away a half-smoked cigarette, dusting down her tailored black pants.

  ‘’Allo, Mr Freeman,’ she said, her English barely accented. ‘Or it is Mr ’Enley?’

  ‘A votre choix,’ I said, adding, ‘Un grand plaisir de vous retrouver.’ Just showing off my linguistic skills to impress Maura.

  ‘Egalement,’ Heider’s wife returned. ‘Je m’appele Justine.’

  ‘Enchanté.’

  I shook hands with her. The little blonde girl had quit inspecting the water and was charging towards us. She was wearing jeans rolled up to her knees and a padded yellow jacket.

  ‘Mommy, Mommy!’ She leapt at Maura who, obviously used to this form of welcome, scooped her up deftly. They hugged – long and hard, murmuring private stuff to each other. Justine Heider looked on, her expression a mixture of indulgence and guilt.

  All was clear, all was explained. The very, very special someone was Maura’s daughter. Seven, maybe eight years old. My mind did some fast computing. Why was she here? Why did Maura have to visit her under armed escort?

  The hugging came to an end eventually. Maura set her daughter down on the sand, and introduced her to me.

  ‘This is my daughter, Belinda. Answers to Lindy.’ She frowned at me, and lowered her voice. ‘How should I introduce you?’ Using her eyes she drew my attention to Justine’s presence, though the Frenchwoman was out of earshot.

  ‘Stick to James for now,’ I whispered back.

  The girl was huddling against her mother’s legs, eyes wide and unblinking and fixed on me. They were hazel-coloured.

  Kids were alien territory to me. I had two nieces, but seldom saw them. Playing it by instinct, I went down on my haunches to put us on the same level, stuck out a hand.

  ‘How do you do, Lindy?’

  She just continued to regard me as if mesmerized, still clinging to Maura’s leg.

  ‘Lindy, honey,’ Maura said patiently. ‘This is James. He’s Mommy’s friend. Now be nice and shake hands with him.’

  For a long moment she didn’t react. Then a small hand edged towards me, like a snail emerging from its shell.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, her face solemn.

  Stuck for the right thing to say to a small girl, I asked her how old she was.

  Lindy evidently considered the question beneath her dignity. She just continued to regard me without blinking.

  ‘Tell James how old you are, honey,’ Maura said.

  ‘I’m eight,’ she mumbled and burrowed into Maura’s leg again.

  ‘She’s seven actually. Eight in January.’

  Little by little, Lindy and I got acquainted. The multitude of questions I had for Maura was put on hold. The four of us took a stroll along the beach. Justine had brought a picnic lunch, so around twelve-thirty we sat on the rug to partake of it. Redhead and Blue Denim – real names Rusty and Dude respectively – weren’t invited. They hung around the Jeep and swigged beers. Rusty kept stooping to massage his shins.

  By the end of our picnic lunch, Lindy was dragging me to the water’s edge to show me her findings, which proved out to be a dead fish.

  ‘It’s a bit smelly,’ I observed as she prodded it with a stick to expose its innards.

  ‘Yes. That’s because it’s decompositing. Aunt Justie told me.’

  ‘Decompositing, is it? Are there any more?’

  She shook her head. Her blonde ponytail wagged back and forth. She was a pretty girl. Didn’t favour her mother much, but one day she would be a looker in her own right.

  We chatted on a bit. Then Maura came over, and they hugged and talked more private stuff in an undertone. It was clear as could be that the bond between mother and daughter was of the strongest.

  While they were holding their private conversation I rejoined Justine at the rug. She was reading from a tablet, and smoking in the chic way Frenchwomen have, that other nationalities can only emulate. She was a handsome piece, and I could understand why Heider was still married to her. Assuming she wasn’t his second, third, or later partner.

  ‘What’s the story?’ I asked her, squatting beside her.

  ‘The story?’ She extracted a couple of bottles of Evian water from a bag at her feet, handed me one. ‘You mean my book?’

  ‘No. Why is Lindy with you, not her mother?’

  She seemed affronted. ‘You must ask Maura. And if I might ask a question of my own, why are you here? Is this part of the job to find the killer of her husband?’

  ‘You and Carl should talk to each other more often. I resigned. My job now is to protect Maura.’

  She humphed. ‘Maura has more than enough protection.’

  A large bird – some sort of heron – rose up from behind some reeds and flapped across the water away from us, uttering an awking call. Lindy pointed at it, and I heard her say ‘Is that an eagle, Mommy?’ The heron dwindled to a speck, the only blemish on the backcloth of blue.

  ‘Maybe she needs protection from her protectors,’ I said, and sauntered away, back towards the parking lot to sit on a bench and dwell upon this latest revelation. I drank half the bottle of water and watched Rusty and Dude rolling dice on the asphalt.

  When, an hour or so later Maura came up the path with Belinda in tow, I was still sitting there. The bottle was empty now, and so was my stomach.

  ‘Justine’s brought some food,’ Maura said. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘Some.’ To Lindy I said, ‘Are you enjoying yourself, sweetheart?’

  She nodded vigorously. She was clinging to her mother’s hand with both of hers.

  ‘Is it a long time since you last saw your mommy?’

  ‘Ages and ages.’r />
  ‘Two weeks,’ Maura corrected. ‘We see each other every two weeks.’

  ‘Always here?’

  ‘No,’ Belinda said. ‘We go to lots of different places. Once we went to Universal City. That was fun.’

  ‘I’ll bet. Which rides did you go on?’

  ‘Ooh, Fast and Furry-ous, and Jurassic Park, and ... and ...’

  ‘And we saw King Kong,’ Maura prompted.

  Belinda agreed they had seen King Kong and he was eee-noooor-mous.

  ‘Were you frightened?’

  She grinned at me. ‘No, Mommy said he wasn’t real.’

  That big grin took me back to the day I broke into the Heider house at Summerlee, to kill Jeff. The photograph on the bureau of the little girl on the swing, a bit younger, but otherwise no different. It hadn’t raised a query in my mind; I was too focused for that. Now, here she was in the flesh. Because she was Maura’s I found myself worrying about her too.

  The sun was dipping towards the hills behind the community of Lee Vining, and the temperature was dipping with it, when Justine came by with the rug and a bag of picnic stuff and loaded it into the back of the Jeep. Rusty and Dude had been seated inside for a while. Now they climbed out and came over to us.

  ‘It’s five, Maura.’ Dude’s gaze was on me.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Do you want us to drop you at the airport.’

  ‘We’ll walk. Thanks.’

  Justine joined us. ‘Say goodbye to Mommy, Lindy. We have to go.’

  But Lindy wasn’t having any. ‘Won’t! I want to go in Mommy’s plane.’

  ‘Next time, honey,’ Maura said, becoming visibly upset. ‘You have to go home now.’

  Lindy didn’t make it easy. Crying and stamping her feet, even attempting to abscond. Maura and Justine rounded her up like a maverick colt and, after a last kiss and hug from Maura, and from me, she was corralled into the back of the Jeep.

  ‘Bye, sweetheart,’ Maura said, waving as the Jeep’s engine burst into life. Lindy pressed her nose against the glass, tears still streaming. Then they were accelerating across the apron on the service road.