Solitude Creek: Kathryn Dance Book 4

by Jeffery Deaver

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Jessica,’ he whispered. And his eyes stroked her face and neck once more. ‘Jessica.’

  CHAPTER 85

  ‘I was in my early teens. There was an accident. It was Route Thirty-five and Mockingbird Road. Minnesota countryside. I called the incident the Intersection. Upper case. It was that significant to me.

  ‘I was driving with my parents, home from a family funeral.’ He smiled. ‘That was ironic. A funeral. Well, we were driving along and turned this corner in a hilly area and there was a truck in the Intersection right in front of us. My father hit the brakes …’ He shrugged.

  ‘An accident. Your family was killed?’

  ‘What? Oh, no. They were fine. They’re living in Florida now. Dad’s still a salesman. Mom manages a bakery. I see them some.’ A pallid chuckle. ‘They’re proud of the humanitarian work I do.’

  ‘The Intersection,’ Dance prompted.

  ‘What happened was a pickup truck had run a stop sign and slammed into a sports car, a convertible. The car had been knocked off the road and down the hill a little ways. The driver of the BMW was dead, that was obvious. My parents told me to stay in the car and they ran to the man in the truck – he was the only one alive – to see what they could do.

  ‘I stayed where I was, for a minute, but I’d seen something that intrigued me. I got out and walked down the hill, past the sports car and into the brush. There was a girl, about sixteen, seventeen, lying on her back. She’d been thrown free from the car and had tumbled down the hill.

  ‘She – I found out later her name was Jessica – was bleeding real badly. Her neck had been cut, deep, her chest too – her blouse was open and there was a huge gash across her left breast. Her arm was shattered. She was so pretty. Green eyes. Intense green eyes.

  ‘She kept saying, “Help me. Call the police, call somebody. Stop the bleeding, please.”’ He looked at Dance levelly. ‘But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I pulled out my cell phone and I took pictures of her for the next five minutes. While she died.’

  ‘You needed to take the next step. To a real death. Seeing it in real time. Not a game or a movie.’

  ‘That’s right. That’s what I needed. When I did, with Jessica, the Get went away for a long time.’

  ‘But then you took another step, didn’t you? You had to. Because how often could you happen to stumble on a scene like Jessica’s death?’

  ‘Todd,’ he said.

  ‘Todd?’

  ‘It was about four, five years ago. I wasn’t doing well. The college failures, the boring job … And, no, the video games and movies weren’t doing it for me any longer. I needed more. I was in upstate New York. Took a walk in the woods. I saw this bungee-jumping thing. It was illegal, not like it was a tourist attraction or anything. These people, kids mostly, just put on helmets and Go Pro cameras and jumped.’

  ‘What you mentioned earlier? The tape you sold to Chris Jenkins.’

  He nodded. ‘I got talking to this one kid. His name was Todd.’ March fell silent for a moment. ‘Todd. Anyway, I just couldn’t stop myself. He’d hooked his rope to the top of the rock and walked away to the edge to look over the jump. There was nobody around.’

  ‘You detached it?’

  ‘No. That would’ve been suspicious. I just lengthened it by about five feet. Then I went down to the ground. He jumped and hit the rocks below. I got it all on tape.’ March shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you … the feeling.’

  ‘The Get went away?’

  ‘Uh-huh. From there, I knew where my life was going. I met Chris and I was the luckiest person in the world. I could make a living doing what I had to do. We started small. A single death here or there. A homeless man – poisoning him. A girl on a scooter, no helmet. I’d pour oil on a curve. But soon one or two deaths weren’t enough. I needed more. The customers wanted more too. They were addicts, just like me.’

  ‘So, you came up with the idea of stampedes.’

  ‘The blood of all.’

  He told her about a poem from ancient Rome, praising a gladiator for not retiring even though the emperor had granted him his freedom and the right to leave the games.

  March’s eyes actually sparkled as he recited:

  ‘O Verus, you have fought forty contests and have

  Been offered the wooden Rudis of freedom

  Three times and yet declined the chance to retire.

  Soon we will gather to see the sword

  In your hand pierce the heart of your foes.

