“I’m going to try to get in a little closer,” I finally said to Kate. “I have to see what’s happening in there.’
“I’m glad you said that,” Kate whispered.
The talk was cut short. A bloodcurdling scream came from the cabin. “Help! Help me! Somebody help me!” the blond woman screamed.
I ran at full speed for the closest door into the cabin. So did at least five men in dark blue windbreakers from the other side of the house. I spotted Asaro and Cosgrove among them.
FBI, the windbreakers read. Rain-slicker yellow on navy blue.
All hell was breaking loose in Big Sur. We were about to meet the Gentleman.
Chapter 70
I GOT THERE first, at least I think I did. I threw myself hard against the cabin’s wood-plank back door. It wouldn’t give. On the second try the frame splintered, and the door burst open with a wounded grunt. I charged into the cabin with my pistol drawn.
I could see across the small kitchen, and all the way down a narrow hallway that led into a bedroom. The blond woman from Nepenthe was naked, and curled sideways on an antique brass bed. Wildflowers had been thrown around her body. Her wrists were pinioned with handcuffs near the small of her back. She was in pain, but at least she was still alive. The Gentleman Caller wasn’t there.
From outside the cabin I heard a loud bark, the harsh sound of gunfire. At least half a dozen shots were fired in rapid succession, like a string of powerful firecrackers. “Jesus, don’t kill him!” I shouted as I ran from the cabin.
Complete chaos reigned in the woods! The Range Rover was already backing wildly from the driveway when I came out. Two of the FBI men were down on the ground. One was agent Ray Cosgrove. The others had opened fire on the Range Rover.
A side window exploded. Jagged holes opened in the Range Rover’s sheet metal. The off-road vehicle swerved sideways, its wheels spinning in the dirt and gravel.
“Don’t kill him!” I yelled again. No one even looked at me in the wild confusion of the moment.
I sprinted through the side woods, hoping to cut off Rudolph if he headed west, back toward Highway 1. I got there just as the Range Rover made a shrieking, skidding turn out onto the road. A gunshot blew out another side window. Great! The FBI was shooting at both of us now.
I grabbed the passenger side door and yanked hard at the handle. It was locked. Rudolph tried to accelerate, but I held on tightly. The Rover fishtailed, still caught in a swale of driveway gravel. That gave me time to grab the roof rack with my free hand. I pulled myself onto the roof.
Rudolph finally got the Rover onto the concrete roadway and accelerated. He floored the vehicle for seventy yards. Then he hit the brakes hard!
I was thinking ahead—that far ahead, anyway. My face was pressed tightly against the sheet metal, which was still warm from sitting in the sun at Nepenthe. My arms and legs were splayed out against the roof rack. I was wedged like a Samsonite all-nighter on the roof.
I wasn’t coming off there, not if I could help it. He had killed at least half a dozen women around Los Angeles, and I had to find out if Naomi was still alive. He knew Casanova, and he knew about Scootchie.
Rudolph floored the Range Rover again, and the engine roared through its gears as he tried to shake me loose. He was weaving all over the road.
Trees and ancient telephone poles zoomed past me in blurry, fast motion. The rushing pines, redwoods, and mountain vines were like the changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. A lot of the foliage was brownish-gray, prickly as vineyards in the Napa Valley. It was a strange perspective on the world.
I wasn’t exactly enjoying the scenery from my perch on the Range Rover. It took all of my strength to concentrate on hugging the roof.
Rudolph drove very fast along the winding narrow road, doing seventy or eighty where fifty was dangerous.
The FBI agents, what was left of them, hadn’t been able to catch up. How could they? They’d had to run back to their cars. They would be several minutes behind us.
Other cars passed us we got closer to the Pacific Coast Highway. Drivers gave us the strangest looks. I wondered what Rudolph was thinking as he drove. He wasn’t trying to throw me off anymore. What options did he still have? In particular—what was he planning as his next move?
We were both temporarily in check. Somebody had to lose very big, and very soon, though. Will Rudolph had always been too clever to be caught. He wouldn’t expect to be stopped now. But how would he get out of this one?
