"Acting lessons," said Rupaski. "I wrote out her script and we rehearsed it. I figured you'd come flying out for that alleged tape. We made the call two hundred feet from your front door."
"Where is she now?"
"In the trunk with her lips glued shut."
Gaylen hit the 91 east and drove it fast. Near the county line he got onto the 241 Toll Road. On the long grade toward Windy Ridge I looked at the stars twinkling over the hot dark hills and felt the weight of the .45 automatic that they'd failed to take. Nobody checks for three. Right side, for a left-hand draw, seven shots.
The man to my right rested a revolver on his leg and had the end of the rope wrapped three times through his left fist. The one to my left had some kind of handgun pressed into my kidney. He jammed it harder and looked at me with a challenging smile.
Rupaski turned again. In the faint light his face was etched in black and gray. Under his bushy eyebrows I could see his vulture's eyes, small and gleaming.
"They won't get five feet with that confession of Millie's," he said "You faked Gaylen's voice somehow, and Gaylen himself will testify to that. So we're going to hold tight, Joe. Me and Jack and Millie and John here. With you out of the chain, there's nothing. Birch can ask us questions 'til hell freezes over, but he's only getting the answers we want to give."
"He'll find a way."
"He's older than I am. We'll still be shaking our heads and taking the fifth when they put him in the grave."
I could see the lights of the Windy Ridge toll plaza coming into view. They were the only light for miles around, just darkness in every direction all the way up to the stars.
"The service road's coming up, John," said Rupaski. "Just past that sign."
"I know where."
Gaylen stayed on the gas, then braked hard and aimed the car onto the shoulder. I could hear the gravel and sand popping under the chassis and feel the grip of the brakes. The wind shivered the stout low branches of the sagebrush and manzanita. A few yards beyond the sign he eased the car over a low curb, through an open gate in a chain-link fence clogged with tumbleweeds and onto a dirt service road. He turned right hard, killed his headlights and drove slowly back the way we had come.
A hundred yards. Two hundred. Then Gaylen turned left and followed the dirt road up a long gentle rise. I could see the dust swirling in the pale orange running lights. The hillsides were deep black and you could only tell where they ended by the stars. I looked down at the toll road and saw the cars following their headlights. Then the road leveled off and descended. Once we were over the top I couldn't see anything but the black hills and dull valley of light where the road cut through them.
"You can turn your lights back on," said Rupaski. "Turn left past the water tank."
The sagebrush and wild buckwheat looked silver in the headlights. The dry grasses looked gold. They quivered in the wind, then stopped, then quivered again.
A moment later the tank came into view, one of the big ones with the pump and riser for filling water trucks, an OCTA decal on the side. Gaylen bore left and the road got rougher.
Over another hill, then down into a meadow. You could tell it was a meadow because the stars came down lower and the breeze was weaker. The road went to washboard and the big Impala shocks took up the bumps. Rocks pinged off the bottom and every few seconds a blast of sand hissed against the body.
"You'll like this, Joe," said Rupaski. "I came out here this morning after Millie called, must have been about three A.M. Dark. Quiet. But I fired up one of the backhoes and rode out on this road with it. Used to make summer money running a backhoe for my old man. Always loved them. Anyway, I got out here in this meadow and I lowered that big old toothed blade, and guess what I did with it?"
"You dug me a grave."
"Yep. It's about eight feet deep, a little wider than your shoulders. You'll have lovely Bridget to keep you company. So it won't be too cold."
The man to my left laughed, jammed the gun hard into my side. "I think we should bury him alive."
"Shut up," said Rupaski. "We're not savages. We're the Authority. The Transportation Authority. We're going to transport Joe and Bridget to a better place, that's all. We serve the public. It's our job and our passion. You know what the funny part is, though, Joe? I'll tell you. Ten acres of this meadow is going to be leveled and paved next month. The TA needs a new south-end service yard for all the maintenance on the new toll roads. It's not cost-effective, trailering the machines out from the Irvine anyway, you and Bridget get to look up at the bottom of our new yard. You'll be the cornerstones. I think it's funny—Will Trona's adopted son, and one of his many love bunnies, buried under a TA property. It's like something that would happen in Chicago. John, park it here. The ground's a little soft by the hole, and I sure don't want this car stuck. We’ll walk it."
