by Lex Lander
To my left was a cluster of bushes. I crawled over there. They camouflaged me sufficiently to allow me to sit up. In my parka, as mid-day approached I was heating up. I discarded it, drank from my water supply. Again I brought the house up close with the binoculars. The outbuilding was separated from the main building by the driveway. It had its own terrace, decorated by two beefy individuals on sun beds. The red mop of Rusty stood out well, even at this distance. The other, Hispanic-looking, was a stranger. I assumed they rotated the guards though the work was hardly onerous.
That was about to change. They were about to justify their wages.
The people on the other slope were gone. I had the hillsides to myself. The stillness was creepy, even in full daylight. I would never have believed that you could get away from the hubbub of humanity anywhere along the Pacific coast of the USA. When someone called out in the vicinity of the house, I was able to make out some words.
I took another peek at 10x magnification. A female with long blonde hair, in jeans and halter top, was mounting a bike. Daughter Angelina? Seeing her here was good news, as it meant that Justine was at home and so, therefore, was Belinda. For a wild moment, I contemplated going down there now, blowing away the mutts, tucking Lindy under my arm and whisking her off to safety. Lots of flaws in that notion. Instead, I played smart, stayed put, made notes about the layout and the possible exits. That Jeep would have to be demobilised. A bullet in each of the two front tyres would suffice. The off-road capability of my hired SUV started me thinking about an escape route up the canyon instead of via the highway.
First though, I needed to know where it went.
A clean getaway is no less crucial than a clean kill. In this case, whether or not killing was required, I would certainly leave behind one or more living witnesses. Justine and her daughter definitely. The bodyguard brigade possibly, if they didn’t put up a fight.
Getting away clean meant nobody in pursuit, no description of my vehicle, and no reporting of my escape route. The road to Heider’s house went nowhere. Beyond it, the ground was a gradual slope until it hit the Wild Cherry Canyon road. It appeared to be quite flat, though might well be crisscrossed with ditches and pocked with potholes. I couldn’t do a trial run without giving away my presence, so I would have to take the stretch of land between the house and the road on trust. It was only a hundred yards or so. Provided I drove cautiously, I would make it. The alternative was to drive back down the track to the fork, where it joined the road, then do an acute left turn to head up the Canyon. Valuable minutes would be lost, potentially compromising my clean exit.
I was done here. No more data to collect. I would allow for four bodyguards, two on duty, two off, but all on site. The Ruger was a good enough piece of hardware, but when you’re up against superior numbers the only weapon man enough for the job is a shotgun, preferably a magazine version.
Keeping my head down, I reversed to where the land began to fall away before straightening up. I returned to the highway by retracing my steps. The Audi was the only vehicle in sight. I drove back into Avila Beach, lunched there, took a leak, and went in search of a map. A news vending store had a selection, including Michelin, which in my book is unequalled for accuracy and detail.
‘You know anything about the terrain up around Wild Cherry Canyon,’ I asked the guy behind the counter. He was African-American, about my age with an oversized gut and a shock of unruly hair, dyed a startling orange.
‘Some. Why?’
‘I’m doing a survey for a property developer.’
‘That right? You got an SUV?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then you’re good, man, until you get to the mountains, then its only driveable if you keep to the left of the road. No way over the mountains, even in a tank.’
‘Appreciate the advice.’
‘No problem, man. Have a nice day.’
Back to Wild Cherry Canyon, this time with my set of 4 x 4 wheels under me. Back to the fork in the road, where I stopped for a while, leaving the engine running. The GPS would be no help once I left the road. I spread the map on the passenger seat to figure out the alternatives. The road through Wild Cherry Canyon ran much in a straight line for less than a mile, before swinging left along the edge of a range of mountains. My objective was the airport at San Luis Obispo, which meant that going left was ruled out, as it would take me in the wrong direction. At the point where the mountains began, I would have to leave the road and go cross county due east. The terrain looked acceptable as far as you could tell from a map. My route would skirt the boundary of a golf course and bring me to a paved road in well under a mile. By a winding, roundabout route, that would lead me to a major road and eventually to State Highway 1, thence to San Luis Obispo. Total driving distance from leaving the Wild Cherry Canyon road to the highway I put at three miles. Say fifteen minutes, including allowance for reduced speed over the stretch of rough ground.
Now to put it to the test. I waited for an oncoming car to pass, then drove forward at a steady speed, seeking out the point where I expected to join the road after fleeing from Heider’s house. The area was covered with bushes, but there were gaps aplenty between them, wide enough for an SUV. It would be downhill from the house to the road. No sweat. Just keep the speed low and use the rough-terrain transmission setting.
As satisfied as I would ever be without actually driving on it, I continued along Wild Cherry Canyon road, which was more of a track, though wide enough for vehicles to pass. A minute or so later, it kinked to the left. I pulled over, left the engine running while I surveyed the area to my right, which was all hillside, mostly bare of vegetation. Steep though. Maybe as much as thirty degrees close to the crest.