I heard the noisy diesel chug of a VW van. I saw the rear end of the van coming fast. We passed it as if it were standing still.
There was a flow of traffic against us as we approached the ocean road. Mostly kids out for an early evening spin. Some of them pointed at the Range Rover and thought it was a big joke. Just some major asshole from the Sur pulling a stunt, right? Some aging merry prankster high on tequila, or maybe even twenty-year-old acid. A crazed man hanging on to the roof of a Range Rover doing seventy miles an hour in what amounted to a very scenic parking lot.
What was his next goddamn move?
Rudolph didn’t bother to slow down on the curvy, extremely populated, blacktop road. The motorists headed in the opposite direction blared their horns angrily. No one did anything to stop us. What could they do? What could I do now? Hang on as tightly as I could and pray!
Chapter 71
A BRIGHT flash of grayish-blue ocean broke through the scrim of fir and redwood branches. I heard rock music blasting from the slow-moving parade of cars up ahead. A collage of music was in the air: Pop 40 rap, West Coast grunge bands, acid rock from thirty years ago.
Another splash of Pacific blue hit me right in the eye. The setting sun was casting its golden glow on the spreading firs. Wheeling terns and gulls passed slowly over the trees. Then I saw the full expanse of the Pacific Coast Highway up ahead.
What the hell was he doing? He couldn’t drive back to Los Angeles like this. Or was he crazy enough to try? Eventually he’d have to stop for gas. What would he do then?
Traffic on the highway was light heading north, but heavy moving south. The Range Rover was still doing sixty or better—careening faster than anyone ought to drive on the curvy side highway, especially as it merged into the busier coast road.
Rudolph didn’t slow down as he approached the crowded highway! I could see family station wagons, convertibles, four-wheel-drive vehicles. Just another crazy Saturday night on the northern California shoreline, but it was about to get a whole lot crazier.
We were fifty yards from the highway now. He was going as fast as ever, if not faster. My arms were stiff and numb. My throat was dry from exhaust fumes. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. Then suddenly, I thought I knew what he was going to do.
“You son of a bitch!” I yelled, just to yell. I wedged my body even tighter against the straining metal roof rails.
Rudolph had created the impromptu escape plan. He was only ten to fifteen yards from the highway traffic, no more than that.
Just as the Rover reached the sharp turn onto the Pacific Coast Highway, he braked hard. The loud screech of radial tires was terrifying, especially from where I was listening.
A bearded face in a passing multicolored minivan yelled out, “Slow down, you asshole!” Which asshole? I wondered. This asshole definitely wanted to slow down.
The top-heavy Range Rover held its path for a few yards, then it started to fishtail right, then left, then right again.
It was total bedlam now. Horns were blowing everywhere at once on the busy highway. Drivers and passengers couldn’t believe what they were seeing, what was bearing down on them from the side road.
Rudolph was doing everything wrong at the wheel on purpose. He wanted the Rover to spin out.
Its tires still squealing like animals being slaughtered, the Range Rover slid left until it was facing south, but it was actually traveling west into traffic. Then the Rover’s tail end swerved all the way around.
We were go
ing to hit the traffic moving backward! We were going to crash. I was sure we would both be killed. Images of Damon and Jannie flashed before me.
I couldn’t guess how fast we were going when we broadsided a silver-blue minivan. I didn’t even try to hang on to the roof rack. I concentrated on relaxing my body, preparing for a bonebreaking, possibly deadly, impact in the next few seconds.
I yelled, but the sound of my voice was lost in the high-pitched screeching crash, the blaring car horns, the screaming spectators.
I barely missed the lineup of northbound traffic as I jetted off the roof. More horns blared. I was flying through the air with the greatest of ease. The sea wind both cooled and stung my face. It was going to be a crash landing.
I flew into the smoky blue mist that was settling between the Pacific Ocean and the Pacific Coast Highway. I hit the thick branches of a fir tree. As I fell through scraping, scratching tree branches, I knew the Gentleman Caller was going to escape.
