The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

  She answered on the first ring. “Shit, where are you?”

  “I’m fine, I’m out. You have the photographs?”

  “I’m going through them now. I’m just cleaning up the images a bit so I can read the numbers better. Tell me what happened?”

  “What do you think they are?”

  “I’m not sure at this point. Maybe account numbers, maybe phone numbers. I want to run them past a friend in the morning. How far are you from where you’re going?”

  “Another twenty minutes.”

  “Call me when you get there.”

  “Will do.”

  “I mean it, David. Call me so I know you’re all right.”

  He assured her he would call, disconnected, and eased into the turns. About to call Tom Molia, a light reflected sharply in the rearview mirror, momentarily blinding him. He flipped the mirror to cut the glare, then had to brake hard and pull the wheel to the right to keep from skidding off the road. The car had come out of nowhere, and at a high rate of speed. Sloane considered it in the side mirror. What had descended was not a car but a truck, the body raised high above oversize off-road tires. Floodlights across a roll bar over the roof of the cab lit up the inside of Bennett’s truck.

  The adrenaline kicked back in, tires squealing, Sloane accelerated and decelerated in and out of turns, straddling the center stripe, trying to keep away from the edge, but he could not get the truck off his bumper. Twice the truck pulled out, as if to pass, but had to slide back when Sloane turned hard to the left. Sloane came out of a turn and saw a straight patch of asphalt, but before he could react the truck had swerved to the left, the engine roared, and the cab was alongside him. The driver knew the road, and Bennett’s old truck was not built for speed.

  Sloane braced for the impact. When it did not come he glanced to his left, expecting to see guns. Instead he saw a shirtless man hanging out the passenger window, hair whipping in the wind. Two more stood in the truck’s bed, holding on to the roll bar. They yelled and taunted him over loud music blaring from speakers. The man hanging out the window threw a beer can that bounced off the windshield, splattering beer. Sloane braked, and the truck blew past. One of the men in back launched another can at him; the second flipped Sloane a one-finger salute.

  Sloane’s chest and shoulders heaved. He slapped the wheel. Four punk kids. He hoped Bennett kept a bottle of Scotch somewhere in the house because he was going to need a strong drink. He watched the truck’s red taillights disappear then reappear around a bend in the road, and slowed to put more road between him and the truck. Coming out of the next turn he caught another glimpse of the red taillights. This time, rather than disappear, they suddenly moved vertically, as if the back end had hit a speed bump. A string of four loud pops followed, and the lights moved violently left and right, the driver fighting to maintain control of the truck, overcorrecting. Its center of gravity altered, the truck flipped. Sloane watched, horrified. The two men flew from the bed as if they’d been roped from behind and yanked out. The truck flipped a second time then a third, a horrific screech of metal emitting orange and red sparks. Fixated on the truck, Sloane almost didn’t see the body now lying in the road. He hit the brakes and pulled the wheel hard to the right, managing to avoid the body, but the front right tire dropped off the asphalt edge. The rear tire followed before he could correct, and the truck listed hard to the right, leaving the road completely. Bushes and tree limbs whipped against the windshield. Then the truck rolled. Sloane’s head hit the ceiling hard. His shoulder crashed against the door. The truck flipped a second time, continuing down an embankment.

  The roll ended with a splash, Sloane upside down in the cab, conscious but dazed and disoriented. Blackened water poured into the cab. In pain, Sloane released the seat belt and dropped into numbing, waist-deep water. With the truck upside down he couldn’t immediately get his bearings but managed to find the armrest, reaching along it for the door handle. The truck shifted again, pushed and shoved by the current. When it stopped, Sloane pulled the door handle and pushed on the door. It didn’t budge. Thinking it locked, he took a breath and submerged, feeling for the knob, pulling it up. When he surfaced the water had risen to his chest. He pulled the handle and pushed again, but the door still did not budge. Sloane leaned back, held the steering wheel to get leverage, and kicked at the window.

