The man in the brown coat turned.
Saw me.
He didn’t move.
I waved flamboyantly, as if meeting an old friend by chance.
The man in brown gaped. His flabby face quivered like uncooked haggis.
I moved in on him, waving, grinning. “Hey, Grant! Long time!”
His jowls tightened. Widening his stance, he planted his legs, flailed the air randomly.
Pudding-faced, snub-featured, unlined by contemplation, problematic abstraction, or any of the mean little demands imposed by sanity.
Terrified.
This was the bogeyman, the nightmare apparition, the cruel messenger in the dark who’d wreaked so much chaos and misery.
Now he was too scared to budge, remained frozen in his too-heavy shearling, fleece collar unraveling, brown suede greasy, mangy as the dogs, a misshapen tent of a garment that drooped over a white shirt and filthy jeans.
I got within arm’s reach. “Grant, my name is Alex.”
Windmilling air with both hands, he stumbled back.
“I’m not out to hurt you, Grant.”
His mouth opened. Formed an O. No sound came out. Then a squeak. The same sound mice made, mired in sticky traps, as my father’s boot rose above them.
Turning his back on me, he ran.
Straight into the arms of a big man with a gun.
Milo used his free hand to spin Huggler so that he was facing me again, twisted Huggler’s left arm behind his thick torso, got a handcuff around it. He’d linked two sets of cuffs together, standard procedure for a broad suspect.
Huggler sniffed. Began crying.
His right arm remained at his side. Milo, one hand on his weapon, struggled to bend the uncooperative limb.
“Behind your back, Grant.”
Huggler’s body sagged, as if ready to comply, but the arm stayed rigid.
I stepped forward.
Milo warned me back with a head shake, repeated the command.
Tears flowed down Huggler’s cheeks. His right arm was steel.
Milo holstered the Glock, clamped both hands on Huggler’s left wrist, twisted viciously.
Huggler’s left arm finally relented, twisting back and up. Milo tried to affix the second cuff but Huggler’s width and the bulk of the coat brought him a couple of inches short of the goal.
He pushed Huggler’s right hand toward its mate.
Huggler cried out in pain.
“It’s okay, Grant,” said Milo, lying the way detectives do.
Huggler said, “Really?” in a soft, high, boyish voice.
“Just a little more, son, here we go.”
Huggler’s right hand was a millimeter from capture when his shoulders shook like those of a rhino rudely awakened. The movement caught Milo off guard, caused his foot to catch.
For a second, his concentration shifted to maintaining his balance.
All at once, Huggler was facing him, had gripped the sides of Milo’s head with huge, soft, hairless hands.
Expressionless, he began twisting. Clockwise.
Milo’s optimal move might’ve been a quick grab of his gun but when vise-grip hands take hold of your head and try to rotate it and instincts tell you it won’t take much to sever your spine and drain your brain of life-maintaining, thought-engendering nectar, you go for those hands.
Anything to stop the process.
Milo’s fingers dug into the tops of Huggler’s hands, straining, clawing, drawing blood.
Huggler remained impassive, kept twisting.
Patient, dry-eyed.
Comfort of the familiar.
Well-practiced routine with predictable results: one way, then the other, feel the body grow limp.
Lay it down gently. Sit and wait.
Explore.
Milo strained to free himself. His eyes bugged. His face was scarlet.
His struggle had twisted his body just enough to put the Glock out of my visual range.
Could I get hold of it fast enough, find a safe way to shoot ...
My own instincts kicked in and I threw myself behind Huggler, kicked him hard behind the knee.
It’s a blow that can reduce strong men to blithering cripples.
Huggler stood there, impassive, managed to move Milo’s head a fraction of an inch. Enough to make Milo gasp.
I kicked Huggler’s other knee. Like butting an oak stump.
Hooking my hands over the fleece collar, I got them around his massive neck, tried to compress his carotids.
His flesh was sweat-slick. I failed to get purchase.
