The Survivors Club

by J. Carson Black

  Peter Farley lived there and commuted to his job in Irvine.

  Bonny sighed. “You honestly think you can find a link to Michael DeKoven? He’s got a lot of money, and his family has never been afraid of lawsuits.”

  “I think George Hanley thought DeKoven was after him.”

  Bonny sighed. “If he was, he got him.” He swiveled on his chair. He’d brought the office chair from the Bajada County Sheriff’s Office, beat up as it was. He said his butt was used to it. The chair squeaked when he swiveled, and Tess liked the sound of the squeaking—which usually meant Bonny was thinking—and she liked the smell of tobacco on him, even though she didn’t smoke.

  There was a bond between them. She’d asked him to let her do ridiculous, sometimes impossible, things.

  “All right. You go. I’ll put in for one day.”

  Tess had been ready for this. “Overnight? That will give me two full days if I get there on an early flight.”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to get flak just for the plane fare. We’re going to be shorthanded as it is.”

  “I can pay for the motel.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Tess said, “What if I find what I’m looking for and don’t have time to pursue it? I’d have to fly back.”

  Bonny swiveled. Finally he said, “Okay. I’ll see if we can pay for the overnight. But if it doesn’t look like it’s gonna pan out, you come back pronto.”

  Chad DeKoven had wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered over the waves in Laguna, so they made arrangements for Chad’s best friend, Dave, to pick them up. Michael didn’t know about his sisters, but he didn’t plan to return for the ceremony.

  On the way back to LAX, he was silent. Twice Brayden had tried to engage him—wanting comfort—but he just said nothing. He was thinking of the Commandments.

  There were only four.

  First Commandment: Player must have survived a previous encounter.

  That was the whole point.

  Second Commandment: No expedition shall take place within the Kingdom. (In other words, don’t shit where you eat.)

  That was why they had waited on George Hanley.

  Why he’d waited. He still didn’t know if Jaimie or Brayden had jumped the gun.

  Third Commandment: For all expeditions, new equipment must be purchased. Any unused equipment must be disposed of, i.e., destroyed.

  Fourth Commandment: There could be no connection between the Player and the Gamer.

  None.

  Simple enough to memorize. Harder to implement.

  He didn’t think he’d broken any of the commandments. He only knew Barkman through Barkman’s mother, Geneva Rees—and even then, he’d only met him once. Michael couldn’t even remember the circumstances, although he thought it might have been at the symphony. They were not even acquaintances.

  Still…it was what it was.

  Shit, meet fan.

  Jaimie, pulling that crap with Hanley’s dog. That was what bothered him. Did she take the dog out of guilt, or was it something else? If she took the dog as a trophy…

  What else did she do?

  Michael knew that there was plenty of room for improvisation—and this was where the danger lay. It was only human nature that the written commandments would only be part of the game. The other things they made up as they went along. Because they could. Because it was fun to create a world and add to it.

  As time went by and they were successful in staying under the radar, Michael realized he’d taken too much for granted. They’d become too improvisational.

  Cocky.

  Like what he did in Houston—no excuse for that.

  It didn’t start out that way. Improvising had been discouraged from the outset. He’d made a big deal of it. Go off script, and you could blow the whole deal. But Michael admitted he was as guilty as Jaimie was. The game was…well, it was exhilarating. It made him feel like God, and that kind of thinking led to carelessness.

  He realized he should have added another rule. “No celebrating in the end zone.”

  One reason he’d chosen Sheppard—he himself understood what it was like to dive out of an airplane. He’d been on a toot for some time, but lost interest in it when he realized that the odds were thinner with every jump, that his number might come up.

  The whole idea of it fascinated him. Having jumped himself, he tried to imagine what that would feel like—the panic. The fear. It must be like being on speed. It must be exhilarating and scary at the same time, a whole lifetime of fear in a few seconds.

  But there was something about the man…

  Maybe Sheppard wanted revenge. Maybe he had it in him to be like Michael, himself.