Gaylen stopped the car and shut off the lights and the engine. Rupaski looked back at the man on my right. "Both of you stay with him. Don’t bring him out until I tell you to. How many guns you get off him.
"Both," said the right-side man.
Rupaski smiled and got out, shut the door quietly with his hip.
With the boss gone, the left-side guy drilled the barrel into again.
"Bury you alive."
"I heard you the first time."
I heard the trunk open, felt the weight change. I saw them walk Bridget along the left side of the car, her hands stuck together behind her, each man with a grip on one of her arms.
"Bring him out," said Rupaski. "This side."
Kidney Man opened his door and got out, aiming his gun into my face. I felt the man behind me cinch up tight on the rope. I climbed out, keeping my arms close in to my body. My best hope was tucked neatly right armpit and I didn't want the world to know it.
I straightened and looked at Bridget. She was humming softly, like it hurt. Hair a mess, blouse out from her work skirt, mouth tight and unmoving, tears running down her cheeks.
"Don't worry," I said.
"Don't worry," said Rupaski. "Joe here's got it all under control. All right, girls, march. We've got a ways to go and I gotta be at work early tomorrow."
Rupaski took the lead with a flashlight. Bridget next. Behind her was Gaylen, with a lock on the waistline of her skirt. She wobble heels and her bright white hair stood out against the dark. She was humming harder. Kidney Man came behind Gaylen, walking backward a few steps, then forward, then backward again, watching me the best he could. Behind me was the cowboy with the rope and the six-gun.
The ground was level and sandy. An old wash, I thought, maybe a stream or spring. I could hear the distant swoosh of the cars on the toll road, and the crunching of feet on sand and dry grass. A plane droned overhead on its way into John Wayne Airport. Far out ahead of us I heard the chick-chick of quail as we approached their roost. It's their sound of alarm, the sound they make before they burst into flight.
"Hey Joe," called Rupaski. "How's Mary Ann these days?"
I listened to the quail out ahead of us, but I didn't answer. When Kidney Man turned his back to me to walk a few steps forward I slid my left hand up to my holster and unbuckled the strap.
"I always thought she was a real piece, Joe. I always thought that for a liberal, do-gooder, PC, bottom feeder like Will, she was quite a catch. Not to mention that she's a millionaire ten times over. Of course, he loved himself too much to just stick with one beautiful woman. He had to have a whole bunch of them."
I heard the chick-chick again. Then again. The faster they repeat that sound, the more afraid they are. Same place: up ahead and to our right.
I looked for the roost. High bushes. Trees. Maybe even prickly pear cactus, if the patch was wide and high enough. And if we walked close enough to it, they'd break hard and loud, and five human hearts would leap in surprise.
Calm washed over me. My eyesight sharpened. I could see the outlines of the brush up ahead, far from the jittery beam of the flashlight. And my ears heard things I normally wou
ld not: the left-right pattern of Cowboy's footsteps behind me, the rustle of Kidney Man's coat as he pivoted backward to watch me. My head felt steady and my legs felt light.
"Yeah, Joe. Besides Will always fighting us on every goddamned thing he could think of, the thing I hated most about him was Mary Ann and her money. To get that pretty and rich a woman just galled me. My wife's ugly. Always has been and always will be. But I am, too, so I didn't expect to marry Raquel Welch or something. Raquel Welch. That just shows how old I am. I should have said some young movie star but I don't know of them anymore. Don't even go to the movies. All I do is work."
I listened to him and looked past him to the stand of manzanita off to our right. Maybe a hundred and fifty feet ahead.
Chick-chick. Chick-chick. Chick-chick.
"Say something, Joe."
"I think my mother is pretty, too, sir."
He chuckled.
"Bury alive!" said Kidney Man.
"Maybe I will. Maybe I'll just do that, Joe."
