Angeles Crest

by P. J. Zander

  His ears buzzed and felt like they were stuffed with cotton. The second he took to clear his head was almost a second too many as the young giant again tried to get his gimpy leg under himself as he bore down with his gun hand. Banyan stood and now with both hands on the gun, used Nathan’s downward motion to his advantage, sharply pulling down and twisting his wrist inward. He almost lost his footing on the frozen gravel as Nathan, still on one knee, strained to free his hand. But Banyan regained his balance and within a couple seconds, had him in a half nelson and was applying serious torque to his arm and shoulder. But, he wouldn’t drop the weapon.

  “For Christ’s sake, Nathan, drop it. This has to end now.” He hoped to hell it ended now. The struggle had raised his pulse rate but not enough to get sufficient blood to his hands, feet and face to overcome the penetrating cold. He could hardly feel his grip on Nathan’s arm and knew he couldn’t maintain the hold much longer. And he hadn’t forgotten that big brother was going to join the fray soon.

  “Oh, yeah, motherfucker, it’s gonna end real soon no matter what you do.” With one huge effort, Nathan tried to reach back with his free arm and hook Banyan’s leg. He avoided it by cranking up slightly on the pinned arm, causing the kid to lean forward again with a grunt. That arm was excruciatingly close to popping.

  Jolene’s face flashed before him. With a quick motion, he finished off Nathan’s arm, forcing the young man’s forearm toward his shoulder until the elbow gave. It made a slow, grinding sound, ending with a dull pop and stayed in its new position for a second after Banyan released his grip. Banyan winced at the sound as the 9 millimeter automatic dropped to the gravel. Nathan pitched forward and from deep within came a soft guttural cry, a barely audible whimpering. Yet, he thought it was more than the obvious, more than that the kid was reacting to the pain. It was something else—almost as if Nathan was distraught that he again had surrendered control and was powerless in his life.

  “Sorry, son. You and I both know you would have kept coming at me.” His breaths came fast and hard as he looked down at Nathan crumpled on the icy gravel. “That would have ended worse than this for one of us.”

  #

  He picked up Nathan’s gun and flashlight. It was only then that he realized the two of them had been illuminated throughout the fight by his flashlight in Susan Rossmoor’s hand. She’d just stood there and watched, a spectator at Family Night at the Fights. Worse, did she kind of enjoy seeing the two big men square off? He hadn’t heard her say anything the whole time, not even when he trashed her son.

  He was looking toward her light, not knowing if his own gun was being aimed at him. He pointed Nathan’s flashlight in her direction and had the Beretta at the ready.

  “Susan, would you mind pointing that away from my eyes?” He hadn’t called her by her first name before and hoped her response would be positive. The light rotated to her right, throwing a beam down the mountains into emptiness. She said nothing.

  He could see that she still held the gun at her side. “Let’s get your son in the car before he goes into shock. This cold’ll kill him, and it’s doing a number on me.”

  “No. No. I don’t need to get in the car. You just leave me. Leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Nathan, don’t worry. He’s almost here. Martin will make things right. You know you can depend on him. Everything will be fine.”

  Banyan saw that she was looking down the highway, the same direction in which she’d shined the flashlight. He turned and glimpsed the headlights one curve back, less than a minute away.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Either Nathan or his mother was shining the light, and there was no question it was directed toward him coming up the highway. Dwyer slowed as he closed in on the turnout. He wondered what he would find. Best scenario? His brother had been able to corral Frederic Russell Banyan and had refrained from unloading the heavy burden he’d carried for months. Both were highly improbable. Nathan had sounded near frantic when they last spoke and that would be a major drawback when going up against the big man.

