The Incumbent

by Alton L. Gansky

  “Did you abduct your, wife, Mr. Truccoli? Did you kidnap Elizabeth Stout and Allen Dayton?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Why would I kidnap my former wife? She was a nothing—less than nothing. No ambition. No goals. She was just another waste of flesh. I don’t know the others. They’re of no concern to me.”

  I pulled the purse a few inches closer and slipped open the latch. Again I checked the rearview mirror. Truccoli sat in the center of the rear seat. He was looking from side to side and occasionally behind him. Nervous.

  “Then why did you marry her?”

  “I was young and poor, not that it’s any of your business. I thought she could make me happy, but she failed.”

  “You’re unhappy and it’s her fault?”

  He leaned forward and placed his mouth next to my ear. I snapped my hand back from the purse. His breath was sweet. “You’re dancing on thin ice, lady. Don’t try to psychoanalyze me. You’re not qualified. Now shut up and drive.” He leaned back again.

  “I’m just making conversation,” I managed to choke out. “We have some time before we get to Santa Rita.” My breathing was ragged. Feeling oxygen-deprived, I calmed myself and focused on my inhalations. I reached for the purse again and fingered the cell phone. My heart skipped a beat and I felt I would lose control of my bladder any minute. I needed a distraction, something to get Truccoli to look away.

  I glanced at the rearview mirror and let my eyes linger, looking away just long enough to make sure I wasn’t about to drive my SUV up someone’s tailpipe. Truccoli caught the glance and turned around in his seat to look out the back window. I slipped the phone from the purse, hit send, and set it on the seat. I wondered who I had last called, but couldn’t recall. Like most cell phones, mine automatically dials the last number called unless the user enters another phone number. I prayed that someone would be there to hear.

  “What? What did you see?”

  “Nothing. I’m just scared. You’re a frightening man.”

  “Most women find me attractive.” He sneered.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. Any of them out of prison?”

  “You got a smart mouth, lady.”

  A tiny voice emanated from the phone. Someone had answered.

  “What are you going to do to me, Mr. Truccoli?” I asked, sounding as desperate as I could. “I’m just a small-city mayor; I can’t make your daughter love you.”

  “No, but you can make her hate me, can’t you?”

  “I didn’t do that!” I shouted. I wanted to be sure that whomever I called heard. “You sneak in my car, hide in the back, and make me drive south to Santa Rita. How did you find me, anyway?”

  “Easy enough. I parked on the street across from your office and waited for you to drive from the parking lot. Then I followed in my own car. I almost lost you in the traffic but I was able to keep you in sight. These big SUVs are easy to spot.”

  “So you snuck in while I was at Allen Dayton’s house?”

  “I was going to confront you in the backyard but then the exterminator guy showed up. I had just left my car. We even said hi to each other. I was going to follow you again, but then you pulled back to the curb and went in that other house. Do you know how maddening that is? I checked your car. You were careless and left it unlocked. I thought you’d never come out.”

  “You don’t see how wrong this is?”

  He laughed. “Wrong is a subjective term, lady. I have the right to see my daughter.”

  “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Because you’ve poisoned her mind. This is your fault.”

  “I took her in so she’d have a place to stay.”

  “Who asked you to?”

  “Some people do the right thing for no reason at all, but you wouldn’t understand that.”

  He swore. “Take me to your house!”

  “No!” I screamed back. I glanced in the mirror and saw him sweating. His eyes were wide and wild. His jaw was clamped so tight that I expected to hear his teeth break. He took several deep breaths, and another glance showed me that he had calmed himself a little. I felt a moment’s relief.

  He spoke again, but this time his voice lacked the heat of fury. His words iced me over. He recited Randi’s home address. “She recuperating there, isn’t she? That’s what my hired man says.”

  Hired man? The implication was clear. “You leave her alone. One of your men has already injured her.”

