Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  He paled.

  She shouted, “Move over! I gotta get somewhere!”

  He did.

  So she was turning into a jackass. But she was able to laugh about it. Inching her way over to the right-hand side, she finally exited at Laurel and merged with the oncoming traffic from the canyon. The streets were dense with cars, except now she had traffic lights to deal with.

  Maybe getting off the freeway wasn’t such a charmed idea. But now she was stuck. For forty minutes, she maneuvered the Saturn through the dense metal fog of Valley commuter traffic, then picked up the 405 at Burbank and Sepulveda. The freeway wasn’t empty, but at least the cars were moving. Since she had a while to go before her father’s exit, she figured she might as well let speed work for her and began the arduous process of moving over to the left. A gap between an Explorer and a Volvo provided her with the opportunity for advancement. Just a quick glance over her shoulder to be safe…

  Instantly, her heart took off. The dented red Camry had suddenly materialized.

  Bastard! Bastard, bastard, bastard!

  Think, Decker!

  Okay, the car’s following you. So get a license plate number, run it in, get the down-and-dirty on this dude. A good strategy except that when she slowed, so did the Camry—always behind her.

  She could play it safe and call it in. Have a local cruiser come from behind and read off the plates. She could do that easily. She had a cell phone in her purse. Except how would that look to the big boys: her being tailed by a broken-down car (one that needed a wash to boot) and not being able to handle it. At the very least, she should be able to get the Camry’s plates. That was a basic.

  Since Camry man’s goal was to avoid a head-to-head, she’d have to catch him by surprise. She could do that if she pulled a U-turn, gunned the accelerator, and whizzed past him before he could react. But that couldn’t be done on the freeway. She had to get off. She assumed the car would get off, too. But where to get off? She was still twenty minutes from her father’s new house. She knew that area pretty well, but not as well as the northeast Valley, where Dad had kept a ranch house for over a decade. Located around the foothills, the northeast area was less populated and eventually merged into Angeles Crest National Forest. Lots of dirt roadways and hilly terrain. Deeper into the hills, the streets cut through a heavy cover of brush and foliage.

  Quiet…isolated…

  She wondered if the Camry would be stupid enough to follow her. Because once she started into the mountains, he’d have to know that she had made his tail. She merged back into the 118, then joined up with the 210 North. She sped up, then slowed down. The Camry kept pace.

  Okay, she had no choice then. She’d lead him to his own demise. Find the spot, then suddenly swing around before he knew what hit him. If he rabbited at that point, she could still get the plate.

  As the freeway thinned, the cars sped faster, her Saturn cruising around seventy. Because visibility was better, the Camry had dropped farther back. Heart slamming against her chest, she rooted through her purse with her free hand until she found her gun. It felt good in her grip, and though she would have liked to leave it out on the seat, she kept it in her bag. Next, she lifted her foot off the gas pedal and slowed. It was amazing. Her self-pitying thoughts had disappeared as she designed a mental game plan.

  Reaching Foothill Boulevard, she got off the freeway and waited at the traffic light. From behind, she spied the Camry now only one car-length behind. The light changed and she plowed forward on the four-lane street. The first ten minutes of driving took her through the commercial area, passing a couple of strip malls, a newly remodeled Kmart, a couple of brickyards, U-Hauls for rent, lumber companies, and a nursery.

  One mile, two miles, three…

  The Camry was there, but in the background. And with each turn and twist, it had dropped back. She could pull the U-turn now and hope for the best. But there were still lots of cars. Best to make the move when she was farther along. She figured maybe another mile.

  Gradually, the commercial buildings gave way to untamed open lands of thick grass sprinkled with wildflowers and patches of brush as she headed into the mountains. The road began to climb. She could hear the car engine whine under the ascent. As she moved up the hillside, the lane narrowed, cutting through dense overgrowth.

  Her eyes swept over the rearview mirror: The Camry was gone. Well, that was and wasn’t good. She did feel an immediate sense of relief, but she was also sorely disappointed in herself. She should have gotten the plates!