Bridget's humming got louder. The manzanita trees were about a hundred feet away. I could hear Rupaski breathing heavily and Cowboy's: steps behind me and the birds stirring in their roost.
Chick-chick-chick. Chick-chick-chick. Chick-chick-chick.
Bridget stumbled and Gaylen held her up by her skirt. Her white flashed in the dark. She was still crying against her sealed lips.
"You should have known better, too, Bridget," said Rupaski. "Blackmailing me. Christ."
Fifty feet from the manzanita. The quail shuffled in the branches, Kidney Man turned back to face me and walked along backwards. I took a to deep breath and two more steps.
Chick-chick-chick-chick. Chick-chick-chick-chick.
A flutter of wings.
Then the birds exploded from the roost and Kidney Man swirled away from me and ducked like he was under fire.
"What the hell? " called Rupaski.
I shot Kidney Man twice. Turned and shot Cowboy twice. Kneeled as Gaylen's arm swung my way and I shot him twice, too.
Bridget dropped and Rupaski ran.
I went after him, rope still around my neck. It didn't take me long catch up. He was slow and heavy and I was ready for him to turn and fire. When I got into range I flew into him with a double jump-kick and him sprawling into the brush. I landed hard on him, knocking out his breath, then frisked him, flipped him over and frisked him again. He gasping and trying to curse and his language was so offensive I put him out with a short left hook to his chin. I tied his hands behind him with the rope and zigzagged back to Gaylen. He was sprawled on his back, breathing fast and shallow. Tears on his cheeks, blood on his lips. His gun was beside him so I kicked it away. Neither of the others was breathing. Cowboy had a faint pulse that died under my fingertips.
I stood over John Gaylen and looked down at the man who had taken Will. I wished there was more I could do than just this. Blood and tears. Short breaths. Fingertips digging into the earth. Then Gaylen's neck strained and his throat rattled and his fingers relaxed in the dirt. None of it made any difference at all to Will.
Bridget was sitting upright in the dirt, hair in her face, legs crossed, silent. Glued hands behind her.
"Mmm," she hummed quietly.
"Yes."
"Mmm-hmm."
"I'm going to help you up."
"Mmm."
"Can you walk?"
She nodded.
I gently pulled her upright. She fell against my chest face-first and I hugged her while the crickets started up again and the moon peeked over the eastern ridge. My eyes and ears had gone back to normal. My heart was beating fast. I broke into a sweat so cold and heavy I could feel it in my socks. I felt victorious and bad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Three days later I drove down to a town called Fallbrook, in San Diego County. It was green and hilly and hot. A sign said "Welcome to Friendly Village." I had lunch in a Mexican restaurant and read the local paper. The front-page news was that Fallbrook had been designate "Point of Interest" in the new AAA guide to Southern California. It didn't say why. Another article said that Fallbrook's biggest industries were nurseries, citrus and avocados.
I followed a map out of town. The further you got, the bigger houses were, most of them tucked into the shade of avocado or eucalyptus. There was white fencing, horses and barns, and magnolias with shiny leaves and huge white blossoms.
I found Julie Falbo's last known address, drove past it, then turn around and parked fifty yards from the mailbox. I couldn't see much of the house from where I was, just a swatch of white plaster and part of a chimney, lost in green trees. I drove around to the side and got a better view. There was a driveway leading up. The house looked old and well with a clay tile roof and windows with happy blue trim. Bright violet bougainvillea climbed the columns of a portico that shaded the west side.
To the right of the driveway was a yard with a white post-and-rail fence around it. There was a swimming pool with huge Canary Island palm trees along one side and patio furniture along the other.
A woman sat on the pool deck with her back to me and her feet in the water. A small girl sat beside her. A boy rocketed off the diving board, flew with a squeal and landed with a distant splash.
I got out and pulled on my jacket and put on my hat, in spite of the heat. I walked to the gate. The boy climbed onto the diving board and spotted me and pointed. "Mom? Look!"
