Point Deception

by Marcia Muller

  A memory stirred in the back of Guy’s mind. As it moved to the forefront, alarm brought him to his feet. “Forget the warrant. Better go after Ulrick right away.” He explained about Becca’s plans to travel with him to Reno that night.

  Rhoda went quickly to the phone, dialed, and asked for Detective Grossman. “Try Detective Shepherd, then,” she said after a pause. “What?… Okay, thanks anyway.” She broke the connection, dialed again. “They’re on their way back here with the FBI agents who’ve been brought in,” she said to Guy. “I can’t waste time tracking them down.”

  He listened as she called Central Dispatch and asked for backup to meet her at the cabin on the Scurlock property. When she hung up she told him, “Central says there’s a slide on the highway up near Deer Harbor. People have been hurt and every available unit is on the scene, except for one down at Westhaven. Its ETA at the cabin is forty minutes, but I’m going on ahead—”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Don’t waste time arguing with me.”

  She scowled, then grabbed her bag and jacket and headed for the door. “Come on, if you must.”

  As she got into the cruiser, Rho keyed the mike and let Central know she was proceeding. Guy hadn’t shut his door when she gunned the powerful vehicle down her driveway.

  She said, “When we get to the cabin, I want you to stay in the car and keep low, in case he’s armed.”

  “But—”

  She didn’t need civilian interference now! “This is my job, Guy. I can handle it.”

  “… Okay. Your call.”

  She sped south through town, past a TV crew filming in front of the hotel. The media frenzy that had begun earlier was at full strength. Once they were into forestland, the dripping trees compounded the rain. It was coming down so hard now that the wipers couldn’t clear it fast enough. Mud oozed across the road from the eastern upslope; on one patch she braked too sharply, skidded, and had to fight to bring the car out of it. Guy had momentarily closed his eyes—maybe praying for the first time in his life.

  She tromped on the accelerator as they neared the entrance to the canyon, urging more speed from the cruiser on the straightaway. The tires started to slide on the blind curve above Point Deception, but she corrected and held them to the road. She leaned forward, trying to see the centerline. As they came up on the Scurlock driveway, a pair of headlights appeared.

  “Car coming out,” Guy said. “Looks like Becca’s Honda.”

  “Turning north. Our good luck. He’ll have to stop at the slide.” She reached for the mike to ask that Ulrick be detained there, told Guy, “Get down! He’ll know this isn’t a routine patrol if he sees two heads. We never patrol in pairs.”

  She’d slowed the cruiser to a normal speed, and the Honda passed it as she was calling in, traveling at a crawl. She peered over at it but couldn’t identify its driver. When it was out of view, she made a U-turn and followed. The Honda continued to creep, then veered across the centerline.

  “What—?” she said.

  It was pulling into the turnout. Going to Point Deception, where it all had started.

  Guy hunched over, smelling a medley of odors from the floor mat, none of which he cared for. He felt the heavy vehicle leave the pavement and brake abruptly, sliding him forward so his head connected with the dashboard.

  “What’s going on?” he asked through his pain.

  “They’re at Point Deception. Somebody’s getting out of the driver’s seat… walking toward the fence.”

  “Who?”

  “Ulrick, I think.”

  Guy straightened as Rhoda released the shotgun from its brace. She asked, “You know how to use a handgun, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She pulled a gun from her bag and thrust it into his hand, grip first. A .357 revolver. “Take this. Becca may be in the car. If so, I want you to get her out of there. She won’t be armed—she has a horror of guns—but she may resist you or try to warn Ulrick. Use force if necessary, but bring her back here and see she stays put.”

  “And where’ll you be?”

  “Going after Ulrick.”

  He hesitated. Her job, she could handle it.

  “Follow me,” she said, opening her door.

  Order not necessary, he thought. I’d follow you anywhere.

  Rain lashed Rho as she stepped out of the cruiser into a deep puddle. When she started across the highway she had to lean into gale-force wind. Guy was right behind her.

