by Cross, Mason
The Ford slipped and slewed toward the crash barrier at the edge of the drop, and she knew she was about to cut through it like a sledgehammer through balsa wood.
And then the three remaining tires caught some traction on the surface and obeyed the steering wheel at last, altering the car’s suicidal trajectory so that it smashed into the barrier at an angle of forty-five degrees—closer to side-on than straight. Allen felt the metal of the barrier buckle as she rammed into it, but it held. The car screeched along its side against the barrier, a fountain of white-hot sparks erupting against the windows.
Allen’s eyes widened still further as she saw that the barrier came to an end not too far ahead. She yanked the wheel to the left again, but the car stayed its course, its wheels seemingly locked into position.
And then the landscape outside began to slow just in time. The screeching lowered in pitch and the geyser of sparks dwindled as the barrier ran out, and then the view out of the windshield came to rest at an odd angle, as though somebody had tipped the world a little onto its side.
Allen blinked a few times until she realized it was the car that was at a strange angle, not the world. The red setting sun glared into her eyes. The engine was still running, although coughing intermittently. She reached for the keys in the ignition to turn the engine off and the car shifted again, tipping still farther to an angle.
Allen froze and held her breath. She swiveled her eyes to the side as far as they would go, not daring to move her head and risk another lurching motion.
The car was precariously balanced on the edge of the steep slope; the wheels on the driver’s side actually off the ground. The crash barrier had only covered the tight curve of the road, tapering out as the road straightened. It had been just long enough to prevent her from skidding off the edge, but now she was one wrong move away from the car toppling sideways off the edge anyway.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she reached down and used the ball of her thumb to eject her seat belt. She issued an involuntary cry as the belt released and her body listed slightly to the side and something creaked on the precipice-facing side of the car.
She closed her eyes for a second and told herself to calm the hell down. Panicking and rushing was absolutely not the way to get herself out of this situation in one piece. She opened her eyes again. Slowly and deliberately, she turned her head from the drop and focused on the door handle. Just as slowly and just as deliberately, she raised her hand and moved it until it was resting on the door handle. So far, so good. She started to push the handle to the point where it would release the door, trying to do it softly, with two fingers. Soon she realized the mechanism was too stiff for such gentle treatment. She put four fingers against the handle and pushed a little harder. A muffled squeal sang out from somewhere off to her side.
She gritted her teeth and pushed harder, feeling the handle move back even as the car started to tip in the opposite direction. The mechanism opened with a pop and she continued the forward motion without pause. As the door began to swing up and open, fighting gravity, she felt the equal and opposite reaction of the car beginning to shift over onto its left side, rocking across the fulcrum. She was aware of the wheels lifting farther off of the ground and was surprised to find herself noting with a detached clarity that the tilt had passed the point of no return.
Warped metal screamed as she continued pushing the door open. She braced her foot on the dash and pushed her body forward, out of the door. Her arms and the side of her head slammed off the asphalt as the car rolled away from her, ripping the skin on her legs, the mouth of the doorway trying to drag her down with it like a great white shark devouring its prey. She clawed her hands on the road and tried to dig her fingertips into the surface as the motion of the toppling car gained an inexorable momentum and began to flip up and over. She screamed out as her foot caught on something and she felt herself being pulled backward.
And then her foot slipped out of the shoe and the car fell away in a torrent of noise and breaking glass.
Allen lay facedown on the road, eyes closed, until the smashing and crunching had stopped. She opened her eyes and slowly got to her feet, wincing as she realized her left foot had been sprained as her shoe had been torn off. She hobbled to the edge, looked down the slope, and saw the decimated remains of the Ford a hundred feet below. Suddenly, the pain in her foot became insignificant. Allen limped to the opposite side of the road—the safe side—and puked. She shuffled to the side a little and then sat down feeling marginally better.