  The truck shifted again, this time more violently, metal grinding against the rocks, as if tearing the cab apart. The cab spun 360 degrees, picking up speed and smashed against another boulder. Water continued to rush in, the sound deafening. Sloane gathered himself and kicked again at the door and window. His body began to go numb, his remaining strength ebbing. The water rose to his chin. He took a breath and submerged, kicking blindly. When he could no longer hold his breath he breached the surface, gasping for air. The water had risen to just inches from the floor of the truck, now its roof. He tilted his head and sucked in another breath, submerged, and drove his shoulder into the door again and again.

  The truck spun, like a teacup on a carnival ride. Sloane surfaced, sucked in more oxygen, submerged. This time when he lunged against the door it moved, the current having freed it from the obstruction, but only enough for Sloane to get his head and shoulders out. He pushed and pulled but couldn’t squeeze through the opening. Fearing he would get stuck, and running out of oxygen, he pulled himself back inside the cab and rose for one final breath of air, searching for the pocket.

  It wasn’t there.

  TWENTY

  KNOCK-ME-STIFF RANCH

  GOLD CREEK, CALIFORNIA

  Tom Molia coughed and doubled over as the pain radiated across his chest, so intense it felt as though his sternum might split open. He’d acquiesced. He’d let Sloane go to the Sutter Building. The cough had left him no choice. The lozenges Eileen Harper provided had helped, but not enough to pull off a convincing act as a security guard.

  He didn’t know if he’d seared his lungs or cooked them as black as a hamburger patty forgotten on the Fourth of July barbecue. The paramedics said he’d likely suffered some smoke inhalation. They wanted to take him to the hospital, but upon further questioning they also admitted there wasn’t much that could be done. Steroids would reduce the swelling of his bronchiole and help him breathe more easily, if that became a problem. They also said that tying the shirt around his face had been smart thinking, significantly reducing the crap he otherwise would have sucked into his lungs.

  He checked his watch. Sloane should have been back. Molia had been adding up the minutes it should have taken Sloane to get to the Sutter Building, convince the guard on duty to leave, wait for the fire department, search the second floor, take some pictures, and get the hell out and back to the ranch. He calculated two hours, two and a half at most. Sloane had been gone more than three.

  Still, he fought the urge to call. He and Sloane had agreed they couldn’t take the chance that the call might come at an inopportune moment and decided that Sloane would call Molia when he was safe, or he wouldn’t call him at all.

  When Molia’s cell phone rang he nearly hit the wrong button fumbling to answer it.

  “Hello? David?”

  “It’s Alex.”

  “Did David call you?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him about a half—an—”

  “He’s all right? He made it out okay?” Molia asked.

  “Isn’t he back yet?”

  Molia’s relief turned to foreboding. “No. Where did he say he was when he called?”

  “He said he was twenty minutes out at the most. That was thirty minutes ago. He was supposed to call me when he got there.”

  Molia picked up the keys to the rental car. “Did he say where he was?”

  “Just driving back.”

  “I’m going out to look for him; if he calls you, call me.”

  As he drove back toward Winchester, Molia dialed Sloane’s number twice. The calls went immediately to voice mail, indicating Sloane likely had the phone turned off.
But Alex said she’d spoken to him, which meant Sloane had had his phone on at one point. So why hadn’t he also called Molia? And why wasn’t he answering the phone now?

  Molia drove slowly, scanning the road for any signs of tire tread marks or broken foliage. Fifteen minutes into the process he came around a bend and saw flashing lights atop a sheriff’s vehicle parked at an angle, blocking further progress. A deputy sheriff flicked a flashlight at him, arm outstretched.

  Molia felt sick.

  He lowered the window and drove alongside the deputy.

  “Traffic accident up ahead, sir. I’m afraid I’m going to have to reroute you.”

  “What kind of car?” Molia asked.

  “I need to reroute you, sir; where are you headed?”

  Molia flashed his identification. “I’m a cop. I need to know the make of car.”

