Now a couple hundred yards away, Furyk slowed down and pulled over. He could no longer see the Escalade, but the flicker of headlights played off trees and created a glow he could easily follow. The lights stopped. Furyk pulled back onto the access road and drove, using parking lights only, past the stop sign where Brant had turned. If whoever he was meeting wasn’t here yet, he’d have to come from the same direction as Brant. Furyk continued down the road and around a mild curve, then turned his car around in a quick U-turn and pointed it back toward the way out. He parked it off to the side, knowing that if a park patrol officer was making rounds, he’d start checking around the immediate area but not explore too far. Brant must have believed that wasn’t going to happen or he wouldn’t have come here for whatever meeting he’d planned.
Walking quietly but quickly back to the turnoff to where Brant had gone, Furyk caught sight of a pair of headlights peeling off from the flow on the freeway and head down the ramp to the park. Two quick turns and the large sedan was on the same road as Furyk. He hit the ground, using the slight depression on the side of the road to keep from creating a silhouette. The headlights swept over him, then turned at the stop sign and halted. In the renewed dark that covered him, Furyk got into a crouch and watched the car. A man got out, familiar but not quite recognizable at this distance. He stood with the driver door open, one elbow resting on the roof as he looked up toward the wooded expanse of the park. A cell phone was pressed against his ear. He scanned the area nervously and talked into the cell phone. Furyk could hear the drone of a voice but not make out the words. The man put the phone away and got back into the car. He hesitantly took the same path Brant had moments before. Furyk bent over at the waist to keep his profile low and trotted after the car, staying slightly to the side so the intermittent glow from the brake lights coming on wouldn’t reveal him to the driver or anyone watching from up ahead. Just a dozen yards back, he followed the car up the fully dark road and into the deeper black of the wooded hill where Brant had gone. Within half a minute, he was standing behind a large oak and watching as the sedan pulled up to the black Escalade where Brant stood with arms folded, leaning against the side and not squinting into the high beams illuminating his angry face.
Furyk double-checked his weapon and waited.
Chapter One Hundred Sixteen
Sitting amidst the flashing blue lights of the police car and contrasting red and yellow of the blinking ambulance, Merrill believed her sanity was evaporating. She huddled in a blanket, officers and paramedics and now news people arriving and scurrying around but no one paying particular attention to her as she sat in the back of the open ambulance. They had been very concerned about the female detective, the one who had been so rude the night of Carl’s death. The same one who had just appeared to return from the dead to keep the horrible, disfigured man who was shooting everyone from killing Merrill too.
Putting her face in her hands, she waited for the trembling to take over, the endless tears to stream down her face and onto the corrugated, shiny surface of the ambulance floor. But neither happened. She looked out the back of the vehicle and saw them carrying the dead murderer out on a gurney, wrapped and strapped and looking like something from the 6 o’clock news. She peered around the corner of the ambulance, and saw the gathering people. And she was detached. She pushed the blanket off. Her sanity was fine. What she felt was anger. Anger at that bastard Margolin. Anger at Carl, whom she loved but hated. He had manipulated her, and others. Cheyenne even. And with that thought she found her true fury – at herself for letting these people do this to her. At herself for not fighting back, for not saying no. She thought of her father and how she never said no, even when the footsteps stopped at her door and the handle turned, a child not yet in her teens curled up in bed and wishing there were somewhere she could go, someone else she could be.
She climbed out of the ambulance. She wanted to go home.
Chapter One Hundred Seventeen
In the quiet of the deserted park, Furyk could hear each footstep as it crunched the sprinkling of dried leaves on the ground under the feet of the man who got out of the sedan. Leaving the door open, the figure cut the headlights and of the three only Furyk averted his eyes at the last moment so they would adjust more quickly to the sudden dark. He watched the man fumble slightly as he bumped into the driver’s door, his eyes not yet accustomed to the black. Brant didn’t wait for him and crossed the gap. Furyk could see the anger in his steps, the Sheriff’s hand naturally resting on his gun. The new arrival recovered from his misstep and met Brant midway, unintimidated. Even from his perch in the dark, Furyk recognized that the man believed himself to be at least as powerful as Brant. They started talking in intense whispers as they reached one another. Furyk had no trouble hearing every word, every nuance.
Brant began. “You’re in a load of shit and you’re gonna help me get you out of it.” It was more threat than plea, but Furyk heard both. The other man, whose back was mostly to Furyk, tried diplomacy first.
“Listen, Sheriff, this is getting out of hand. It’s a mess, and I can’t be involved. You know that I…” Before Brant interrupted, Furyk recognized the voice. He’d heard it incessantly the past few months, on the radio, on television, bellowing from newspapers. Councilman Harte was the frontrunner for the mayor’s office and everyone knew that was just a pit stop on his way to the Governor’s mansion. Sounded ambitious, but it wasn’t. Even at this early stage, with just a couple years on a city council, anyone who understood the flow of political history knew the slick, good-looking, moderate conservative wanted to follow in the footsteps of other California governors who had spring boarded to Washington and the White House. Getting caught up in some bullshit scheme with Brant was guaranteed to derail him now, forever, almost a decade before any master plan to become president could begin to come to fruition. But Harte had plenty of money, so it couldn’t be that he had any financial interest in what Brant and his dead colleagues were doing. He must have been a customer.
