Mission Canyon

by Meg Gardiner

  When Jesse phoned and said, ‘‘Can I come over tonight? ’’ I told him, ‘‘You don’t have to ask.’’ I surveyed my tired clothes and dirty hair, and decided I’d better shower before he came. I took my boom box into the bathroom and turned on music I knew would sustain me, Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Went straight to the ‘‘Ode to Joy.’’ Standing under the shower, I leaned my arms against the tile and listened with my eyes closed, letting the water hit my face.

  I didn’t hear the bathroom door open. A breeze, a strand of cold air unraveling through the steam, brought my attention.

  ‘‘Jesse?’’

  I smelled cologne. I opened my eyes. Franklin Brand was standing in the center of the bathroom.

  His calico eyes were wide, pupils big and black. They were staring at me through the clear plastic shower curtain.

  His voice was flat. ‘‘Los Angeles Times, you told me.’’

  He held up the framed law school diploma that hung above my desk.

  ‘‘Liar.’’

  The tremor started in my legs, like a high wire vibrating. It crawled up my back and along my arms. I stared, frozen.

  ‘‘I should have known,’’ he said. ‘‘Lawyers are always at the bottom of it.’’

  He threw the diploma in the wastebasket. I heard the glass crack.

  ‘‘You stole the minidisk. I want it back.’’

  The water stung me. I couldn’t seem to move, just shake. Oh, Jesus.

  ‘‘Who are you working with? That gimp?’’ he said. ‘‘What does he want, money? He can join the crowd.’’

  He had taken down a cop. Killed Chris before he could draw his gun, reduced his head to bone and pulp. My teeth chattered. The music rose, the orchestra soaring.

  What could I do? What could I use to protect myself? Soap, shampoo? For the love of God, a loofah?

  ‘‘Turn off the water,’’ he said.

  A razor. I had a razor. My Lady Godiva safety razor, advertised not to nick even if you sawed it back and forth across your wrists. How in the hell could I do this?

  ‘‘Turn off the water; I can’t breathe.’’ He twisted his neck, pulling at his collar. His shirt was covered with dust. He pulled down the collar of his shirt and I saw a red welt on his skin.

  I slid my hand toward the razor, leaving the water blasting. Maybe the steam would drive him out of the bathroom to catch his breath. And maybe I could get a piece of broken glass from the diploma and use it to hold him off.

  ‘‘Get out of the shower.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ My voice sounded ninety years old.

  ‘‘Get out or I’ll get you out.’’

  He took a step. My fingers clawed for the razor. It fell through my soapy hand, hitting the tile. The blade bounced loose. I stared at it, my heart racing, the tremor shaking my legs.

  Brand stared at it. ‘‘That was stupid.’’

  He slapped his palm on the shower curtain. His diamond pinkie ring flashed in the light. I jumped. Clamped my teeth together, but the moan still escaped.

  ‘‘I want the disk. Where is it?’’ he said.

  I couldn’t tell him the police had it, because once he thought I couldn’t help him, he’d kill me. Only one thing to do now: Get past him. Two steps, going, going, gone. I had to get outside, and do it loudly.

  ‘‘I’ll get the disk. Move back. Don’t touch me.’’ I stuck a hand out past the shower curtain and grabbed a towel, whipping it around myself.

  ‘‘You think I’m going to rape you?’’ He was right outside the shower, filling the view. ‘‘That would be poetic justice. Turnabout’s fair play.’’

  Christ, have mercy. My mouth found words.

  ‘‘I know everything,’’ I said. ‘‘About the minidisk and the money, and Mako, Firedog, and I’m not the only one. The cops know.’’ I was babbling, talk erupting like the goose bumps on my skin. Anything to keep him back. ‘‘The DA, everybody. I told them all. I know about Mari Diamond—’’

  ‘‘No.’’ The vein on his forehead was popping.

  ‘‘—and Kenny Rudenski knows—’’

  ‘‘Rudenski? You told him?’’

  ‘‘I—’’

  His neck was purple. He yanked open the shower curtain. I shrieked and put up my hands.

  ‘‘Tell him if I go down, I’m taking him with me.’’

  He reached for me. Beethoven’s chorus filled the room. I shrank back against the tile wall. Wet sounds rolled from my throat. I tried to shove him away, but he closed his hand around my wrist.

