by Paul Snyder
Detective Davis’ police cruiser flew past Temple on Ocean Avenue. Jim started his Toyota Highlander and stepped on the accelerator. Rain slashed down hard against the vehicle and the blackened asphalt. He plowed through puddles while wiper blades smeared water and debris on the windshield.
Jim strained to see through the downpour while following Jennifer’s police cruiser and imagining every possible outcome. Every person entering Meghan’s home, each car arriving and leaving, was indelibly etched in Temple’s mind, and now it all ran through his thoughts like an irrational nightmare. Jennifer will sign the name of the man who funded the contract on Wilkerson’s life. I have paperwork in my jacket, and soon I’ll have the toy manufacturer. And the man who killed Andrew’s family and the congressman. All these cases closed in one day.
Jennifer’s police cruiser slowed and hugged the curb. She parked and ran to Meghan’s house. Temple checked the gun beneath his FBI windbreaker. After Jennifer began kicking in the front door, Jim demanded a search warrant.
She stepped back into the driveway, her hair glued to parts of her face from the heavy rainfall. She jogged to the side of the house and fumbled for the latch. Temple sharply got in the way and opened the side gate. Philip told them to climb up the ladder to Meghan’s balcony.
You know what? Temple asked himself. So many recent events required Meghan's unlimited courage. Anything’s possible now, and the unthinkable most likely, and if Meghan’s dead, I will end Jennifer’s life without the Kodiak town founder’s name.
Temple settled the orange fiberglass ladder against the blue wooden railing. He stepped up the round aluminum rungs to the second-floor balcony, his eyes on the gray windblown Pacific Ocean. Meghan’s pristine beachfront view was tarnished by police misconduct. I will spend the rest of my days putting an end to it. I’ve seen what fire can do to a mother and a father and a baby in Iraq. If Meghan is dead, I’ll see what a bullet can do to Jennifer’s face.
He stepped over the balcony’s railing, leaned forward, angling his head slowly to see through Meghan's bedroom's sliding glass door. He pushed back the screen, then parted the sheer drape a fraction, seeing what he expected, death, only the details remained in question.
Steve Davis’s body was lying flat on his back, his head rolled to one side, his face calm, his eyes wide open, staring lifelessly at the wall. He looked big on the ground, taller than anyone in the room. His black windbreaker was open, the cloth of his blue cotton shirt soaked in red blood.
A long, thin, and black Mossberg pistol-grip shotgun rested on the ground near his black tennis shoes. His hands clutched the handle of his own Mossberg Cruiser Model shotgun, his fingers growing white from his clenched grip.
At his feet was a black box, the size of a small purse, with six small black antennas, a radio frequency jammer. The reason for it was apparent. A radio frequency jammer would prevent anyone, on the beach or out on the street, within forty yards, from using Wi-Fi or mobile phones to call 911 or police. Temple turned off the radio frequency jammer.
Jennifer entered the bedroom. And soon afterward, Jim and Jennifer walked across Steve’s body, where Philip held Steve’s cell phone. Tom and Julie and Dan sat on Meghan’s bed. Julie stood up. “You’re going to prison Davis.” Tom pulled her back down on the bed, comforting her.
“This is Steve’s unlocked iPhone,” Philip explained to Jim. “It has a record of Steve Davis calling Jennifer to come here to kill us. Jennifer and Steve Davis hired Wendel to help. After Steve smashed Andrew over the head with his shotgun, Wendel had a change of heart and killed Steve instead of us. Wendel escaped just before you and Jennifer arrived.”
Temple extended his palm. Philip put the cell phone into his hand. “Was your badge number used to buy the frequency jammer,” Jim asked Jennifer.
“No.”
“Whose badge number’s on the jammer?”
“How would I know?”
Jim didn’t want any drama, fireworks, but the apathy in Jennifer’s voice worried him. “Things haven’t changed since I first talked with you. Showing up in Seal Beach wasn’t my idea. I’m just an instructor at Quantico. It’s those pin-heads in Washington, D.C. Things change from one administration to the next. This time, they’re talking about RICO stuff, and you’ve put me between a rock in a hard place, Jennifer.” Jim turned to Philip. “You can call 911 now.”
“I will.”