  Had it dropped out completely or was it still following her at a very safe distance behind? And if it was still following her, perhaps she should turn around and try to catch it. No sense driving deep in the foothills by yourself, trying to lure a phantom car. The road continued its tortuous pathway, winding and curling, plowing through untamed woodlands. She felt very isolated.

  Turn around, Cindy! This isn’t cool!

  Except now she couldn’t because the asphalt had turned into a skinny two-lane rut that was sided by hundred-foot drops. Daylight became muted as the foliage laced over much of the sun-giving skies.

  Cindy made a face. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to lead Camry man here. God, she was impulsive!

  Don’t panic!

  She knew there had to be a turnabout somewhere.

  Get a grip, Decker. Paranoia is a dangerous thing.

  She traveled another half a minute and there was still no turnabout. But the small ribbon of asphalt widened just enough to constitute a lane and a shoulder. And her car was small enough to take advantage of the several feet of off-road space.

  She pulled over to the right and waited for a bit. No Camry came chugging up behind her.

  Damn! Another opportunity bites the big one!

  She turned around, heading back toward Dad’s house, wondering if she should mention Camry man to him. Of course, if she did, he’d either go ballistic with worry or think she was an incompetent jerk…which she was.

  Down the road. Down, down, down, her tires screeching as she rounded the curves. Yes, she was driving too fast. Yes, she was shaken more than she’d care to admit even though the Camry was old, dented, and needed a wash.

  Down, down, down until once again she was on level terrain, back on Foothill, back to the freeway. She switched on the radio, then turned it off. The music was giving her a massive headache. Or maybe it was just adding to the one already there. She was about fifteen minutes from her dad’s. It would be good to get there even if it wouldn’t be wholly relaxing. Hannah would snag her as soon as she walked through the door, asking her to play dolls or do video games or watch her Rollerblade—the six-year-old was quite good…

  Mr. Camry was back.

  How the hell had she missed him!

  Two car-lengths back. She’d have to pull a quick U-turn. All she needed was a little clearance. One, two three…there it was.

  Now or never, Deck. Put some feeling into it.

  She turned the wheel full-rotation, her tires shrieking protest. But her tactics backfired; her sudden movement a clear giveaway to the Camry that she was on to it. The car bolted forward and sped off. Immediately, she flip-flopped, pulling another U-turn in the midst of traffic, causing an Explorer and a Taurus to slam on the brakes, both of them inches from plowing into her broadside and from crashing into each other. They blared out their rage in a symphony of horn honks accompanied by curses.

  Fuck you, she thought, I’m being chased, you morons!

  She had nearly wiped out, but the gravity of her rashness barely registered. She was charged with anger, internal voices admonishing her foolishness while her actual voice was yelling strings of obscenities. The Camry was several hundred feet up, but pulling away by the moment. She floored her gas pedal, weaving in and out of rush-hour commuter traffic at unsafe speeds as she tried to close distance between them. Camry must have been some kind of pro driver because the car moved seamlessly while she dived and ducked to keep pace with it. Fin
ally, she saw the car whoosh onto the 210 on-ramp. She honked at the autos in front of her, changed lanes, then entered the freeway proper about four cars behind her quarry.

  Traffic was steady but there was room for maneuvering. Squinting while speeding, Cindy could make out part of the license plate: 4-A-C—then either an O or a D…

  Keep on the tail, baby! Keep it in sight if nothing else.

  She was gaining some ground but the Saturn had severe speed limitations. It wasn’t meant for movie-stunt chases.

  And neither are you!

  As the license plate became clearer, she read the letters and numbers out loud until she had it committed to short-term memory. A few more repetitions and long-term memory would kick in. The interchange was coming up and the Camry had decided to merge back onto the 405. The driver must have gunned its motor because the car jerked back, then sped off at warp speed. When Cindy tried to push the car, the engine shook and rattled in protest. Still, she was able to keep the red car in her line of vision.