“Cut the shit, Harte. My problem is your problem. You want me to save my ass by giving them yours?” Brant laughed, but there was no humor in it. Harte ran a hand over his face, like he was nervous, but he wasn’t. He was deciding what cards to play.
“Sheriff, a couple years from now I’m going to need an Attorney General.” The name of the position didn’t matter. Harte was offering Brant a lifetime of upward mobility, a chance to continue playing big fish in a bigger pond. Brant didn’t hesitate as much as he should have at the offer. Furyk could smell the desperation. Brant must believe there was no way out. This wasn’t something that was going to be easily covered up, at least not with Merrill and Prole alive – and Furyk. The Sheriff was doing the calculation and the answer was clear. Time was running out.
Furyk did his own calculations and decided what he would do if he were Brant. Brant reached the same conclusion and began to pull out his gun. A dead Councilman might be worth more to him than a live one – put the blame on him, redirect everything so it was off Brant. He could spin that. Furyk was a half second ahead of him and stepped out from behind the tree, gun raised and voice loud.
“Drop it! Drop the gun right now, Brant!” He moved toward the two men as both practically jumped out of their boots at the shock of someone invading their private meeting. Brant didn’t drop the gun, but didn’t raise it any higher, either. Furyk took up a position behind and to the left of the Councilman, with a clear line of fire on both men.
“Goddamn Furyk. I can’t believe that pussy Cordoza couldn’t kill you already. I have to replace that fucking moron.”
Furyk didn’t bother moving his gun back and forth between Harte and Brant. Only the latter was dangerous right now. “He’s dead. Prole blew him away after you sent him to kill Merrill. You’re a lousy boss.”
Brant barked a laugh. “You’re in over your head, asshole. Even a jerk like you should know when to quit.” He sounded more confident than he had any reason to. “You think anyone
’s gonna listen to you over me and the good Councilman here? You’re screwed, Furyk.”
Furyk didn’t shake his head but wanted to. It sure felt like he had the advantage. “Put the gun down, Brant. Or don’t – it’d make me a lot happier.”
Brant held the gun still, out of the holster but pointing at the ground. “You don’t get it, moron. We tried to get that stupid cow Merrill to take the blame for killing Wick, but some dumb bitch got there first. Doesn’t matter now, since most of them are dead.”
Furyk didn’t like hearing any of the details. It meant Brant didn’t care if he knew or not. It also meant Brant had a plan, which could only mean one thing. Knowing what was coming even before Brant started to raise his gun, Furyk aimed for Brant’s chest just as the Sheriff cut hard to his right and moved the gun toward Furyk. An instant after Furyk fired and the bullet barely missed Brant’s shoulder, the Sheriff’s gun spit at Furyk. Brant’s lunge toward the gap between his car and Harte’s sedan had thrown off his aim and the bullet thudded into the oak where Furyk had been hiding. But first it passed through the upper arm of the Councilman who had been standing frozen during the entire exchange, doing his own calculations on how to survive this. Now he was clutching his arm and bending down to throw up.
Furyk covered the few feet between himself and Harte, grabbing the man by the bloodied arm and pulled him against his car, then dragging him back to the trunk. Brant had worked his way to the back of his own SUV after clearing the gap between the cars and Furyk could hear the trunk opening. It would have been better news if he’d heard the engine starting. Brant must be going for another weapon. The shotgun blast that took out the Councilman’s windshield quieted any questions. Brant was committed to one course of action – kill Furyk.
Chapter One Hundred Eighteen
Halfway to the hospital, Prole’s cell phone rang. The number looked familiar. The paramedics started to object, but one heavy-lidded glare from her convinced them to shut up. She flipped it open with her good hand. When done with the short conversation, which included several expletives and a few colorful phrases the paramedics had never heard before but immediately understood, she disconnected and called the lieutenant.
“Griffith Park. That’s where they are. Furyk is following them. You better hurry.” She put the phone back in her pocket, a tricky move since she was lying on a gurney in a moving ambulance and could only use one arm. Trickier was how she nonchalantly put the gun she was still carrying onto her stomach, lightly resting the grip in her hand. She raised her eyebrows at the paramedics.
“No way, detective. We’d get fired. And you need to get to the hospital.”
“What’s the matter, tough guy – you don’t think you did a good job wrapping me up? Put the IV in wrong, so I’m gonna be all fluttery and weak?” She chided them hard, but they weren’t going to budge.
“No ma’am. It ain’t going to happen.”
Prole took a slightly firmer grip on the gun, but left it resting on her stomach. The paramedic next to her looked at his partner, a large, quiet guy. Then back at Prole. “No way, you wouldn’t even think about it. You’re crazy, not stupid.”
Prole half smiled. “You give me too much credit.” There was a long pause. She didn’t blink. “Besides, I’m pretty sure they’re going to need an ambulance by the time we get there.”
The lead paramedic’s face tightened. “Goddamnit.” He rapped hard on the thick plastic separating the back of the ambulance from the driver. “Griffith Park. Turn us around.”
