Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  “That guy’s a nut and in a way bigger hurry than we are. If he wants to get past us so badly, I’ll give him the whole road. I have to pull off somewhere.”

  That was the problem—there was no place to pull off, with steep canyon walls to the right and Topanga Creek’s deep ravine on the other.

  “Honey, can you just slow down and move to the right? Maybe he’ll get the hint and pass us.”

  A sheen of sweat popped out on Wainwright’s forehead as he concentrated on controlling the Karmann Ghia. He was having problems making the curves and was sliding over the center line. He glanced in the mirror.

  Right on my tail.

  “Can’t, babe. The dude is pushing it.”

  Wainwright had only one option: speed up and try to stay clear of this maniac.

  The Ghia was going far too fast to be safe.

  I can’t keep this up.

  There was no traffic coming toward them on the downhill lane, thank God. If there had been, a head-on collision would be inevitable.

  How’s that guy keeping that thing on the road?

  Wainwright’s heart raced. His arms felt weak and were shaking. As he reached to wipe the sweat off his brow, a violent jolt shook the car. Doing sixty, the Ghia jumped like a jackrabbit. The Jeep had struck the rear bumper, pushing the Ghia into the opposite lane.

  “Not funny, you clown. Get off my tail!”

  “I’d love to see a sheriff’s cruiser right about now,” Lacey wished aloud, then, added, “Breathe, baby. You’re doing great. Don’t hold your breath. Just breathe.”

  Wainwright’s clammy hands slipped on the steering wheel, and perspiration stung his eyes. I’m losing control. Then another vicious hit on his right rear.

  He’s pushing me off the road. Jesus!

  The other driver’s speed increased.

  Wainwright’s concentration was split between maintaining control of the car and trying to anticipate the Jeep’s next move.

  Lacey had a death grip on the dash. She knew there was no way Wainwright could win. A weird thought crossed her mind: People aren’t supposed to die right after a funeral. Since she wasn’t wearing her seat belt, staying in her seat was impossible as the Jeep repeatedly struck the small car.

  The Karmann Ghia was like a bug smear on the Jeep’s bumper.

  Pushed steadily.

  Forced closer to the edge.

  Wainwright walloped his brakes. No effect.

  The push was powerful, his fight futile.

  The smell of burning rubber offended the scent of the sea and sage.

  The Ghia moved closer to the edge.

  Wainwright twisted the wheel hard right.

  The front tires were now off the road.

  The Jeep had won.

  MOONLIGHT ILLUMINATED a mesquite bush on the canyon wall. Wainwright watched the bush move in slow motion across the windshield. Then the bush was upside down, then above his driver’s door and turning. Seat-belt straps sliced his shoulders.

  As blood flooded his brain, he grew dizzy. Nausea threatened to overtake him, spurred by the rotating Ghia’s nose aimed at Topanga Creek.

  In that instant, he reached out to hold Lacey back, but the seat was empty.

  []

  TWO

  THE TONGVA TRIBE HAD given this area the name “Topanga,” which means “a place above.” Above was where Wainwright and Lacey had started. But the Ghia was now below, at the bottom of the ravine.

  When the Ghia fell, the driver of the Jeep stomped the brakes hard. The Jeep slid sideways, its wheels locked, skidding. Inertia pushed the vehicle to follow the small car, but it stopped short of the edge. The Ghia crashed and rolled then steadied on the driver’s-side door at the edge of the creek’s rushing water. The sounds of trees tearing, glass shattering, and metal twisting echoed off the steep cliffs of Topanga Canyon.

  Tercero Aquino pulled over to the right-hand lane, stepped out of the Jeep, and turned to face the approaching Mercedes. He stood, hands on his slender hips, feet spread shoulder wide. He often had posed this way at a podium or in the Winner’s Circle as a Formula One World Drivers’ Champion. That was before the auto racer had retired and gone on the same payroll as the men in the Mercedes. He watched the big sedan pull into the right-hand lane behind his Jeep. Three large fellows, all dressed in black, climbed out.

  “Hey, guys,” he mocked. “Had a bit of trouble keeping up with me, huh? He, ha, ha.”

  None of the three acknowledged the taunt.

