Thirty yards to the barn, twenty, ten. He put on a burst, reached the doors a couple of steps ahead, yanked one half-open a foot or so as I pounded up. The nose of some kind of car was just poking into view. He nudged me through the opening, crowded in behind me. When he pulled the door shut behind us, it muted the approaching vehicle sounds to a low rumble.
There were chinks and gaps in the door halves that made for eyeholes. I found one, Chavez another. Both vehicles were in sight now, jouncing along the track. Neither one was the Ford Explorer. The lead car was a gray four-door Nissan compact, dwarfed by the medium-sized U-Haul truck immediately behind. Those women were no dummies. They’d sold or traded or dumped the SUV, bought or rented the compact, and then rented the U-Haul, and they’d no doubt done the buying and renting using one or the other’s real name.
Both of us drew our weapons. I sucked in a couple of deep breaths, trying to slow my pulse rate, as the car and truck rattled into the yard. Sun glare on the Nissan’s windshield prevented me from seeing who was driving until it turned to the right off the track. Carson. With the yellow-eyed Rottweiler, Thor, beside her. The driver’s door stayed shut while the U-Haul rolled past toward the barn.
McManus was as reckless with the cumbersome truck as she’d been with the SUV in rush-hour traffic; twenty yards from the barn she made a sharp, tilting half turn in the opposite direction, braked hard, and then slammed into reverse with a gnashing of gears. The rear tires spun, digging up clods of turf, as she backed and began maneuvering.
They hadn’t spotted us on the run or they’d be reacting differently out there. McManus kept backing until the rear end of the U-Haul was within a dozen feet of the doors. While she was doing that, Carson got out of the compact and the Rottweiler bounded out after her.
Chavez said in an undertone, “Coming in here. Be easier to take them if they walk in together.”
“As long as they leave the dog outside.”
“What if they don’t?”
I waggled the .38. “What do you think?”
The barn had been the right choice. We were in perfect position to surprise McManus and Carson, take out Thor if necessary, and hold the women until the county law arrived. Good plan—except for one thing we hadn’t figured on.
That damn dog and his heightened senses.
Through the eyehole I saw the animal stop moving once he was free of the car, stand with muzzle up and the big body starting to quiver. Then he was barking, loud. And then he lunged into a streak-run straight for the barn doors.
He didn’t slow down when he got there. Left his feet in a sideways jump and rammed his body into one door half hard enough to splinter a couple of the rotting boards. Turned and jumped up again, nose on this time, barking and snarling and scrabbling at the wood with his nails.
“Knows we’re in here,” Chavez said between his teeth.
“But the women don’t. Maybe they’ll think he’s after an animal that got in.”
McManus was out of the U-Haul now, coming around to where Carson stood, both of them watching the dog’s frantic scratchings at the barn door and not trying to call him off. Wary, but not alarmed yet. Neither of them looked to be armed. If they owned guns, and they probably did, the weapons would be stored in here with the other stuff. They’d have had no reason to take the guns along this morning.
I thought we might have a standoff that would last long enough for the law to show—the two women and the Rottweiler out there, us in here, nobody doing anything but standing fast. Wrong on that score, too. Because I didn’t take the yellow-eyed beast’s instincts into account.
He quit scrabbling at the door. Quit barking and snarling, too. I heard him moving and then I didn’t hear him at all. Didn’t see him anymore. I shifted position to another peephole, still didn’t see him.
“Alex. You spot where the dog went?”
“No.”
Not back to McManus and Carson. They were still standing together, talking to each other but looking at the barn.
Seconds ticked away, nobody moving. The silence seemed heavy, strained. Where the hell was the Rottweiler?
Pretty soon we found out.
The warning sounds came from somewhere at the side wall behind Chavez, where the half-collapsed remains of cattle stalls showed as shadow shapes in the murky light. Bumping, scratching, slithering. A deep-throated snarl. Faint blurred movement. The goddamn dog had sniffed around out there and hunted up a gap in the decaying wallboards large enough to squeeze through.