The driver started to object but turned and saw the look on his colleague’s face. He switched lanes and headed toward the freeway. Prole closed her eyes.
Chapter One Hundred Nineteen
“Brant! You can’t get out of this alive!” Furyk pressed the Councilman against the rear bumper of the car, both men hunched down. He took a quick look at the bleeding arm, the half moon giving enough light for Furyk to decide the now-fearful man wasn’t going to die from the wound – at least, not the one he had gotten already. Another shotgun blast hit the passenger window. Brant was moving around to their right.
“You’re gonna fuckin’ die tonight, you sonofabitch!” Brant didn’t sound like he had any doubts. The quarters were too close, there was no room to maneuver, and Furyk realized he was going to have to shoot it out almost face-to-face with Brant. He shoved Harte down to the ground hard, head first, and whispered harshly in his ear.
“Get under the car, curl up. Don’t move, don’t say a goddamn word.” Harte moved faster than Furyk expected and in just a few seconds it was as if he had vanished. Furyk moved to his left, staying below the window line of the sedan, and scrambled quickly toward Brant’s SUV. He needed a couple of clear shots. As he got to the left front wheel, he steeled himself to bolt across the five foot gap between the cars, gun shoulder level, ready to fire across the larger car if he saw Brant through the lightly tinted windows of the SUV. It would be too dark to be sure, but any movement would draw his fire. He took a deep breath, and staying in a low crouch quick-stepped into the gap.
Just as he cleared the front bumper, a movement further to the right than he’d expected caught his eye. Brant had already made the dash across the open space, moving from his own car to the Councilman’s, aggressively coming for them instead of waiting. Furyk saw his leg disappear down the passenger side of the sedan, Brant in a crouch similar to his own. Furyk held his fire, not only because it was too late to hit anything. He had a momentary advantage: Brant thought they were still at the trunk of the sedan. Furyk continued forward and reached the Sheriff’s SUV, standing up straighter and using the height of the vehicle to hide his movement. He slipped around the back and waited, knowing Brant would be reaching the trunk of the sedan in a second and find no one there. If Harte kept his mouth shut, the Sheriff would continue circling the car and come around to the side Furyk had just left. Furyk counted slowly to five, unable to see clearly through the rear window, across the interior of the SUV, and through the windshield to know when Brant would appear. On five, he whirled back around in the direction he had just come, gun chest high and held in two hands. His finger was tight against the trigger and he was ready to fire off as many shots as it took. Instinct kept him from pulling the trigger when his mind registered no one in front of him. He whipped back behind the SUV, rotating so his back was pressed against the trunk. He didn’t know if Brant was hiding at the back of the other car or had reversed direction. There was no sound now of crackling leaves. Brant would be too careful.
Furyk’s breath was fast and shallow. He willed himself to slow down, to focus. There was no anger, no emotion. Just the standoff he had to win. He waited for Brant to make a move. Half a minute passed, then a full minute. No one said anything. Furyk waited.
“Brant!” Furyk’s stomach twisted. It was the Councilman, the idiot calling out the name from under the sedan, putting a target on his forehead. “Brant! This is crazy! You can’t win this without me!”
Furyk sighed in disgust and resignation. The moron had just committed suicide, but Furyk couldn’t let it happen that easily. He went around the trunk of the SUV to the side where Brant had been before. He stood, drawing attention, and firing as he walked. He was in no hurry to get there, but at least he could distract Brant. He kept pulling the trigger, shattering whatever remaining glass there was in the car as he walked toward where Brant was probably crouching down and aiming a loaded shotgun at the hunkered Councilman and former future governor.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty
The ambulance was closer to the park than the cops were. Prole’s call had launched a half dozen cars but the eight minute ride, lights flashing, put the ambulance at the entrance to the park by themselves. Not an ideal situation, since she was the only one with a gun and chasing down a corrupt Sheriff in the middle of the night with one good arm and short a couple quarts of blood wasn’t looking like a brilliant plan. They stopped at the bottom of the off ramp and the driver slid open the partition.
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br /> “Where the hell you wanna go now, detective?” He said it with less than the full respect she would normally beat out of someone who used that tone with her, but she wasn’t in the mood.
“Turn on the siren.” If she couldn’t be the cavalry, she could at least sound like it. She squinted up at the paramedic who’d been glaring at her the entire trip. She was feeling lightheaded again. “Gimme something to keep me awake – I’m getting woozy.”
He laughed, genuinely and with rancor. “Sure, let me just shoot you up with a little something.” He reached for the IV bag and fiddled around with it, pretending to adjust something. He was messing with her. Prole’s eyelids fluttered and the lack of oxygen finally caught up with her despite the liter of blood they had hung and that was dripping into her veins.
“What, what the hell…make sure Furyk is…” Consciousness faded quicker than she could have expected and her words didn’t make it out of her mouth. The last thing she heard was the ambulance’s siren spinning up. Her grip on the gun loosened and she was out before the paramedic could snatch it away.
“Let’s get the hell out of here – take us to St. John’s. I’ll radio ahead.” The driver started to make a U-turn.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One
A Twisted Path Page 25