He moved Milo’s neck another tiny fraction of the fatal arc.
I found his Adam’s apple, lowered my thumbs to the front of his neck where he’d been incised years ago and robbed of a healthy gland.
I squeezed.
He screamed. His hands flew to the side.
He fell back, tottered, clutching his neck.
I punched him beneath his rib cage, got one foot behind his left heel and hooked him forward as I shoved his chest backward with all the strength I could muster.
Still clutching his neck, he fell back, spine thudding hard on dirt.
He lay there. Helpless.
Synchrony.
Milo, panting, green eyes aflame with fear that wasn’t fading quickly enough, fumbled for his Glock, two-handing the weapon, aiming it at Huggler’s prone bulk.
His hands were shaking too hard for one to suffice.
Huggler saw the gun. His hands left his neck. His throat was rosy, swollen.
He coughed.
Smiled.
Sat up and lunged.
Milo fired into his left shoe.
Huggler looked down. A small, almost delicate mouth dropped open.
The toe of one grubby sneaker began seeping red.
Huggler’s cuffed left hand jangled as he shuddered. He watched the blood stream from the spot where his big toe had once been.
Entranced.
Mystery of the body.
Milo rolled him over roughly, yanked Huggler’s right hand hard enough to dislocate, finally got both limbs cuffed.
Huggler lay on his belly. The surrounding earth turned purple as his foot continued to bleed.
No spurt, venous seepage.
Huggler said something. The dirt muffled his words and he turned his head to the side.
Milo sucked in air. He touched the side of his face, grimaced.
Not looking at me.
He walked several steps away.
Another gull soared overhead. Or maybe the same bird, curious.
Grant Huggler said, “Wow.”
I said, “Wow, what?”
“My foot. Can I see it, please?”
CHAPTER
42
Petra’s pizza had just arrived when Milo called her. She left it behind, arrived nine minutes later. Taking care of business during the drive: calling for an ambulance, making contact with Camarillo PD, and using charm and calm and just enough facts to keep the locals from screaming.
She studied Huggler sitting on the dirt, cuffed, ankles bound, wounded foot wrapped in one of the clean rags Milo keeps in the trunk.
All those years with bodies, it pays to have something for the gore.
Huggler’s neck had swelled and was starting to purple. He coughed a lot but was breathing okay. The finger marks on Milo’s face had faded to ambiguous splotches. Petra knew something was up and I watched her eyes dance as her brain tried to figure it out.
She said nothing, too smart to ask.
Huggler didn’t react to her arrival. Hadn’t reacted to much of anything.
Now he looked at Milo. “Um? Mister?”
Plaintive.
Please, sir, may I have more gruel?
“What?”
Huggler glanced at the bloody rag. “Could you take this off?”
“Too tight?”
“Um ...”
“What’s the problem?”
“I want to see.”
>
“See what?”
“The inside.”
“Of what?”
Huggler pouted. “Me.”
Milo said, “Sorry, you need to keep it wrapped.”
Apologizing to the man who’d nearly sheared his spine.
Huggler said, “Um, okay.” His face settled back into smooth, serene immobility.
I thought about his victims.
The broad, pale disk that had been the final image searing so many people’s retinas before the lights went out for good.
Petra was good at maintaining composure but Huggler’s request had startled her and she frowned and turned her back on all of us and looked up at the gorgeous sky. Pulling some gum from her purse, she chewed hard. Extended an arm in my direction and offered me a stick.
I took it. When I beared down to masticate, my entire face exploded in pain.
Every muscle and nerve on full-fire, it had been a while since they’d relaxed.
Milo looked at his watch, then at Huggler’s shoe. The rag had bloodied some more but Huggler’s color was decent, no sign of shock.
“Feel okay?”
Huggler nodded. “Your hands are strong.”
“Had to be to deal with you, Grant.”
“It’s always worked before,” said Huggler, puzzled. “Oh, well.”