  They ran across the pavement to a stand of pines at the south end of the turnout. Becca’s old Honda was nose-in toward the fence, its headlights off, motor running. On the bluff a faint beam of light bobbed about; Ulrick had a flashlight. Rho noted its location, then started intently at the car.

  “I can’t tell if Becca’s in there or not,” she said.

  “Me either.”

  “He may have left her as a lookout.” She motioned to Guy. “This way.”

  Gregory Cordova’s fence was strung with barbed wire here. Rho held it apart so Guy could slip through, then followed. She felt her jacket snag, wrenched at it, tore it free. “I’ll go first,” she said, moving her feet tentatively till she found a deer track. She inched along on slick, flattened grass, then back upslope to where the fence continued around the turnout.

  “Okay,” she said, “from here on you’re on your own. If you crouch down and follow the fence she won’t see you. At the far side where the No Camping sign is, you’ll be in her blind spot.”

  He hesitated. She was afraid he’d try to stop her from going after Ulrick alone, but he simply said, “Be safe.” Then he was gone, ducking down behind the split rails.

  Rho waited a moment, conjuring up an image of the terrain. She and her father had crossed Point Deception many times to fish in Lantern Cove. Later she’d come here for high school beer busts and to neck in the grass with boyfriends. She knew this bluff as well as anyone—certainly better than Ulrick.

  Lily Gilardi had told her about encountering Chrystal Ackerman as she emerged from a clump of pampas grass. Chrystal was acting “freaky,” as if she had been doing something wrong. That must be where she’d hidden the money, and where Ulrick was going. He’d managed to extract its location from Ackerman, but Rho didn’t want to consider what methods he’d used.

  Okay, the thickest stand of the insidious plants had always been dead center on the bluff. That bought her time, because from where Ulrick had crossed the fence the fishermen’s path would take him due north. In the dark and the rain it would be a while before he realized he’d gone out of his way and decided to double back.

  She found the deer track again and started down the slope. She’d lost sight of the bobbing flashlight beam; when she reached a good vantage point she stopped and scanned the bluff. There it was, nearly at the northwest cliff edge. The rain was letting up, although the wind was still brisk. Now she could hear the crash of waves in the cove. She began moving along the track again, slipped, and went down on one knee.

  Dammit, that bastard Ulrick had waited thirteen years for the money, and he had to choose a night like this to claim it! Of course, he hadn’t chosen, not exactly. He’d probably planned to stay in town till his lease ran out, to avoid suspicion. But the influx of media people had changed that plan. Ulrick was no fool. He had to know that sooner or later someone might dig up a more recent photograph of him and he’d be recognized. He needed to retrieve the money and get out tonight.

  She crept along the track, toward where the pampas grass grew thickest. Ulrick’s light had vanished. Cradling the shotgun, she paused every few yards to search for it. Nothing moved but the pale fronds, frantic in the wind. She could hear nothing over its howl and the roar of the surf.

  Guy. How was he doing? Had he gotten Becca safely to the cruiser?

  Sound from below? She peered through drizzle.

  Nothing.

  Sound from above!

  She whirl
ed, shouldering the shotgun.

  No one.

  God, she was letting the storm and Ulrick’s unseen presence spook her!

  She drew deep, calming breaths. Reminded herself that this was her territory, her advantage.

  When she was fully in control, she went on.

  When Guy crept up in the blind spot of Becca’s car, he saw the front seat was empty. He checked the backseat, the trunk, then shut off the ignition and pocketed the keys. As added insurance, he raised the hood and disconnected every cable and wire he could find.

  He crouched behind the vehicle, staring at the fence and clutching Rhoda’s .357—a weapon which he, a stringent advocate of gun control, could use and use well because his father had insisted no son of his be less than a perfect marksman—and felt profoundly useless.

  Her job, yes. She could handle it, yes. But he couldn’t handle the danger to her. Couldn’t handle the fear of losing her. He had to do something.

  He pushed away from the car and ran across the turnout. Stepped over the fence and moved downslope, feet angled on the slippery ground, digging for purchase. The rain suddenly smacked down again, so heavily that he couldn’t see a foot ahead. After a ways something sodden and hairy touched his face. He slapped at it. One of those damned fronds.