Jennifer slowly lifted a hand to cover her mouth, swallowing a yawn. “Steve never let us discuss the end of our marriage,” Jennifer spoke in a relaxed manner. “For two years, I’ve been asking him for a divorce. He always said we’d talk about it later.” Jennifer looked down at Steve and kicked him like a soccer ball. “I want a divorce. Do you hear me?” She kicked him in the nuts. “I’m getting a divorce, and I’m taking everything that’s mine. And you can’t stop me.” One last time, she kicked him between the legs, the hardest, and then turned back to Jim. “Our little talk was one-sided like usual.” She looked back down at Steve. “You might as well be dead.” Her smile turned up a notch. “Do you hear me? I’m going to win.”
“The smart money’s on you.” A flash of humor crossed Jim’s face. “You’ll stand in the winner’s circle.”
“I’ll take a victory lap.” Jennifer walked out on the balcony and then looked across the beach at the San Gabriel River jetties, “Where’s Margaret running?”
“You were coming here to kill us.” Philip’s expression boarded on mockery.
“There’s three runners.” Jennifer reached down to pick up the small black frequency jammer. “Margaret’s been packing. She’s strapped and an imminent threat.”
“Leave the jamming equipment here,” Temple demanded.
Jennifer jumped off the balcony to the sand without the jammer. Jim stepped out onto the balcony. “She’s going to her police car. Philip, you stay here until the police and the coroner arrive. And then you and Tom and Julie should fix all the power and phone lines for both homes. I’m sure everyone will be cold and tired tonight. I will be back at your house later. Dan, do you have the key to Meghan’s boat in the marina?”
“Yes.”
“Grab the key to Megan’s boat and drive your Aston Martin down to the parking lot on the beach. We may need Meghan’s boat later. Philip, you take Tom and Julie downstairs and into the front yard now and greet the police.”
34
Meghan pulled back the wet and unruly locks of her hair into a knot. It was at five o’clock in the evening in the wintertime. The Pacific Ocean was going to be challenging and risky. But this was her backyard, and she was in her element where the San Gabriel River emptied into the sea. “You’re okay to swim, Rick?”
“We’re going to have a rough ride out to Catalina Island.”
“There’s heavy rainfall here and inland.” Meghan stared down at the San Gabriel River. The river was the highest she’d seen in a while. “We have to cross here, fast, or we’ll be ripped into the waves and then smashed up on the breakwater.”
Rick agreed. “A brown Outerlimits fifty-two foot speedboat will be at the end of the jetty in thirty minutes. I couldn’t tell you that I moved the money. They would have used it against you. When we’re on Catalina Island, I’ll tell you where the money’s buried.”
“Andrew, drop your gun in the river. I promised we’d lose their weapons.” Meghan knew she looked ferocious. She stood to Andrew’s full height. In the pouring rain, her eyes were serious and clothes soaked to the skin. “Is that clear?” Andrew nodded and followed her, swimming into the river.
Meghan’s skin tingled, and her arms felt light in the water when she slowed her swim and reached for the Commander 9mm handgun. She let it sink to the sandy bottom. Andrew bobbed up and down, treading water in the dark current. “Drop your gun in the river.”
Andrew released his Ruger. They were ripped downriver. While the roar of crashing surf increased, a hundred yards in the sky, lightning bolts darted, and thunder crackled instantly. They were in strik
ing distance of the storm. The noise became unthinkable.
She swam far ahead, her pace accelerating, fueled by the adrenaline of escaping death from lightning and her home. She finished her swim fast, and while Andrew and Rick were still crossing the river, she saw Jennifer arguing with Dan back at the parking lot on the beach. Davis can’t follow us. She doesn’t have the skillset to survive in waves breaking thirty feet over the jetty. Seeing her is like losing ground when we were so far ahead. But that’s okay. Soon we’ll be on Catalina Island, learning where Rick buried the money.
Steve Davis’ murder by Wendel was shocking, but what followed was worse. Dan and Jennifer were fighting in the sand. Davis was a lone wolf, rogue, and would never call for police backup, not after using the police department’s frequency jamming equipment to kill everyone.