  Michael knew Sheppard was a shark in business. He’d started from scratch with a petroleum cleanup method he’d patented after the oil spill, and it was only three years before his startup had gone public, and now he was rolling in it.

  Which made him so attractive in the first place. His death would have made a big splash.

  Michael had been extremely careful. He’d covered his tracks. Used an assumed name, chartered a jet. Every step of the way he’d been careful, thought it through. Once, twice, three times he’d gone through it. He made sure the whole plan was fail-safe.

  And then, at the penultimate moment, to make a mistake like that? To telegraph his knockout punch?

  What had driven him to do it? Did he want to fail? Did he want to get caught?

  Like his sister and that stupid dog!

  Now he wondered if Sheppard was coming after him.

  Coming for him through the weakest link—his poor, simple, pathetic younger brother.

  Once the thought crossed Michael’s mind, it ate at him. Scratched behind his eyelids. Sheppard was in great shape. He was strong. The guy was mentally and physically tough.

  Was he the type to seek revenge?

  Would he really go after Michael’s brother? The slowest, most vulnerable beast in the herd?

  CHAPTER 27

  Tess arrived at John Wayne airport at 7:38 a.m. and picked up her rental car. She took the 405 to Irvine, and from there she made her way to the gated entrance to Asteroid Canyon in the Santa Ana Mountains.

  A detective had been briefly assigned to the Farley case, but it was soon classified as an unnatural death due to misadventure. Barry Zudowsky of the Orange County Sheriff’s Office North Operations was in his mid-to-late twenties. Tall and skinny as a string bean, he had freckles and a crew cut. His posture was erect, and he struck her as serious, if maybe humorless.

  He’d e-mailed her reports on the case and she’d read up on them. There was little evidence, but the conclusion was that Peter Farley had gone up to a canyon pool, maybe to cool off, when he was attacked.

  Tess had also read up on mountain lions as part of her homework. “I heard attacks like this are rare.”

  “They are.”

  “So the thinking here is that the lion had a cache of food, something it had killed, and somehow Mr. Farley came too close?”

  “Either that or it could have been a female with a cub. Farley wasn’t located for three days and there’d been at least one big rainstorm. There was no sign of a mountain lion.”

  “No evidence at all?”

  “No tracks, no scat. Not even a sighting. The only evidence was Mr. Farley himself. The ranger and the subsequent mountain lion expert I talked with were skeptical.”

  Tess looked up the gate barring the forest road. The asphalt ended just before the gate and turned to graded dirt.

  Zudowsky nodded to the padlock and chain. “The Mullets.”

  He opened the trunk to his unit and took out a lock cutter, then went to the gate and removed the padlock and chain.

  “The Mullets?”

  “It’s a clan of hillbillies, that’s what we call ’em, they have a homestead about a mile up this road. This is Forest Service land, but as you can see from the signs, there’s access for people who want to drive up in the cany
on to the first place where the creek comes in. Dave Mullet thinks this whole canyon is his property and he’s been known to threaten people. He and his wife are always yelling at folks that it’s a private road, and if you heard what they were screaming your ears would turn blue. So get ready.”

  They got into Zudowsky’s unit and drove through the open gate.

  “Be ready,” Zudowsky said. “I heard one time Mullet’s wife pelted a ranger with cantaloupe rinds.”

  The canyon was beautiful. Sycamore trees filtered the sunlight, and it was beautiful and quiet in late afternoon.

  They came around a curve and there was the Mullet homestead. It looked like every squatter’s camp Tess had ever seen. Shotgun shack with a green asphalt roof. Corn patch. Falling-down corrals. Goat staked to what passed for a lawn. Kids’ toys scattered everywhere.

  Tess asked if an asteroid had hit the canyon, if that was how it got its name.

  “That’s the legend, but the locals think it was made up. The Manson family lived out here for a while. People who’ve lived out here a long time think it was them that came up with it. Used to be called Sycamore Canyon.”