  From what Lily had said, he figured the Ackerman girl must have buried the money in a clump of pampas grass. He was close to it, close to Rhoda. Close to Ulrick, too…

  He stood still, listening. Heard nothing. Peered around. Saw only darkness. Closed his eyes and willed his ears to tune in to a frequency humans seldom employed.

  Rhoda, he thought, where are you?

  Snapping sound. To the right. He slewed about. Brought up the .357.

  No one.

  What if the cocksucker had grabbed her? Overpowered her? Right now he might be—

  No. She could handle him. He had to believe that.

  Another sound. Similar to the last. Origin uncertain.

  He made a three-sixty sweep with the gun. Saw nothing.

  I feel like a kid, he thought. A scared kid lost in the dark with a popgun. It’s been years since I fired on anything, and never on a living person, but if he’s got Rhoda…

  Yeah, I’d fire. Dead accurate. In a heartbeat. I couldn’t save my wife, but I can help here.

  He began creeping through the sodden fronds.

  Another sound. Pause. Another. Where—?

  Something hit him. Hard. A tall, slender body, ramming him full force, knocking him onto his back. The air went out of his lungs, but he held onto the gun with all his strength.

  He tried to yell, but what came out was a grunt. Then his attacker was on him, hands gripping his throat. He couldn’t move the gun, which was pinned between their struggling bodies.

  The hands tightened, choking him.

  In reflex he pulled the trigger.

  The man’s body jerked convulsively. The hands relaxed on his throat. Then they were gone and the weight lifted away from him. He raised his head, struggled to rise. Bernhard Ulrick was scrabbling upslope on all fours. Guy rolled onto his stomach, gripped the gun with both hands, and fired after him. The shot went wild, but Ulrick reversed direction and began limping toward the sea.

  “Stop right there, Ulrick!” Rhoda’s voice, from not far above. “Sheriff’s department. You’re under arrest.”

  Ulrick seemed to hesitate, as if surprised to hear his rightful name, then kept going.

  A shotgun blasted.

  Ulrick staggered and went down. Dead hit.

  Guy buried his face in the mud and sobbed with relief.

  It seemed like a long time but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before Rhoda’s hand touched the back of his wet head. The hand was unsteady, the voice more so, when she said, “Fucked up again, Newberry.”

  She got him into a sitting position, cradled his body against hers. He pressed close, wished he could stop crying, and after a while realized she was crying too.

  “Hey.” He raised his head and touched her cheek. “Hey, don’t.”

  “I almost lost it,” she said. “I’ve never had to kill anybody before.”

  “One thing my father taught me—”

  “I know. The first thing my father taught me about guns: They’ve got only one purpose. If you have to shoot, shoot to kill.” She drew a deep, fluttering breath. “And that’s what I did. I blew the bastard’s head off.”

  Sunday, October 15

  Rho was sitting on her front porch in a patch of morning sunlight when Guy came to say goodbye. She watched as he walked toward her, his silvery hair gleaming, and thought of the first time she’d seen him. Even in her agitation about nearly running him down, she’d thought him a handsome man. Now she knew there was much more to him than good looks.

  He smiled as he sat down beside her. “You seem rested. Still no nightmares?”

  “Nope. That’s all over now. What time does your plane leave San Francisco?”

  “Six this evening.”

  They sat quietly for a moment. Cody came out of the underbrush, trailing twigs and leaves as usual. He nosed Guy’s hand and Rho smiled when she saw him hesitate before rubbing his ears.

  You probably could get fond of the dog, she thought, then put the notion aside.

  She said, “Grossman and Shepherd are leaving today too. Ned’s going to put my name up for promotion to detective. They need somebody to direct investigations in the coastal area.”

  “Congratulations! You’ve earned it.”

  “I don’t know about that, but the pay increase would help keep old Cody in dog food.” Still, she felt a warm glow of pride.

  “I take it Grossman’s given up on searching for the money?”