  Behind him, in the doorway, I saw Jesse.

  Six-one never looked so tall. He stood balancing himself against the doorjamb. He was holding one of the graphite crutches like a jousting lance, tightening his hand on the grip. He had taken the rubber tip off the bottom, exposing the hard composite. He was going to ram Brand with it. He would get only one shot. After that, he’d probably fall over.

  He said, ‘‘Get away from her, motherfucker.’’

  One shot, and he wanted to put it in Brand’s eye.

  Brand turned his head. Jesse drove the end of the crutch at his face.

  It hit him square in the nose. He grabbed at his face, letting go of me. Blood streamed from between his fingers. I saw Jesse tipping forward, off balance, thought he was going down, but Brand roared and charged at him. He knocked him backward out of the doorway into the bedroom.

  They crashed to the floor with a clatter and a terrible crack that I thought was Jesse’s head hitting the wood.

  Move.

  I leaped out of the shower and ran into the bedroom. They were on the floor. Brand’s nose was pouring blood. He had Jesse’s shirt twisted in his fists and was shaking him up and down, knocking him into the floorboards.

  I said, ‘‘Stop it.’’

  I picked up a lamp, yanking the cord from the wall socket. I brought it down on Brand’s back. He collapsed on top of Jesse, but almost instantly looked up at me. His eyes were ugly.

  ‘‘You want it, you’re going to get it.’’

  He tried to climb up. Jesse held on and said, ‘‘Ev, get out.’’

  I turned and ran into the living room. I saw the mess, everything tossed out of my desk. The glass broken in the French door. I heard Brand’s footsteps behind me. He came flying through the doorway.

  Right into Nikki, who had the fire extinguisher.

  She let loose with it. Powder shot out, whitening his face. He started yelling.

  We heard the siren, and so did he. Spitting and wiping his eyes, he barreled out the French doors.

  Nikki plunged out the door after him. ‘‘Thea, God—’’

  Holding the towel wrapped around me, I went to the doors and saw Brand’s cashmere jacket flapping as he dashed through the gate to the street. The siren grew louder, a block away now.

  Brand was running away, not going after Nikki’s baby. I rushed back to the bedroom. Stopped in the door, my heart booming.

  ‘‘Oh, Jess.’’

  He looked up. ‘‘Are you all right? Did he hurt you?’’ He was sitting on the floor, rubbing the back of his head. I dropped to his side and he gathered me in his arms. Soon I heard Nikki coming in and felt her wrapping the quilt around me. The shuddering wouldn’t stop.

  Jesse held me, stroking my hair. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘So sorry.’’

  ‘‘Brand knew my name, and where I lived. I can only think of one person who would have told him, and that’s Kenny Rudenski.’’

  The cops wrote it down. Nikki brought me a refill of Jack Daniel’s. I huddled on the sofa with the quilt gripped around my shoulders. Jesse stood by the door with the police officers.

  ‘‘Whatever Brand’s into, Kenny’s into it with him,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ the officer said.

  I drank the Jack. I couldn’t seem to make myself get up off the sofa. I knew I had to do something, but I didn’t want to leave the quilt. The officers said good-bye and Jesse walked them out.

&nb
sp; When he didn’t come back, I knew where he had gone.

  He drove to Kenny’s house. Got out, muttering under his breath, seething with an anger that could have burned the night sky. He rang the bell. After a moment he pressed it again. Finally a man’s voice tinned through an intercom.

  ‘‘What do you want?’’

  ‘‘Let me in, Rudenski.’’

  ‘‘Collecting for charity? Sorry, I already gave at the office.’’

  Jesse heard him laughing. He looked around and saw the video camera mounted above the speaker.

  He said, ‘‘You told Brand how to find Evan. You sicced him on her. You’re not going to get out of this one.’’

  ‘‘How are you doing that?’’

  ‘‘Doing what?’’

  ‘‘Standing up.’’

  Jesse looked at the camera. He sucked in a deep breath and spit on it.

  Kenny said, ‘‘You really are pathetic, you know.’’

  The intercom clicked off.