  “The Mansons?”

  “Amazing, huh? Some official decided to change the name to Asteroid, and now that’s what it says on our maps.”

  As they drove up canyon, he told her that mountain bikers loved the thirteen miles of road they had access to, as well as trails up into the hills. One of the trails led to the small waterfall and pool where Peter Farley’s remains were found. “Not much of a waterfall, except when it rains. It’s not year-round. Farley parked his vehicle outside the gate back there, so he could ride all the way up.”

  “When was his car discovered?”

  “After the weekend. It had been a couple of days—Monday was a holiday. He lived alone and it wasn’t until after the long weekend that a ranger called it in.”

  They reached the bike and hiking trail to the waterfall, parked on the verge, and started up.

  When they arrived, Tess glanced around. A pretty spot. Oaks and a willow leaning over the lower pool.

  “He was up there.” Zudowsky pointed up at the rocks above. They followed the path and came to another pool with a small beach, but most of it was wild. Oaks, tall grass, underbrush, and a mat of wild grapevines. Tess recognized it from the scene photos and diagrams. A wire stuck up through the leaves—an orange flag. Someone had left candles at the base of the oak tree, plastic flowers and the fender of an old bike.

  “So that’s it.”

  He folded his arms and rocked on his heels. “Yup.”

  “No mountain lion sightings?”

  “No legitimate ones. People around here just say stuff. Anything brown they might call a mountain lion. But no confirmed sighting in this part of the mountains.”

  “But they’re shy. You wouldn’t see them.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. A mountain lion’s range is about a hundred miles. So there would probably only be one.”

  Tess had read the report. She also had read up on mountain lions. They did not stalk people, unless that person was a threat to whatever cache of food they had, or if the victim came too close and threatened a female’s cubs. “And no cat tracks.”

  “Yeah, but you have to remember—”

  “That there was a rainstorm between the time he went missing and was found. That was over the three-day weekend?”

  “Can’t remember which day. The vehicle wasn’t ticketed until Tuesday at the earliest, and towed later.”

  “So no one was looking for him. They assumed he was out there somewhere camping?”

  “Yeah.” He scratched his neck. “But bottom line, he was mauled by a mountain lion. The claw marks, the teeth marks, the measurement of the jaw. That’s all in the report. It bit into his neck and face, and ate a little of his heart. A chunk was taken out of his lung. Then it buried him under all this stuff for later.”

  On the way back, a dirty Dodge Ram parked outside General Mullet’s place.

  A man came out onto the front porch and stared at them.

  “Here goes nothing,” Zudowsky said, turning in.

  They got out.

  “Hey, you here about the trespassers?” the man yelled.

  On the way in, Tess had noticed the property was plastered with NO TRESPASSING signs.

  Barry Zudowsky yelled. “We wanted to ask you about the guy who died up by the waterfall.”

  “That’s old news.” Dave Mullet remained on the porch. He had a massive white handlebar mustache like a Civil War general, if a Civil War general wore dungarees and a biker T-shirt. He obviously used the weight bench and barbells on the porch, because his arms looked like balloon animals.

  Even from where Tess stood, she could smell his cologne. It wasn’t the good stuff.

  “What I want to know is why you keep opening that gate! This is private property.”

  Zudowsky kept his hands on his belt, close to his weapon, but looked casual enough. “Now, Dave, you know that’s not true. This is Forest land.”

  “You tell people to stay off my land. I have grandkids here. People are racing up and down that road at night. Maybe that’s what happened to that bike guy.”

  “We lock the gate at night farther up.”

  “Yeah, but what about down here?”

  They stayed where they were, in the threadbare yard, and he stayed on the porch.

  “This is Detective Tess McCrae from Arizona Sheriff’s,” Zudowsky said. “She’d like to ask you a couple of questions about what you remember.”

  “Go ahead, don’t mean I’ll answer, though.”