Jennifer stood with a wide stance, holding a rifle, and Meghan hid behind the jetty's black stones. Meghan caught one last glimpse of Jennifer firing on Andrew and Rick. Water splashed into the air, where the bullets hit the surface.
Meghan’s fear for Andrew and Rick bumped up a notch, rooting her firmly in the breakwater. What did Rick Weber say about bullets hitting the surface of the water? It’s not like in the movies where bullets travel six feet underwater and kill people. Bullets shatter when they hit the surface. She scolded herself for fearing for Rick and Andrew’s safety.
Andrew always practiced holding his breath for surfing in big waves and can stay underwater for four minutes. Andrew will be safe if he follows Rick's three-second combat rule of I’m up, he sees me, I’m down.
There was an unearthly quality to the river jetties this evening. Jennifer looked more insane by the minute. Nowhere was there a trace of sunlight. It was a little more than eerie. Meghan couldn’t believe what she saw, but Rick Weber knew all too well about police firing on unarmed people sleeping in their beds or running for their lives, and, now, she saw it, firsthand, also, through Jennifer.
Meghan stared at Jennifer. What’s in her head? Again, she found outrage chipping away at her soul. Who does she think she is? I have to think on my feet. I’m in control, not Jennifer.
35
Meghan’s beach energy transformed Temple. He was twenty years younger. He had already bought a surfboard and a wetsuit. Real estate agents showed him homes at the cliffs in Huntington Beach, and there were still a few houses to see at Warner Street in Sunset Beach. But, he was flying back to Washington, D.C., tomorrow, and he’d miss Orange County.
Steve Davis was dead, and with the threat of RICO charges and life in prison hanging over Jennifer’s head, she had every reason to give him the name of the Kodiak town founder who funded the contract on Wilkerson’s life.
What about the fisherman? Why was he watching Meghan with binoculars while fishing for sharks? Why was he hiding in Philip’s house during the home invasion? Was the fisherman the same man who saved Philip from Andrew’s father? Was he the man who murdered Andrew’s family, murdered the congressman, and robbed his bank? If so, somehow, through the fisherman, Meghan received the bank robbery cash.
Sandra Jackson, back at the FBI Laboratory, had found that it was Keith Davidson who liquidated his assets, changed his identity, and then commissioned Philip to make Andrew a trust fund baby. But was Keith Davidson the fisherman? If so, Keith had a history of escaping justice and was leading Meghan and Andrew towards another escape.
Jim parked his black Toyota well out of sight from Dan and Jennifer. After stepping onto the parking lot, Jim shielded himself against the wind and rain by zipping up his blue FBI windbreaker tight against his neck. Wet pants clung to his thighs, and his black shoes squelched from the water with every step.
It was safe and warm back in his Toyota Highlander, but he had to keep going forward through the heavy rainfall. He had paperwork for Jennifer to sign. A black Subaru Impreza soared past Jim and plowed into a deep puddle, spraying Jim and dozens of seagulls with the rainwater. The big white birds flew out of the parking lot with soaking wet wings, their yellow beaks, screeching at the crazy driver.
36
When Meghan helped Andrew out of the water, seriousness was in his eyes. It was more than dire, perhaps fatal. Was it Jennifer’s bullets? But all the shots had been missed. At last, it was Rick’s insisted on swimming to the boat alone to draw fire away from her and Andrew. We’d be safe from gunfire while walking behind the rocks on the far side of the jetty. “Come on, Andrew.” She leaned closer to him, adopting an expression of kindness. “We’ll talk about it later when we reach Catalina Island.”
She raced beside him in the rain but was no match for Andrew. Instead of leading, she fell back and watched where Andrew placed his feet on the rocks. For fifteen minutes, she followed Andrew, lock-step with his every move.
Andrew knew all the footholds, handholds, and every place to step on the breakwater. For years, these rocks had been Andrew’s fishing grounds. After he’d given her the beach house, this was her backyard too. Andrew stopped and looked back at her. They were near the shallower part of the sandbar at the San Gabriel River’s mouth, where the black waves towered closer to thirty feet in height before crashing down on the jetty.
She knew Rick would be all right, swimming in the river. She knew something else now too. This is crazy. Can we really do this? What if we’re injured? Does Andrew have a backup plan? If not, this makes no sense at all.