I hissed a warning to Chavez—too late. Thor was already inside and launched in a black blur. Chavez turned, bringing his revolver up, but he had no time to set himself and fire before the hurtling, snarling shape hit him straight on.
The force of impact drove him backward into the door, wrenched a cry of pain out of him, and knocked the gun out of his hand. I heard it clatter off the boards, hit the ground. He got his left arm up in time to keep the bared fangs from tearing into his throat, but the powerful jaws locked around his forearm and the dog began to shake it the way a terrier shakes a rat.
Chavez tried to throw the animal off, but the heaving weight had him pinned. I was there by then and I kicked at Thor’s ribs, his haunches; a third kick caught him square in the ass. But none of the blows did anything except bring out more growls and cause the fangs to sink deeper into Chavez’s arm, shaking it even harder. For me to try wrestling the Rottweiler loose was a fool’s move. I couldn’t take the chance of jamming the muzzle of the .38 in against the squirming body, either, not with the poor light and the way the two of them were locked and thrashing together; if I tried that and didn’t get the angle right, the bullet was liable to go right through the dog and into Chavez.
Only one thing I could do. I spun away to the row of stacked goods, jamming the gun into its holster, and tore off one of the plastic sheets. Bunched it up accordion-fashion with my arms and hands spread wide. Chavez was still struggling to break loose, grunting but not making any other sound. The Rottweiler’s growls had a kind of frenzied canine elation, as if this sort of vicious attack was what he lived for.
I got in close and threw the sheet over him, ensnaring as much of the head and muzzle as I could, then managed to wrap the rest of it around the lower body and tangle up the legs. That got him off Chavez. The jaws released their hold, the muscled body twisting wildly; he let out an enraged yowl. I couldn’t hold him—too much weight, too much fury. Sharp claws and snapping teeth were already tearing tattered holes in the plastic.
All I could do was let go and jump back, set myself, and deliver another kick that caught him somewhere in the hindquarters and sent him tumbling over backward—still entangled in the sheet, but not for long. I went for the .38 again, but the sight had snagged when I jammed the weapon into the holster. I had to muscle it out, and by then the bugger had fought loose of the plastic, those yellow eyes glowing like something out of a nightmare, the big body tensing, then springing. There wasn’t enough time to get off a shot. I made a clumsy, desperate effort to dodge away, knowing I wouldn’t make it, sure for one terrified second that he’d rip my throat out—
Echoing report, muzzle flash.
The dog squealed, twisted, changed direction in mid-air, then dropped straight down, thudding to the ground a few feet to my left, and flopped over onto his side with mouth open and tongue lolling out. Didn’t move or make another sound. Dead before he landed. Chavez had found his revolver, and by luck or skill he’d fired a kill shot and probably saved my life.
I emptied my lungs in a heaving sigh. Chavez was on one knee on the floor; I went to help him to his feet. His left arm where the jacket sleeve had been ripped away shone black with blood.
He said, “I had to risk it,” in a pain-edged voice. “Glad I didn’t miss.”
“No risk. You had a clear shot.”
Outside, there was the sudden sound of a car engine firing up.
We reacted immediately, the adrenaline in both of us still pumping. The one door h
alf stood partway open from the force of the dog’s collision with Chavez; I shouldered through it first with the .38 still in my hand.
The gunshot had galvanized Carson and McManus. They were both in the Nissan, the car slewing ahead deeper into the yard because the U-Haul was blocking the way behind. Carson, driving, couldn’t make any speed because of all the refuse littering the grass; the compact bumped over something, rocking, back wheels churning for traction.
I ran toward it at an angle, slowed to draw a bead, and blew out the left rear tire. I would have done the same to the right rear or left front, but it wasn’t necessary. The Nissan tipped a little, slewed, then the front end jarred into some hidden object and the engine stalled. Carson ground the ignition but couldn’t get it started again. I moved closer, and as I did the passenger door flew open and McManus came out in a lurching run. The driver’s door stayed shut.
