Riding was pure application and striving for a personal best. But Michael soon realized that his mind was wandering. Wandering back to their family cottage in Laguna Beach, to Chad.
Hard to believe Chad was dead.
As he rode, as he pushed himself up the steep hills—hard—up out of the saddle, pounding out the rhythm on the pedals, he could feel something solid and small walling itself off inside his chest. Like a tiny nut.
He recognized it, because he’d lived with it as a kid. He’d lived with it every time his father turned his evil eye on him. As a kid, he’d read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and he could picture his father’s avid eye turned on him now, could almost see the laser ray, what he called the Eye of Mordor.
His father had done unspeakable things to him—and worse, made him like it.
Made him crave it.
No wonder he was bi. You gravitated to what you were used to.
But the feeling he had wasn’t about his father. He’d fixed his father. His father wasn’t around to fuck with him now. He’d burned to death in the plane crash in the Pinaleños.
But Michael was still afraid. He still felt that hard little nut of worry.
There was no reason for anyone to kill Chad.
As he pushed up the steepest part, getting into the rhythm, his lungs burning, his calves and thighs straining, the tiny nut in his heart gripped hard:
Dread.
The words formed in his head, as he pushed one pedal down and the other pedal came up, back and forth, back and forth.
Alec Sheppard.
Maybe he was paranoid. Sheppard might be long gone, back to Houston. But who else knew about Michael’s trip there? He’d shot the finger gun at him.
Sheppard hadn’t forgotten that. He’d hired Barkman to look into it, and he probably had whatever information Barkman had given him. Probably.
One thing, though—the two female detectives had nothing, if you went by their fishing expedition of the other day. He was pretty sure of that. He could read people well, and they were floundering. The two of them.
But Sheppard was different. Michael had read up on him, targeted him, and one reason he’d gone after Sheppard was because Sheppard was a star. He was a worthy foe. Michael had assigned Brayden to slap the tag on Sheppard, but at the last minute, Michael had decided to do it himself. He’d wanted to see what the man was like. And Alec Sheppard was impressive.
Impressive enough to kill? Few people could do it. Few people had the resolve when it came right down to it. But he had felt it when he slapped the tag on. It had resonated like a tuning fork—the power in this man. He knew about powerful people. He was a powerful person. He’d loved and hated power all this life.
Did Sheppard have it in him to kill Chad? Did he have the ability, the knowledge, to kill him with a chokehold?
Michael didn’t know for sure, but he thought that it was entirely possible that Sheppard had come here to even the score.
He made it to the top, winded but happy. Shaved off ten seconds—a new personal best. He liked it up here.
Today, though, there were a lot of tourists milling around the gift shop and walking on the winding road that went up to the telescopes. They’d come off a tour bus.
Usually, the place was almost spooky in a quaint way. Michael had always loved the reruns of the scary movies of the fifties. His father kept a video library of them, and later, upgraded to DVDs. This place was right out of The Day the Earth Stood Still. Klaatu barado nikto. Red brick buildings, all dating to the fifties and sixties. The large white domes of the telescopes like mushrooms popping up on a hill. At any minute he expected to hear an air raid siren. Any minute he expected to see giant crickets coming up over the hill waving twelve-foot-high antennae.
It was a nice spot on top of a mountain.
He found a place under an oak tree and ate his lunch.
The tour bus engine started up. People funneled through the gates in the bus’s direction. People were mostly herd animals. Michael respected the cyclists who came up here, but tourists rubbed him the wrong way.
He ate slowly, soaking in the sunshine. He wanted to give the bus some time to clear before he headed down. A couple of vehicles came by. A truck and a Jeep Cherokee, both white. He balled up the sandwich paper and found a garbage can. The bus lumbered out. Time to ride down. The best part. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about Sheppard.
The guy was in his head.
He knew it was most likely he was imagining things. Sheppard had sold a thriving business. He had started another one and it was doing well—Michael had read up him. Sheppard might have come down here to see Barkman, but what did he know, really?
Maybe someone had just rolled Chad and killed him in doing so.
But Michael knew that Chad hadn’t been rolled. He didn’t carry money when he surfed. No one had taken his board.
He got on the bike and started down.
Behind him he heard the start of an engine—probably a truck. Glad at least he’d gotten in front of him so he didn’t have to follow him all the way down the mountain.
CHAPTER 41
Tess was working at her desk when Jill, the operator, put a call through. Tess identified herself. “Who may I ask is calling?”
She heard only a rushing sound. Or a cross between a rushing and a whizzing sound. Traffic, going fast. A freeway.
“Hello? Can you hear me? This is Tess McCrae of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office.”
Disconnect.
She stared at the phone. Maybe it was a wrong number, or maybe it was an informant who realized he couldn’t talk then. She had been given one other outstanding case, one of Danny’s—a drug deal that had ended in a shooting, and before the Hanley case she had been trying to round up witnesses.
She went back to compiling what she had on the Hanley case. The phone rang again. Again, she heard traffic whizzing by on the Interstate.
