In fact, it took less than ten minutes for a motorist who'd apparently seen his share of cop shows on TV to spot Officer Trudell's body in front of the orphaned patrol car, pull over, and use Trudell's own radio to call in the emergency.
“Officer down,” he'd shouted self-importantly into the dashboard mike. “Officer down!”
Since Trudell had followed standard procedure, calling in the description and license plate of the vehicle he was stopping, within minutes of the discovery of his body the CHP dispatcher called in a 10-28—a request for vehicle registration information from the California DMV—and was able to ascertain that the suspect vehicle was a white '72 Dodge van owned by a William Stieglitz, of Big Sur. By then, roadblocks had already been thrown up on 101 in both directions, and the CHP had a plane in the air, while a few hundred miles to the south, the Monterey County Sheriff's Department dispatched a deputy to the Stieglitz residence in Big Sur.
Deputy Gerald Burrell was perhaps not the sharpest blade in Aurelio Bustamante's department. He located the driveway eventually and raced his cruiser up the steep hill, fishtailing and kicking up dust behind.
“No van up here,” he called into the dispatcher. “Just a green Volvo station wagon.”
“Of course there's no van there,” replied the dispatcher, who was familiar with Burrell's shortcomings. “It was north of Ukiah two hours ag—Whoa, whoa, say again the vehicle on premises?”
“Volvo station wagon, green, license three niner niner—”
The dispatcher didn't even wait for Burrell to finish. “That's the guy who broke out of County—Jesus Christ, Gerry, don't you read the BOLOs?”
Burrell found Bill Stieglitz lying on the floor of the trailer a few minutes later, his head nearly severed by the kitchen cleaver embedded in his throat and his body, in full rigor mortis, straining against the ropes that had bound it in life.
Within minutes of Deputy Burrell's discovery, the BOLO was updated to include the van, and the search for Officer Trudell's killer was folded into the Casey manhunt, which was moved north to Mendocino County.
By then Max had turned off 101 and was heading east, toward Covelo. When he heard the planes buzzing and the helicopters whop-whop-whopping to the west, he turned off the main Covelo road, followed a mountainous two-lane county road for a twisting half mile or so, then pulled the Dodge off to the side of the road into a copse of trees, where with any luck it wouldn't be seen at least until daybreak.
Irene was still numb in the aftermath of the cop's murder and her subsequent panic attack. She allowed Max—it seemed to be Max again—to drag her from the van and march her back up the hillside, then lay docilely in the heavy brush by the side of the road for what seemed like an eternity while he waited for a suitable vehicle to come along. It was nearly dawn when he finally scooped her up in his arms and stepped out into the road to flag down a blue Cadillac.
As the driver ran toward them, Irene saw that she was only a girl, a beautiful young Native American girl. Enough is enough, she thought—not the most elegant thought anyone ever decided to die for.
And as Irene began to struggle and shout, trying to warn the girl away, knowing that it would probably cost her her own life in return, her biggest regret was not having to die, it was that she hadn't found the courage to begin fighting earlier, in time to warn the highway patrolman. At least then her death would have put an end to the killing.
Bernadette Sandoval, a twenty-three-year-old Pomo Indian, drove a powder-blue '78 Coupe de Ville her mother had named Maybelline, after some old fifties rock-and-roll song. Eight cylinders, eighteen feet long, and bench seats front and back, wide enough to screw in comfortably. This last was important, as Bernadette lived with her mother and grandmother in Willits, while her fiancé Ernie was currently living with his father in the hills east of Covelo.
Since attaining her majority, Bernadette had been working as a night-shift cocktail waitress at the Pomo casino on the Round Valley Reservation north of Covelo. After her shift ended on the morning of Saturday, July 10, she detoured by Ernie's father's place, turned into the driveway, shut off her engine and turned off her headlights, then coasted down to the house in the dark. Ernie was waiting for her on the front step. They enjoyed a quick one, then a slow one, in Maybelline's spacious backseat.
Bernadette tore herself away from her lover just before dawn, and was not far from the Covelo Road when she spotted a man staggering out of the brush, carrying a woman in his arms. She jammed on the brakes and pulled as far over onto the side of the narrow road as she could, set her flashers, grabbed her car phone, and hurried back down the hill to help.
Her first thought was that the couple had gone off the road nearby—it could be treacherous if you weren't familiar with it—but as she approached them she saw that the situation was more complicated than she had assumed. The woman was struggling; her red wig was askew, and the man had his hand over her mouth.
Before Bernadette could decide what to do, the man dropped the woman in the dirt by the side of the road and drew a snubnosed revolver from the waistband of his jeans.
“Thanks for stopping,” he said conversationally, as if he weren't pointing a pistol directly at Bernadette's chest. “Lots of people wouldn't have, nowadays.”
40
IT DIDN'T TAKE LONG FOR Pender to realize that he was being frozen out of the investigation. For one thing, no one had told him about the murder of the highway patrolman, or that the manhunt was being shifted to the north. He heard about it accidentally when he showed up at the resident agency on the outskirts of Monterey bright and early Saturday morning to have Dr. Cogan's tapes transcribed for distribution, copied, and messengered back to Behavioral Science's psycholinguistics consultant in Maryland for further analysis.
