I should have known. The look—it was there in his eyes on Saturday.
Denial, old man. Denial.
Again he started to dial, but this time only got as far as the international calling code. Couldn’t finish, because once the call was completed and his questions asked, he’d be forced to confront the futility of the sacrifice he’d made. And then he’d have to do what he should have done all those years ago.
Maybe they’ll find Miss Stephanie quickly. Maybe all this will go away.
In twenty years it hasn’t gone away, no matter how much you wished it would. What makes you think it will now?
He lifted the receiver and dialed 011, and then 61, the calling code for Australia.
JESSIE DOMINGO
The private investigator, Tom Little, was adamant: he wouldn’t reveal the contents of the reports he’d messengered to Eldon Whitesides, on grounds of client confidentiality.
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Little,” she said, “but Mr. Whitesides’s life may be at stake. As well as a woman’s.”
“Perhaps if the request were coming from a law enforcement agency, I might consider releasing copies to them—”
“I can give you the name of the investigating officer here—”
“But I’d still need a court order.”
“Mr. Little, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation—”
“And I don’t think you understand my obligation to my client. You may work for ECC, but this particular investigation was conducted for Mr. Whitesides, personally.”
“I realize that. And since your client is in danger—”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I could open up myself to a lawsuit, put my license at risk.”
“I doubt Mr. Whitesides would sue you for helping us find him.”
“How do I know what you’re telling me is the truth?”
“You can verify the situation with the Soledad County Sheriff’s Department. If you call and, as a good citizen, offer the reports—”
“I would still be putting myself at risk. My professional ethics would be compromised.”
Jessie closed her eyes, thought quickly. “How about this: I’ll tell you what I think was in those reports, and you confirm or deny it.”
“. . . What do you think was in them?”
“That one of the men under investigation has a personal link to Soledad County. A personal link to Timothy McNear, the man you investigated for Environmental Consultants Clearinghouse.”
“I don’t think I should answer that.”
“Please, Mr. Little. I’m begging you.”
A long pause.
“Mr. Little?”
“. . . All right. You would be correct in assuming that.”
“Which man—Gregory Erickson or Neil Woodsman?”
“I’ve said more than I should have, Ms. Domingo. And that is all I have to say.”
JOSEPH OPENSHAW
Joseph fought the wind as he walked north from the ancient landslide at Cauldron Creek Beach to the sea caves that undermined the cliffs. His shoes and jean legs were soaked from the waves that had pounded the rock formations as he’d scrambled over them. Windblown sand scoured his face, forcing him to squint.
The cave’s mouth was triangular, narrow. He squeezed his upper body through it, raising his flashlight. Nothing but striated walls, a sandy floor, and water steadily dripping from somewhere overhead. He eased out again and continued up the beach.
The other cave was much larger, with an arched opening. He ducked his head as he entered, straightened, and shone the light around. On the ground lay a foul-smelling heap of kelp that had washed in on the high tide; the thick coils were intertwined like a nest of garter snakes. He stepped over them, moved toward the back of the cave, where it branched off into two chambers. The first of these was nearly filled in by a slide, but in the other were the remnants of a campfire.
He wriggled through the opening, knelt down to feel the ashes.
Cold and damp. Crushed beer cans lay nearby, the colors of their labels fading. Long time since anyone had been there.
Long time since Joseph had been there, too. Not since the night of Mack’s murder. He and Curt had driven from McNear’s to the beach in silence; Steph had arrived fifteen minutes later with the money. They’d buried it under a cairn of rocks, and as far as he knew, it was still there.
We’ll come back for it someday.
We’ll never come back. Mack died for that money.
All right, then we’ll leave it buried.
And we won’t talk about tonight again. Okay?
How can we not talk about it?
Leave it buried like the money. Leave it.
Joseph raised his flashlight and shined it around. The cairn was still there, apparently undisturbed. After this was over, he’d dig up the money and return it to McNear. The first of several atonements he’d make.
STEPH PACE
She’d stopped listening to the footsteps and the voices. They were all products of her imagination. Stopped shivering, too; she was beyond cold now. Thirst? Hunger? Beyond them, too. Pain? Numbness was more like it.
Her increasing lack of sensation brought with it a strange clarity of mind. Her thoughts had never been more reasoned. Calm, too. Accepting.
She was going to die.
Here, alone, in this cold, silent prison. Here, or somewhere else, at the hands of the man who had taken her. Didn’t matter which. Or how.
What it all came down to was that she was going to die.
And she simply didn’t care.
TIMOTHY MCNEAR
Timothy went to the den and unlocked the lower right-hand drawer, removed the .38 revolver and the box of bullets. Then he sat down and began loading the weapon.
It was well preserved, in perfect working order. It had rested there in the drawer since the night it was used to kill Mack Kudge. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do the intelligent thing and get rid of it—toss it into the sea off the pier at the mill, or lose it in one of the deep canyons of the coastal ridge.