Chapter 72
SKIP FORWARD. Cut forward. Spin, fall head over heels forward!
I was badly shaken and bruised from the car crash and fall, but apparently there were no broken bones. A crackerjack EMS team looked me over at the accident site on Highway 1. They wanted to check me into a nearby hospital for tests and observation, but I had other plans for the night.
The Gentleman was running loose. He had commandeered a car heading north. The car had already been found, but not Dr. Rudolph. At least not so far.
When she arrived at the bad scene at the highway, Kate went ballistic. She wanted me to go to the local hospital, too. Agent Cosgrove of the FBI was already there as a patient. We had a heated discussion, but eventually Kate and I caught the last AirWest shuttle out of Monterey. We were headed back to L.A.
I had spoken to Kyle Craig twice already. FBI teams were camped out at Rudolph’s apartment in Los Angeles, but nobody expected the Gentleman to return there. They were searching the place now. I wanted to be there with them. I needed to see exactly how he lived.
On the flight, Kate continued to show concern about my physical condition. She had already developed a top-notch bedside manner, warm and empathetic, but also surprisingly firm with a stubborn patient like myself.
Kate talked to me with her hand cupped lightly under my chin. She was intense. “Alex, you have to go to a hospital as soon as we get to Los Angeles. I’m serious. As you might be able to tell, this isn’t my usual humor-in-the-face-of-adversity approach. You’re going to a hospital as soon as we land. Hey! Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m listening to you, Kate. I also happen to agree with what you’re saying. Basically, that is.”
“Alex, that’s no answer. That’s crap.”
I knew Kate was right, but we didn’t have time for a hospital check-in tonight. Dr. Will Rudolph’s trail was still warm, and maybe we could pick up his scent and nab him in the next few hours. It was a slim chance, but by tomorrow the Gentleman’s trail could be stone-cold.
“You could be bleeding internally, and you wouldn’t even know it,” Kate continued to make her case. “You could die right here in this airplane seat.”
“I’ve got some nasty bruises and contusions, and I ache all over. I’ve got the makings of some first-class scabs up and down my right side, where I made my first couple of bounces. I’ve got to see his apartment before they take it apart, Kate. I have to see how that bastard lives.”
“Half a million or more a year? Trust me. He lives very well,” Kate came back at me. “You, on the other hand, could be in bad shape. Human beings don’t bounce.”
“Ahh, well, black human beings do. We’ve had to learn that special knack for survival. We hit the ground, we bounce right back.”
Kate didn’t laugh at my joke. She folded her arms across her chest and peered out the tiny plane’s window. She was angry with me for the second time in hours. That must mean she cared.
She knew she was right and she wasn’t backing down. I liked the fact that she was concerned for me. We were actually friends. What a fantastic concept for men and women in the nineties. Kate McTiernan and I had become friends during both our times of need. We were in the process of compiling that all-important dossier of shared experiences now. It was some kind of dossier so far.
“I like it that we’re pals,” I finally told Kate in a low, conspiratorial voice. I wasn’t afraid to say cute, dumb things to her, almost the way I talked to my kids.
She didn’t turn away from the window as she spoke. Still pissed off at me. Good for her. I probably deserved it. “If you were really my damn friend, you’d listen to me when I’m worried sick and frightened for you. You were in an automobile accident a few hours ago. You fell about thirty yards down a pretty steep ravine, pal.”
“I hit a tree first.”
She finally turned back to me and pointed a finger at my heart, like a stake. “Big deal. Alex,I’m worried about your stubborn black ass. I’m worried so much my stomach hurts.”
“That’s the nicest thing anybody’s said to me in months,” I told her. “Once when I was shot, Sampson showed some genuine concern. It lasted about a minute and a half.”
Her brown eyes held on to mine and wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t lighten up. “I let you help me in North Carolina. I let you hypnotize me, for God’s sake. Why won’t you let me help you here? Let me help, Alex.”
“I’m working up to it,” I told her. That was true enough. “Macho policeman have a tough field to hoe. We abhor being helped. We’re classic enablers. Most of the time, we like it like that, too.”