  “Anyway, we might be in luck ’cause I saw something fall out of the Ghia as it went over. If it was her, she might still be alive. How ’bout we take a look?”

  Aquino grabbed a flashlight from the Jeep, and the four men walked to the edge of the cliff. He aimed the light into the ravine. The bright beam barely reached the wreck.

  “The boss is going to be mighty glad. That dude is history. No question ’bout it. But where’s the woman?” Aquino moved the beam to scan the canyon wall below. The light illuminated one large mesquite bush with a body twisted up in it. It was Lacey, hugged by the branches as if in a lover’s embrace. The three men in black still said nothing. Aquino made up for their silence by shouting an earsplitting rebel yell.

  “Hey, guys. I think we found us a lady. And she might still be alive. How about y’all do your mountain-man thing and bring her on up?”

  Aquino watched as the trio returned to the sedan. From the trunk, one of them retrieved climber’s rope and an aluminum basket stretcher with a black blanket. Had a firefighter been watching, he’d recognize the equipment used by air rescue. But a first responder wasn’t watching, and the man in black wasn’t a firefighter. The three men silently and efficiently prepared to rappel into the canyon.

  Less than fifteen minutes after the Ghia had tumbled over the canyon wall, the three descended single file into the canyon. The smoldering pile of twisted metal at the bottom no longer resembled an automobile. There was no reason to go over there; it clearly was a fatal wreck.

  His hands parked in the rear pockets of his jeans, Aquino kicked some gravel with the toe of his cowboy boot. “Our team of pros is doin’ their thing,” he said with a smirk to the night air.

  A bit more than halfway down the steep canyon wall, one of the chatty trio said to his pals, “Found her.”

  Unconscious, Lacey was lying on her back, supported by the leafed-out branches of the mesquite bush. Her blouse and skirt were ripped; her legs and arms bore bleeding bruises; and her dark hair was entwined in bush. But she was alive.

  They hauled her up the side of the cliff in the basket stretcher, placed her in the trunk of the Mercedes, and slammed it closed. One of the men tossed the lightweight stretcher far out into the darkness. Aquino started the Jeep and pointed it toward the road; the Mercedes followed. These four had been instructed to kill the man; if the woman also died, so be it. But if possible, they should take the woman alive and bring her to Monterrey. Bonus points if she were alive. During the entire effort, no car had passed this bend in Topanga Canyon.

  Aquino and the trio were employees of one of the two notorious men residing in Monterrey, Mexico. Although these men had been neighbors for years, neither acknowledged the other. They weren’t related but were brothers in blood. Both ran international organizations as different from each other as yard work is from artwork—in all ways but one. Both men had built empires with their criminal gangs that used the same playbook: “Kill or be killed.”

  DEPUTY CLINT ROBINSON of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department was on routine patrol through the Santa Monica Mountains. “Routine patrol” was another way to say “boring.” Same cruiser, same route, same shop-door locks to check. He’d been doing this ever since he’d joined the department twelve years ago, following twenty in the US Marine Corps. But it was worth it; Robinson often thought about his retirement and the two checks a month he’d continue to receive. Those checks would give Annie and him a comfortable life when he finally put in his papers in a few years.
There wasn’t a lot else to do on patrol but think pleasant thoughts about how he and his wife would spend the rest of their lives.

  The deputy had just checked the shops on Ventura Boulevard. All was well; Topanga Village was safe for another night. He continued up the canyon. His favorite spot was only a few minutes away, where the Pacific Ocean first came into view on Topanga Canyon Boulevard. The ocean was still three miles away, but what a fantastic view.

  As Robinson’s cruiser rounded a bend in the road, he thought, those tire marks weren’t there when I did my eight o’clock pass. Better check it out. After pulling to the side of the road, he inspected several fresh skid marks on the pavement. He looked closer at the impressions of tire marks—some large, others smaller. Then he moved to look into the maw of the canyon. Jesus Christ! That sucker is still smokin’. The deputy, no longer on the ragged edge of boredom, keyed his scanner. He checked his watch: 0108 on April 11, already eight minutes into overtime and, on top of that, his son Craig’s birthday.

  “Dispatch, Fifty-Five Adam. Check.”