  Praise to you, who has chosen not to walk through

  The Gates of Life but to give us

  What we desire most, what we live for:

  The blood of all.

  ‘That was two thousand years ago, Kathryn. And we’re no different. Not a bit. Car races, downhill skiing, rugby, boxing, bungee-jumping, football, hockey, air shows – we’re all secretly, or not so secretly, hoping for death or destruction. NASCAR? Hours of cars making left turns? Would anybody watch if there wasn’t the chance of a spectacular fiery death? The Colosseum back then, Madison Square Garden last week. Not a lick of difference.’

  She noted something else. ‘The poem, the line about hand and heart … The name of your website. Sword in the hand piercing the heart. Little different from humanitarian aid.’

  A shrug, and his eyes sparkled again.

  ‘I’d like to know more about your clients. Are they mostly in the US?’

  ‘No, overseas. Asia a lot. Russia too. And South America, though the clientele there isn’t as rich. They couldn’t pay for the big set-pieces.’

  It would be a tricky case against many of these people – men, nearly all of them, Dance supposed. (She guessed the sexual component of the Get was high.) Intent would be an issue.

  ‘The man who hired you for this job, in Monterey?’

  ‘Japanese. He’s been a good customer for some years.’

  ‘Any particular grudge with this area?’

  She was thinking of Nashima and the relocation center at Solitude Creek.

  ‘No. He said pick anywhere. Chris Jenkins liked the inn in Carmel. So he sent me there. It has a good wine list. And comfortable beds. Nice TV too.’

  She began to ask another question. But he was shaking his head.

  ‘I’m tired now,’ he said. ‘Can we resume tomorrow? Or the next day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She rose.

  March said to her, ‘Oh, Kathryn?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s so good to have a kindred soul to spend some time with.’

  She didn’t understand for a moment. Then realized he was speaking about her. The chill pinched once more.

  He looked her up and down. ‘Your Get and mine … So very similar. I’m glad we’re in each other’s lives now.’ March whispered, ‘Good night, Kathryn. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night.’

  THE LAST DARE

  TUESDAY, APRIL 11

  CHAPTER 86

  ‘Real, dude.’

  Donnie and Nathan bumped fists. Wes nodded, looking around.

  They were in the school yard, just hanging, on one of the picnic benches. There was Tiff; she looked his way and lifted an eyebrow. But that was it. No other reaction.

  Some of the brothers, and there weren’t many of them here, were hanging not far away. One gave him a thumbs-up. Probably for track. Donnie’d just led the T and F team to victory over Seaside Middle School, winning the 200 and 400 dash (though, fuck, he’d gotten the branch once he’d gotten back home because he was one second off his personal best on the 400).

  That was Leon Williams doing the thumbing. Solid kid. Donnie nodded back. The funny thing was that Donnie didn’t hate the blacks in the school at all, or any other blacks, for that matter. Which was one of the reasons that tagging black churches in the game was pretty fucked up. He disliked Jews a lot – or thought he did. That, too, was mostly from his dad, though. Donnie didn’t know that he’d ever actually met somebody who was Jewi
sh, aside from Goldshit.

  Donnie looked at his phone. Nothing.

  He said to Nathan and Wes, ‘You heard from him? Vulcan?’

  Vince had left right after class, saying he’d be back. It had seemed suspicious.

  Nathan said, ‘He texted.’

  Donnie said, ‘You, not me. Didn’t have the balls to text me.’

  ‘Yeah. Well. He said he’d be here. Just had something to do first and Mary might be coming by – you know her, the one with tits – and kept going on, all this shit. Which I think means he’s not coming.’

  ‘Fucker’s out if he doesn’t show.’ There was a waiting list to get in the DARES crew. But then Donnie reflected: of course, for what was going down today, maybe better Vince the Pussy wasn’t here. Because, yeah, this wasn’t the Defend game at all. It was way past that. This was serious and he couldn’t afford somebody to go, ‘Yeah, I’m watching your back,’ and then take off.

  Wes asked, ‘Just the three of us?’

  ‘Looks like it, dude.’