She turned and looked at me, then stood. She pulled on a white blouse and buttoned it while she walked toward the gate. Ten yards from me she stopped abruptly, as if an invisible hand had blocked her way. She looked mid-thirties, though I knew she was older than that. Nice figure, lovely face, thick dark hair with a red highlight in it. I could recognize her—just barely—from the one photograph I'd seen, when she was leaving the courthouse and lighting a cigarette.
She came closer, six feet away from me, and stopped again.
"I'm Joe Trona," I said.
"I know."
She stared at me and I saw some of the same hardness in her eyes that I'd seen in the photograph. For a moment the hardness disappeared, then came back again, like she could turn it on and off.
"I don't mean to disturb you, but I wanted to ask you a question."
"These are my children. This is my life. It doesn't connect with yours."
Her voice was soft and pleasant.
The girl came over and leaned against her mother's leg. She studied me, then turned and ran back to the pool and jumped in. Her brother was in the water, looking at me, elbows locked over the deck. He screamed when she jumped over him.
"They're happy," said Julie Falbo. "I'm satisfied. My husband is caring and devoted. I'm a good wife."
"I'm pleased for all of you."
"What do you want?"
"Thor told me why he threw the acid. He told me about the money he was paid. I want to know who my father is."
She looked at me for a long moment. I could hear the children whispering in the water. Something about a monster with a hat. My half brother and half sister peered at me over the edge of the deck. Julie looked past toward the house, and called the name Maria. The three syllables came loud, rough and throaty.
Almost instantly, a stout dark woman appeared, hustling down the steps toward us. She gave me one quick glance, then looked down.
"Maria, watch the children."
Maria barreled past me and swung open the gate.
Julie stepped out and started down the driveway toward my car. The drive was lined with jacaranda trees that gave us a cool, mottled shade and littered the concrete in limp purple blossoms. We walked fairly far apart for people walking together. I looked at her and saw something in her that I recognized beyond the photograph. I didn't know what it was. It familiar but I'd never seen it before.
"This conversation won't last long," she said.
"It doesn't have to."
"I was never a nice girl. That's the most important thing you need know about me. Never nice, a
lways angry."
"At what?" "I don't know," she said. "I ran away from home when I was fifteen because I saw that I could manipulate my father for whatever I wanted. I will say no more about that. I became a meth freak because I always fast things and when my brain was racing I was happy. Ran with bikers until I was seventeen. Got popped for pot, pills, drunk in public. Committed an aggravated assault, once.
The assault was against my man, Fastball, they called him. He deserved it. I hit him with a galvanized steel pipe. The trouble was it knocked him out and he was bleeding a lot. I panicked, called 911 and they came and got him. This was up off the Ortega Highway, by San Juan Capistrano. I told the cop that Fastball had fallen down drunk, hit his head on the bench vise out in the garage. The cop didn't believe me. He came back a few hours later, asked me more questions. He still didn't believe me. But he was cool and said he thought Fastball probably served it, no matter what happened. So they didn't pop me for that.
"I got pregnant a few months later. It wasn't Fastball. I was trying to stay clean, kicking the speed, staying low, waiting tables. I was eighteen. I met Thor. He was forty. He rode but he wasn't ganged up, just a guy who liked bikes and drugs. He had a job for a while and he liked me a lot. It wasn't like I had a lot of time to find someone better. I started up with him and a month later, told him I'd missed my period, was going to have his baby. He was happy and stupid. It wasn't until after you were born that he started to get suspicious. I might have said something, I don't know. We were always drunk and fighting. He checked the dates and the calendar and said I'd tricked him—you couldn't have been his. I said, so what? Who cares? You're changing his diapers and feeding him out of your lousy gas station job, so what's the difference? That night it got bad. We drank and fought again and did some crank and the next thing I know there's this coffee mug of sulfuric acid he got from one of his meth friends. You were in an orange crate in the kitchen. He tossed the stuff in and it went all over the side of your face. He saw what it did and freaked. Like he was surprised he'd done it, surprised how bad it was. He picked you up and stuck your head under the sink faucet to rinse it off. Didn't work. Tried newspaper, but that didn't work either. The stuff just kept eating away."
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