I hit Fallbrook Airpark an hour later, taxied Hall Pass 2 down the runway. As I climbed into the blue western sky I saw a white Range Rover and a black Dodge Charger sitting side by side on the far edge of the parking area, facing opposite directions. Two men leaned on the driver’s-side doors, looking up at me. They looked like cabbies waiting for fares. When I was out of their sight I cleared myself in all directions, dropped the Cessna into a steep descent, and buzzed the cars low and fast. One of the men clambered back into the SUV. The other, Alec DeMaris, leaned casually on his car and looked up at me, shaking his head. The airpark manager could have my hide for the stunt, but I didn’t care. I banked and buzzed them once again, then climbed steeply and set my bearings north.
An hour and nineteen minutes later I was touching down on a private landing strip two miles from Ojai. It was owned by a friend of Pete Bagnoli, who is one of my hundreds of confederates in the very loosely organized Private Investigators Group—which we affectionately call PIG. No dues, no officers; nothing but a not-easy-to-acquire directory of PIs who might be inclined to help one another. Quite a variety of characters. We meet once a year, in Denver, whoever can make it. Young and old, male and female. Most are working professionals, a few are amateurs, others no more than crackpots with stories to tell. But I’ve met hundreds of PIs at the Denver confabs, everyone from marathon runners to skydivers to master marksmen to salvage divers. Some are vets like me, and plenty are former cops and deputies. Some are geeky tech wizards. Two collect stamps competitively.
Some even have access to landing strips. I’d met Ojai-based Pete once in Denver, and an hour and a half ago he’d been happy to offer me his friend’s landing strip. He said he’d leave a car there for me, too—keys on the right rear tire.
PIGs roll together. And I had the feeling I’d need all the luck that brotherhood could buy me.
12
I locked up Hall Pass 2 and called Sequoia. Got voicemail; texted and got nothing back. It took me ten minutes to get to town. Ojai sits on the tip of the Santa Ynez Mountains, north of Ventura, twelve miles from the Pacific. It’s a Spanish Revival–style town with a nice arcade and campanile, photogenic, and popular with tourists, motorcycle clubs, and golfers.
The Regal Motel was just off Matilija. I drove Pete’s aging Taurus through the crowded little parking lot until I saw Sequoia’s silver truck. A gorilla key chain from the Primate Palace hung from the rearview mirror. I found a space across the lot with a good view of the truck and backed in. The Regal Motel was two stories, and their room was ground level. In the middle of the parking area, a big valley oak grew behind a low concrete wall. A gray cat sat on the wall in the shade, licking its paw on this warm April day. I felt clear in the head and ready to meet my opponent, still not sure what I was going to do with him.
I texted Sequoia again and waited. The curtains in room 104 were drawn, the air conditioner dripped. No reply.
Ten minutes later they came out. Sequoia pulled the door closed snugly, then they walked all of the ten feet to the truck, Clay’s arm draped lightly over her shoulders. I watched for signs of fear or coercion but they looked like lovers and nothing more. In the moment. Appreciative of this time together. Sequoia was dressed much as I’d seen her before—denim shorts with fashion tears in them, a baggy plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hiking boots. Clay Hickman wore what looked like the same clothes he’d ditched Arcadia in—tan cords and a black T-shirt, dressy shoes. He opened the passenger-side door and she got in.
When they turned onto Matilija I followed them to the exit, then let two cars get between us for cover. Clay drove carefully, working his way north and east through town. He picked up Highway 33, leading me past Matilija Canyon, then Dry Lakes Ridge, headed toward steep and rugged Los Padres National Forest.
The highway was heavily forested and climbed steadily in elevation. I kept a car between us. Nothing in Clay Hickman’s driving suggested evasion or even much precaution. Then, abruptly and without signaling, he turned right onto an unmarked dirt road. I had no choice but to slow down with the cars in front of me, then continue on past the turn. As I went by I could see the silver truck trundling away, puffs of dust coming off the tires. A half mile farther, I U-turned and backtracked. The unmarked dirt road was oiled, well kept, and winding.