  “Not a car, a truck.”

  Molia’s heart sank. “I think I might know the driver. I was expecting him half an hour ago. How bad is it?”

  “It’s bad. We have bodies all over the road.”

  “Bodies, as in more than one?”

  “Several.”

  “I need to get up there. You can let me through or call your sheriff, Matt Barnes, and tell him my name.”

  The deputy handed Molia’s identification back through the window. “Sheriff Barnes is up at the site.” He pointed. “Couple hundred yards. Drive slow.”

  Molia gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. As he approached the accident scene there were so many lights atop the vehicles that it looked like the circus was in town. He parked in the middle of the road and stepped out. Another deputy stopped him, but Molia badged him as well. “Looking for Sheriff Barnes.”

  The deputy directed him down the road, to what remained of a large truck that had been altered with oversize tires, shocks, and a roll bar. It lay on its side, banged and smashed and completely crumpled. Bits of glass was everywhere. Paramedics worked on one of two bodies in the cab. A young man. Blood streaked the windshield and the dash. As Molia passed he made the sign of the cross. He’d seen his share of traffic accidents and most this bad involved more than one vehicle, but he saw no other vehicle in the road. He walked to the edge and looked down the bank, but saw only darkness, though he could hear the rush of the river surging past. He turned to further consider the scene, noting cans of beer strewn about the asphalt and thinking the accident could have been the reason for Sloane’s delay—they sent him on a detour, but even as Molia had the thought, he quickly dismissed it—the scenario still didn’t explain why Sloane had not called, or why he wasn’t answering his phone now. The apprehension settled back over him like a heavy tarp.

  At the rear of the truck he noticed that the tire hanging in the air was flat, which by itself was not unexpected given the severity of the crash, but so was the tire on the ground. Examining them more closely Molia detected multiple puncture marks. He walked to the front and found both those tires had also been punctured.

  “Detective Molia?” Sheriff Barnes approached. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for David,” he said.

  Barnes squinted. “Sloane? Why would you be looking for him here?”

  Molia looked over his shoulder at the truck. “Stop stick,” he said. Every police vehicle in West Virginia carried one in its trunk. The stick, with protruding metal spikes, was tossed across a road, a surefire way to stop a vehicle that didn’t want to be stopped.

  Barnes stepped past him and put his hand on the puncture wounds in the tires. Then he looked again to Molia. “This was intended for Sloane, wasn’t it?”

  HIGHWAY 89

  WINCHESTER COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  It felt like a dream, and he was floating. Sloane saw no white light and felt no comforting warmth. Immersed in darkness he felt only bitter, bitter cold.

  And then the ground came back, though not beneath his feet. He felt it against his chest and his cheekbone, as if he had fallen from the sky and landed on his stomach, arms spread wide. Opening his eyes he saw a brilliant white light and in it someone or something. The light eclipsed the shadow of a body. But then the shadow disappeared, if it had ever been there at all.

  Sloane coughed, water spilling from his mouth. He lifted his head. He lay on the bank of the swollen creek. The sky at the top of the steep incline pulsed red and white. He managed to turn over onto his back and felt a stabbing pain run like an electric current through his body. His right wrist throbbed. His feet felt numb. He realized that his legs, from the knees down, remained in the water. He scooted farther up the bank and fought to get his bearings. He remembered the truck flipping in front of him, seeing a ball of yellow sparks, the two men in the back flying out. He remembered seeing a body in the street, swerving to avoid it, branches whipping against the windshield, being upside down in the cab, the water rushing in, rising, struggling to free himself from the seat belt, to get out.

  But he hadn’t gotten out. He couldn’t get the door open.

  He’d drowned.

  Yet here he sat, by all accounts still very much alive.

  He looked again to the light into which the person in his dream had walked but saw no one. He got to his knees and made it to his feet, his body protesting, stiff and sore and shivering from the cold. He continued to collect the bits of information and tried to meld them into some coherent whole. He started up the incline but couldn’t let the thought go and walked back to the river, to the muddy bank. Kneeling, he touched the mud with his fingers, adjusting his body to allow the light to better illuminate the ground, searching.

