Hocus ik-5

by Jan Burke

  “Yeah,” he said, starting the swing in motion again.

  After a moment he said, “I have this dream sometimes — about an old, old case. An early-morning bank robbery. There were three employees inside, but two got out while this one woman distracted the robbers, told them she was the only one there. They kept her hostage. In real life, they shot and killed her in the bank. In the dream, she’s alive again. Instead of shooting her, they’ve taken her with them to a hiding place. I’ve got another chance to find her, and I’m out looking for her. Sometimes, that’s all there is to it — I just search in vain. Wake up frustrated. Other times, like tonight, I find the hiding place, but no matter what I say, they shoot her.”

  We sat in the swing for what seemed like a long time.

  “Thanks,” he said at last.

  “You’d do the same for one of your friends, right?”

  He looked at me and smiled. “Sure would.”

  A little later he said, “If we’re friends, then—”

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Here it comes.”

  “If we’re friends,” he repeated, “why don’t you tell me what you have planned for the day?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Why not?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I guess I’ve never been too hot on getting permission. I like to be able to work independently.”

  “So you’re feeling hemmed in.”

  “But you can see what my concerns are? Not just for your safety, but for Frank’s?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “And I understand — it’s a police investigation.”

  “Well, as far as that goes, if a case requires me to get someone outside of the department to work with me, I don’t get too fussy about it if they don’t have a badge. I’ve got bigger problems to solve. But I also have to keep a handle on things, so I can’t just let everyone who wants to help go haring off in any old direction they please.”

  “I have a feeling you have a compromise in mind.”

  He smiled. “You do, huh? Well, you’re right. How about this — you go on and tell me what your plans are. You tell me what you’re going to do today, and unless I’ve got a reasonable objection, you do it. But you talk to me before you talk to anybody — I mean anybody. That includes friends, family, editors, Pete, Rachel, reporters — you name it.”

  “And your part of this bargain?”

  “I don’t have you tailed or hound you or force you to stay around here just so I know where you are — all of which I can easily do, you understand. But I prefer it this way. I trust you. You trust me. That’s it. You don’t waste your time trying to sneak around, I don’t waste mine keeping a leash on you.”

  I thought about it. “All right,” I said. “I’m meeting Cecilia Parker at seven. Then I’m going to the library.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Yes, the library, Cassidy. Not as direct as going to the Bakersfield PD, but it won’t set off as many alarm bells if our man has friends in the department.”

  “You don’t believe they’ll protect someone like this, do you?”

  “No, I don’t believe the department is crooked, if that’s what you’re asking. But if word gets around that you’re asking for personnel files, don’t you think we’ll give this guy a head start?”

  “I haven’t asked for any yet.”

  “Why not?”

  He sighed. “For the reasons you just mentioned.”

  “I’m thinking of asking Bea to invite Brian’s old friends over for dinner. They’re the right age group. Maybe we can pick up a few leads from them. I’ll tell Bea that we need to talk to people who were around at the time, who know about the case.”

  “Sounds good, but I don’t understand what you’re going to be doing at the library.”

  “On a Sunday, it’s probably the fastest way to get a look at photographs of the Bakersfield PD.”

  “Photographs of officers in the library?”

  “City annuals. They’ll have them in the historical collection at the Beale Library on Truxtun. At the very least, they’ll include a group photograph of the department. And while I’m doing that, there is something you can do for me that might not raise much suspicion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Get Powell’s arrest records.”

  Cassidy smiled. “The records are in storage, but Bakersfield PD has promised me they’ll have them for me this morning. Along with everything they can find about the Ryan-Neukirk case.”

  “Sorry. Of course you would have thought of that already.”

  “No, don’t apologize,” he said. “I’m spread pretty thin here, so I might miss something along the way. Keep making suggestions.”

  “I don’t know about you,” I said, “but right now my best suggestion is to try to catch a little more sleep.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, and we walked into the house. Just as I turned to go into my room he whispered, “Irene?”

  I looked back at him. “Yes?”

  “Careful you don’t muss your do.”

  I flipped him the bird and shut the door. I could hear him laughing as he shut his.

  I woke up in a good mood, in spite of little sleep and big worries. Maybe it was that I had tamed my hair or that I had Cassidy’s assistance in escaping the encampment in front of Bea’s house. Cecilia Parker, who now sat across from me in a booth at the Hill House Hotel Cafe, did not seem nearly so chipper.

  She wore jeans and a yellow T-shirt. Not everyone can wear yellow without looking as though they’ve got liver problems. She looked good in it, I was disappointed to note. She kept her dark sunglasses on until the waitress innocently asked her if we’d like to be seated where the light wasn’t so bright.

  Cecilia refused to order more than a cup of coffee. I ordered coffee and a breakfast roll and hoped she was hungry.

  “So what’s all this about?” she said, apparently not in the mood for small talk.

  I had a copy of the “Father’s Day” fax in my purse, and the easiest thing to do would have been to give it to her to read, but I didn’t know if I could trust her.