  “That was nothing. As PIs go, he was an upstanding citizen. My new friend doesn’t much care about the law.” Suddenly he pulled himself forward and stuck his mouth by my ear again. I fought the urge to gag. “The conversation is over. You will drive me to your home and let me talk to Celeste alone, or bad things will begin to happen. Do you understand—” He stopped abruptly. “What is this?” He reached over the seat and snatched up the cell phone. A second later I heard the rear window open and felt the air rush in. Through the side mirror, I saw Truccoli hold the phone out the window and drop it. It bounced off the freeway surface, skipping along until it tumbled under the tires of an eighteen-wheeler one lane over.

  “I’ll make you pay for that,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Waiting was over. Things had gone from bad to worse. I couldn’t know if the message got through the cell phone, but I did know I wasn’t going to take this madman to my home, where Celeste and my parents waited. I had no way of knowing if there really was a hired bruiser perched at Randi’s home. It might be real; it might be a bluff. All I knew was that this would be a good time for Paul Shedd’s God to get involved. In my terror-saturated mind I heard my voice saying, “And Peter’s God.”

  I knew one other thing: enough was enough.

  I glanced in the mirror once again and saw that traffic behind me had slowed a little. There was some distance between me and the cars behind. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and slammed the brake pedal down. The SUV decelerated rapidly. I waited for the tires to lock up but they didn’t. The term antilock brakes flashed in my brain. But the vehicle came to a quick stop in the middle of the freeway—sharply enough to throw Truccoli into the back of my seat.

  The squeal of tires, the blaring of horns, filled the air. Traffic behind me came to a clamorous stop. Several cars in the outer lanes shot past.

  “What are you—”

  I didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. I grabbed my keys and reached for the door handle, but he pulled me back by the hair.

  “No, you don’t.”

  Pain scorched my scalp as he yanked my head back. I reached to the top of my head, groping for his hand. It was easy enough to find and so was the thing I was looking for—his little finger. Seizing it, I yanked it back as hard as I could. Something snapped and a scream that made my skin tingle filled the vehicle. Truccoli released me and I bolted from the SUV.

  The rear door opened. Truccoli was climbing out of the back, a half second behind me. My instinct was to run, but I needed a bigger lead if I was going to have any hope of escaping. Instead I charged the door with my hands in front of me. I hit it with all my weight and the heavy metal door closed on Truccoli.

  There was more screaming.

  I turned. I ran.

  I fumbled with my keys, looking for the remote lock. Locking the car was out of the question—the doors were open. I was interested in something else: the panic button. I found it just as a car screamed past, its driver leaning on the horn. I pressed the red button and heard the SUV’s alarm go off. I wanted attention—as much attention as I could get. I had Truccoli’s; I wanted someone else’s, someone who could help.

  Turning back, I saw Truccoli exit, his face red and his posture menacing. He started toward me, holding his injured hand and limping. He was picking up speed.

  Another car zoomed past, the wind from it reminding me I was on a freeway; although I had been successful in stopping some cars behind me, impatient drivers were zipping around the congestion. California drivers are impatience.

  “I
. . . want . . . my . . . daughter!” Truccoli screamed. From the first phone call to each dramatic meeting I’d had with him, he had struck me as a man teetering on the edge. The cliff had given way.

  The music of shrill sirens began to fill the air. They sounded beautiful.

  “Get out of the road, you stupid . . .” The driver’s voice faded as he sped by, but his hand gesture was memorable.

  A glance over the shoulder made my stomach twist. Truccoli was closing the distance. I veered right, into oncoming traffic. More tires squealed. More horns blared. The lead car in the lane banked right and missed me by a foot. I continued forward, toward the white metal guardrail that lined the western edge of the freeway.

  The rail was about thirty inches high. I climbed over and stopped short. I was looking down an embankment that dropped twenty or twenty-five feet to a dirt path that bordered the sandy beach. The slope was steep. Walking down was impossible, let alone running.

  I heard footsteps behind me. I didn’t, couldn’t, look back. I jumped.

  As I did, I felt something brush by my hair, and I knew that Truccoli had just missed latching on to me.