  One mile, one and a half, two miles…

  She could call in the license plate but operating the phone would require her to slow down, and that would cause her to fall behind even farther. Knowing the license gave her an edge and made her feel cocky. Now she wanted to pull the SOB over and find out who the hell he was and why he was following her. At least she assumed it was a he.

  Two and a half miles, three miles…

  The car got off at Devonshire. Perfect! The route he was taking was on the way to her dad’s. Perhaps she could catch a criminal and make it to dinner on time. She finagled her way over to the far right lane and exited at a madman’s speed. But just as she reached the bottom of the off-ramp, she was caught by a red light. Forced to stop, she hit the wheel and cursed loudly as she spied a flash of Camry red tear down Devonshire east.

  Stuck, stuck, stuck! Even though she was the first car in the left-hand lane! She was tempted to try the turn, but that would be too much fate-tempting. She already had used up her allotment of lucky breaks. Pecking around in her purse for the cell phone, she bemoaned the fact that she needed to make a left turn and was living in the U.S. and not Britain or Japan or Australia. When the operator came on, she asked for the nearest DMV. But by the time she had the number, the light had changed to green. Feeling immortal, she did a classic no-no, immediately turning left, relying on that half-second brain-to-pedal reaction time to jump out in front of oncoming traffic. She bore down on the gas. To her surprise, she caught sight of the Camry.

  Which pleased her at first, but then, when rational thought kicked in, it startled her. Logic dictated that he should have turned off onto a side street and been long gone.

  So what was he doing here within catchable range?

  If he had disappeared, she would have called in the plates and let it go at that. But now he was getting personal. Taunting her like some modern-day gingerbread man. Well, she’d be damned if she was going to be bettered by some cookie-aping asshole.

  She juiced the engine and shot forward, trying to close the distance. But the Camry must have had some added muscle to its ordinary engine because it leapt ahead, racing down Devonshire, swinging in and out of traffic lanes with the deftness of a pickpocket. Going faster whenever she kicked out of the jams. Mocking her, deriding her.

  Can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.

  And here she was playing the fool. Retracing her steps as he pushed her farther east, past the commercial buildings, past the markets and strip malls, past the residences sprinkled with large citrus and apricot trees laden with green fruit; arboreal leftovers that spoke of agricultural Los Angeles. She raced with the Camry, the car having the good luck to make every light. Finally, it encountered a red and cross-traffic, so it was forced to swerve on two wheels and hang a hairpin turn to the right, almost colliding with an oncoming station wagon filled with kids. Cindy screamed as the Camry missed the wagon by the width of a fingernail.

  Okay! That was it! She was calling it in.

  Just as soon as she had a free hand.

  Because now she felt it incumbent to follow the bastard, not to lose him. She leaned on the horn, holding up her badge to the blocking cars and squeezing into the spaces they gave her. Within moments, she was free and clear. The Camry had turned into a distant speck. She floored the pedal and her car jackrabbited as if spring-loaded. Still pressing the horn, she tore forward until the Camry went from being a dot to a definite form. From a form it became a car.

  Her car started shaking, the doors rattling in complaint, the windows humming in indignation. She had images of the vehicle coming apart, of tires spinning from under the chassis and metal parts flying outward with centrifugal force.

  Why was she hotdogging this? She had the license number, she had a description of the car. Why didn’t she leave it at that? She should be playing by the rules. Instead, she was winging it cowboy style. But she couldn’t stop herself.

  Pushing the car harder until it trembled like a cowering puppy.

  This is crazy!

  She saw the Camry make a sharp right, spin out, find its wheels, and zoom off. She saw it grazing the foothills, hugging the pathways back into Angeles Crest National Forest. Another sharp right, then a left, then a right, it burrowed deeper into the wilderness, toward the nature preserve, winding up the twisting roads and lanes. As Cindy continued to push her Saturn, she heard a telltale cough of the motor, informing her that the engine was about to go belly-up. Since she couldn’t go any faster, she lost the Camry, leaving behind the wind of its exhaust.

  With nothing left to do, she slowed to a reasonable pace, her heart going a mile a minute. She picked up her phone to call in the license plate, but a road sign distracted her. On it was printed: lane ends 200 feet.

