by J. R. Rain
So what now?
Plan B.
And what was plan B?
I didn’t know, but I sure as hell better figure it out quick. Now, if I couldn’t watch the house from the front, or from above, there was always the back, right? And, from where I sat, I could see the back of his house consisted of nothing but wooded wilderness.
Good for me. I think.
With Plan B taking shape, I stepped out of my car and went around to the trunk. There, I found a pair of binoculars and Mace in my emergency kit. I slipped the Mace into my front pocket, strapped the high-powered binoculars around my neck, and wondered what exactly I was doing.
Plan B, of course.
Oh, yeah. That.
Off to the side of the dirt road was the popular hiking trail that led down into the canyon. I said a little prayer, and then started down the trail.
Chapter Fifty-six
The trail was actually wide enough to be called a small road. Not exactly roughing it out here. I was willing to bet a convenient doggie-poopie bag dispenser or two would be set up somewhere along the path, complete with convenient drinking fountains and bathrooms for the humans.
Maybe even an espresso stand.
I hadn’t planned on a hike today. Admittedly, I also hadn’t planned on coming across my number-one suspect. These things happen. You adapt, roll with it. Luckily, I had been dressed in my all-purpose crime-fighting gear. Superman has his blue tights. I had my blue jeans, sneakers and polo shirt.
Good ’nuff.
The sun was setting beyond the western foothills, and the sky was awash in pale yellows, oranges and reds. The air was filled with a heady mix of sage and juniper, and a dozen or so other scents that my uninitiated nose couldn’t distinguish.
Scrubby trees crowded the trail. The occasional beaver tail cacti was mixed with barrel cacti and other succulents that I couldn’t name, either. Maybe I should invest in a Peterson’s Field Guide to Southern California Flora and Fauna.
Or not.
Other than the little critters that scurried off into the brush—mostly lizards, no doubt—I was alone on the trail. The hikers were no doubt much further along, or busy in the many port-a-potties.
Five minutes or so into my hike, I was already dripping sweat and wishing I had brought a bottle of water. No doubt all those damned Frappuccinos had seriously dehydrated me. And just as I was wondering if these barrel cactus had any water in them, I came across a water fountain. Nice. Next to the fountain was a bowl for your dog, and next to the bowl was a blue plastic crate with a recycling sticker on it. The plastic crate was nearly full with empty water bottles and other plastic bottles filled with the latest, high-tech water. I wondered if they were going to recycle the plastic crate, too. Anyway, still grateful—and maybe a little cranky from the heat—I drank deeply from the water fountain.
When I finally pulled away from the life-giving, stainless steel teat, water dribbling from my chin and down the front of my shirt, I took stock of my present location. To my right was some rather dense woodland, a rarity here in southern California. To my left, about a mile or so away, were the houses, including Ladd’s spacious estate. Straight ahead, the path continued down into the canyon, curving gently away from civilization.
Time to rough it.
I stepped off the main dirt path, stepped over knee-high grass and weeds, pushed aside a pathetic young scrub tree, and blazed my own trail.
The setting sun still had some heat. Sweat was still on my brow and presently streaming down the center of my back. And, of course, the instant I had stepped off the main trail, a spur of some sort had worked its way deep into my shoe. As I paused to dig it free, dozens of pesky gnats appeared as if from nowhere, circling my head like so many satellites.
I wanted a beer. Bad.
I waved them away and set out on a course that would, ideally, lead me directly behind Ladd’s home. The closer I got to the homes, the quieter I tried to be, but I think I probably still sounded like a bear drunk on fermented elderberries.
Davy Crockett I’m not.
And soon, slightly out of breath and thinking that a cane about now would have been a hell of a good idea, I came up behind Ladd’s sweeping home.
And directly in front of me was the guest house, where a light was on inside.
It appears Ladd had a guest.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Admittedly, I had never done surveillance behind a house before, and probably never would again. Hey, life is full of firsts. At least, back here in the woods, there weren’t any nosy neighbors to contend with. Coyote poo, yes. Rattlesnakes, yes. Nosy Nellies, no.
So far, other than the swarming gnats, which, I think, thought of me as their mother ship, nature was keeping herself at bay. Which was a very, very good thing.
I positioned myself on a grassy knoll above the northwest section of the house. From here I had a fine view into the backyard. A six-foot, stone fence encircled the entire back lot.
I figured I might be here a while. Hell, I might here all night, which had me wondering what sort of man-eaters roamed these hills in the dark? Mountain lions? Coyotes? Sasquatches?
So I hunkered down and took stock of the surrounding bushes and trees, feeling confident that I couldn’t be spotted by anyone inside Ladd’s house. Granted, a hungry mountain lion with a hankering for hound dog could be a problem.
And, yeah, I’m all hound dog, baby.
From my perch on the knoll, I lifted my binoculars and slowly scanned Ladd’s backyard. Ah, there was an inviting-looking pool and an equally inviting-looking Jacuzzi. A brick outdoor grill, two patio tables with blue umbrellas. The backyard was mostly paved, but there were small patches of grass here and there. An actual dog house was sitting on one of those grassy patches. A big dog house. Damn. Scattered throughout the grass like steaming land mines were so many dog piles. Big dog piles.