Sitting here looking at it wouldn’t provide the input I needed. In bottom gear, I set off up the hill. The car handled it to perfection, chugging along at a steady five mph. As the slope steepened it became a bit unnerving, the car giving the impression of being about to topple backwards, and pitchpole all the way back down to the bottom. Also, with the hood tilted up in front of me, the ground immediately ahead was obscured. If I encountered a rock or a ditch, I wouldn’t know about it until I hit it. I quickly learned the trick of searching out obstacles well ahead, and moving aside in good time.
At the highest point I traversed a footpath. From there onwards, it was literally downhill to the corner of the golf course. A few golfers were to be seen across the green. I swung away from the course to put a few trees between them and me. Though the terrain was level I stayed in low gear, keeping the golf course in view. I crashed though some heavy vegetation, up another gentle rise. The Audi took it all in its stride. Now I could see a real paved road ahead. I stopped again and consulted the map. The road was there, also on my GPS, identified as Lupine Canyon Road. I was as good as home free, all that remained was a seemingly impassable line of bushes. My SUV treated them with contempt, and I lurched onto the road just as a red Corvette came thundering around a curve at well over the speed limit. Male driver, female passenger, naturally. He blasted his horn in case I had ideas about cutting in front of him. I didn’t.
They swept by, the guy saluting me with a single, erect finger. Showing off to his companion. Used to do it myself in years gone by.
My cross country drive had been instructive. It also informed me that it wasn’t a trip to be made in the dark. An unseen rock could rip out the sump, and my clever scheme to rescue Belinda would be a lost cause. Many details remained to be settled. For that I needed Maura, and not just at the end of a cell phone either.
I texted her a brief report to the effect that I had located Belinda, and when could we meet. I also asked her a favour.
When I left Las Vegas, I thought I had seen the last of Detective First Grade Gratrix. Wrong. In a history-repeats-itself event he was awaiting my return in the lobby of the Madonna Hotel.
Not much sweetness and light was in evidence when he confronted me and ordered me to a seat.
‘You’re suppo
sed to be in another country,’ he said, flinty-eyed, the mean, no-bullshit cop very much to the fore.
‘I thought my departure was voluntary. I don’t recall being served with deportation papers.’
‘I could arrest you here and now.’
I almost laughed at him. ‘No, you couldn’t, Detective. You’re outside your jurisdiction. Not only that, we’re in another state.’
‘Don’t get clever with me, Freeman ... or should I say Henley.’
That wiped my smirk away. The name had come from the hotel register, but how had he known I was here? Nobody else knew, not even Maura and certainly not Richard.
‘How did you trace me?’ I asked him, my curiosity getting the better of my truculence.
‘You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? Well, fuck you, Henley, I’ll leave you to work it out.’ He leaned forward, his hands clasping his knees. ‘Either you get back on a plane out of the States or I’ll have the local police haul you in for trespass.’
‘Cut me some slack here. Let me get a good night’s sleep. I need to return the rental to San Diego tomorrow. If I don’t you’ll be looking for me on a grand theft auto charge.’
‘As if I would care,’ he said, but his sneer was half-hearted. He didn’t want to complicate matters, he just wanted me out. It dawned on me, as we sat and glared at each other, that Gratrix must be one of the cops in Heider’s pocket. That meant his tail on Maura had been a sham. That in turn meant he had really been interested in me, not her.
He massaged his chin. ‘After you return the car, what then?’
‘Then I walk across into Mexico, and you get what you want. The Heiders too.’
‘What’s it to do with them?’ he snarled, so loudly that the front desk guy looked up.
‘You should know better than I.’
He let that pass. ‘Give me the car hire details. I’ll clear it with them. You ... mister – ’ he jabbed a finger at me ‘– you’re flying out of San Luis tonight, with me. I’m gonna book you on a flight from LAX to London and make goddam sure you go on it, if I have to stay with you all the way to England!’
For once, I had no comeback. Bribery might work, but I guessed this cop was into the Heiders for a lot more than I could rustle up in cash money.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Next flight to LAX is at 6.45. Let’s go get your stuff, then you can pay your bill and we’re outa here. Try anything cute and I’ll cut you down like a dog.’
It was a good thing he hadn’t thought to frisk me. I led the way up the stairs to my room with him in close attendance. My heart was pumping as if I’d run a mile, in anticipation of what I was about to do. Whether Gratrix was crooked or not, was of no account. He was a police officer with the almighty powers that go with the job, and if I did manage to evade him there would be an APB out on me before I crossed the county line.
My only advantage was that he didn’t know what car I was driving. So an APB would be of limited practical value.
I unlocked the door to my room with the key card and walked in. He crossed the threshold and made the mistake of presenting his back to me while I closed the door. I had at most two seconds in which to lay him out. The butt of an automatic with a full magazine is a primitive but effective KO tool. Not a murmur escaped his lips when I brought the Ruger into contact with the back of his skull. I caught him as he sagged, and lowered him to the carpeted floor. His breath was coming in little snorts, his pulse ticking away nicely. At least I hadn’t killed him, though if he ever caught up with me again I might wish I had. With my fingertips, I probed the spot where the gun butt had connected. It was already swelling. No trace of blood.