Two hundred yards from the highway I came to what looked like a very large gravestone lying on its side. I stopped and studied it. It was set levelly into the earth, and a modest bed of daisies had been maintained around its base. The stone itself was a red granite rectangle approximately six feet long, four feet high, and at least six inches thick. It was polished and clean. One word was cut into the stone in graceful cursive letters:
HICKMAN
—
I took a picture with my phone and continued on. The trees were dense and the curves were narrow. Half a mile farther I climbed a gentle rise and came to a stop. From there the road ran straight through the forest toward green, rounded mountains. Low on the flank of the foremost mountain, partially hidden by trees, stood a large white farmhouse. Black trim. Outbuildings painted similarly. Reminded me of homes I’d seen once in Pennsylvania Amish country. I could see what looked like a barnyard or a large lawn. In front of this was a rolling, white-fenced pasture where horses grazed in the sunshine. On the road, midway between the house and the pasture fence, stood a guardhouse, the white crossbeam lowered over the road.
Sequoia’s aging silver pickup idled at the guardhouse, then the arm rose and the truck went ahead. I backed Pete’s car into a highway-patrol turn, then picked my way back down the road until I found room in the trees. Got my binoculars from the trunk, hiked back up the rise, and glassed the scene.
The silver truck was parked near the house with three other vehicles—a Tesla, a Porsche Cayenne, and a BMW X5. Beside them the little truck looked like a family secret. The guardhouse crossbeam was down again and a uniformed man stood with his back to the front window of his booth, looking up at the house, a cell phone to one ear. He was older, heavy. Seemed to be listening intently. Then he was shaking his head firmly in the negative. Then another long listen before shaking his head in the affirmative and clicking off. I noted the time: 2:24. He dialed and waited, phone to his ear.
The afternoon sun had started its downward roll, splashing light on the white house and the white fencing and the green pasture and the cars. The Hickman home was a beautiful estate in a beautiful setting and it tried to tell me that nothing could ever go truly wrong there: it was a simple factory for producing privileged human beings. I lit a smoke and wondered how it was going in there between Clay and his parents, assuming that Rex and Patricia were home. I could wait and wonder. Or drive right up to the guardhouse and announce myself. Or finish the cigarette.
With the binoculars up again, I glassed the forested mountains and the wispy cirrus clouds above and suddenly I thought of Wesley Gunn, eighteen years old and less than half a year away from losing half—perhaps all—of his eyesight. Rage, Wrath & Fury started up. Very protective of Wesley. I pictured him down in Mexico right now with Burt and Lindsey, searching for a miracle. And I thought of what the poet had written about the dying of the light and I wondered what kind of god would shoulder a bright and untested young man with such a dark and permanent burden. Leaving him rage instead of vision? What good would rage do Wesley? It wouldn’t stop the dying of his light. Wesley wasn’t even angry yet. He was mostly bewildered, and only lately starting to feel the yoke of fear fitted to his young shoulders. Even Justine had gotten her thirty-one years. And to be truthful, Justine had tempted her Lord. Tempted Him by flying close to His sun, showing Him her skill and courage, by being unafraid of what He might do. By enjoying it all—the risk, the thrill, the victory of staying alive. Wesley hadn’t done anything brasher in his life than throw footballs for touchdowns.
I sat there for a good long while, watching the house and the surrounding mountains, willing Rage
, Wrath & Fury to pipe down. I’m better now at shutting them up. They grew still. In the welcomed quiet, a Cessna 182 passed by overhead, Lycoming engine growling right along. I watched it disappear in a cloud.
The guardhouse crossbeam lifted. I looked behind me, back down the drive leading in, and saw two black, dark-windowed SUVs moving toward the house. I glassed them and saw that each vehicle carried two men, and that these men wore sunglasses and were neither talking nor moving except with the bounce of the road, and looking nowhere but straight ahead. Presumably armed. I swung the glasses to the guardhouse again and saw him step out, pushing red twelve-gauge loads into the breech of a pistol-grip shotgun with a stub barrel. Nothing like a shotgun to make the heart jump. I got my phone.
3:03 PM
Four men coming. