by Joe Ide
There’s only one way to extricate yourself from this mess, he thought. You have to convince Cannon that there are serial killers in Coronado Springs and that he is their next victim. Do that and maybe the sheriff would see their disputes had developed from a series of misunderstandings and let you go. Maybe. The problem is you’re not credible with him. How do you prove that you are? Again, there was one shitty option. He made the call.
“What do you want?” Cannon said. “Unless it’s about surrendering, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I want a face-to-face,” Isaiah said.
“Why?” Cannon sounded truly puzzled.
“I want to convince you I’m telling the truth, and the only way I can think of is to put myself at risk.” Cannon didn’t say anything. “I have one condition,” Isaiah said. “You let me talk until I’m done before you try and arrest me.”
Cannon was surprised. “Okay, fine.”
“I’ll be on foot.”
Isaiah said he’d call at ten-thirty and provide the time and place. Cannon couldn’t get over it. Not only did Isaiah want to meet in person, he said he would be on foot, not in cars facing in different directions or on opposite sides of the river. Something didn’t smell right. Isaiah said “before you try and arrest me.” In other words, he had a getaway plan. No chance, Cannon thought. He knew his town right down to the last stop sign. There was no way Isaiah could escape, especially on foot. But anybody they called IQ would have something up his sleeve, something sneaky and unexpected. Escaping from the sheriff’s car had become a running joke in the department. Hey, Chief, did you forget to close the door? Want a burger, Chief? I heard he stole your lunch. Were you bringing him in, Chief, or were you giving him a ride? That wasn’t going to happen again. There were ten officers in the department. Cannon brought in four more from the Highway Patrol. They would be positioned strategically, able to cordon off an area in two minutes. Unless Isaiah had a helicopter, he wasn’t going anywhere.
It occurred to Cannon that Isaiah was taking a massive risk. Was it possible he was right? Were two serial killers actually in Coronado Springs? Why would a guy like Isaiah lie? Why would he tell a story about a knife fight? But Pearce, Crowe’s parole officer, said Crowe was in Sacramento. Why would he lie? The most likely explanation was mistaken identity. Isaiah thought someone else was Crowe, and let’s not forget the whole mess had started with that nutcase Billy Sorensen. For now, it didn’t matter. Isaiah had harbored a fugitive, escaped from police custody and, until proven otherwise, lied to a police officer.
Isaiah called as promised. The meeting place was the parking lot behind Lars Hardware Store. He said if Cannon wasn’t there by 10:45 he was leaving. Cannon put O’Neal in charge. He would direct the officers during the meet. Cannon knew Lars’s place. The parking lot was large, well lit, open, with two adjacent parking lots and woods at the back. Cannon snorted. Did Isaiah really think he could escape by running into the fucking trees? There was thick brush in there. A rabbit would have a tough time getting through. A city boy would get lost if he didn’t get scratched to death by the nettles, thorny brambles and branches that stuck out like pitchforks. O’Neal would have officers no more than forty yards away, all of them in good shape, including Cannon himself. There were also cars and ATVs. Isaiah would be caught in less time than it took to drive over to Lars.
Cannon arrived at the lot. As instructed, he took off his belt, radio and holster and laid them on the ground. Then he pulled his shirt out of his pants, raised it and turned in a circle. No gun, except for the .32 snub nose he had in his ankle holster.
“The gun in the ankle holster too,” Isaiah called from somewhere in the trees. The smart-ass bastard, Cannon thought. He complied. The lot was empty, nothing out there but a couple of plastic bags skipping across the asphalt. The sodium lights were yellow and ominous. Cannon was confident. Even now, his officers were creating a rough circle around the lot, some held back in case Isaiah switched locations. A few were in cars or riding ATVs. Victor Lars and his son, Gunner, were on a nearby rooftop, training their Nikon 10 x 42 binoculars on anything that moved. They had police radios and knew how to use them. Isaiah would need a magic trick to get out of this.
Cannon started walking. It was quiet except for his footsteps and a vague breeze shushing through the trees. At this altitude, the nights were cold. He didn’t feel it, he was focused on the trees. Isaiah would emerge from there. He was almost at the end of the lot when he came to a ditch, about two feet deep and eight feet across. The gas company was laying down a new line. There were crowd control barriers running the length of the ditch. Cannon nearly laughed. Did Isaiah really think these were obstacles? No, that was ridiculous. Watch for the magic trick, Cannon.