His next hint came when he inquired about a seat on the Buplane that would be leaving within the hour for Mendocino and was told it was full up by case agent Pastor.
“Okay, fine, how about a Bu-car?”
“Sorry, Pender, can't spare one,” said Pastor brusquely.
“What the hell's going on?” Pender demanded.
“My question exactly. You come waltzing out here from Washington. You don't bother to check in with the RA. You piss off the locals, start a prison break, and get a sheriff's deputy killed. You stumble on a crime scene you had no business investigating and take your own sweet time for a walk-through before you call in the BOLO, which gives our fugitive another hour's lead. Possibly contributing to the subsequent murder of a California Highway Patrol officer.”
Pastor paused for breath; it sounded to Pender as if he were reading a list of charges that had already been filed.
“But when the SAC calls McDougal yesterday to have your ass jerked back to Washington, instead of turning you over to OPR, McDougal tells him to find you something to do. So you tell me what the hell's going on. You got pictures of McDougal and the director burying a dead whore or something?
“On second thought, don't tell me. All I want from you is a full report, ASAP, pronto, immediamente, stat, on everything Casey said and did while you were together, and I particularly want a detailed account of any and all events leading up to his escape, and I want it by this evening. And that's all I want from you. I don't care what McDougal says, you stay the fuck away from my investigation.”
Pender had taken off his hat upon entering the office; he looked down and saw himself twisting it in his hands like a nervous supplicant.
I'm KMA, he thought. I don't have to take this shit. KMA was Bu-slang for an agent who'd already qualified for his pension; the initials stood for Kiss My Ass. He drew himself up to his full height, towering over the younger man, who stepped back involuntarily.
“Fuck you,” said Pender, with what he hoped was at least a degree of dignity. “And while I'm at it, fuck the RA, fuck the SAC, and fuck the locals.”
Then he handed Dr. Cogan's two Dictaphone minicassettes to Pastor, who up until that moment hadn't even known they existed, put his cr
umpled hat back on, straightened the brim and crease as best he could without a mirror, and turned his back on Pastor and the bureau.
41
WITH BERNADETTE BEHIND the wheel of the blue Caddy, Irene to her right, and Max in the back holding the pistol to Irene's head, the old land yacht navigated the back roads of Round Valley, a shallow dish twenty miles in diameter, surrounded by a circular rim of mountains, then cut through a corner of the Mendocino National Forest and worked its way steadily northeast through Trinity County while the search planes circled ever nearer.
Max was starting to feel the strain. He not only had to keep an eye on the planes and on Irene, but also on Bernadette, who had promised to find him an escape route via unmapped roads, to be sure she didn't try to double-cross him. And as if that weren't enough stress, he had to do it all while monitoring a chaotic interior free-for-all. The system was in a nearly ungovernable panic, and with his attention splintering off in several directions at once, Max wasn't sure he could maintain his dominance over the others much longer.
Then it occurred to him that there was a way he could kill two birds with one stone and relieve the stress on the system while they were hiding from the air search. He ordered Bernadette to pull off the county road onto an abandoned dirt logging road. With Maybelline's belly occasionally dragging the ground, they climbed until the road gave out in the deep woods at the edge of a stand of shallower second-growth scrub pine. He had Bernadette park the Caddy under the cover of the trees, then ordered her out of the car.
Irene started to get out as well.
“You stay here,” said Max, holding the gun on Irene with one hand, and removing a set of handcuffs from Terry Jervis's carpet bag with the other.
“What are you going to do to her?”
“None of your—No, wait, I guess it is your business.”
Max suddenly realized that he could make it three birds with one stone, hiding from the air search and relieving the stress on the system while at the same time providing Irene with a damn good incentive to go forward with therapy. He leaned in through the open driver's door. “It's chaos in here,” he whispered, tapping his temple with the muzzle of the .38. “I'm losing control. If I don't give them what they want, I can't guarantee her safety or yours.”
“No!” said Irene. “Max, this isn't the way.”
“Of course it isn't,” he said softly, cuffing her left wrist to the steering wheel. “You know the way. Therapy. Fusion. Unfortunately, we don't have time for that at the moment.”
Bernadette Sandoval stood trembling by the side of the car, her black hair glistening in the morning sunlight that filtered through the pines. The trembling stemmed not so much from fear as nervous resolve: she had already made up her mind to go for the gun at the first opportunity. If this Max creep killed her, he killed her, but she would not be raped—and he wouldn't have been the first who'd tried. She had an uncle who still bore the scar of her nail file across his temple.
“Pick out a soft spot and lie down.” Max waved the pistol around to indicate the general area he had in mind, in the carpet of needles under the pines to the right of the car.
Bernadette did as he asked—she couldn't go for the gun until he brought it within reach.
“Pull down your panties and show me your pretty.”
Bernadette told herself it was nothing—kindergarten stuff. She hoped he wouldn't make her undress all the way before he brought the gun within reach, but told herself she could do that too if she had to.