  Lots of yelling. No one moving.

  So Tess yelled too. She asked him if he knew of any mountain lion around here, or had heard of one.

  “No mountain lions around here. That’s bullshit. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it.”

  Then he paused. “Except for the one that’s up at the animal sanctuary.”

  “Animal sanctuary?” Tess said, as they drove out of the yard. Dave Mullet had yelled, but he’d turned out to be helpful, and they had returned to the car with all body parts intact. “He gave directions, but do you know exactly where?”

  “Near Black Star Canyon. On one of those back roads. I don’t know that area.”

  “I’ll find it,” Tess said.

  It was going on noon when she drove into the old mining town of Sylvan. She stopped at the first coffee shop she came to. As she waited for her lunch, she called the expert on mountain lions, June Hackler.

  Hackler was in and happy to talk to her. Tess sketched out the story she had so far.

  “There could be a mountain lion in Asteroid Canyon,” Hackler said. “As part of its range, it has running water, woody areas, and plenty of game. But it’s highly unlikely it would attack an adult human being. The only reason would be to protect its food source.”

  She explained that after eating, a mountain lion buried the rest of its prey and would come back to it later.

  “So you think it’s unlikely.”

  “Very unlikely.”

  “Peter Farley was partially eaten—most of his heart, some of his lung, and bone marrow. And it was a mountain lion.”

  There was a pause. Hackler said at last, “That is unusual. The animal would have to be starving, and there’s plenty of prey in that canyon.”

  Tess paid her check and walked out into the sunshine. A beautiful Southern California day. She drove up canyon looking for the motel.

  A low hum seemed to start up in her stomach when she saw the sign up ahead on the curve, tucked into the hillside.

  The low hum spread up through her chest and into her ears.

  The Starbrite Motel. She’d chosen it specifically, after googling motels in Sylvan. It had its own website, had been described as a “hideaway off the beaten path.”

  The Starbrite Motel had been built in the early sixties. The rooms levered out into the wedge-shaped parking lot like a fan. Glass and frame and old wood.


  Tess loved old movies. Especially the old noir movies, like The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity. She had them on DVD.

  There was something sexy about them. Not just sexy, but forbidden. The people in those stories set one foot on the road, the wrong road, and things went to hell from there.

  Tess went back and forth about what she was doing.

  She knew she was skating at the edge. She knew she was flouting an unwritten rule.

  The motel was anchored by a coffee shop. The coffee shop wall was faced with rocks, a mosaic of colored rocks taken from the mines.

  Narrow cursive spelled out STARBRITE COFFEE SHOP in turquoise.

  Tess parked and got out.

  The shade was cool but the sun was warm, and the enormous cottonwood tree split the difference. The sky was an aching blue. It ached and she ached. She could feel it building.

  One foot on the road.

  Tess had always prided herself on being a straight shooter. In Albuquerque, her nickname was “By the Book McCrae.”

  A breeze funneled through. The bright green cottonwood leaves shifted, catching the sun and shining silver.

  She felt like one of those women in the old movies. Where were the scarf and the dark glasses? For a moment she felt playful, thought about signing in under a fake name.

  But this was the age of credit cards, and she had no cash on her.

  The man who accepted her credit card didn’t look at her. Didn’t smile. Hardly said a word.

  Her room was cool despite the floor-to-ceiling expanse of window.

  She set her suitcase on the floor. Felt exhilaration but also guilt, mixed equally.

  She’d paid for the room herself.

  Bonny had given her a voucher. What would she do now? Give it back to him? Already she was screwing up.

  She was no femme fatale. If she’d had a scarf and dark glasses, she would have had to turn them in on the spot.

  Tess didn’t think Bonny suspected. He was a straightforward man and he expected his people to be straightforward.

  But Tess knew what she was doing was unprofessional. It might even get her in hot water, if it was found out. Ethically: Did she really need to stay here overnight? Could she have concluded her business in one day? If she’d put her case first?