So far there wasn’t any sign of the dog, although I seriously doubted this dog would turn out to be fake. Maybe it was inside with Ladd, or snoozing inside it’s spacious dog house.
The main house was a single-story ranch with clapboards and vertical siding, concrete chimney and wood shingled roof. There was even an iron weather vane rooster on one of the cupolas. For someone I seriously suspected of having abducted another human being, Ladd was surprisingly exhibitionistic, as most of the curtains and blinds were wide open. Perhaps he never suspected someone would approach from the rear of the house. Perhaps he liked living dangerously. Or perhaps I was barking up the wrong tree.
A coyote howled from somewhere.
Bad choice of words. I suddenly felt very alone and very exposed out in the woodland. Granted, this wasn’t the deep, dark woods, but I was an old man with old knees, surrounded by hungry coyotes.
Don’t be such a baby.
Something scurried in the brush next to me, and I jumped like a schoolgirl. I whipped around in time to see a squirrel scurry up the twisted trunk of an ancient, dusty-looking tree.
Relax. Deep breaths.
I turned back to the gated home before me. I knew Ladd was my guy, and I knew this to the very core of my being. Call it a gut feeling. Call it instinct. Call it whatever you want. Either way, he was dirty.
The house was silent. The only indication that someone might be inside was an ambient, bluish glow coming from deep within the house. Then again, it could have been anything. Glow from a computer screen. Night Light. Portal into Hell. And with the dwindling daylight, the hint of light was turning into something more than a hint. My best guess was that Ladd was alone and watching TV.
I turned the field glasses over to the guest house.
It was a mini-ranch house, complete with pitched roof and clapboards and a brick veneer. It was quite a bit smaller than the main house, but still bigger than my apartment. Suddenly depressed, I slid the binoculars over to a pair of double windows facing me on the west side of the house.
And froze.
There was a face in the window, watchi
ng me. And not just any face.
It was Miranda Scott.
Chapter Fifty-eight
I blinked and gasped and the face in the window was instantly gone, replaced now by swaying dark curtains. I lowered the field glasses.
What the hell had I just seen?
Surely I was hallucinating. I mean, c’mon, I’d been obsess-ing over Miranda’s face for two weeks now. This was a classic case of wish-fulfillment. I wanted to find her, and so I did. At least in my mind. The face had probably belonged to someone else, and I had transposed it with Miranda’s own. That is, if the face was even there to start with. Maybe I had made it up.
Great theory. Now convince your hammering heart.
I lifted the field glasses again, but now the curtains hung limply, inertly. They completely concealed the window.
It had been her. It had been her. And she had been watching me.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. I had just exhaled when the rear sliding glass door to the main house opened. I swung the binoculars to the left and watched as Gregory Ladd appeared, wearing a silk Oriental robe and holding a bottle of wine and a single wine glass. Almost immediately a rottweiler—and easily one of the biggest dogs I’d ever seen—appeared by his side. Ladd promptly kicked it away, cursing at it. The dog yelped and skittered away, although it was too big to skitter very far. It came back for more but kept its distance, its nub of a tail wagging, looking confused but in need of attention. It got none from Ladd, who instead headed straight for the guest house. He crossed the small area between the main house and the guest house, an area about the width of his pool, and then disappeared around the corner of the guest house. A few seconds later I heard a door open, then slam shut.
A light turned on in the guest house.
* * *
My chest hurt. The hike down the trail, although not particularly strenuous, had taken a lot out of me. I forced myself to take deep breaths.
If that had indeed been Miranda, then what the hell was going on inside there? If she was indeed trapped, why not just bust out the window and get the hell out of there? Obviously, she wasn’t being restrained. Was she in there on her own free will? I didn’t know, but she could explain it to the cops.
Yes, the cops!
I pulled my cell phone, flipped it open. No reception. Should have known. Never once, ever, had I gotten reception out here in the past.
No problem, right? Just hike back out of here, find my car, drive around until I get cell reception, and then make the call to Detective Colbert.
Good enough.
And just as I turned to head back up the trail, I heard something that chilled me to my very core. An ear-splitting scream, and it came from the guest house.
Chapter Fifty-nine
I stopped in my tracks and turned back to the guest house, torn about what I should do. Stay or go for help? And if I stayed, what the hell could I possibly do? I was an old man with a can of Mace. Ladd was huge—and he had a rottweiler, to boot.
And as I stood there, debating what to do, another scream ripped through the dusk air.
And another.
And another.
Jesus! My blood ran cold. The rottweiler, which had been pacing out in front of the small house, paused, lifted its ears, and then resumed its pacing. Perhaps it was used to the screaming.
I wasn’t.
Another scream. This one more blood curdling than the others. The screams, although loud to me due to my proximity, were still oddly muffled, as if the house had been sound proofed.
What the fuck is going on in there?
The scream came again, this time long and wavering and filled with hysteria and pain and fear, and no one heard it.
No one but me.
I removed the Mace from my pocket, gripped it firmly. There was no time for the police. I dashed toward the guest house, realizing that a gun about now would have been nice. Too late now.