“Now unbutton your blouse, Bernadette, and let's see—”
The car door opened. Maxwell whirled, gun in hand. Bernadette tried to run while his back was turned, but her panties were around her ankles. She fell, tried to crawl away. The gun barked; a bullet whizzed over her head and tore into a tree trunk, sending chips of bark flying. She fell onto her face, her arms covering her head, trying futilely to protect it from the bullet she knew would be coming.
When the bullet didn't arrive, Bernadette rolled onto her back and saw Max pointing the gun at her. Behind him, Irene was leaning out from Maybelline's open door as far as her handcuffs would permit. Her mouth was moving; it took a few seconds for Bernadette's brain to start processing the words.
“—take me, not her. If you want my help, you're all going to have to cooperate. Leave the girl be, or so help me God you'll have to kill us both.”
Bernadette was afraid to look up at Max again. She kept her eyes on the other woman's face. Usually she could read white people easily—unlike Indians, everything they were thinking or feeling showed up on their faces. This Irene was deep, though, no shit. She'd been through the fires. Bernadette believed what she'd said. Again she steeled herself to die.
Fortunately, Max believed it too. “What the fuck, any port in a storm,” he growled, as much to the others as to himself. Then he gestured with the barrel of the pistol for Bernadette to get up.
42
PENDER'S RESOLVE LASTED A good forty-five seconds—he was still in the elevator when the slide show began. He saw Aletha Winkle and Terry Jervis alive; he saw them on the bed, shamed and butchered, then posed in a humiliating tableau. He saw the faces of the strawberry blonds. He saw his mother's face—how proud she'd been of him when he joined the bureau. A picture of her Eddie receiving a citation from Judge Sessions had gone with her to the nursing home where she died.
And lastly, he saw his father walking toward him in his dress blues, medallions gleaming. Quitters never win and Penders never quit. Then the elevator doors opened, and Pender caught sight of a big bald bozo in a loud sport jacket and crumpled hat reflected in the glass doors of the building entrance.
“Special Agent E. L. Pender reporting for duty, sir,” he said aloud, then saluted the comical figure in the glass the way his father had taught him—hand straight as a blade, upper arm parallel to the ground, and snap it off, boy, snap it off.
Where to?
That was the first question for Pender. No longer welcome in Monterey, he thought about jumping in the rented Toyota and driving north to Mendocino. But there was nothing he could do up there that wasn't already being done. Same for Santa Barbara, home of Paula Ann Wisniewski, the most recent strawberry blond—the L.A. field office would have agents all over Santa Barbara.
So his next question was, What do I know that nobody else knows? What do I have to bring to the party?
At the moment, he knew from listening to the tapes that the killer had multiple personalities, that he used the names Max, Christopher, and Lyssy, and that he'd been abused as a child. But within hours, transcriptions of the tapes would be available to every investigator, and the bureau would begin investigating DID patients, hospital records, DID support groups, as well as searching the national crime databases for name concurrences. (It occurred to Pender that Pastor would almost certainly take credit for finding the tapes; he was surprised to note that he didn't particularly care.)
So what other information did Pender have? He asked himself what salient facts would have gone into that report that Agent Pastor had requested, and was now about as likely to get as he was a blow job from the attorney general.
Easy: Dallas. The Sleep-Tite motel where you could call for a number-one girl to make boom-boom. A number-one girl named . . . what was it . . . think back . . . no, go back . . . pussy's pussy . . . call the desk . . . tightest little piece I ever . . . Ann something . . . Ann Tran!
Where to? Suddenly Pender had the answer to his first question.
43
FOR HER DAY AND AGE, and taking into account her profession and the corner of the world she lived in, Irene Cogan's sexual experience was somewhat limited. She knew everything that people did, she just hadn't done much of it herself. And what she had done, she'd done with Frank—she'd remained a virgin until shortly after they became engaged. Their sex life was fulfilling, if not adventurous, a phrase that might have been applied to the rest of their marriage as well. The last time they made love was the night before he died.
It was sweet; the next morning he was cold beside her. She hadn't made love to a man since, except in her dreams.
And now this. While Max handcuffed Bernadette to the steering wheel, Irene took a blanket from the trunk, spread it across a bed of pine needles, and stood beside it—for some reason it seemed important to her not to be lying down waiting for him. Then he was standing before her, face to face, and it was as if she were back in that dream of the operating theater, where they were naked, and he'd dropped to his knees and kissed her to orgasm.
If he drops to his knees, I'll die, she thought. Instead he took off her red wig, tossed it into the bushes, then leaned forward and kissed her. She realized he wanted her to open her mouth, to kiss him back. And she should have, she knew she should have—two lives were at stake—but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She averted her face; or rather her head turned itself away from him— that was more how it felt.
“Even better,” he whispered into her left ear, which she'd unwittingly presented to him—at these close quarters there was no escaping intimacy. He brought his hand up, splayed those smooth, bony fingers across her left cheek, and shoved gently, turning her around, all the way around until her back was to him. One of his arms was around her chest, the other behind her, fumbling; she heard a zipper.
He was pressing the length of his body against her now; if he had an erection, she couldn't feel it. He grabbed the waistbands of her slacks and running shorts, and tugged them down to her lower thighs, his weight still pressed against her.
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