  Through his connections, Dwyer had done a little prying of his own. Besides all the first tier information, like where he lived and who his friends were, he knew a little more about the man he would face tonight—wealthy father who set him up with a better-than-modest living standard, on-and-off private investigator over the past three decades, almost as a hobby since he didn’t need the money. He hadn’t done much in recent years. Banyan received a medal for saving some U. S. troops and killing enemy soldiers up a river in Vietnam one day when he was not quite twenty. He’d stuck with his beach lifestyle and friends, including the one Dwyer had run into accidently last month when he expected no one at the house. He rubbed his right forearm and wrist. That was too close and he hadn’t even turned up anything beyond what his crew already had dug up. But, Banyan had stuck with Raylene Ojibway for most of his adult life—that family photo must go back some years and he’d been with her a lot longer than that. The whole incident with her daughter must be festering in this man who, in Dwyer’s judgment, saw it as his responsibility to be the almighty protector.

  The big Toyota pickup came into his high-beams. He pulled over, reached for his automatic and mini tech-light and got out to check the truck. The windows were beginning to ice up, but he saw no one was inside. Back in his BMW, he inched up to the rail marking the turnout. What he saw was perplexing.

  To the right his brother was down in a heap in front of Banyan who held a gun and flashlight. About forty feet to the left, his mother stood with a gun at her side, flashlight pointed at him. It looked like Nathan could have been shot, but it wasn’t readily clear which one would have pulled the trigger. Carefully, Dwyer exited the car and stood, using it as a shield.

  “Martin, Martin. I’m so glad you’re here.” She began to run to him, but slipped on the ice.

  “Careful, Mother. Stay there. What happened?” He never took his eyes off his brother and the big man standing over him. “Nathan, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, good enough for what I gotta do.” His voice was devoid of inflection, his words matter-of-fact. “Too much . . . too much in my head. . . .”

  “Now, Nate, let’s not make any decisions right now. You don’t have to do anything here. I can help. All in good time.”

  “Yes, please listen to your brother, Nathan.

  “Mother, no. Not now.” Dwyer knew where this was going and he had to prevent it from becoming more of a distraction. His mother needed to stay out of it. He wanted to deal with Banyan before his brother blew.

  #

  He felt as if he was on the outside looking in, almost invisible, watching a family squabble on a reality TV show. Most surprising was how passive Susan had become. Not three weeks ago, she had been strong, almost defiant, in protecting the privacy of her boys. Since she’d been at the turnout, she seemed reserved and unsure, and happy to defer to her eldest son. And, where were those alluring signals she so recently sent his way? The transformation was astonishing.

  But he was fully aware that Dwyer had hardly taken his eyes off him since he arrived. And at that moment big brother turned his full attention his way.

  “Mr. Banyan.” Dwyer paused and seemed to be contemplating him. One corner of his mouth drifted up almost into a smile. “You seem to have an uncanny ability to insert yourself into our lives. This time I would say it goes beyond annoying. Chasing my mother and brother up here is ridiculous, maybe even a little deranged. Let alone criminal. Stalking? Harassment? Have you always exhibited such unstable behavior?”

  Dwyer hadn’t moved from behind his cover on the far side of the BMW and Banyan figured he was holding a gun. Nathan hadn’t moved much either since hitting the deck, although he’d begun rocking back and forth almost as though in a trance. Susan still hadn’t made any threatening moves with the SIG. Banyan gathered what senses weren’t frozen and directed them at Dwyer.

  “So, you think I’m a little crazy, huh? Well, sorry, Marty—you don’t mind if
I call you that, do you—there’s a bunch of people in line ahead of you I’m afraid. Seems I have an ugly habit of sticking my big ol’ clodhopper in the door when I don’t quite understand why things happen the way they do. And in your case, Marty, there are some questions that need answering to my way of thinking. Some little . . . secrets.”

  “Secrets?” At that moment, Dwyer moved away from the car and walked slowly, deliberately toward the two men in the middle of the turnout. He was all in black, maybe Cabella’s or Patagonia, from tight down sweater to lightweight tech boots. Had Banyan needed further proof of what he knew after Chris’s discoveries at Dwyer’s house, the lawyer’s appearance right then left no doubt. There also was no question that an automatic was in his gloved right hand. The younger man strode to within ten feet and stopped, gun pointed at hell. “Of what concern to you are any of our secrets? I would think your interests would lie in another direction.” He raised his chin slightly as if to invite a right cross.