Isaiah came out of the trees and down a short slope. Only the ditch and the barriers separated the two men. Isaiah didn’t seem nervous; he didn’t seem anything. Weird, this guy.
“So what’s this important thing you have to tell me?” Cannon said. “More bullshit about serial killers?”
“Yes, except it’s not bullshit,” Isaiah replied. “I’ll say it again. I wouldn’t be putting myself at risk unless I was telling the truth.”
“What’s the truth?”
“There are two serial killers in Coronado Springs. William Crowe and Warren Long.”
“Warren Long? I haven’t heard that name in a while.” Cannon’s heart was galloping in his chest. If O’Neal did his job, officers were creeping into the woods on either side of Isaiah. A flanking maneuver. “This is just more bullshit, Quintabe,” Cannon said. “Warren Long is a lowlife, a drug addict and a moron, but he’s not a serial killer. He’s a bum.”
“You said you’d let me finish.”
“Then finish.”
“Warren didn’t come here to kill somebody at random,” Isaiah said. “He’s here to kill you. Crowe’s along for the ride.”
“That asshole wants to kill me?” Cannon scoffed. “Why?”
“I know what happened at Alabaster Creek. You beat the hell out of Warren and you already had him down.” Cannon was taken aback. How did Isaiah know that?
“Only me and Long were there. Where were you?” he said.
“I saw the file,” Isaiah said. “Warren’s car had airbags. He didn’t sustain the injuries in the crash. You ran him down and gave it to him. I don’t blame you. You were angry and you had a right to be.”
Cannon hesitated. How did Isaiah figure that out? “If Crowe’s not here, Warren’s not here,” Cannon said. “I don’t think you’re lying, Isaiah. It’s mistaken identity but you refuse to accept it.”
Cannon decided the conversation was at an end, but where was the magic trick? “Stay there and turn around so I can cuff you.” It came to him suddenly. Isaiah has a vehicle in the woods! He raised his hand. The GO sign. He brushed the barriers aside and jumped over the ditch. Isaiah was already up the slope and into the trees. The ATVs and two squad cars were racing across the lot. Cannon looked back and shouted, “He’s got a vehicle!” Then he turned and crashed through the brush.
Isaiah sidled his way through a particular cut in the brush. It was too thick for the ATVs. They would have to go wide and find an entry point. That would take time. He had also anticipated being flanked but the woods were deep. The officers wouldn’t know when or where to angle toward him. Cannon wouldn’t be far behind but Isaiah had planned his route ahead of time. An immediate hard right, under a fallen tree trunk, hard left around a thicket and into another cut. Cannon could track him but only by the sound. But there was no way to be quiet when you’re running for your life. Isaiah reached a small creek bed that went straight uphill. He left his cap there and kept going.
Cannon bulled his way through the tangle of undergrowth. He stopped and thought a moment. Isaiah had a destination; he wouldn’t run around randomly.
“Shit,” Cannon said. Macklemore Road was on the other side of the woods. That had to be where Isaiah was going. He probably had Billy or the girl waiti
ng for him in a car. The only way for his officers to get there was to go around the woods, a twenty-minute drive. Cannon heard an officer somewhere behind him. “Get on your radio,” he shouted. “Isaiah’s heading for Macklemore Road. Send two units to cut him off at both ends. Tell the ATVs to go straight there.”
“You got it, Chief,” the officer called back. It sounded like Dickerson, O’Neal’s partner. They were mean sons of bitches.
Cannon kept running and came to a creek bed. He saw something on the ground. Isaiah’s cap. He yelled again. “Follow me up the creek bed!”
Isaiah heard Cannon shouting about the creek bed. Good. He’d taken the bait. Isaiah was heading for a trail made by dirt bikers. You wouldn’t know it was there unless you’d been there before. It ended on a logging road, a half mile away from Macklemore. He kept moving.