I reached the outer stone fence. The rottweiler, perhaps agitated and distracted by the screaming coming from within the guest house, hadn’t noticed me yet. I didn’t blame it. Hell, I was agitated and distracted by the screaming.
I knew I had to act, and I knew I had to act now. I also knew that I was about to confront one hell of a big dog, and all I had for protection was an aerosol spray can.
Fuck me.
Just as I reached the outer stone fence, sucking wind, another scream, much louder and more prolonged than the others, pierced the cooling late afternoon air. Maybe it just seemed louder than the others because I was closer to the guest house now. Maybe. Either way, it raised the hair on my neck.
I’m Elvis fucking Presley. I used to sing in the Astrodome. I used to make movies. The world adores me to this day, and probably forever will. So what the hell am I doing out here?
Good question. Night was falling rapidly. A cool wind made its way around the house, lifting my dyed brown hair. Sweat stung my eyes.
Deep breaths, big guy. You can do this.
Another scream, followed now by a lot of whimpering. I checked my cell phone, still no signal.
It looks like it’s just you and your can of Mace, big guy.
I’m a lover, not a fighter, although, as an actor, I had been trained to punch, or at least to simulate a punch. In real life, I rarely, if ever, got into brawls.
I’m too old for brawls. I’m too pretty for brawls.
The Mace did not feel reassuring. It felt small and inadequate and I could almost feel the dog’s teeth sinking into my calf now.
Fuck.
Deep breaths.
Another, piercing scream. My blood ran cold. Hell, my blood felt as it had frozen in my veins.
Do it. Now!
I reached for the top of the stone fence and started climbing.
Chapter Sixty
Up I went, clambering awkwardly, banging my old knees, scratching my old forearms. I hadn’t climbed an eight-foot fence in God knows how long, maybe since I was a kid, and the can of Mace in my hand made climbing especially cumbersome.
Grunting and nearly falling backwards, I finally swung a leg up and over the top of the fence. From that position, with one leg hanging over each side, gasping for breath, I looked into Ladd’s backyard—and my heart stopped cold.
The rottweiler was no longer distracted by the screaming from the guest house. No, it was focused on something else entirely. Me. It stood about thirty feet away, frozen in mid-pace, staring at me, drool oozing from its hanging jowls.
We stared at each other for another second or two.
And then it charged, hitting top speed in two strides or less. The deepest, most horrific growl I had ever heard in my life erupted from its massive lungs.
I dropped down from the wall—and promptly landed on the edge of something, perhaps a rock or a brick. Either way, my ankle rolled, something snapped, and I cried out. Searing, white-hot pain lanced through me. I collapsed in the surrounding weeds, and lost the can of Mace in the process.
From my side, I had a ground’s-eye view of the charging rottweiler, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. All teeth and slobber and muscle and jawbone. The ground actually shook. My bowels instantly turned to water.
Gasping, I groped frantically for the Mace, searching the weeds and grass.
The dog continued to charge.
My fingertips touched something metal and round.
The dog lunged.
I threw myself back against the stone wall and swung my hand around and pressed the dispenser as hard as I could, praying to sweet Jesus that the nozzle was facing away from me—
A powerful jet of oleo-resin capsicum erupted from the canister and straight into the charging dog’s face. The rottweiler reacted instantly. It lost its footing, tumbled, and slammed sideways into me. Then it proceeded to claw at its face with both paws, backing away and yelping loudly and continuously. A hideous, pitiful sound.
It backed all the way onto the brick path that ran around the perimeter of the backyard. Once on the path, th
e dog, amazingly, began running. And it ran blind, banging its way around the side of the guest house and disappearing from view, where it crashed loudly into what I assumed was some sort of metal trash can. Probably put a hell of a dent in the can.
And loud enough to wake the dead.
I had to hurry. Ignoring the pain in my right ankle, I used the wall to help me find my feet, and then hopped on one foot over to the side of the guest house. My ankle was bad. Very bad. I leaned against the corner of the house, sucking air, sick to my stomach.
A door opened slowly from around the corner.
I fought to control my breathing. The dog was still making hideous noises from the rear of the guest house. I felt bad for it, even though it would have surely ripped my throat out. And I needed that throat. I had my first gig on Monday, which I fully intended to make.
“Purgatory?” said a voice hesitantly. It was Ladd’s voice. It came again: “Purgie?”
Purgie?
The dog didn’t respond, although it did howl even louder.
“I’ve got a gun,” said Ladd loudly. I assumed he wasn’t talking to Purgie.
Now I heard footsteps. Ladd was trying to be quiet but I heard him crunching carefully over some loose rocks. Behind me, Purgie had settled down a little, although he/she/it was still whimpering pitifully.
Another crunch. Closer now.
I gripped the Mace, making sure it was faced away from me. I raised it up, and waited.
Chapter Sixty-one
I held my breath.
From within the guest house came the sounds of someone sobbing. A woman sobbing. And from around the corner from where I was standing, I could hear someone breathing. Ragged breathing. Nervous breathing. Scared breathing.
I gripped the Mace. Lord help me.