Perhaps he’d unconsciously been keeping it for this occasion. Perhaps on some level he’d always known that the time would come when he’d need it.
The gun loaded, he raised it and sighted along its barrel. He’d been a good shot, as most country boys were, and he had no doubt he still was. At least good enough for what he might do tonight, if necessary.
He stood, thrust the revolver into the side pocket of his parka. Then he went back to the kitchen for the old watch that had once belonged to his father.
Time to go.
JESSIE DOMINGO
Damn Tom Little and his client confidentiality! Professional ethics, my ass! He’s just trying to cover his.
Jessie snatched up the phone receiver and called the sheriff’s department substation in Calvert’s Landing. The clerk put her through immediately to Rhoda Swift.
“That investigator Eldon Whitesides had working for him . . .” she began.
“Tom Little, yes.” Swift sounded distracted.
“Have you spoken with him?”
“I have a call in, but he hasn’t returned it.”
“Well, I just reached him on his cellular. He won’t give out much information, but apparently there’s some personal connection between either Gregory Erickson or Neil Woodsman and Timothy McNear.”
“Well, of course. McNear has given them permission to—”
“No, not a business connection. Personal.”
“I see.” Now she had Swift’s interest.
“Is Mr. McNear still there?” Jessie asked.
“Here, at the substation?”
“Yes. He should’ve come in by now.”
“Why?”
“He . . . You haven’t seen him?”
“I haven’t seen Mr. McNear since we met a couple of days ago with Mr. Erickson, to discuss the investigation into the destruction of the water bag.”
My God, maybe McNear never reall
y intended to go to the authorities. But he seemed sincere. Maybe he’s just a slow driver. Maybe . . . Well, no use speculating on that now.
“Ms. Domingo,” Swift said, “can you tell me what this is all about?”
“I’ll let Mr. McNear do that when he gets there. But I think you’ll want to talk with Tom Little. His report was delivered by courier to Eldon Whitesides shortly before he disappeared.” Quickly she read off the investigator’s cellular number and then broke the connection.
Maybe Swift’s official status would persuade Little to give up his files, but Jessie doubted it; he’d probably insist on a court order. It was, it seemed, up to her to make sense of the situation. She reached for her laptop.
During one of her disastrous bad-boy romances with an investigative reporter, she’d helped him with a research project, and while she’d come away from the relationship with the usual emotional scars, she’d also acquired some invaluable skills. Now she waited for the slow dial-up Internet service to connect, and when it did, she accessed a site called Who?.com and tapped in Gregory Erickson’s name.
JOSEPH OPENSHAW
When Joseph pulled into the parking lot at the Blue Moon, there were only a few cars in the slots. He got out of the van and hurried inside, found Tony behind the bar, talking with Arletta.
“Any word?” he asked.
“Nothing yet. Curt got a search organized up on the rez and came down here looking for you. He’s in the kitchen.”
Joseph went back there, found Curt drinking orange juice directly from a large container. When he saw Joseph, he offered it to him and said, “Keeps your strength up.”
Joseph took it, had a drink, passed it back. “What’s up?”
“I decided the folks at the rez can carry on without me. Thought you and I might take a ride down to the mill. Lots of places there where you could hide a person, or a—”
“Or a body,” Joseph finished for him.
“Look, man, you can’t think like that.”
“You are.”
“That’s just me. I kind of got into a negative way of thinking a long time ago. Turned it around when I started studying the old ways, but sometimes I backslide.”
Joseph thought of the shrine he’d seen in Curt’s bedroom; so the spiritual beliefs of their people were what occupied his old friend these days.
“You really believe in all that?” he asked.
Curt shrugged. “Man’s gotta believe in something. Let’s you and I concentrate on believing Steph’s gonna come back to us okay. So do we check the mill?”
“We check the mill.”
STEPH PACE
The footsteps and the voices melded together and soothed her like a lullaby. She curled into a ball on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees. Her pulse beat slowly in counterpoint. Her eyes closed, and she drifted. . . .
“. . . This is insane!”
“So was you killing Eldon Whitesides.”
“That was entirely different. He was trying to use what the detective found out to force us out of here. We were struggling for the report; I pushed him. It was an accident. But this is cold-blooded murder . . .”
“No way you can prove your story without my corroboration.”
“Right. You’ve already made that clear. But I don’t see why it’s necessary to kill her.”
“I told you, I made a slip. Called her ‘Miss Stephanie,’ and she recognized me—I could see it in her eyes. She could’ve ruined everything for us.”
“. . . Well, all right, let’s get it over with.”
Steph jerked her head up, looked wildly around. Those were real voices. Real footsteps.
And she recognized both speakers.
“How’d you get the key to this place, anyway?” Gregory Erickson asked.
A low laugh. “It was where it’s always been—on top of the door frame. Some things never change.”
Some people never change, either. They just become more themselves. Greed, selfishness, cruelty—they go on and on.