  “You watched the news?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Have you read the Californian this morning?”

  “Yes. Is this a media quiz?”

  I ignored that. “So you know that Frank was taken by—”

  “The boys he rescued. Some thanks, huh?”

  “You remember them?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course. They gave me the creeps back then.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I felt sorry for them, just like everybody else. But even if they had a reason to be messed up, they were still messed up. You know what I mean?” She gave a dramatic shiver. “The silent treatment got to me. They could be in a room and not say a word to each other and communicate with just a look. Almost like they were psychic.”

  The coffee and my roll arrived. She looked at it and said, “Maybe I’ll have one of those, too.” The waitress shrugged and brought one. I realized how petty I had been in wanting her to covet my breakfast roll as much as she coveted my husband.

  “So, you think the boys were psychic?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t believe in any of that crap. They must have given each other very subtle nonverbal cues, that’s all.”

  I thought about saying something like, “I hear they had a good-looking speech therapist” but thought better of it. I needed her cooperation.

  “They’ve only made one demand,” I said.

  “Free their buddies who got caught.” She said it in a bored tone.

  “No.” I savored her surprise, then said, “They want me to find someone who was involved in their fathers’ murders.”

  “What? They are completely nuts, aren’t they? Everybody who had anything to do with their fathers’ murders is dead.”

  “Everybody?”

  She gave me a narrow look. “Everybody.”

  “Who do you
mean?”

  “Powell. I mean Powell.”

  “Just Powell?”

  She hesitated only slightly before saying, “Of course just Powell!”

  “But why use the word ‘everybody’?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll go home and brush up on my grammar. Right after I get some sleep — which I didn’t get last night, worrying about Frank.”

  I studied her for a moment, during which she studied me right back. “You really are worried about him, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, a little less hostile. Then, almost as if she’d caught herself backing off, added, “Maybe more than you are.”

  “We can come up with some contest about it later.”

  “Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

  “Look, Cecilia, right now, I just want him to live. To do that, I’ve got to try to meet the kidnappers’ demand.”

  “Well, best of luck to you.”

  “I need your help.”

  “I’ve told you—”

  “Take me to the place where you found Powell.”

  “What?”

  “The place where you found Powell.”

  “I heard you. I just don’t — What makes you think I remember it?”

  “Think of Frank Harriman and answer truthfully—”

  “All right, all right, I remember it. Of course I remember it. First time I found a body outside a car — first one that hadn’t gone through a windshield, anyway.”

  “Take me there.”

  She looked at me for what seemed like a good forty-eight hours before saying, “Oh, what the hell. But let’s get going — I’ve got other things to do with my time.”

  She got up and left me to pay the bill. Well, it was my invitation, and the bill wasn’t steep — but a person with manners would have waited before walking outside. As I went back to leave a tip on the table, she honked the horn of her car in impatience. Several times.

  Frank, I thought, if we both survive this ordeal, I’ve got some tough questions for you.

  She was driving a dark blue T-bird. The sunglasses were back on. She drove with the expertise of a person who lives behind the wheel. It was a warm morning, and we rolled the windows down.

  We traveled the first few miles in complete silence, driving north to Highway 178 and then heading east. As we went past the Ant Hill Oil Field, I asked, “Was this your regular patrol area?”

  “This highway? One seventy-eight?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t the first time I drove it.”

  “But it wasn’t your regular assignment?”

  She checked the rearview mirror, adjusted it a little, and said, “No, but I offered to take it that day.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I had my reasons.”

  If we hadn’t passed a big citrus grove just then, I might have started to lose my temper. Cassidy’s trick worked like a charm, though, and I stayed silent, if not calm. I looked out the window and saw the Greenhorn Ranger Station, which marked this entrance to the Sequoia National Forest.

  “Bakersfield CHP office patrols this highway all the way to the lake?” I asked.

  “Bakersfield CHP only has the lower portion of this highway. The upper portion is patrolled by the Kernville office. Ours goes up to where it becomes a divided highway.”

  “So you found him on the lower portion, where it’s two-lane?”

  “Yes.”

  Soon we came to the signs saying “Route 178 to Lake Isabella Open,” “Falling Rock — Road Not Maintained at Night,” and the big death toll sign. The Kern River flows with often brutal force along a rocky canyon; while there are relatively safe places to raft or stick your toes in the water, close to two hundred people had drowned in the Kern since they started the tally in 1968.

  We could see and hear it now, its white rapids pounding between steep, boulder-strewn banks. The narrow road climbed in sharp curves, between the river on the left and a steep, sheer cliff to the right. We passed an old Edison plant with a corrugated tin roof and continued to climb.

  Cecilia’s continued silence and the barren landscape gradually unraveled any remnants of my good mood.

  You’re wasting your time, an inner voice accused. You’re on the wrong track. Frank could be dying while you screw around up here.

  “You don’t get carsick, do you?” Cecilia asked.

  It snapped me out of thoughts that were as dangerous as the rapids below us.