  “That’s just it, Marty. There is no other direction. I don’t get why you were in my house, but I do know you and your little brother here are hiding something. Something to do with Jolene’s disappearance. Now I think Nathan wants to come clean.” He felt the young man stiffen at the mention of his name. “Whatever it is, he actually feels bad or confused about it, and he needs to get it off his chest. But, with you around, I get the feeling he’s not free to speak for himself.”

  “I will speak for myself, goddamnit.” Nathan suddenly came alive and attempted to stand. Banyan was wary of that possibility, yet Dwyer was all but in his face and the real threat now.

  “Nathan, honey, you’re hurt. You need help . . . and rest. Then we’ll talk about—”

  Susan’s youngest son, struggling on one knee to raise himself, paid no attention. “It all started with her, Marty. I’ve suffered for years because of her, so many years. The life she forced me into was really fucked up. The kind of thing you didn’t want your family’s friends to know about. Best kept just between us, she always said. I wanted to tell you, Marty, but I fucking couldn’t. When I figured out what was happening to me I joined the army to get away from it, but I could never turn the corner, man. Combat helped me put it aside, even bury it while I was fighting to fucking survive. But, I came back from Iraq and before too long, back to her . . . her and her goddamn ways. I hated it, but I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t stop it. She said it was our secret, it was so good for both of us. It brought us close together.”

  “I know, Nate. I know—”

  “What do you mean you know? She taught me to have sex with her when I was twelve years old. Fucking my mother, Marty.” Gone was the monotone. Nathan was distraught and almost sobbing. “And I still am.”

  “That . . . that’s not how it was, Nathan. I was caring for you. You didn’t have a father. You needed love.”

  Dwyer looked at his mother with eyes that could slice her open. Banyan followed that glance and in that moment Dwyer turned back, raised his gun and fired. Banyan had reacted with the motion of the right arm in his peripheral vision, jumping back from Nathan. The bullet nicked the back of his left arm, ripping the triceps and knocking him down on the ice. Then, the older brother had thrown down his gun and was on him. He could have shot him again, but a gun was not this man’s mode. He preferred close-in fighting without weapons. Man-to-man was the way he liked it, and the way he could impose his will on his opponent, dominate him.

  The realization that right then he was getting his chance at the lawyer pumped Banyan with new resolve. Somehow, Dwyer was up to his neck in Jolene’s vanishing and was the brutal attacker in Bondo’s photo. In a second, the rage had lit a fire that he had to control. He dropped to the ice and covered up as best he could, but the quicker, younger man was getting a nice workout, landing kicks to his kidneys and ribs. He rolled over and over, away from the flying boots toward the snow berm and steel guardrail. Dwyer followed and whirled to kick the right side of his head. He was ready.

  With his right arm he hooked his ankle, blocking the blow and pulling Dwyer off balance. Then his left leg was up across the lawyer’s body applying downward pressure and the combined force lifted the older brother off his feet backwards and slammed him down on the ice. Banyan heard the air driven from his lungs. His left arm was all but useless, pounding with pain, but Dwyer was gasping and then Banyan was on him, sitting astride his torso. He put all his force behind his big right fist, landing on Dwyer’s left ear. The lawyer stayed down and raised his arms to protect his face and head. Banyan struck just below the left hand covering his smashed ear, hitting the pivot point of his jaw and feeling it give. Like his brother, Dwyer would not allow himself to scream in agony. He gritted his teeth and groaned, and took the beating. Four more times he landed the pile-driver on his jaw. Then, seeing that the man was nearly unconscious, he backed off.

  Banyan stood, his left arm hanging like a hawser over the side of a ship. No gun in sight. Behind him, little brother was also up, bent and leaning forward, cradling his bad arm. He was backing toward the rail.

  “You sucked the fucking life out of me. You took everything.” His voice was soft, pitiful. Almost talking to himself. “Don’t know who I am . . . there’s no me. Then . . . goddamn you, then you made us . . . she was good, nice . . . and you . . . because she was there when we . . . your reputation . . . fuck you. . . .”