Cannon started up the creek bed. There was a muddy patch. He started to go around it and stopped. He didn’t have his flashlight and used his phone for light. There were no footprints except his own. Isaiah hadn’t come this way; the cap was a fucking decoy. “Goddammit!” Cannon shouted. He realized Isaiah couldn’t keep fighting the brush. There had to be another trail somewhere. He closed his eyes and let his memory take him on a tour. He’d played in these woods as a boy, explored them with his friends, pretended they were big game hunters chasing lions and tigers. He brought his daughter here, and they rode their dirt bikes together.
“You son of a bitch,” he said. That’s where Isaiah was going! There was a dirt bike trail that looped through the woods and ended on a logging road. It was easy to miss. Call in the ATVs? No, they were halfway to Macklemore. Cannon could wait for Dickerson and O’Neal. They had flashlights and guns, but in the meantime, Isaiah would lengthen his lead. Cannon yelled, “Over here! This way!”
Isaiah heard Cannon shouting. He wasn’t far behind. He’d figured out the hat was a ruse. Thankfully, Isaiah reached the dirt bike trail. It was steep and narrow, hemmed in by the brush and trees. He climbed the trail, tripping on the ruts and tire tracks. He was winded and cold. He was suddenly fearful it was the wrong trail. He stepped up his pace. At last, he saw the clearing and the mud-spattered Electra Glide leaning on its stand. “Hallelujah,” he said.
He was going to leave the engine running but the bike needed throttle, or it died. Getting here had been hard. The Glide was for highway cruising, nothing about it was suitable for this kind of terrain. The width, the regular handlebars, the street tires, the short-travel shock absorbers and the low ground clearance. A modern dirt bike weighed around two hundred pounds. The Glide weighed six or seven.
Isaiah mounted up, stood on the pegs and stomped the lever. The bike backfired so loud it was like shooting off a shotgun. But the damn thing didn’t start. The sound had alerted Cannon. Isaiah heard him shouting, “He’s over here! I’ve got him!” Isaiah stomped on the lever again. It sputtered and died. Another try, same results. Had he flooded it? If he did, he’d have to wait for the carburetor to clear. Cannon was close, Isaiah could hear him crashing through the brush. Another try, another nothing. Isaiah’s thigh muscles were tapped out, each kick weaker than the last. Cannon was very close. One more time, Isaiah, kick the fucking thing! He gathered up his remaining strength, stood up on the pegs and kicked his last kick. The bike started. He looked back. Cannon had reached the trail. He was twenty yards downhill. Isaiah twisted the gas, revved the engine and released the clutch. The engine roared, but the back tire couldn’t find traction. It was spinning in the dirt. Isaiah could see Cannon in the rearview mirror, his teeth clenched, fierce and coming on fast. The tire was still spinning. Come on, come on, bite, goddammit! Cannon was ten feet away, his eyes like search beams, sweat on his angry face.
“I GOT YOU,” he screamed. “I GOT YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!” And then, traction! Cannon lunged forward, trying to grab the seat, the fender, anything. Isaiah took off, the bike fishtailing, a shower of dirt, gravel and pine needles hitting the sheriff in the face.
The trail was full of potholes and deep ruts left by the hundreds of bikes that had used it before. There were also patches of greasy mud, erosion grooves and steep inclines. Isaiah stood up on the pegs, flexing his knees to absorb the bumps, every moving part on the old Harley squeaking and creaking and complaining. The bike felt like it was breaking apart. The headlight was weak but brightened when you revved it. At least the generator was working. Isaiah made it through a stretch of whoop-de-doos. The front tire wanted to follow the ruts, leading him off the trail and into the brush. He had to sit and wrestle with the handlebars, paddling furiously with his feet. He estimated his speed at seven to ten miles an hour. He thought he’d gone about a mile. Hiking speed was two to three. If Cannon was in pursuit, he’d never catch up. He stopped to rest, have a drink of water. He got the Cordura jacket, gloves and helmet out of the saddlebags and kept going.
He reached a hill. It wasn’t that high, but it was very steep. If you were on foot, you’d have to lean forward to make the climb. Coming the other way, the angle wasn’t nearly as severe. The surface was dry dirt and loose gravel, grooved and furrowed by a thousand tire tracks and uneven rivulets where the rain had washed down. Some of them were inches deep. About midway up, there was a stretch of solid rock, then another stretch of dirt and gravel, followed by a short, sharp incline to the top.