“Oh, cut the psychobabble, Doctor! It’s self-serving and doesn’t reflect you at your best.”
“I’m not at my best. I was just in a terrible accident.”
“It went on like that between us for the remainder of the shuttle flight to Los Angeles. Toward the end of the ride, I catnapped peacefully on Kate’s shoulder. No complications. No unnecessary baggage. Very, very nice.
Chapter 73
UNFORTUNATELY, THE California night was still young and probably extremely dangerous for everyone involved. When we arrived at Rudolph’s penthouse apartment at the Beverly Com-stock, the LAPD was everywhere. So was the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was police bedlam.
We could see the flashing crimson and blue emergency lights from several blocks away. The local police were justifiably angry for being kept out of the chase by the FBI. It was a very nasty, very political, very sensitive mess. This wasn’t the first time the FBI had been high-handed with a local police agency. It had happened to me back in Washington. Plenty of times.
The Los Angeles press posse was there, too, and in full force. Newspaper, local TV, radio, even a few film producers were on the scene. I wasn’t happy that many of the reporters knew Kate and me by sight.
They called out to us as we hurried through police lines and barricades. “Kate, give us a few minutes.” “Give us a break!” “Dr. Cross, is Rudolph the Gentleman Caller?” “What went wrong up in Big Sur?” “Is this the killer’s apartment?”
“No comment right now,” I said, trying to keep my head down, eyes down.
“From either one of us,” Kate added.
The police and FBI let us inside the Gentleman Caller’s apartment. Technical people were busy in every room of the expensive-looking penthouse. Somehow, the Los Angeles detectives seemed smarter, slicker, richer than cops in other cities.
The rooms were sparsely decorated, almost as if no one lived there. The furniture was mostly leather but with lots of chrome and marble touches. All angles—no curves. The art on the wall was modern and vaguely depressing. Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko look-alikes, that sort of thing. It looked like a museum—but one with a lot of mirrors and shiny surfaces.
There were several interesting touches, possible clues about the Gentleman Caller.
I noted everything. Recording. Remembering.
His dining-room hutch held sterling silver, bone china, real stoneware, expensiv
e linen napkins. The Gentleman knew how to set his table.
On top of his desk were formal writing paper and envelopes with elegant silver trim. Always the Gentleman.
A copy of Hugh Johnson’s Pocket Encyclopedia of Wine was sitting out on the kitchen table.
Among his dozen expensive suits were two tuxedoes. The suit closet was small, narrow, and oh-so-neat. It was less a closet than a shrine for his clothes.
Our strange, strange Gentleman.
I came over to Kate after an hour or so of touring the Gentleman’s place. I had read the local detectives’ reports. I’d talked to most of the techs, but so far they had nothing. That didn’t seem possible to any of us. The newest laser equipment was being brought from downtown Los Angeles. Rudolph had to have left clues somewhere. But he hadn’t! So far, that was his closest parallel to Casanova.
“How are you doing?” I asked Kate. “I’m afraid I’ve been lost in my own world for the last hour.”
We were at a window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard and also the Los Angeles Country Club. Lots of shimmering car and building lights surrounding an eighteen-hole expanse of darkness. A disturbing Calvin Klein billboard was brightly lit up down on the street. It showed a naked model on a couch. She looked to be about fourteen. Obsession, the ad proclaimed. For men.
“I’ve got my second or third wind,” Kate said. “All the world’s a hideous nightmare suddenly, Alex. Have they found anything at all?”
I shook my head as I looked at the two of us in the dark, reflective window. “It’s maddening. Rudolph commits ‘perfect crimes,’ too. The techies might eventually match fiber from his clothes to one or more of the crime scenes, but Rudolph is unbelievably careful. I think he has a knowledge of forensic evidence.”
“There’s enough written about it these days, isn’t there? Most doctors are pretty good at absorbing technical information, Alex.”
I nodded at the truth of her statement. I’d thought the same thing. Kate had the makings of a detective. She looked tired. I wondered if I looked as exhausted as I felt.
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