It had once made sense to take this path. After leaving Steve’s dead body in her bedroom, and knowing Jennifer was on her way to kill them, it made perfect sense to everyone, not just her. But as she began moving closer to the impact zone, to the thirty-foot waves, she knew it was crazy to think it, or hope it, or even to believe that they would make it through the waves without getting hurt, but they had to do it. We must pass through this place on earth, where no other human being would follow.
Andrew signed to her and pointed down to a small sandbar at sea level. “Down there, where the waves are crashing over the jetty, are the footholds and handholds that will secure us to the jetty as the waves roll over us.”
He stepped down several big rocks to the water’s edge, and she followed to where Andrew stood, watching, waiting for his instruction. Andrew pressed his body against a massive, black rock, six feet in height. The fingertips of his hands were rooted in crevices in the black stone. He placed his ear and the side of his face flush against the rock’s surface, then lodged his feet in the rocks.
She found a similar stone formation and did the same with her hands and feet as the first wave rolled toward them. “Stay where you are.” Andrew signed. “Five or more waves will roll over us before we move.”
Soon she was underwater, and the force of the wave ripped at her hands and feet, pulling her arms out of their sockets. She held her breath, in pain, feeling lightheaded, working feverishly to keep her face flush against the rock and waiting for minutes, underwater, for the turbulence to end.
When the water began receding, she was safe, secure, standing there, watching, half-way underwater, waiting for Andrew. And as she looked around the silvery bubbles of the sea, she saw Andrew, working against the turbulence too. He was standing, waist-deep in the water on the rock, waiting for her.
“There will be more waves like that before we move.” Andrew signed. “Stay put.”
“I promise.”
Andrew raised his hand and signed. “Relax. Don’t be so tense.”
“I’m worried about Rick.”
“Rick is fine.”
The next wave rolled over them and into the channel leading to Alamitos Bay. This wave’s ferocity was unmatched. The force beat down on her and ripped her foot out of the foothold. She was powerless to resist. Her leg jiggled. Her foot slammed hard against the rock. She jerked like a rag doll, ripped up, in a Pitbull’s mouth. I’m in a place on earth where no human being should be. The pressure’s building… my hands and feet are failing. I’ll be crushed dead. Stupid! Don’t let another arm or foot slip. You’ll be knocked dead. If yo
u slip out, cover your head with your arms or die.
They stayed underwater for what seemed like a much longer time before everything stopped and the water receded. The next wave wasn’t far. And, after another ten minutes of being torn apart by wave after wave, Andrew stepped to the top of the jetty, fast, and she followed him with greater speed. But her spine was hot and tingly, and it was as though something had just tried to rip her head off, but she told herself just to relax. We’ll be on Catalina Island soon. A fifty-two foot Outlimints Speedboat can cruise comfortably at a hundred miles per hour, even in hurricane-force winds and rain.
She walked in the harsh downpour, her eyes never leaving Andrew or the end of the jetty. She squinted against the dark storm, and she saw him smiling and pointing at their new footholds and handholds. They walked down to another place at the water’s level, grabbed the rocks, and prepared for the next group of waves to arrive as Andrew signed to her. “Don’t worry. A few more waves will roll over us. Then we can run out of the impact area to the end of the breakwater where we’ll be safe.”
37
Jim sidestepped beside a gray Chevy Malibu. The torrential downpour subsided to light rain. Temple held his position and stared at the car’s passenger door window. Droplets of rain formed and sparkled on the tinted window and then fell like little glass beads.
He rose slowly and looked across the San Gabriel River to see Megan and Andrew scrambling on the Alamitos Bay jetty. What he saw near the bike path, on his side of the river, filled him with repulsion and anger. Jennifer Davis’ black business suit is rain-soaked, tight to her skin like a black wetsuit. Dan’s on top of Jennifer, his hands pinning her shoulders down on the ground.
Temple ducked behind the car and moved forward, crouching low. He was concealed behind the vehicle when gunfire erupted through the cacophony of pounding surf and rain. Unwilling to reveal his position, Temple stayed hidden, taking a mental inventory. It sounds like Jennifer’s firing a black Ruger AR-15 semi-automatic rifle from Tom Clayton's intelligence, hopefully in the sand at Dan’s feet.