  My feet dug into the foliage and soft soil, and then I began to roll. The thick blanket of ice plants cushioned my fall, but it was a fall nonetheless. It did nothing to slow my descent.

  I landed at the bottom of the slope, flat on my back. Pain was firing through my body in every direction. My neck hurt as if someone had twisted it. Truccoli had tried. The fall had done the rest.

  I pushed to my feet and scuttled forward along the dirt path. Ten steps later I heard a thud, followed by hot obscenities. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Truccoli lying in a heap. He had landed harder than I. Good. I pressed on. A few steps later I noticed a new pain, a lightning jab of agony in my hip. Terror urged me on.

  The noises from the freeway above and to my right seemed a light-year away. I began to question my choice. At least on the freeway there was a slim chance someone would come to my aid. Down by the beach I was isolated. I had hoped the cars would frighten Truccoli off or that he would fail to follow me. I was wrong.

  I pressed forward, willing one painful step to follow the other, but my legs moved slower than my demands. My heart was a trip-hammer and I thought my lungs would combust. The aches crescendoed in a cacophony of misery.

  Another pain joined the mix. A hand grabbed my blouse and pulled. My feet went out from under me and I stumbled back into Truccoli. I didn’t wait for words. I found my footing and spun toward him, my elbow aimed at his head. It connected with a thud, sending a coruscating, hot pain through my arm. His grip released and I started forward, but not fast enough. He snatched me again. This time he spun me around and backhanded me across the cheek. Flashes of light filled my eyes and my knees folded. He yanked me up and gave me another shot.

  My vision narrowed to tunnels and my stomach turned with nausea. I couldn’t tell if I was going to vomit or pass out. Instead I brought a knee up as hard as I could, connecting with his kneecap. I did it again and again but Truccoli wouldn’t let go.

  “You . . . will . . . do . . . as . . . I . . . say.” He drew his fist back and I covered my face, waiting for the blow to land.

  It never came.

  He let go and I melted to the ground. Parting my hands, I looked up to see Truccoli changing directions. There was someone with him. No, not with him—behind him. I heard a thud, then another and finally a third.

  Truccoli fell backward like a redwood cut at the roots.

  My gaze switched from the unconscious Truccoli to the man who had come to my rescue. His face was red as a beet, his breathing ragged, and his fists still wadded into fleshy hammers. He took several deep breaths, then said, “I told you to be careful.”

  Chief Webb never looked so good.

  chapter 22

  Are you sure you don’t want to rest in your bed?” my mother asked. She looked on the verge of tears. For the third time in as many minutes, she adjusted the cold compress on my head.

  “No, I’m comfortable here.” It wasn’t a lie but it was a well-stretched truth. I wouldn’t be comfortable anyplace. I had spent the last three hours in the ER. The doctor who treated Randi treated me. He listened to the story, shook his head, then ordered X-rays. A painful “Does it hurt when I do this?” exam followed. When it was all over, I had a slightly strained hip and a dozen bruises. Not bad, considering Truccoli had looked insane enough to kill me.

  The ER doctor had taken it upon himself to inform Jerry of my condition, as a matter of “professional courtesy.” Jerry arrived soon afterward and insisted on driving me home. I wanted to pick up my car, which had been towed to the Police Station for safekeeping. Jerry refused to listen to my logic. He wasn’t going to let me drive.

  Once home, I had to tell the whole story. My mother puddled up, my father paced in anger, and Jerry listened sympathetically. Celeste was morose. At times she shook. I tried to comfort everyone and they were working overtime to comfort me.

  “Come here, Celeste.” I held out a hand.

  She did and tears brimmed in her eyes as she knelt by the sofa. I could tell she was looking at my swollen and bruised cheeks. “I’m so, so, so sorry,” she said and began to cry.

  I ran my hand through her hair. “It’s not your fault, kiddo. I’m fine. You father is—”

  “Nuts. He’s insane. No wonder my mother divorced him.”

  I couldn’t argue with her. “Just remember, he’s the one who’s nuts, not you. None of this is your fault. We’re both victims. I don’t want you to feel guilty. I don’t like it when my friends feel guilty.”