McManus did not even glance in my direction. She headed straight for the track, running like a sprinter—head down, body bent forward, elbows close to her body and pumping like pistons. I yelled, “Stop!” but the command had no effect. I veered past the Nissan, stopped to brace myself, and fired a warning shot over her head. Followed it with another shout: “Stop or you’re dead!” None of that had any effect, either. She didn’t falter or slow down, just kept right on racing along the track.
I let her go. Even if I wasn’t a little rubber legged from the skirmish in the barn, I wouldn’t have been able to catch her, and I was not about to chance a leg shot to bring her down. Besides, where was she going to run to? She might make it off the property, might be able to hitch a ride with somebody or find someplace to hide, but she wouldn’t stay a fugitive for long. Not with the kind of police manhunt those rat-chewed remains in the well house would generate.
I turned back toward the Nissan. Chavez had the driver’s door open and was standing off a few paces, looking in at Carson, his left arm hanging loose and dripping blood. I leaned through the open passenger door to yank the key out of the ignition—a precaution even though she was no longer making any effort to get away. She didn’t seem to know I was there. Her eyes were on Chavez.
“He’s dead, isn’t he,” I heard her say as I came around the front. “Thor.”
“Oh yeah,” Chavez said. “Dead as all those people you killed.”
The look she gave him was one of pure steaming hate—not because she’d been caught, I thought, but because the dog had been blown away. She transferred the look to me when I came up next to Chavez, then swiveled her head and stared straight ahead. Queer, what happened then: her face went blank. Literally blank, like a mannequin’s. She sat unmoving, staring at nothing or at something inside her head.
I said, “Need to tend to that wound, Alex.”
“Be okay. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Yeah, it was. Out here in the sunlight I could see the torn flesh, the bone-deep bite marks on his left forearm. None of the bites had severed an artery, but enough blood flowed to make a red glove of the hand and fingers.
I told him I’d be right back and ran into the barn. I had to yank open three of the storage cartons before I found the kind of clothing I was looking for—silk blouses, clean. When I came back outside with three of the blouses, Chavez was leaning against the Nissan’s rear fender, his left arm cradled in against his chest, his weapon holstered and his cell phone against his ear. Making a 911 call, telling the dispatcher what had just happened and asking for an EMT unit.
“Better sit down in the U-Haul,” I said when he finished, “let me wrap up that arm.”
“Carson?”
“Not going anywhere.” She still sat in that same motionless, blank-faced pose, her hands resting on the steering wheel; as far as I could tell she hadn’t moved an inch. Automated mannequin with all the juice drained out of her batteries.
I opened the driver’s door on the U-Haul, got Chavez sitting sideways on the seat, then tore one of the blouses into strips and tied the largest into a tourniquet around his upper arm. With the second blouse I swabbed the wound as best I could, fastened it in place with the rest of the strips. Finished up by making a sling out of the third blouse, tying the sleeves around his neck. Stanch the blood flow, keep the wound clean and the arm stationary until the EMTs arrived.
He endured it all with nothing more than a couple of grimaces. Tough guy, Alex Chavez. And a good man in every sense of the term—like Jake Runyon, the kind of man you could trust and depend on.
I went around and climbed onto the seat beside him. There wasn’t anything else to do now except wait for the rest of it to be over.
28
JAKE RUNYON AND BRYN DARBY
“Jake, what will happen to Gwen Whalen?”
“If the public defender she draws is any good, he’ll plead diminished capacity and she’ll end up in a psychiatric facility.”
“I don’t suppose she’ll ever lead a normal life again.”
“There’s always a chance. But she’s been emotionally unstable all her life, and killing her sister put her over the line. I doubt she’ll ever come back, no matter how much therapy she gets.”
“That’s awful. I’ve never seen the woman and I feel so sorry for her.”
“So do I.”
“Francine did so much damage to so many people … I won’t pretend I’m not glad she’s dead.”
“No need to. You’re entitled.”
“If only she’d showed her vicious side to Robert the way she did to Bobby and her sister. We might all have been spared.”