  “Now that he’s had Ulrick’s cabin and its surroundings torn apart, he has. Becca couldn’t tell him anything; she had no idea the money existed, much less that Ulrick had been searching for it.”

  Guy grimaced. “Thank God she was still at home packing when he went to retrieve it. She’s having a hard enough time dealing with who and what her boyfriend was, without having been there when he died.”

  “She’s having a hard time, but Kevin Jacoby and Brandon Fuller are giving her lots of TLC. She’ll be okay.”

  “You know, I still don’t understand why Grossman didn’t catch on about why Ulrick went to Point Deception that night.”

  She smiled slyly. “Well, I sort of let him think Ulrick skidded into the turnout and fled as I was giving chase.”

  “You what—? Why?”

  “If I’d’ve told, the department wouldn’ve dug up the bluff looking for the money. And then we’d’ve had the media back, with all the attendant problems. That money’s caused enough tragedy and grief.”

  “I agree. The Harrisons don’t need it, and if you asked them, they’d probably say they don’t want it. Let it lie.”

  A strong, crisp wind rustled through the trees. To Rho’s amusement, both Cody and Guy keened the air.

  He said, “You know, a man could get a lot of writing done on the Soledad Coast.”

  She cautioned herself against rising to the bait, said lightly, “He could.”

  “Especially if his local deputy—pardon me, detective—were driving by to check up on him.”

  “Especially.”

  “If I had a second home here, I’d buy and hire locally.”

  “I’d see to it that you did.”

  He smiled at her, fine lines around his eyes crinkling. “Well, it’s a thought.”

  “And a good one.”

  “I’ll hold on to it.” He stood, pulled her to her feet. “Got to go now.” He leaned toward her, touched his lips to hers. At first the kiss was light, casual; then they both moved closer, and it deepened. When they finally parted, she had to lean on the porch pillar to steady herself.

  “It is a thought,” he said softly, and moved toward his car.

  She remained where she was, shading her eyes from the sun glare as she watched him drive awa
y.

  “He’ll be back,” she told Cody. “No question about that.”

  Guy didn’t get his erratic emotions under control until he reached Point Deception. A few more seconds in Rhoda’s arms and he would’ve been a goner. As it was…

  He stopped the car just off the pavement and stepped out. The day was clear and brilliantly blue, with not a trace of fog on the horizon. Even the skeletal trees couldn’t detract from its loveliness, and the bright green secondary growth beneath them gave promise. The plumes of pampas grass danced in the wind. Except for the crime-scene tape that fluttered along the fence-line, you’d never have guessed what violence had taken place here.

  After a few minutes he got back in the car and continued south, traveling at high speed, taking pleasure in maneuvering the curves. Thinking of New York, his loft, the great book he’d write there. The true-life adventures of Guy Newberry were sure to make the bestseller lists—

  You damn fool man.

  “So you’re back. Why’d you call me that?”

  Because you’re as much of a horse’s ass as ever, and you’re leaving the best thing that’s happened to you since me.

  “Who said I’m leaving forever?”

  Aren’t you?

  “I most certainly am not.”

  Good. You need that woman. And you don’t need me any longer.

  Softly he whispered, “Good-bye, Diana.”

  June 19, 2002

  The county-owned bulldozer rumbles across Point Deception on another foray in the ongoing struggle to eradicate the tenacious pampas grass. Belching fumes into the previously clean air, it tears away at the land and sends moles scurrying from their burrows. The operator scowls at a particularly large and stubborn clump, then scoops it up. The machine lumbers toward the cliff and dumps its load into Lantern Cove.

  A leather pouch encased in layers of plastic bags balances precariously on top of the heap. Then the strong offshore wind topples the pile, and the pouch falls into the lapping waves. Come high tide, larger waves will bear it south and bury it at sea.

  Marcia Muller has written many novels and short stories. She is the 2005 recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award—their highest accolade. Her novel Locked In won a Shamus for best novel from Private Eye Writers of America, and she is also the recipient of PWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award. Marcia Muller lives in northern California with her husband, mystery writer and fellow MWA Grand Master Bill Pronzini. You can visit her website at www.MarciaMuller.com.