Camarillo EMTs strapped him onto a full-restraint gurney. The local detective was a white-haired man named Ramos who told the driver to wait as he approached Milo. He slid from distrust to professional curiosity to camaraderie as Milo explained the situation.
“Guess you did us a favor. How many victims we talking about?”
“At least six, probably more.”
“A situation,” said Ramos. “Been doing this thirty years, never had anything like it.”
“You don’t have to have it now,” said Milo. “Unless you’ve got some masochistic urge to complicate your life.”
“You want to handle all of it.”
“We started it, we’re ready to finish. Paperwork alone’s gonna be a full-time job.”
Ramos grinned and pulled out a hard-pack of Winstons. Milo accepted the offer of a cigarette and the two of them smoked.
“You’re making a point,” said Ramos. “So what, we patch him up and ship him back to you in a Brink’s truck?”
“A cage would be better.” Milo touched the right side of his face. We still hadn’t made eye contact and I’d stayed a few inches behind him so as not to push the issue.
Ramos said, “I’ll check with my boss but he’s a lazy type, can’t see there being any problem.”
“Whatever works,” said Milo. “The legal eagles are gonna be on this, our people will call your people.”
“We’ll do lunch,” said Ramos. “Half a dozen bodies, huh? I’m figuring I should send someone in the ambulance with the asshole. Just be careful.” He glanced at the ambulance. “First impression, he looks like a nerd. The kid who never got chose for baseball.”
“Part of his charm.”
“He’s charming, huh?”
“Not in the least.”
Ramos chuckled. “Now I got a new worst thing. Before this, it was a case I picked up thirty-nine months ago. Woman shot her kid in the head because he was mouthing off. Just picked up a gun and drilled him, I’m talking a twelve-year-old. She looked like a schoolteacher.” He glanced at the ambulance. “This is a whole different thing. You’re doing me a favor.”
He waved a paramedic over.
Ramos said, “I’m coming with you.” Beckoning a tall, husky cop. “Officer Baakeland, too.”
“Tight fit,” said the EMT.
“We’ll survive,” said Ramos. “That’s the point. Hey, who’s that?”
“Animal Control,” said Milo.
Ramos looked over at the still-sleeping dogs. “Oh, yeah, for them. Too bad they can’t talk.”
Gaining access to the tunnel proved tricky. With no evidence any crime had been committed on the premises, John Nguyen said a warrant was probably required.
Milo said, “Probably?”
“Gray area. With something like this you err on the side of caution.”
“John—”
“Your only alternative is to contact whoever owns the property and get consent.”
“That’s a development firm.”
“Then that’s who you contact.”
Sea Line Development was joint-headquartered in Newport Beach and Coral Gables, Florida. No one answered at either office, same for an 888 “emergency” number. Milo left a message, walked over to the mouth of the tunnel opening, squatted and stuck his head in, and got back on his feet. “Too dark, can’t see a thing.”
I said, “They removed the hatch but there’s got to be an inner door not too far down.”
He phoned Nguyen again. “Can’t reach the owners. Got a recommendation for a judge?”
“The usual suspects.”
No answers at four usually cooperative jurists. A fifth said, “Camarillo? Get someone local.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“What?” said the judge. “I look like a referral agency?”
Milo took out Rudy Borchard’s card, punched the number. Cursed viciously and clicked off. “No one answers their own damn phones anymore. Next week robots are scheduled to wipe our asses.”
Talking in my presence but not to me.
Petra said, “It’ll work out.”
“Easy for you to say, you’re cute and thin.”
He trudged to the car, got back in. When I slipped into the passenger seat he pretended to sleep. His phone rang and he waited a while to answer.
“Yes, Maria ... yes, that’s true. Yes, I’ve talked to them and it’s all ours ... why? Because it is ... whatever, Maria.”
He ended the conversation. The phone rang again. He turned it off. Went back to fake-sleep.
I got out of the car.