“Too calculating and manipulative to allow that to happen before they were married. But she wouldn’t’ve been able to control herself indefinitely. She’d’ve gone off on him sooner or later.”
“Well, he must know by now what she was underneath that sweet facade. But will he admit it?”
“He’d be a fool not to. Overwhelming evidence now.”
“Yes, but he’s such a cold, inflexible son of a bitch … I can’t believe I didn’t see his true nature before I married him. But he could be so sweet and charming when it suited him.…”
“Camouflage, like the kind Francine wore.”
“He’ll try to take away what little time I have with Bobby, out of spite. I know he will.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“How can I stop him? I told you how he manipulated the judge at the custody hearing; he’ll do the same thing again—”
“His influence in the legal community isn’t as strong as you think. Dragovich knows a family law attorney with a much better rep who owes him a favor.”
“I can’t afford another expensive attorney. I’ll have to mortgage the house, take on a lot more design work, to pay my legal bills as it is.…”
“We’ve been over that. Money’s not an issue—we’ll work it out.”
“Jake—”
“No, listen to me. Dragovich spoke to the family law guy, Jeb Murphy, and outlined your situation to him. Murphy will stop Robert from denying you visitation. And he thinks there’s a good chance he can get the original custody decision reversed.”
“… Oh, Lord, could he really do that?”
“If he’s as good as Dragovich says he is. Bobby doesn’t want to keep on living with his father—too many ugly memories associated with the abuse and Francine’s death. He wants to live with you. He told me so, and running away, coming here the way he did, proves it. He’s old enough for his wishes to carry weight with any reasonable judge.”
“I can’t tell you what having him with me again would mean.”
“Don’t try. I think I know.”
“I wish he were here now; I wish I could hold him, comfort him, tell him how much I love him.”
“You’ll have the chance soon.”
“How soon?”
“As fast as the lawyers can make it happen. Murphy will contact you tomorrow morning.”
“You arranged all of this? When?”
“I had a talk with Dragovich before I
came over here. He’s the one doing the arranging.”
“But it was your idea.”
“Call it a mutual resolution.”
“You’re such a good man. And I’m such a fool for not trusting you, lying to you the way I did.”
“Let’s not get into that again. You did what you felt you had to do.”
“But I caused you so much trouble.…”
“Trouble’s my business.”
“Don’t joke—please. I’m serious.”
“So am I. Helping people in trouble is what I do, you know that. Helping people I care about makes it twice as rewarding.”
“… Will you do one more thing for me?”
“If I can.”
“Stay with me tonight.”
“You don’t need to show me gratitude, Bryn.”
“It’s not that. No, really, it’s not. I don’t want to be alone tonight. You’re the only person besides my son who makes me feel needed and I want to be close to you. You feel the same way, don’t you? At least a little?”
“More than a little.”
“Then you’ll stay?”
“You know I will.”
“And not just while it’s dark. Until morning. From now on, every night we’re together—until morning.”
29
The woman we knew as R. L. McManus remained a fugitive approximately six and a half hours after her flight from the Chileno Valley property. Officers from both Marin and Sonoma counties, using helicopters and search dogs, found her hiding in an outbuilding on an occupied ranch three-quarters of a mile to the north and arrested her without incident.
Her real name, we found out later, was Shirley Pulaski. She and Carson, real name Veronica Boyle, were wanted fugitives, all right. In their native state, Minnesota, for grand theft and attempted murder and in Washington State for theft and coercion. They’d been working variations on the same scam for at least six years before they disappeared into their new stolen identities in San Francisco, making a total of thirteen—targeting elderly people with money and other assets who either were alone in the world or had far-flung relatives, at first ripping them off and using threats of bodily harm to keep them quiet. Pulaski and Boyle’s nonviolent MO changed when one of the Minnesota victims caught wise and refused to be intimidated. They broke the old woman’s neck, probably would have killed her if a neighbor hadn’t intervened. It was that incident that turned the two of them into fugitives.
Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) Page 19