It took her a couple of minutes to collect herself and to take stock of her options. She’d narrowly avoided certain death, but there was still a job to be done. The only problem was, how was she going to do it? She still had her gun, but her phone had been lying on the passenger side of the Ford. Even if she was in any shape to make a descent down the slope, the phone would probably be in several pieces right now. No way to call Blake or Mazzucco. No way to cover the remaining miles to the Samaritan’s lair on foot, not with her ankle in this shape. It was getting darker, the setting sun almost gone in the west.
She heard the vehicle before she saw it. The low growl of a diesel engine. A cautious driver taking it slowly on the curves. And then it appeared up ahead. A green pickup truck, a lone driver. Headlights on. Allen stared at the oncoming vehicle for a long moment and then placed her good foot on the road and started waving him down. The pickup angled itself out toward the center of the road and Allen thought he was going to blow by without slowing, but then the driver eased off the gas when he got within thirty yards of her. The pickup passed by her, slowing down. She saw a male driver wearing sunglasses. The pickup’s brake lights blazed again, and it came to a full stop at a wide point in the road. After a second, the driver’s door opened and a man got out.
Allen squinted her eyes to confirm what she was seeing. Mazzucco’s words from Sunday came back to her: Fucking new mutation.
The man took a couple of steps forward, a puzzled look on his face, and then he began to smile. “Allen?” Eddie Smith called out, the tone of his voice suggesting that he didn’t believe it either. He began to stride toward her. “What are you—” He stopped as he saw that she was limping, and then he registered her bloodied and scratched arms and the fact she had only one shoe. “Jesus! Are you okay? What happened?”
Allen took a moment to breathe and collect her thoughts. She nodded her head in the direction of the destroyed Ford at the bottom of the slope. “Car trouble.”
Smith crossed the road toward the drop and looked down. He looked back at Allen, then back down at the drop, then back at her.
“Shit,” he exclaimed. He turned and walked back toward her, offering his hand for her to lean on. “Come on. You need some help.”
She was shaking as she looked up at him. He was wearing a green baseball cap. The brim cast a shadow over his face in the twilight.
“Yeah, I think I really do.”
80
The Samaritan had a head start on me, and there was no way to know how big of a head start. All I knew was that he had Kimberley Frank, and she was going to die if I didn’t stop him. I was pinning everything on Crozier heading back to his hideout in the mountains. Allen had said that she and Mazzucco had narrowed down the location of the abandoned set in the photograph and had given me rough directions, but I was glad we’d arranged to meet en route.
Not for the first time, I worried that the abandoned set was a red herring. Basic geographical profiling dictated that his hideout would be in that vicinity—the relative proximity of the burial site of the original three victims made that likely. But that didn’t mean the Samaritan had definitely picked that specific location.
Nevertheless, it was all we had to go on, because of the photograph. Crozier had held on to that one photograph across two decades and God knows how many conflict zones. That told me the site would have significance for him. The photograph looked like it had been taken on a carefree teenage jaunt into the mountains—a hike, or a mo
untain biking expedition, perhaps. They’d found a forgotten piece of Hollywood and spent some time there.
It didn’t take much more of a leap of logic to arrive at the fact that the photograph itself was talismanic. He’d kept the image close to him all these years, probably memorized every color and line and detail. The place in the hills would have remained in his mind all this time. The location made practical sense, too: it was a remote, forgotten place that provided shelter and privacy for the dark work he was planning. I didn’t think anyone alive really knew Dean Crozier, not anymore, but the time I’d spent with him in Winterlong probably gave me as good an insight into his psyche as anyone. That was how I knew the movie set was where he was headed.
I kept within five miles an hour of the speed limit as I traveled along Mulholland once again, the pinpricks of light beginning to appear in the vast carpet of the city as the sun sank ahead of me toward the western horizon, streaking the sky with swathes of purple. Someone once said LA is the most beautiful city in the world, if viewed at night and from a distance. I thought that was about right. The movie star dream palaces began to get fewer and farther between as I put more and more miles between myself and LA, until the road opened up and I felt I had really left the city behind.