  At eight the next morning, under a sky the color of cement, I walked into Mako Technologies. Amber Gibbs looked cozy behind the front desk, blowing on her hot chocolate, reading Cosmopolitan magazine.

  ‘‘I’m here to see Kenny Rudenski,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Junior? He isn’t in yet.’’

  ‘‘Then get his father.’’

  ‘‘Okeydoke.’’ She reached for the phone.

  ‘‘His secretary will try to blow me off. Tell her that’s a mistake. This is urgent, and George will get angry if she sends me away.’’

  Her brow gnarled, but she called and repeated my words. ‘‘Pop’s coming.’’

  ‘‘One other thing.’’ I pointed to her Cosmo. ‘‘You don’t want the CEO to see you reading an article titled, ‘It’s Length and Width That Count!’ ’’

  She was still blushing when George strode into the lobby, pulling on his jacket. With his height, it was like having a telephone pole come at me.

  He said, ‘‘Let’s walk.’’

  Outside, he stalked away from the parking lot, past employees pulling in. The gray sky weighed on us. George’s gaze was cooler than the air.

  ‘‘Your summoning me begins to pall, Miss Delaney.’’

  I trotted to keep up with him. ‘‘Brand broke into my house last night. He threatened me and fought with Jesse.’’

  Eyes front, face grim. ‘‘Were either of you injured?’’

  ‘‘Bruises.’’

  ‘‘This is distressing news. You’ve informed the police?’’

  ‘‘Yes. But Brand escaped.’’

  He kept up the brisk pace. Sprinklers misted the lawns of the businesses along the sidewalk.

  ‘‘Harley Dawson tells me your heart is in the right place,’’ he said, ‘‘But I don’t see why you insist on giving me a firsthand account.’’

  ‘‘Because Brand gave me a message for your son. And I quote: ‘Tell Rudenski if I go down, I’m taking him with me.’ ’’

  He stopped and put a hand on my arm. ‘‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’’

  ‘‘What do you think? It was a threat. And it implies that Kenny is involved in Brand’s criminal activities.’’

  ‘‘That’s a reckless accusation.’’

  ‘‘Brand’s words, not mine.’’

  ‘‘Of course it was a threat. To smear my son and ruin this company.’’ He started walking again, shoulders tight. ‘‘How can you be so gullible?’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  ‘‘Taking at face value the words of a murderer.’’

  ‘‘The police didn’t consider me gullible when I told them.’’

  ‘‘What are you doing?’’ He stopped again. ‘‘Are you planning to write an exposé? Do you want to tar Mako with the same brush as Diamond Mindworks, make high-tech sound like a bunch of thieves? I won’t let you.’’

  ‘‘That’s not it, George.’’

  He spread his arms. ‘‘Look around. What do you see, wherever you look?’’ He gestured at the surrounding business parks. ‘‘Electronics. Aerospace. Defense engineering. ’’ Pointing toward the university in the distance. ‘‘Molecular biophysics. Computer networking. Do you have any idea how instrumental people here have been in developing the wired world?’’

  ‘‘You don’t need to lecture me.’’

  ‘‘I was in the computer science department when cyberspace came into existence. This campus was the third node on the Internet. We took this planet online.’’

  His craggy face took on a hard metallic sheen.

  ‘‘Next week I’m flying to Washington to meet with the secretary of Homeland Security. I’m testifying before the House Armed Services Committee about cyberwarfare. These things, young woman, are matters of import. And I refuse to let you help a bitter SOB like Franklin Brand shoot down my business.’’

  He turned back toward Mako’s office, stopped, and pointed at me.

  ‘‘How dare you accuse Kenny of complicity in Brand’s schemes? How dare you help a criminal try to destroy my son?’’

  ‘‘To protect the man I love.’’

  The finger hung in the air a moment longer, but the electricity left his eyes. He started walking again.

  I said, ‘‘George, I’m not trying to ambush you. But we’re talking about a cop killer who has a connection to Mako.’’

  ‘‘I’ll see you to your car,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I still want to talk to Kenny.’’

  ‘‘No. You are not going to snoop around my company. ’’

  Was he in denial, or was he covering up? He didn’t want to hear it. Not about Brand, not about Mako, and especially not about his son.

  I said, ‘‘Tell Kenny what Brand said. Tell him I want to speak to him.’’