  “Check, Fifty-Five Adam. Ten-twenty.”

  “District seven, Topanga Canyon, marker twelve seventeen. Ten-fifty-four. I can’t get to the vehicle. Four-eighty will need eleven-forty-seven. Code three.”

  “Fifty-five Adam, ten-twenty-three.”

  Standby? Robinson thought. You’ve gotta be kidding me! If whoever’s in there is still alive, I’ve gotta get to him ASAP. Okay, dispatch, you got all I’ve got to give, now the ball’s in my park.

  Robinson jumped into the cruiser and flipped the light bar to flashing. He backed the rear bumper as close to the edge of the cliff as possible then set the parking brake. Then he grabbed his first-aid kit and rope from the trunk. With one end tied to the trailer hitch, he tossed the rope into the void as far as he could, then followed the fiber trail down.

  He carried a five-cell UltraStinger flashlight in a new holder on his Sam Browne belt. Robinson hated the heavy flashlight swinging around his legs when he walked. It was terrific in the cruiser, but while he was walking, not so much. Why are you worried about a flashlight holder? You’re hanging off a rope on a cliff, looking for car-crash victims. Flashlight holder? You gotta be kiddin’ me.

  Halfway down the incline, he noticed that the grass and brush were only damaged at the top of the cliff. My God, the car was airborne for the full fall. Am I going to find a bloody mess down there or what? Somebody get here quick. If whoever’s in there is alive—and I sure hope they are—there’s no way I’m getting them up the cliff by myself. Hurry, someone. Please hurry.

  WAINWRIGHT THOUGHT he heard voices. Do I see fog? he wondered. His eyes were crusted shut with grit or sand or blood—the fog was in his brain. Behind his eyes colors flashed and danced. Not to a beat; no, they were random, with lots of reds, different shades. The redder reds ran, like too much paint on a brush. Then the reds morphed to orange, bright orange, an ugly orange. There were blues too: cool blue, sky blue, but then the blue ran out to black—dead black.

  He was somehow floating above the creek, above his body. He could see it in the smoking pile of what used to be his car. His body was crushed against the dashboard and bleeding badly. It was almost comical...except it hurt his body to laugh or smile or breathe. Everything hurt his body in the wreck.

  Someone was kneeling next to his body.

  “Hey, buddy, you’re gonna be okay. I got help coming. You gotta hang on. You’ll be good, pal.”

  Voices talking to me? But the words—if they are words—I can’t hear them because of the colors. The colors are making too much noise. I don’t care, though. It hurts to care.

  Wet. He was lying in something wet. He felt the wetness on the side of his face, but he had no way of doing anything about it.

  Sleep would help. So he slept.

  Sometime later, through the fog of confusion, Wainwright sensed movement. He was either being moved or the world around him was still in upheaval. Actually, he didn’t care; the wetness was gone. Just stop the moving so sleep will remove the pain, he told himself.

  Deputy Robinson stood and waved his flashlight up at the spot where he had backed the cruiser. Help had arrived. Thank you, Jesus. “Yeah!” he called out. “Down here!”

  He had just finished bandaging the scalp wound to stop the bleeding on this poor guy’s head. Christ, he almost lost the top of his head. If he had, no kind of first aid would have helped him. Lucky sonuvabitch! It must not be your time. If you make it, you can thank the good Lord in heaven for saving your ass.

  Wainwright looked down at the men working on the body that formerly belonged to him. What a mess. My beautiful car. What happened here anyway? How did they all get down there and me up here...in the sky...a cloud? Where am I? What the hell? Motion, jostling, up, down...what?

  “YOU DONE WITH THE BAND-Aids an’ bailin’ wire, Doc? If so, let’s get him strapped in the scoop basket. Then we’ll use the tow-truck winch to lift him over the rocks and washouts. Man, if the union steward hears about this, we’ll be toast.”