But this time, a voice said, “Sheriff Tess?”
It was the squatter out near Credo—the old hippie—Peter Deuteronomy. “Is this phone bugged?”
Tess said, “No. It’s clean.”
“I don’t trust it. I think I’m being watched. Law enforcement is on my tail. They want to trump up charges that I stole stuff, and I never did. I gotta get off.”
“Why did you call?”
“I really need to get off. I know you guys have satellites.”
“How about I meet you somewhere and we talk? You called me for something.”
“I don’t know…”
“You called for some reason,” Tess said. “I’m guessing it’s important, or you wouldn’t have.”
A pause, and then: “Right. Okay, meet me up at my camp. I got something for you. Come alone.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“And park a mile down and walk, all right? So no one sees us together.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want you messing things up.”
“What things?”
A pause. “You know.”
He acted as if she did know.
“A man’s got to live his life. God says we have a right to the pursuit of happiness.”
He got things mixed up, but he might be of help. “Okay, I’ll be there within the hour.”
He hung up.
Tess knew what Peter Deuteronomy was thinking about. He probably had some kind of deal with one of the drug runners—one of them could be his pot connection. As she drove out on Ruby Road, Tess decided she didn’t give a damn.
About a half mile past the road to Peter Deuteronomy’s trailer, Tess pulled off the road and parked. She walked back to the turnoff, rounded the short curve in the lane, and there was his camp. The mint-green former Game & Fish truck. The old camper shell on top. The ancient trailer. And this time, a chained-up dog. The dog threw itself at its collar, barking. But his tail was wagging and there was something in his eyes, a kind of embarrassment, like he knew he was all hat and no cattle.
She heard the door squeak open, and there was Peter D., looking like a string of beef jerky, naked except for a pair of running shorts—the tiny ones.
And his huaraches.
And he had the rifle.
When he saw it was her, he lowered it. “You didn’t park a mile down the road. I looked for you.”
“I parked a half mile up the road.”
He looked confused. She pointed in the direction of her Tahoe, which was way around the bend in the road. “I drove past and parked a mile up that way.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m sorry, but you weren’t clear.”
“You had to know what I meant. I have half a mind not to give you what George gave me. I don’t even know why I called you.”
“Maybe because you know I’m trying to find out who killed him?”
He said nothing, just stared at her. His eyes were a bright, mad blue.
Suddenly, Tess felt uneasiness. It crept up her back. It jelled in her belly. Was this a trap? Deuteronomy lived near where Hanley had been shot. He might have done it himself. Maybe over the pot connection. Tess said, “I’d hate to come all this way for nothing. You wanted to give me something. Is that still the case?”
“I don’t know.” He sounded like a girl at a dance who didn’t get many takers and decided to play hard to get.
“I drove all the way out here. Can you at least tell me what it is you want to give me?”
He tilted his head sideways and regarded her. “You’re washed in the blood of the Lamb?”
“Yes.” She had been baptized. Or christened, since she was raised Catholic. She wondered if Catholics fit into Peter Deuteronomy’s worldview. Decided not to ask.
“He was a nice guy,” Deuteronomy said. “I liked his dog.”
“I liked his dog, too.”
“You met his dog?”
“Yes. She’s got a new home now.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I only chain Bullet here up when someone’s coming. He looks scary, but he’s friendly. Just a mutt, you know.”
“I like dogs.”
“You want to pet him?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” He let the dog loose and it launched at her. But Tess could tell he was friendly. He slavered all over her, jumping at her chin, wriggling his hind end, gyrating with happiness. She rubbed him all over and was rewarded with slobber on her arm.
“Bullet, get back here!”
The dog bounced away and jumped at his owner.
“Okay,” Deuteronomy said. “You don’t know it, but you passed the test.”
Tess smiled.
“Wait right here, okay?”
He went into the trailer and she heard him rummaging around in a drawer. He stepped outside. “Stay where you are, okay? I don’t like people to get too close to me.”
“Sure.”
He crept out into the dirt between them. Tess couldn’t see what was in his hand. If she hadn’t seen genuine appreciation over her friendliness with his dog, she would have kept her hand close to her weapon.
He dropped something daintily in the dirt and backed away.
It was blue, plastic, and small.
CHAPTER 42
In the desperate moments that followed, Michael didn’t have a chance to think about the hints he’d gotten, gratis, from the universe. He didn’t think about the generic white truck that had tracked him through Tucson traffic until it dwindled far back in his rearview. He didn’t think about the truck that turned onto 386, how he’d tried to draft behind it just for fun, and he certainly didn’t notice that there was a temporary sticker on the rear window. (He remembered now, though.) He didn’t think about the truck cruising along the single-lane blacktop at the Kitt Peak Observatory center. No logo on the door, but it looked like a generic work truck, so he took it as such.
But he knew immediately when, only one curve down from the observatory, the white truck came up behind him.
Fast.
There were no other cars. Not one to see them. He was alone.