I thought about the origin of the Samaritan’s name. The parable of the Good Samaritan told of the road from Jerusalem to Jericho; a route so fraught with danger from bandits that it was known as the Way of Blood. It was there that the Good Samaritan had saved the stricken traveler. This time, the Samaritan had created his own way of blood. I let my foot down harder on the gas pedal as I guided the car through the twists and turns.
A couple of oncoming cars passed me, and at one point I passed a green pickup truck that had stopped by the roadside. I could see two people inside. I didn’t think to look closely at them. Later on, I would wonder how things would have gone had I taken more of an interest in the green pickup.
I kept my eyes peeled for the landmark Allen had talked about, and soon it came into view: a mushroom-shaped structure built into the hillside by the road, about thirty feet tall. Like our intended destination, it was an abandoned relic of the past; one of sixteen air defense locations set up around the city during the cold war. The site was a cylindrical tower topped with a wide, overhanging platform. The approach off the main road led you through the remains of a checkpoint. The pillbox was still there, as were the stern warnings against unauthorized personnel. But there was no one manning the checkpoint, and there were no gates to enforce the signs. I pulled into the access road and followed it up a slope, past the tower to the parking lot at the top. Unauthorized personnel were encouraged these days—the more recent signs welcomed tourists and advised them to ascend to the platform to take in the stunning 360-degree views of the mountains and the Los Angeles Basin.
To my surprise, the lot was empty. I had expected Allen, with her head start, to be here by now. It had been her idea to meet up before going any further, and I had concurred. I was all too aware of whom we were going up against, and I wanted as much backup as was available.
I pulled into one of the parking spots and left the engine running. I took my phone out and dialed Allen’s number again. No answer. Not a good sign. I cast my eyes back toward the main road, looking for approaching vehicles, but saw nothing. I couldn’t wait much longer—not while the Samaritan had a prisoner. A prisoner that I hoped was alive for now. It would probably take me longer to find the old movie set by myself, but it was better than twiddling my thumbs waiting for Allen to get here.
I sighed and put the parking brake on. I had a lot to think about, but it wasn’t much of an excuse for not having any idea someone was approaching the car until I heard the voice.
“Get out of the car, Blake.”
Slowly, I raised my hands. I turned my head to the left to look out the open window. There was a nine-millimeter Kimber Solo pistol pointed at me. I recognized the owner.
“McCall, right?”
The bulky cop was wearing a Kevlar vest over a black T-shirt and was doing a professional job of covering me with the pistol: two-handed grip, steady aim, not close enough for me to reach. He answered me by jerking his head, wordlessly repeating his initial command. I kept my eyes on the muzzle of the gun as I slowly reached down with one hand and opened the door. He took a half step back, anticipating that I might try to slam the door into his legs. I hadn’t planned on doing anything of the sort, but it was interesting to note his precautions. I wondered how he’d found me, and for a brief moment considered the possibility that Allen had given me up. I dismissed that thought a nanosecond later. Leaving everything else aside, I got the impression she and McCall hated each other with a fierce purity. He’d be the last person on the planet she’d help out like this. At least, not intentionally.
“Keep ’em high. Step out of the car slowly and put your hands on your head.”
I did as instructed. As I got out of the car, I risked taking my eyes off McCall and the gun long enough to glance around the lot. It was still empty. I could see no one on the road, no one on the observation platform above us. No backup, no marksmen.
“Where’s the rest of the party?”
McCall smiled. “I’ll call them soon. You don’t need to worry about that.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. But as long as McCall seemed to be willing to converse with me, I thought it would be a good idea to keep that going.
“You know, I didn’t kill the girl in the warehouse. I didn’t kill anybody.”
“Sure, Blake. You just happened to be there. Ray Falco says hi, by the way. He’s the cop you sucker punched.”