Petra came over, stuck her head in, sniffed. “Smells like a kennel.”
Milo opened his eyes. “Next time I’ll use a better deodorant.”
She said, “Speaking of scent, that dirt clearing looks awfully clean. What do you think about bringing in a cadaver pooch?”
“Soon as we get the damn warrant.”
She turned to me. “This feels weird. A huge one gets closed and we end up sitting around.”
“Let’s do something, then—put up some tape.”
“Around the hole or the entire clearing?”
“How much tape do you have?”
“Not enough.”
Milo’s phone played Mendelssohn. He said, “Damn pencil-pushers,” and switched to conference. “What now?”
A deep male voice said, “Pardon?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name is Norm Pettigrew and I’m returning Lieutenant Sturgis’s call.”
“Sturgis here. You’re with Sea Line?”
“Vice president and coordinator of operations. What can I do for you?”
Milo told him.
Pettigrew said, “Incredible. We had no idea anyone was squatting. Or that there was even a tunnel. We thought we had all of those sealed.”
“Looks like the grass was cleared to gain access.”
“How would anyone know to do that, Lieutenant? And why?”
“Good question,” said Milo, lying easily.
Pettigrew said, “Well, by all means go down there, do whatever you need to do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Obviously, Lieutenant, we’d prefer if Sea Line wasn’t linked to any of this.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Let me be more specific,” said Pettigrew. “Any encumbrances that can be avoided would be highly appreciated. Have you ever been to Laguna Beach?”
“A while back, sir.”
“We’ve got a project there. High-end condos with ocean views. A couple of the demos are fully furnished and livable and suitable for short-term usage. In your case, being a devoted public serva
nt capable of providing security, I’m sure we can reach an agreement. You and the missus for a weekend. If you enjoy yourselves, two weekends. We’ve got a great Italian restaurant about to open.”
“Sounds great.”
“Sea Shore Villas,” said Pettigrew. “That’s the name of the project. Call me personally, I’ll set it up.”
“Thank you, sir. And thanks for permission to search.”
“Oh, sure. I mean it, about Laguna. Come and enjoy the ocean on us.”
The line went dead.
Petra said, “Last thing anyone offered me was a hit of crank if I didn’t bust him.”
“You like the beach?”
“You don’t?”
“Too damn peaceful ... okay, kids, let’s spelunk.”
CHAPTER
43
Inches below the hole was a steel ladder that descended ten feet and planted us on a square of concrete with barely enough space for the three of us to stand. A bulb in a wire cage was screwed into the ceiling. The tunnel continued to the left, a cement-lined tube barely taller than Milo. A circular steel hatch like the one Borchard had showed us blocked further exploration. This one responded to the slightest tug before hissing open.
We passed through another twenty feet of vacant passage. No obvious ventilation but the tunnel was cool, dry, surprisingly pleasant. No smell of death, not much odor at all but for occasional wisps of mold and raw rock and, as we kept going, burgeoning human perspiration.
Milo and Petra both had their flashlights in hand but didn’t need to turn them on; caged bulbs were set every five steps, bathing the tunnel in hard yellow light from hospital days, old wires forgotten, but still active. The floor was free of debris, swept clean like the clearing. Another circular hatch appeared, left wide open.
A room appeared to the right, fifteen or so square feet.
An old porcelain sign lettered in Gothic was bolted into the stone wall. Hospital Storage, Non-Perishables Only. Stack Neatly.
On the floor were two futons, rolled up precisely. Between them sat twin dressers still stickered with IKEA labels. The chest on the left bore a battery-op digital clock, two pairs of cheap reading glasses, a tube of lubricant, a box of tissues, three hardcover books: Introduction to Psychology, Abnormal Psychology, Consultations in Forensic Psychology. Three drawers contained a modest assortment of men’s clothing, size S. Laundry tickets were pinned to several items. A cedar freshener had been placed in each compartment.
Victims Page 29