  She smiled. I was about to say something witty when the doorbell rang. Jerry was on his feet in an instant and my father spun on his heels.

  “Easy boys,” I said. “It’s just a doorbell. Remember, there’s still a guard out there.”

  Dad went to the door and peered through the peephole. “It’s Detective West. He has a surprise with him.”

  “I hope it’s a good surprise,” I said. “Don’t leave him standing outside.”

  I propped myself up to see over the arm of the sofa. West entered and stepped to the side. Randi tottered in, swaying on her crutches.

  “Ta-da!” she said with a big smile.

  I was glad to see her. Surprised but very happy. Before Webb could ask if I was injured, I had told him what Truccoli had said about a hired man at Randi’s home. A cell phone call later, men were on their way—including, I was later told, Judson West. Because he had been in Santa Barbara, he arrived long after the street cops.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked Randi. “You’re supposed to stay off your feet.”

  “That’s what I said,” West offered. “She’s a little headstrong.” Then to Randi he added, “No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” she said cheerfully. “I gave him a choice: he could drive me here or I could hobble the ten miles on crutches. One way or the other, I was getting here.”

  “Don’t just stand there.” I raised myself to a sitting position. Mom protested but I waved her off with a smile. “I’ve been lying down too long. I need to sit.” I patted the seat next to me and Randi worked her way into position. We looked at each other, then laughed. Dad brought in chairs from the dining room so everyone could sit.

  “We’re a pair, aren’t we,” Randi said. “I win; I have a cast. You only have cuts and bruises.”

  “Fine by me. You’ll envy me the first time you try to shower with that thing on.”

  “I envy you in more ways than you know,” she said softly. “I guess you heard: no bogeyman at my place.”

  “Yeah, West was kind enough to call. I guess Truccoli was bluffing—about that at least.”

  “He’s lied about everything else,” Celeste said bitterly. That cooled the room. “What will happen to him?” All eyes shifted to West.

  “He’s in pretty deep, Celeste. When he entered the mayor’s car and forced, or I should say, tried to force, her t
o go someplace she didn’t want to go, well, that makes it kidnapping. There are assault charges and more. He won’t be getting out of jail on easy bail this time. He’s being held for a bail hearing rather than someone looking at a chart and saying, ‘Pay this.’ The district attorney is pretty upset. I hear he’s going to lower the boom.”

  “Good,” Celeste said. “Maybe they can lower it several times.”

  I studied her for a moment. Over the last few days she had changed. The harshness of evil had evicted her teenager quality. Life had forced her to grow up faster than someone her age should. I felt something breaking inside me.

  Turning to West, I asked, “How is the chief doing? He looked pretty worn-out when I last saw him.”

  “He’s fine. I called the office a little while ago. One of the other detectives told me that the chief is having to repeat the story over and over—and is loving every minute of it. It’s been a while since he’s made a collar all on his own. Cops like him live for that stuff. Nothing rings their bell more than interrupting a crime and putting a quick end to it.”

  “I owe him big-time.”

  West just nodded. “You should know . . .” He looked at Celeste. “We shouldn’t make too much of this, but I’ve finally gotten word from the SI people. That’s where I was when you came by the station, Mayor. The blood on your business card does match Lisa Truccoli’s DNA. We got a match between Elizabeth Stout’s DNA and the blood left on the photo. I expect we’ll get the same kind of result from Dayton’s DNA and the file folder.”

  Celeste gasped.

  “Now, hold on,” West said. “We assumed that from the beginning, and it must be remembered that that is the only blood we found.”

  “It’s still hard to hear,” I said.

  “I know. I stopped by the coroner’s office and had Egan look at Mrs. Stout’s body again. He found a small puncture mark on the end of her left thumb. It’s odd in a way. I would have expected more violence.”

  The room fell silent. A moment later I heard Celeste sniffle.

  “I have some questions for you, Mayor,” West said as if he hadn’t just dropped a ton of bricks on us. His tone had darkened.