  The flashlight was trained on Nathan as the still air exploded and he fell back in a sitting position. Blood was splattered on his throat and saturating the tee-shirt under his unzipped jacket.

  Banyan saw that Susan Rossmoor had his automatic trained on her youngest son and yelled at her. “Jesus Christ, Susan. What the hell . . .?”

  She said nothing, pointing the gun toward Banyan for a moment, then back at her son.

  “Nathan. Nathan.” It was a pleading voice barely audible between Dwyer’s clenched teeth. He had raised himself on one elbow and could hardly get the words through the broken jaw. His brother looked toward him and continued his struggle to the side of the turnout.

  “Nate. Don’t. Listen to me. Kiddo, please don’t. Nathan,” he paused, took several breaths, and struggling through the fog from Banyan’s pummeling, said, “I’m . . . your mine.”

  Not fully comprehending this shocker, Banyan still saw what was coming. Too late. Nathan kept staring at Dwyer, then down, processing it through his scrambled brain. Raising his head, he locked eyes with his mother and very slightly shook his head. As he crawled up the berm and got his good hand on the rail, the next .40 caliber bullet entered his side, piercing his kidney and spleen. With a mighty effort he pulled himself up, straddling the rail, and turned his eyes to Banyan.

  “She’s here,” he said calmly and Banyan saw relief come over his face. He watched the dying son release the memories of that night that haunted him, nightmarish, surreal evocations of the unspeakable that would leave him now. Then silently, he vanished over the edge. Banyan felt something for him. It wasn’t sympathy exactly. Nathan was in on the damn thing.

  He ran to the rail and looked over—several football fields of sheer drop-off, snow and huge jagged rocks disappearing into nothingness. He turned back to face the woman across the turnout.

  “What are you doing? That’s your son.” But, she remained mute, and he saw her slowly adjust toward the other. He slipped twice as he trotted over to Dwyer who he noticed was trying to say something.

  Another blast from the automatic and he heard Dwyer groan as the big slug slammed into him.

  “Same thing . . . to me.” His breathing was labored and his words like a whisper. Banyan thought he heard wheezing behind the words, but that wasn’t it. Maybe a car engine. Couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from.

  He looked at the shooter. “Goddamnit, Susan, you have to stop this. Killing everybody’s not going to make it right. You have no way out.”

  She stayed put across the turnout, gun aimed at her one living son.

  “Dwyer, what d
o you mean? What are you saying?” He leaned an ear close to his mouth, hoping Mom wouldn’t discharge another round just then.

  “She taught me . . . like Nathan . . . same age. Just before Nathan, Dad . . .” Banyan’s pounding of Dwyer’s head against the ice had rattled his brain and the concussion was a severe, but not fatal injury. The bullet Susan Rossmoor had fired from the SIG had hit him in the stomach. It was killing him. He started fading, coughed, swallowed and opened his eyes again. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  “Your dad? What about your dad?”

  “Knew something was wrong . . . . Figured it out . . . beat her up. . . . Mother told me . . . next time protect her. . . . Gave me the gun.”

  “But, what about Jolene? What did you do with her?”

  It was too late. His body relaxed. Banyan stood as life started drifting away from Dwyer and just before the next shot from the SIG finished him.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Banyan faced Susan Rossmoor. Her target was obvious, and he knew she could shoot. He heard the engine sound again, and beyond her not too far up on Angeles Crest Highway, headlights were coming around a curve. Susan seemed oblivious to the car.

  “They didn’t understand what I went through, what I had to do to create this new life for us. The good living, the lifestyle. The money.”

  “Nathan said, ‘She’s here’. Was it Jolene?”

  “I couldn’t let her destroy all my work, all the prestige I’ve earned in the community. I am the best in this area of California, Mr. Banyan,” and briefly he saw a hint of the vivacious, confident, sexy woman he’d met just a month before.

  "But why, what did she see? Why was Jolene a threat to you? What did you do to her?” But as he asked, he recollected what Nathan had said moments ago, she was there when we . . . . She hadn’t seen anything. Stephanie Brandt said the only person Jo saw was Nathan at his front door. But, she’d heard the sex.