  “If I do,” I said, “it will be a first.” And it will be my pleasure to barf all over your fancy upholstery.

  “You don’t look so good,” she said nervously, as if hearing my unspoken thought. “I’ll pull over if you’re going to puke.”

  “It’s not car sickness,” I said.

  “Pregnant?”

  “No,” I said, unable to conceal my irritation. “I’m not sick, I’m not pregnant, and I’m not going to puke!”

  Smirking. She was smirking.

  I knew damned well we were miles away from any orange blossoms. I took deep breaths anyway. If I so much as clenched my fists, she would notice, and I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of seeing that she had angered me — not a second time. I looked away from her, pretending fascination with the less scenic side of the road.

  To my surprise, she didn’t try to goad me. I did calm down. The road was a little wider, and there was more chaparral. We passed Live Oak Picnic Ground and Upper and Lower Richbar. There were signs warning of cattle crossings, reminding me that there were ranches in the hills to the right. We began to see trees, and the canyon grew deeper and broader.

  “Look,” Cecilia said, breaking the silence. She pointed out a pair of eagles circling above the river, looking for breakfast. “Nothing like this in Las Piernas,” she said.

  “No, there’s not,” I said, not wanting to quibble so soon after regaining my temper. Besides, she was right. Las Piernas had its own attractions, but no eagles or fifty miles of rapids or other Kern River wonders.

  “I didn’t fit in down there,” she said.

  When I didn’t comment she added, “People seemed so phony to me down there. I guess I belong out here with roughnecks, rednecks, and the raza. You probably didn’t like it out here.”

  Ignoring the implication that I was phony, I said, “It was a big change at first, but I was looking for a change. I didn’t leave Bakersfield because I disliked it. I liked the people and the place just fine.”

  “Why, then?”

  “My father was ill. I didn’t want to be away from him.”

  She focused her attention back on the road. “Not far from here,” she said as we passed a sign for Democrat Hot Springs. The canyon was steep, the river far below. She slowed cautiously, then pulled into a turnout on the right side. She watched for traffic, then made a sharp U-turn, doubling back and pulling into another unpaved turnout, this one on the opposite side of the road.

  “This is it,” she said. “Right here between the Democrat Hot Springs and China Garden.”

  “This exact turnout? Are you certain?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry as I looked not at the river or cliffs or trees, but at the object that held her gaze.

  “Yes. It’s because of that rock. Every time I drive past it, I think of Powell.”

  It wouldn’t be difficult to remember the spot. The large, mushroom-shaped rock was quite distinctive.

  One Father’s Day weekend a policeman had asked Gene Ryan about that same rock, not realizing that Christopher Powell would remember that part of their conversation or that two young boys would remember it still. No, at that moment he was probably more concerned that Gene Ryan was lying to him.

  Ryan hadn’t lied.

  I had the feeling that every time a certain Bakersfield cop drove past it, he remembered Christopher Powell, too.

  23

  I GOT OUT OF THE CAR and walked to the edge of the turnout. Although there was a slope beyond it, the ground was not especially steep for
the first few yards. It was flat and fairly open, only a few low shrubs nearby. But beyond that first thirty feet, the earth fell away sharply. If you wandered beyond the first slope, especially in darkness, you could easily take a fast and bumpy fall. Because of trees and boulders and chaparral, your body might not reach the river — far below — but you’d travel quite a ways before the landscape slowed you down.

  Off to the right, upriver some distance but in plain view, I saw a footbridge and what seemed to be trails. I could also see a campsite.

  Cecilia was leaning against the T-bird, arms folded, watching me.

  I turned to her and said, “Tell me what you saw that day.”

  “Just the van. I didn’t see the body until later.”

  “Any sign of other cars?”

  “Of course. It’s a turnout.”

  “Goddammit, Cecilia, you know what I meant.”

  She smiled. “No, there were no other vehicles parked in the area. It was June. No rain. Very dry conditions. No fresh tire marks in the mud or anything like that. Nothing more stupendous than that brown van, leaking oil.”

  I looked up the road again.

  “Doesn’t make sense for him to have pulled in here, does it?” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “He lived in Lake Isabella. Northeast of here, up the road. First, why is he going home? He’s fleeing a double homicide where he’s left two living witnesses. Why head for a known address?”

  “The guy was a druggie, and never famous for being brilliant — never.”

  “Maybe that’s it. But let’s say he does have a reason to go home. He’s covered with blood — he wants to clean up, change clothes, grab some provisions, and take off again.”

  “Sure, why not?” she said impatiently.

  “So what the hell is he doing on this side of the road? Why stop at a turnout on the downhill side?”

  “Maybe he was headed back to Bakersfield,” she said, standing up straight now, starting to pace.

  I shook my head. “When you found him, he still had the bloody clothes on. He hadn’t been home yet.”

  She threw up her hands in exasperation. “So he stopped to take a leak! Big deal!”

  “Why change directions? Why not relieve himself on the other side of the road?”