  The EMT had given Wainwright a morphine syrette in his thigh and finished bandaging his head wounds. He laid the IV bag on the stretcher, covered him, and prepared to move the stretcher up to the firemen. Wainwright sensed that the body down there hurt all over: its jaw, left leg, both hands, the right arm. They all hurt like the devil. But the body wouldn’t stay conscious long enough for an inventory. He saw the body being moved, but it had lost focus; it had it for a second, but it was gone now. The body saw the colors running together, puddling into rainbow pools. No, that’s not right...A rainbow puddle maybe? It’s swirling the wrong way. Its arm—don’t hurt its arm. The colors are swirling counterclockwise. That’s not right; they should swir—

  Robinson walked toward the fire captain, who was shouting orders to everyone. The deputy said to no one in particular, “Can’t see squat out there.”

  “Deputy, you won’t see nothing with just that flashlight. You’ll need to search in the morning. Hey, that’s some kinda good-lookin’ flashlight holder you got there. Where’d you get it?”

  The jostling sensation was gone. A smelly odor, faint, familiar, but unpleasant—chemical, antiseptic. My mouth—there’s something on...my nose. I’m suffocating. Don’t care, need sleep...so tired.

  The EMTs had secured Wainwright in the ambulance and were on their way to UCLA Medical Center. The attendant kept the oxygen mask in place and a saline solution IV drip flowing. During the ride over, Wainwright didn’t regain consciousness. He didn’t know about the car wreck or recall anything that had occurred before that. In fact, he might not for months—that is, if he lived for the next thirty minutes.

  NINE DAYS EARLIER AND halfway across the country, inmate 4114-12525 took a deep breath of liberty as he moved his 318-pound body toward the setting sun outside the US penitentiary in Marion, Illinois. He was as happy as he ever got, which almost made him grin. Marcos Murtagh was out and about, ready to reclaim his position as boss of the largest criminal organization west of the Mississippi. As he thrust his fifty-five-year-old fist into the sky, he inhaled, tasting the air as though it were an expensive vintage from his cellar. Freedom, however, tasted far superior to any wine. The April sun warmed his flabby arms, which protruded from his prison-issued short-sleeved sport shirt and reflected off his shaved head.

  After a year of sitting in the Suffolk County Jail during trial, Murtagh had spent twelve years in this maximum-security prison. He’d been convicted of so-called victimless crimes: gambling, prostitution, and drug trafficking. As an equal-opportunity crime syndicate, the Murtagh mob, however, also engaged in crimes that produced victims. Murtagh was practiced in racketeering, robbery, and murder. Most of the murders came from the racketeering, but others were just plain murders, as in “Get your ass off my street” or “That’s my girl.” Like that.

  Murtagh had learned to be a model prisoner. That came from rotting in a concrete box twenty-three hours a day for 4,380 days. You bet he deserve
d to be paroled.

  His cell had one window: four inches wide and four feet high. The magnificent view was of an asphalt parking lot. No one used it for parking, so the view was even starker. Nearly everything in his cell was made of concrete: his desk, his stool, even the bed. The one-piece stainless-steel toilet unit included a washbasin and drinking fountain. Yeah, he deserved parole.

  In 1982, the US penitentiary in Marion was the only federal supermax prison in the country. They had built it nine miles outside the small Illinois town, away from everything. Murtagh had learned patience in the slammer because “good behavior” must include patience. The members of his crew who were supposed to pick him up had yet to arrive. Patience? My ass! Murtagh intended to punish the bastards who were making him bake in the sun. Rage infused his six-foot-two-inch frame. Nobody ever made Marcos Murtagh wait. No one.

  There were few trees to block his view of the flat-as-a-pancake plot, and the road from the highway to the parking lot was barren; Murtagh could see for almost two miles. He paced outside the gates with a clenched jaw. Man, what I’d give for a smoke right now. He had quit smoking cold turkey when he’d first arrived. Now, waiting for his ride, he desperately wanted a cigarette. He looked into the sinking sun. Ya gotta remember those things don’t deliver what you’re imaginin’. Nasty habit. But he still craved one.

  He spotted a black stretch limousine in the distance, turning from the state highway onto the perimeter road. It wouldn’t take long before it reached him. The long Lincoln limo had three occupants: two hoodlums in the front and a smaller man in the rear. It navigated the parking lot and came to a stop next to Murtagh. An oversize man in the shotgun seat got out, executed a spin step to the left, and opened the rear door for his employer. Murtagh’s massive size made him look small.