A key scraped against a lock on the other side of the door.
Act like you’re unconscious.
Steph lowered her head again, held her breath, waited. The door opened, and the men stepped in. A foot nudged her shoulder. She forced herself not to flinch, lying limp.
Clammy fingers grasped her wrist and felt for a pulse. “She’s alive, probably comatose,” Neil Woodsman said. “Won’t take much to finish her off once we get her there.”
“Christ, Neil!”
“You do what you have to. Whitesides and his detective’s report are gone. She’s the only one besides the old man who can make a connection. And even if he does, he’ll never talk.”
“I’m still nervous about that detective.”
“You think he wants any part of this, mate? I know that kind of guy. The law comes around asking him questions about Whitesides, and he’ll bury that report deep.”
Hands grasped Steph’s shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position. An arm slipped under her knees. Neil Woodsman was strong; he smelled of an unpleasant aftershave lotion. She willed herself to remain still as he lifted her and carted her from the potting shed, scraping her head on the door frame. The night was cold and breezy; palm fronds rustled overhead.
Woodsman shifted her, grunted, and said, “Give me a hand, will you?” Erickson grasped her feet, and they slung her between them. Together they hauled her through the garden, over the stone wall, then downhill.
A small hope was born in her. Wherever they were taking her, she might find a chance to escape. As long as they thought she was unconscious.
The men stopped abruptly, and then Erickson set her feet on the ground. Woodsman kept a tight grip on her shoulders. There was a sound that she identified as a trunk lid opening. Erickson grabbed her feet again.
The men lifted her and placed her on her side in the trunk, bending her legs at the knees. The lid slammed above her. She shuddered, forcing down a moan.
In moments the car started up and began moving.
TIMOTHY MCNEAR
The gun weighed heavy in his pocket. He shifted it some, keeping one hand firmly on the wheel. The headlights of an oncoming car blinded him, and he focused on the shoulder until it passed. Then darkness rushed at him as he started up the series of switchbacks.
He’d always appreciated irony, and he took grim pleasure in his choice of weapon. He actually felt himself smiling, but when he glanced in the rearview mirror, what he saw resembled a corpse’s rictus.
Well, that was appropriate, wasn’t it?
Eyes front, old man. This is no time to drive off the cliff. You’ve got a job to do.
A job you should have done long ago.
JESSIE DOMINGO
Frowning, Jessie hit the “Back” icon and once more typed in the name “Neil Woodsman.” She clicked on “Search” and waited.
Again she came up with no match.
The man didn’t exist. How could that be?
She reached into her briefcase for her information on Aqueduct Systems and found the profile of Woodsman. Administrative assistant to Gregory Erickson since January of last year. Formerly with Resources Management, Ltd., of Melbourne, Australia. The same firm where Erickson worked before establishing Aqueduct Systems.
She turned back to the laptop and ran a search for Resources Management. No mention of Woodsman’s name in connection with it. Another damn dead end. Or was it?
Australia . . .
His accent was Australian, not British. And he’d lied about having most recently lived in the UK.
Australia . . .
Fitch had left most of his paper files with her when he went to Sacramento. She sifted through them for the private investigator’s report on Timothy McNear and read it slowly. And then began another search.
JOSEPH OPENSHAW
Jesus Christ, this place is big,” Curt said. “We should’ve brought reinforcements.”
“Yeah, we should’ve.”
Joseph ste
pped over a fallen timber and promptly lodged his foot between two others. He eased it out. The air at the burned-out mill site was cold, thick with the after-smell of smoke and fire-retardant chemicals. The wind blew strongly off the sea, making a loose piece of piping on one of the collapsed buildings clang monotonously. A car’s engine growled in the distance, and a semi geared down on the switchback.
They’d been searching for half an hour, beginning at the northern boundary of the property. Most of the wooden buildings had burned to the ground or collapsed, but there were a number of corrugated iron sheds still standing that must be searched thoroughly. There was enough moonlight that they didn’t need their flashlights to move about the ground, but each time they entered one of the sheds, they turned them on and shone their beams around. Each time they found a structure empty, Joseph didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
A burned-out skeleton loomed in front of them. “What’s that over there?” he asked Curt.
“Part of the old admin building. Enough of it’s standing to hide somebody in.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Curt didn’t move. “I’m thinking maybe we ought to give it up for now. Just till morning, when we can see.”
“No. I’m not giving up, not when there’s a chance we can find her tonight.”
“You really love her, don’t you, man?”
“Yeah. I guess I never stopped.”
“Well, then, we’ll find her, bring her home— What’s that?”
“Where?”
“Over there. Somebody moving.”
Joseph turned to peer across the moonlit landscape. “You’re imagining things.”
“No, I’m not. Look out there, on the pier.”
Now Joseph saw them—two shadowy figures with something slung between them, moving slowly, bent over by its weight.
Steph?
Simultaneously the two of them began to run.
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