He put the bike in second gear. Too much traction and the front tire would lift. You’d fall backward with a seven-hundred-pound bike on top of you. He revved the engine, released the clutch and accelerated hard, standing on the pegs and leaning over the gas tank to keep his weight forward. It was a struggle to stay on line, the handlebars wagging violently back and forth, the shocks bottoming out, Isaiah bouncing up and down. He had to feather the clutch to keep the revs up. If he lost momentum, he’d never get it back.
He hit the rocky patch and downshifted to first to get traction on the hard surface. There was dirt and gravel again so he shifted back to second. He made it over that too, the short, sharp incline ahead. Back to first gear, more revs, the front wheel went over the crest. “Yeah!” he shouted. But he forgot to let off the gas. The rear wheel dug in, the front end rearing like a stallion. The bike skewed sideways and threw him off.
He tumbled and rolled down the side of the hill, carried along by a conveyor belt of fast-moving dirt, gravel and debris. He was on his back, low-hanging branches slapping at him, rocks bouncing off the polycarbonate helmet. He shifted his weight onto his shoulder and took a quick glance up. The Glide was sliding down after him, going faster than he was. If they hit bottom like this he’d be crushed. He lay flat again, his head like a luge driver, watching the bottom of the incline getting closer, a pile of big rocks down there. He couldn’t roll clear and he couldn’t get up. He heard the bike behind him, metal scraping and screeching. He saw a thick branch hanging over his path. He didn’t know if he could reach it. He leaned forward as far as he could and put both hands up high. He was going so fucking fast! Grab hold and don’t let go! He grabbed the branch, hooked a leg over and pulled himself up, the bike sliding under him so close a side mirror whacked him on the ass.
The avalanche stopped. He let go of the branch and clambered down to the bottom. He was sore; the rocks had pummeled him everywhere but his head. He took off his helmet and gloves and slid down to the ground, his back against a tree, breathing in gulps. He rested a few minutes, confident Cannon was still far behind. A moment later, he heard Cannon coming up the trail. He wasn’t hiking, he was jogging, traveling almost as fast as the Glide. The delay had let him catch up.
Cannon slowed to a stop, probably gathering oxygen for the climb up the hill. If he reached the top, he’d see the path of the avalanche and the dust thrown up by the falling rocks. Isaiah heard the sheriff trudging up the hill.
“What do we have here? Have a little accident?” Cannon said. He’d reached the top of the hill. Isaiah wasn’t in his line of sight, the trees giving cover from above. He was in a wide clearing with only the occasio
nal shrub. The surrounding trees were too far away to reach in his condition. The moon was bright but dimmed by a thin veil of clouds, a faint deer path cutting across the weedy grass. Unless you were a weasel or a snake, there was no place to hide.
Cannon reached the bottom of the incline. Isaiah imagined him standing there, not moving, listening, while his police officer’s eyes searched for a sign. He came forward and stopped. Judging by the sound, the sheriff was probably on the deer path. Isaiah was very close to him. A few yards away. He had to breathe silently, without moving his chest. His injuries throbbed. He had dirt in his nose, mouth and lungs. A layer of sweat and mud were caked on his face. He couldn’t open his eyes. He had covered himself with pine needles, leaves and dirt. He had no idea what he looked like from the outside. He might be as obvious as King Tut’s sarcophagus under a bedsheet. He was counting on his choice of locations; in a depression so there wouldn’t be a silhouette and underneath the branches of a low bush so there wouldn’t be a shadow. But the depression was very close to the deer path. Isaiah reasoned Cannon would be looking around and ahead of him, not down and a few feet in front of him.
Cannon still hadn’t moved. Come on, goddammit, I’m going to choke to death! Isaiah was on the sheriff’s left. He could hear him taking slow heel-to-toe footsteps. He drew closer. Isaiah could hear him breathing. Cannon stopped again, his shoes a foot away from his head. Isaiah was on the verge of giving up. I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it! The sheriff was very still. He held it. And held it. He was listening for a discrepant sound. The dirt and sweat had formed a crust around Isaiah’s body. He was like a fish baked in salt. It was so fucking hot. There was nothing but intense heat and claustrophobia. I’ve got to move! I have to move!