  Donnie glanced at his watch. It was a Casio and it had a nick in the corner, which he’d spent an hour trying to cover up with paint, so his dad wouldn’t see it. The time was three thirty. They were only twenty minutes away from Goldshit’s house.

  ‘Plan? First, we get the bikes. Get into the garage. That’s where they are,’ he explained to Nathan. ‘Here.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Donnie was shoving wads of blue latex into their hands.

  ‘Gloves,’ Wes said, understanding. ‘For fingerprints.’

  Nathan: ‘So we get fingerprints on the bikes? We’re taking ’em, aren’t we?’

  Donnie twisted his head, exasperated, studying Nathan. ‘Dude, we gotta open the door or the window and get in, right?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Nathan pulled the gloves on. ‘They’re tight.’

  ‘Not now, bitch. Jesus.’ Donnie was looking around. ‘Somebody could see you.’

  Fast, Nathan peeled them off. Shoved them into the pouch of his hoodie.

  Wes was saying, ‘We gotta be careful. I saw this show on TV once. A crime show, and my mom’s friend Michael was over. And he’s a deputy with the county. We were watching it together. And he was saying the killer was stupid because he threw his gloves away and the cops found them and his fingerprints were inside the gloves. We’ll keep ’em and throw ’em out later, someplace nowhere near here.’

  ‘Or burn them,’ Nathan said. He seemed proud he’d thought of this. Then he was frowning. ‘Anything else this guy would know, we should know? Your mom’s friend? I mean, this is like breaking and entering. We gotta be serious.’

  ‘Totally,’ Wes said.

  Nathan squinted. ‘Maybe it’s legal, doing this, you know. Like we’re just retrieving stolen property.’

  Wes laughed. ‘Seriously? Dude, are you real? The bikes got perped during the commission of a crime, so don’t count on that one.’

  ‘What’s “perped”?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘Bitch,’ Donnie said. ‘Stolen.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Donnie persisted, ‘So? That cop, the friend of your mom’s? What else’d he look for?’

  Wes thought for a minute. ‘Footprints. They can get our footprints with this machine. They can match them.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Nathan said. ‘You mean the government has this big-ass file on everybody’s footprint?’

  But Wes explained that, no, they take the footprint, and if they catch you and it matches yours, it’s evidence.

  ‘CSI,’ Donnie said. ‘We’ll walk on the driveway. Not the dirt.’

  ‘They can still pick them up from concrete and asphalt.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Church.’

  ‘Fuck. Okay. We leave our shoes in the bushes when we get there.’

  Nathan was frowning, ‘Can they take, like, sock prints?’

  Wes told him he didn’t think they could do that.

  Nathan asked, ‘That cop. Is he the guy I saw at your house, Jon?’

  ‘No, he’s into computers. He’s my mom’s friend.’

  ‘She’s got two boyfriends?’

  Wes shrugged and didn’t seem to want to talk about it.

  Donnie said, ‘So, I was saying: first, we get into the garage and get the bikes.’

  Nathan said, ‘Dude, I heard you say that before. “First”. That means there’s a second or something. After we get the bikes.’

  Donnie smiled. He tapped his combat jacket. ‘I brought a can.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Nathan said. ‘This isn’t the game. We’re just helping you out, him and me.’

  Wes was: ‘Yeah! Dude, come on. Let’s just get the bikes and get the hell out of here. That’s what I’m on for. Tag him again? What’s the point?’

  ‘I’m tagging the inside of his house. Just to show the asshole.’

  ‘Not me,’ Wes said.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything, either of you bitches. Am I asking you to do anything? Either of you?’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Nathan grumbled.

  There was silence. They looked around the school yard, kids walking home, kids being picked up by parents, moms mostly, in a long line of cars in the driveway. Tiff looked their way again. Donnie brushed his hair out of his eyes, and when he smiled back, she’d turned away.

  And she’d be interested why? he thought, sad.

  Wes said, ‘Hey, come on, Darth. We’re with you. Whatever you want, tag or trash. We’re there. I’ll help you get the bikes but I’m not going inside.’

  ‘All I’m asking. You two. Lookouts.’

  ‘Fuck, amen,’ the big kid said.

  Nods all around.