Even before it became clear the guy was trying to run him off the road, Michael felt an atavistic shiver run up through his body like a power line. He sensed, even then, what was about to happen. And then the truck’s grille loomed close and Michael was desperately looking for a place to get off the narrow road and away from the truck.
He hugged the edge of the road. Knew there were two or three curves, and each one of them stopped at the edge of space—hundreds of feet down. But he couldn’t think right now how far down he could go if he went over. He was too busy trying to save himself.
Think!
He could feel the heat of the engine behind him. He could hear the diesel rumble. He glanced back and each time thought he saw the menacing grille coming forward.
He would be squashed like a bug.
Michael took off diagonally for the other side. The truck was on him. His tires skittered over rocks and dirt and grass as the truck’s rumble filled his ears. In his panic, he could not see—everything was shaking and moving and the truck was pinned to his ass. He feinted right, he feinted left, aware that there might be a car coming up the mountain, around the next curve.
The truck stayed on him.
He pedaled hard, faster—and got up a head of speed. Arrowed down the middle of the road. The truck seemed to falter, than came back, clinging to his back wheel like it was trying to get a draft.
Another curve. Had to stay away from the edge, had to stay in the road…
They came around the next bend.
Terror wiring through him. Adrenaline spiking. Heart bursting with fear.
The truck relentless.
He was being driven to the right, his tires jittering on the dirt verge. Down below the valley stretched like a sleeping golden lion—beautiful. It might be the last thing he’d ever see. Thinking, couldn’t help the thoughts that crossed through his mind, thinking about his broken body hitting boulder after boulder, smashed flat like a bug on a windshield.
The truck’s rough grumble.
Go faster. He had to pick it up. Out of the saddle, speeding up, even though the veering road scared him as it never had before.
He was terrified.
Around the next curve. The Pinarello held the line but the wheels almost slipped out from under him. He was going so fast. Too fast.
The next curve loomed. This was one of the cliffs. He could go right off. Oh shit—
His bike shimmied. The tires bit into the rocks, the dirt. He almost went over. The truck was on him like a dog on a little animal, ready to savage him. He saw it hit him, saw his broken body flying—
But the tires held. The bike stayed up. Suddenly encouraged, knowing that there would be fewer places to go off—he knew this road so well—he pushed forward.
“I’m gonna beat you, motherfucker!”
Around the next curve.
And right in front of him: the tour bus.
Too late to stop.
Michael was airborne. Cartwheeling. He’d managed to turn at the last moment. His bike rammed into a rock at the edge. He hit and he thought he slid. Grass, dirt, rocks, scrapes.
Came to rest facedown in the dirt. Alive. Whole.
The last thing he’d seen was the back of the tour bus. He’d swerved, headed right for the cliff. And hit the guardrail. He thought he hit the guardrail.
Shaking, he stood up and looked up at the road.
The truck had accelerated past the tour bus and was gone. All there was around him was the wind and emptiness. Blood on his knee, blood on his shin. Road rash from his hip down his thigh, his shorts on that side in tatters.
He staggered up to the guardrail and stepped over gingerly. He could see the next curve in the road below. He saw the bus disappear around the curve as if nothing happened.
Could it be the driver didn’t even see him?
The white truck was gone.
He tasted blood in his mouth where he’d bit h
is tongue. Tasted dirt and bits of grass. He dropped to all fours and threw up. Could smell himself. He smelled like fear.
The Pinarello’s superior frame geometry had saved his life. He checked the bike, spun the wheels, turned the cranks, and ran it through the gears.
A couple of dings.
He could ride it down.
And he did ride it down. Shaken. Scared. Looking back to see if the truck was coming. Scared of cars. Scared of other cyclists.
Scared.
He rode like a little old man. His neck was torqued. His wrist hurt him. He’d banged it against the guardrail.
Yeah, but you could have broken your neck.
This close to going over.
He rode slowly, a light hold on the brakes, pumping them.
Just get down.
He couldn’t think very well but what he did think was this: Sheppard.
Sheppard, out for revenge.
At one point he reached the bus. He thought about asking the driver to stop. He wanted to ask about the guy in the white truck. What he looked like.
But he guessed that the bus driver might not have even seen it.
Besides, he would settle it himself. He would take care of Sheppard himself. He didn’t want to draw attention to this.
Michael’s cleats clacked over the hardpan ground as he walked his bike to the 4Runner. He put it back on the rack. He got into the SUV and sat there. Now he could absorb it.
Someone tried to kill me.
He was shaking. Couldn’t stop.
He stared bleakly out the windshield—
And saw a sheet of paper stuck under the wipers. Facing him. Written in pencil in block letters.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
CHAPTER 43
Tess didn’t have long to wait before Hanley’s USB flash drive came back from evidence.
It was pretty straightforward. There was only one document on the thumb drive, entitled “Diary.” The opening page looked like a form that had been scanned in. An older form she recognized, even though there were differences: the front page of a homicide detective’s murder book.
The Survivors Club Page 19