  But I was talking to his back as he walked away.

  The rest of the morning I worked at the law library, hunching over treatises, chewing through my pencil. When I came out the cloud cover had gone. The breeze was warm, the sky dazzling. Sunlight flashed off cars in traffic, and people walking along the street looked confetti-colorful. I walked down to the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

  I was waiting to pay when Jakarta Rivera put coins on the counter.

  She said, ‘‘My treat. Consider it a down payment on chapter one.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, but no need. I’ll give you the first line free.’’

  Carrying the paper coffee cup outside, I started up the street. She followed.

  I said, ‘‘ ‘There once was a girl from Nantucket, who told such big lies I said—’ ’’

  ‘‘You’re a hoot, you know?’’

  ‘‘My life’s a laugh riot. So I don’t need new jokers adding humor to it.’’

  ‘‘I was in the DO for nine years. Taipei, Bogotá, Berlin.’’

  ‘‘You were a CIA agent.’’ The yeah, right was implied.

  ‘‘And you knew exactly what I meant. You’re confirming our judgment.’’

  She slipped on a pair of Chanel sunglasses. Her silk sweater and animal-print skirt had a gaiety and stylishness, accentuating her dancer’s figure, that made me think of Paris. She was far beyond most Santa Barbarans in terms of refinement, and she did it with a dab hand that said: I’m the finished article.

  ‘‘DO—Directorate of Operations,’’ I said. ‘‘Every Tom Clancy fan is up on acronyms like that.’’

  ‘‘Not everybody’s brother flew Hornets, doing test and eval at China Lake.’’

  Anger started tightening my spine.

  ‘‘Not everybody’s father had black clearance working on weapons projects for NAVAIR.’’

  ‘‘Whoa.’’ I put up a hand.

  She walked with her shoulders thrown back, chin up, passing through the pedestrian crowd like light through a window.

  ‘‘Want to know more?’’ she said. ‘‘You go to Mass more often than you tell your boyfriend. You give blood. You believe in marriage, and the lone-gunman theory, and in the projection of American naval power in defense of d
emocracy. You know which end of a shotgun does the business, and for a civilian you’re fairly cool under fire. You’re sleeping with a T-ten paraplegic, yet you regularly refill your prescription for birth control pills, which makes you an optimist. Your permanent record shows great academics, spotty deportment. And in case you’re wondering, you don’t have an FBI file.’’

  She glanced at me. ‘‘But Jesse does.’’

  At that, I squeezed the coffee cup too hard and the top popped off. I flinched as it slopped out on my hand. Shook it off. When I looked back up, she was gone.

  I headed straight to Sanchez Marks. I was stepping into the foyer, with the mahogany paneling and the ficus trees, when Lavonne came scurrying by. Her eyes were intense.

  She waved. ‘‘Come with. I just received some information Jesse should hear, and you as well.’’

  ‘‘Strange, that’s what I was about to say.’’

  She shot me a look. We headed to Jesse’s office. He was talking on the phone, taking notes, but ended the call when we came in.

  Lavonne said, ‘‘I just spoke to Cal Diamond’s attorney. Diamond’s out of intensive care, and his law firm will accept service of the lawsuit.’’

  Jesse tucked his pencil behind his ear. ‘‘That’s a surprise.’’

  ‘‘Here’s a bigger one. He claims Sanchez Marks has a conflict of interest. He wants you off the case.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Diamond’s filing for divorce. He’s going to make a stink about his wife committing adultery. With Franklin Brand.’’

  Jesse gaped at her, then at me, then back at her.

  She said, ‘‘The divorce is neither here nor there, and the conflict-of-interest claim is monkeywrenching, a maneuver to wrong-foot us. But the news about Brand—’’

  ‘‘We have to tell the police.’’

  She nodded, grim. ‘‘We may have found Brand’s companion from the night of the hit-and-run. The anonymous caller. Mari Diamond.’’

  I said, ‘‘And if she’s still in touch with him . . .’’ Jesse reached for the telephone. ‘‘She may know where he is.’’

  I raised a hand. ‘‘Wait. There’s something else.’’

  I told them about Jax Rivera’s remark. He went quiet.

  ‘‘This relates to those FBI agents we saw heading into the police station,’’ he said.