  ‘Roll?’ Donnie asked.

  A nod. They headed for the gate in the chain-link that led to the street.

  Donnie and his crew. He didn’t share with them what was really going down.

  What he’d tapped inside his jacket wasn’t a can of Krylon. It was his father’s .38 Smith & Wesson pistol.

  He’d made the decision last night – after the son of a bitch, his father, had pulled out the branch, tugged Donnie’s pants down and wailed on him maybe because of the bike or maybe for some other reason or maybe for no fucking reason at all.

  And when it was over, Donnie had staggered to his feet, avoided his mother’s eyes and walked stiffly to his room, where he had stood for a while at his computer – his keyboard was on a high table ’cause there were plenty of times he couldn’t sit down – playing Assassin’s Creed, then Call of Duty, GTA 5, though he didn’t shoot or jump good. You can’t when your eyes are fucked up by tears. In Call of Duty, Federation soldiers kept him and the other Ghost elite special-ops unit pinned down and his guys had got fucked up because of him.

  That was when he’d made the decision.

  Donnie realized this life wasn’t going to work any more. He had two ways to go. One was to go into his father’s dresser, get the little gun and put a bullet in the man’s head while he slept. And as good as that would feel – so good – it meant his brother and his mother’s life’d be fucked for ever because Dad didn’t treat them quite as bad as Donnie got treated, and he might’ve been a prick but at least he paid the rent and put food on the table.

  So, it was number two.

  He’d take his father’s gun, go back to the Jew’s house, with his crew. After they’d got the bikes – evidence – he’d have the others keep an eye out for cops and he’d go inside, tie the asshole up and get every penny the prick had in the house, watches, the wife’s jewelry. He had to be rich. His dad said all Jews were.

  He could get thousands, he was sure. Tens of thousands.

  With the money, he’d leave. Head to San Francisco or LA. Maybe Hollister, where they made all the clothes. He’d get something on – and not selling ice or grass. Something real. He could sell the DARES game to somebody in Silicon Valley. It wasn’t that far away; maybe Tiff would visit.

  Life would be good. At last. Life would be good. Donnie could almos
t taste it.

  CHAPTER 87

  Charles Overby, a man who loved the sun, who just felt good with a ruddy complexion, now walked toward the Guzman Connection task-force room, deer-eye level in CBI headquarters, and wasn’t pleased at what he saw.

  It was late afternoon and the shade outside turned the glass to a dim mirror. He looked vampiric, which if it wasn’t a word should be. Too stressed, too busy, too much shit. From Sacramento all the way to Mexico with their smarmy, law-breaking ally Commissioner Santos.

  He stepped inside the room. Fisher and Lu, Steve and Steve Two were at one table, both on phones. DEA agent Carol Allerton sat at another, engrossed in her laptop. She seemed to prefer to play alone, Overby had noticed. She didn’t even see him, so lost was she in the emails scrolling past on her Samsung.

  ‘Greetings, all.’

  Allerton glanced at him. ‘Getting reports on that truck left Compton a day ago, the warehouse near the Four-oh-five. The Nazim brothers. May have twenty ki’s. Meth.’ This truck, Allerton explained, had been spotted on Highway One.

  Lu asked, ‘A semi? There? Jesus.’

  The highway, between Santa Barbara and Half Moon, could be tricky to drive, even in a sports car. Narrow and winding.

  ‘That’s right. I want to follow it. No reason for ’em to be taking that route, unless they’re going someplace connected with Pipeline.’ Allerton said to Lu, ‘You free?’

  Lu nodded. ‘Sure. Could use a hit of field.’ The slim man rose and stretched.

  Foster was lost in his phone conversation. ‘Really?’ Impatient, sarcastic, moving his hand in a circle. Get to the point. ‘Let me be transparent. That’s not going to work.’ Foster hung up. A gesture to the phone. ‘CIs. Jesus. There’s gotta be a union.’ He turned to Allerton and Lu. His moustache drooped asymmetrically. ‘Where’re you going?’

  Allerton explained about the mysterious truck on Highway One.

  ‘Contraband on One? Is there a transfer hub along that way we don’t know about?’ Foster seemed interested in this.