  And he saw it, prominently cast in the mud.

  Tom Molia said nothing.

  “So then it begs the question,” Barnes said, unwilling to let it go. “If they hit the stick, where is Sloane?”

  Molia didn’t know the answer to that question either. He walked to the edge of the road and looked down the bank, then continued down the road to where the asphalt curved and disappeared around the bend. He kept to the edge, looking for any sign that another car could have gone over the side, skid marks, pieces of tire, disturbed brush, broken branches, bits of plastic or glass. As he concentrated he heard Barnes’s voice behind him.

  “Holy mother of God.”

  Molia looked to where Barnes stood, but the sheriff’s gaze was fixed farther down the road, past Molia, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Molia turned and saw the figure limping forward. Dripping wet, his arms wrapped across him, body shivering violently, Sloane marched up the road.

  TWENTY-ONE

  KAISER PERMANENTE MEDICAL CENTER

  ROSEVILLE, CALIFORNIA

  They kept Sloane overnight at the hospital for observation. He had a deep gash on the back of his head that required six stitches. He’d also broken his right wrist, now fitted with a cast. The doctor on call said he was fortunate not to have broken any other bones. Sloane didn’t feel fortunate; he felt battered and bruised and sore as hell.

  “And you’ll feel worse tomorrow,” the doctor promised.

  They called Alex from the hospital after agreeing to tell her that Sloane had been delayed because of a traffic accident and hadn’t called because his phone lost reception. Neither was an outright lie. There had been an accident and Sloane couldn’t get reception, not with his phone somewhere at the bottom of the river, unlikely ever to be found again.

  Molia had spent the night at the hospital, not wanting to leave Sloane, and taking the opportunity to get himself examined. His lungs had not been seriously damaged, but the smoke and chemicals from the outhouse fire had irritated his throat lining, as the paramedics had surmised. It had made for an interesting conversation, trying to explain to the emergency room doctor how one man could be suffering from smoke inhalation from a fire while the other brought in with him had nearly drowned and was hypothermic. The doctor prescribed steroids, as the ambulance driver had predicted.

  Barnes had asked difficult questions, like why Sloane was dressed in
what looked like a security guard’s uniform, and whether the two of them had anything to do with a report of a fire and break-in at the Sutter Building earlier in the evening. But the sheriff relented and ceased his interrogation when the doctor gave Sloane something for his pain that made him drowsy. Before drifting to sleep Sloane had one question for Barnes.

  “Did anyone die in the crash?”

  Barnes shook his head. “Miraculously, no.”

  The following morning, as they drove back to the ranch, Molia’s coughing had diminished but not his anger. “It was a stop stick,” he said. “And it was meant for you.”

  “So they know about the Sutter Building,” Sloane said. “Well, whatever those numbers are, they’re worth killing to keep a secret.”

  “We need weapons, David. I talked to Bennett this morning. He has some shotguns and a couple handguns.”

  “Something strange happened last night,” he said.

  “No shit.”

  “No, I mean something while I was in the water. I couldn’t get out, Tom. I couldn’t get out of the cab. Someone had to have pulled me out.”

  “Could you have imagined it? You took quite a bump on the head.”

  “This was real.”

  “There was no one else around, David.”

  “I didn’t get out by myself.”

  “A guardian angel?”

  “Don’t laugh,” Sloane said. “The thought crossed my mind. But…”

  Molia looked over at him. “But what?”

  “Guardian angels don’t leave footprints. Whoever pulled me out of the truck did. I checked.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t one of yours?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “So maybe a good Samaritan? Someone helped you, didn’t want to get involved, and moved on.” Molia didn’t sound convinced as he said it.

  Neither was Sloane. “At that hour of the morning? I didn’t see another car in either direction until that truck came up behind me. Like you said, there was nobody else.”