  Lane ends.

  Sure enough, the road reached a cul-de-sac fronted by a nature park replete with picnic benches and barbecue grills. Behind the flat mesa of lawn and tables was hillside with trails slicing through overly tall grasses thanks to the recent rains, towering eucalyptus, canopied sycamores, California oak, and brush and chaparral.

  There was an empty rutted lot for parking. She pulled in and killed the motor, noticing that the hood was belching smoke—which was why she kept a two-gallon container of water in the trunk. She decided to have a peek around while the engine was cooling. Gripping her bag, she got out and shut the door. She took her gun out, although she couldn’t see why she’d use it. The place seemed devoid of human life except for hers.

  She looked into the distance, shielding her eyes with a tent of fingers. Squinting as she took in the area. Nothing appeared to be out of place. A few lazy birds hovered in the milky sky. No signs or sounds of the invasion from Homo sapiens, only the chittering of birds, the buzzing of insects basking in the last bits of sunlight. Dusk was at hand.

  She ambled about the picnic area, hoping to find some tire tracks skittering off the dirt path, but no indentations popped up. A quick examination of the surrounding brush showed the foliage intact. Nothing had been pushed down, knocked over, or displaced. She had to have missed a turnoff somewhere between the time she lost sight of the Camry and when she’d got up here. It was a very likely scenario, since she hadn’t been paying attention to anything but finding the Camry.

  Again she scouted around the grounds, but saw only vast expanses of tree, grass, and copse, a funnel of gnats spinning in the sunlight. The near silence was shortly broken by the plaintive wail of a coyote. A moment later its call was answered by others as loud and piercing as a convoy of sirens. It lasted almost a minute and made her heart jump. Her eyes darted from side to side as she slapped away pesky gnats.

  Then, in the distance, she heard the rumbling noise of an approaching car, its motor sounds magnified by the Doppler effect. An acrid smell pierced her nose. Had the Camry doubled around and was it now going to trap her? She found herself running back to her car, diving into the driver’s seat, and crouching down low, gun in hand, her eyes just above the
visibility line of her window, staring at the road.

  An old white Mustang appeared, its motor rumbling as gravel churned under the tires. It pulled about ten feet away, then the motor’s growling died.

  Silence.

  Cindy felt the gun slip from her sweaty grip. She wiped her right palm on her pants and held the butt tightly, feeling her chest thump. Then the Mustang’s door opened and she heard the sound of shoes scraping gravel, as if the rocks were being shushed. Her stomach was raw acid and pain jabbed her skull.

  Come on, baby! Cindy thought. Come into my friggin’ view.

  Scrape, scrape, scrape. Whoever it might be was moving slowly. Finally, Cindy caught sight of a pair of flat black loafers covered by cuffs from black slack pants—women’s pants. She raised her head an inch to get a better view.

  To her utter astonishment, she was looking at Hayley Marx. Her colleague was wearing a loose-fitting silk blazer over a white shirt. A yellow and black scarf was casually tied around her neck. Bizarre did not even approximate Cindy’s stunned emotions.

  “Hey,” Hayley called out.

  Cindy popped into view and Hayley jumped back. Cindy saw the woman’s hand dive into her purse, so she rolled down the window and shouted, “It’s Decker.”

  “Decker?” Hayley’s shock sounded genuine. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

  Cindy placed her gun in her purse, opened the car door, and got out slowly. She took a couple of steps forward, noticing that her so-called friend had her hand in her purse, presumedly hunting for her own gun. “I could ask you the same thing, Marx.”

  Hayley stared at her, then broke into a smile. “We’re kinda staring each other down here.”

  “Gunfight at the O.K. Corral,” Cindy said.

  Neither spoke. Cindy forced herself to breathe slowly, cock her hip, and wait for an explanation, as if Marx were a child who had broken something. Hayley took the bait. “Your car’s smoking like a bong head. Being a public servant, I figured maybe somebody needs some help.”