Looking at him, I knew McCall didn’t give a shit whether I was the Samaritan or not. He didn’t care because he knew the only thing he needed to know about me: that I’d punched out one of his guys and I’d gotten away from his team. Humiliated him in front of the feds. He had no intention of bringing me in. He was going to shoot me in cold blood and claim I’d resisted arrest. And there was nothing to stop him. He was a cop, I was a wanted fugitive, and the nearest witness was probably a mile away. If it turned out I really was the Samaritan, he’d be a hero. If I wasn’t? No big deal. I was a regrettable victim of circumstance.
I considered my options. They were not numerous. So I asked him another question, partly to buy time and partly because I wanted the answer.
“How’d you find me?”
“You can thank your buddy Detective Allen. We call her the Fixer downtown. Did you know that?”
“I guess you have to call her something. Besides twice the cop you’ll ever be.”
McCall’s eyes narrowed. Not the response he’d been expecting. “Don’t you want to know how she gave you up?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think she did.”
“Think again.”
“I think somebody hacked her phone. We set up this meet over our cells. Never a good decision if you can avoid it, but in this case we couldn’t.”
“You’re a smart guy, Blake. You know what happens to smart guys?”
“Yeah. They use dumb guys to do their dirty work. Hacking Allen’s phone in case she was in contact with me was an intelligent move. Too intelligent for you. Who’s pulling your strings, McCall?” I already had a pretty good idea. Agent Channing—he’d suspected Allen was harboring me and had used McCall to spy on her. He’d miscalculated, though, because McCall had no intention of including anyone else in this.
McCall tightened his grip on the gun and gritted his teeth. “You are so fucking dead. You know that? I’m gonna put a bullet in your fucking brain and they’ll pin a medal on me. I’ll . . .”
“Of course you’re going to shoot me, McCall. It’s not like you have any other option. I mean, I beat the crap out of Falco, and he wasn’t ten pounds overweight and twenty years past his prime.”
It was a life-or-death gamble with fifty-fifty odds. Like betting everything on red at the roulette table. McCall was either going to do the smart thing
and put a bullet between my eyes, or he was going to rise to the bait. His finger tightened on the trigger and his nostrils flared, and then he slowly lowered the gun, sliding it into the holster.
He took a step forward and swung his right fist into my stomach. I had already decided to let him get in a couple of good blows: I would give him confidence, stop him from reconsidering the decision. I tightened my stomach muscles but still, it felt like being slammed in the chest by a fencepost. My goading of McCall had been designed to produce this reaction, but he really was a lot stronger than he looked. I anticipated his follow-up move and rolled with the punch that came from his left. His third blow came a split second faster than I’d anticipated, and he managed to land a solid punch just above my left eyebrow. I fell back a step and wiped blood out of my eye. Three solid hits in less time than it takes to tell it. McCall knew it, too. The smile was back on his face.
“Not so talkative now, huh? You got more smart comebacks for me, Blake? Let’s hear ’em.”
I shook my head. “My mother always told me to be nice to the elderly.”
Wham. Another hammer blow to the stomach. I tensed again and my stomach muscles absorbed a lot of the force, but I didn’t want to take another one like that if I could avoid it. I dropped to the ground, doubled over. I hoped he wasn’t a Marquess of Queensberry guy; it would screw up my next move. McCall didn’t disappoint me. Instead of offering a hand to get me back on my feet, he took a step back and aimed a hard kick at the side of my head. I blocked it with a forearm and then blocked a second, keeping my eyes locked on his feet and timing the moves. When the third kick came at me, I was ready. I grabbed his boot with both hands and twisted it around hard, yanking him off his feet. The Kevlar he was wearing meant it was useless to hit him on the upper body, so I chose a lower target. I summoned up all the anger I’d suppressed during the last few blows I’d taken and channeled it all into my right arm as I punched him in the balls. McCall screamed and kicked out again. I dodged backward and launched myself at him, landing on top of him and nailing him straight across the bridge of his nose with a right.