Having neither cord nor duct tape to hand, I resorted to a silk necktie for his wrists, and a belt for his ankles. I dragged him into the bathroom where he was less likely to be heard if he made a fuss. A sheet torn into strips served to secure his wrists to a radiator. More of the same made a functional gag.
It took me a few minutes to pack my gear, then I was out of there. Down the stairs to the lobby. I paid the check with cash, receiving the usual expressions of surprise in return. I was in a hurry to be away, but I forced myself to drive at a moderate pace: no shrieking tyres, no rapid acceleration. Avoiding drawing attention was uppermost.
As I drove into San Luis Obispo, I considered the consequences of this latest complication. To go through with my plan, freedom of movement was an essential. Giving Gratrix a sore head meant I would have to lie low, yet I couldn’t lie low and rescue Belinda from the Heiders. Originally, I had intended to bring Maura over a few days from now. The longer I remained in the area, the greater the prospect of being picked up by the law. Ergo, the timetable had to be compressed, which meant Maura being here tomorrow at the latest. With or without Richard.
TWENTY-ONE
‘I need you here tomorrow,’ I told Maura.
A startled ‘Tomorrow!’ A beat later, ‘All right, darling. Where’s here?’
‘Any chance of anyone listening in?’
‘None at all. I’m in the Pieces of Eight parking lot.’
‘Good. San Luis Obispo airport is “here”.’
‘All right,’ she said again, taking it in her stride. ‘I’ll text my arrival time tomorrow. Do I bring Richard?’
‘Not for now. And, Maura ...’
‘Yes?’
‘Fly safely.’
‘Count on it.’ We listened to each other’s silence, then she said, ‘I love you,’ and instantly cut the connection, as if to forestall a comeback. Intentionally or not, she was making it easy for me.
I found a down-at-heel motel on the north side of San Luis Obispo. No registration, no names. The car was anonymous but to be on the safe side, I parked it out back, where it wouldn’t be noticed if Gratrix paid a call.
An unmemorable meal at a local diner, a night of lurid dreams. In the morning, drizzle. Maura’s message came through while I was breakfasting at the same nondescript eaterie. She was already in the air and due to land a little before noon. Some weather issues that might cause a detour, but nothing she couldn’t handle. My Action Woman. Inwardly I praised her efficiency, her ability to make a fast distinction between the trivial and the essential. Above all, her gutsiness.
The drizzle dissipated and the clouds floated off to the north. At midday I was in the parking lot, where I had arranged to meet her, tuned into my iPod and Ravel’s “Bolero”. The initially relaxed tempo dah-da-da-da-da-dah building to the marvellous chugging rhythm that threatens to swamp the delicacy of the clarinet and the oboe, but never quite manages it. Then along come the strings, briefly omnipotent. Classical music at its most dramatic. It soothed me, it distracted me, and boy, did I need some distraction.
It was nearer one o’clock when she showed, and despite all the soothing music, I was beginning to worry. We tumbled into each other’s arms outside the car, and kissed as if we had been apart for a year. I was still plugged in to the iPod.
‘It’s fabulous to see you,’ I said as we unhitched. ‘You had me worried for a while.’
‘Takes more than a splash of rain to keep me grounded when I’m on an important mission,’ she said. ‘And missions don’t come any more important than this one.’
I assumed she was referring to Belinda. I was wrong.
‘I mean seeing you,’ she said, again giving me the feeling she could penetrate my brain.
‘It’s very mutual.’
‘What are you listening to?’
‘Ravel.’ I detached the ear buds and stuffed them in my parka pocket.
‘“Bolero?”’
‘And others.’
‘Are you into classical then? You know, Drew, you’re still a bit of a dark horse as far as your tastes are concerned.’
‘I keep my philistine side under wraps.’
She had a shoulder bag and a medium-sized wheeled suitcase to which was taped a rectangular carton, about thirty inches long. I stowed the case and the carton in the cargo hold of the Audi. We got in. She seemed
out of breath, making a slight whistling sound with each exhalation.
I experienced a flicker of concern.
‘Are you all right, honey?’
She shook her head. ‘Not exactly. I’m asthmatic. It flares up when I get stressed.’ She rummaged in her purse, and came up with an inhaler. A couple of puffs into her mouth and the whistle was gone.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘I never realised.’
‘It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it over the centuries.’
‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ I said abruptly.
‘What’s it?’
‘The asthma. That’s it – the thing that stops you being perfect.’
Her smile was slow in forming, but when it came to fruition it was like sunlight dispersing a fogbank.
‘How can I ever live up to your image of me?’
‘You’ve already done it. You deserve much more than just compliments, and I’m going to give it to you.’
‘Are you, Drew?’ The look she gave me was so patently loving it made my skin tingle all over.
‘You bet. Starting with giving you back your daughter.’
‘I know you’ll try your best. But ... but it’s going to be super- dangerous, isn’t it?’
It was, but I didn’t want her to know how dangerous. As we sat there, fingers entwined, I gave her a rundown on my research to date.
‘Are we going to look at the house now?’ she asked.
‘No need. The more often I go there, the more likely someone will spot me. Aside from that I have to keep a low profile.’ With some reluctance I went on to fill her in about my encounter with Gratrix. When I came to the part about knocking him cold her eyes grew round.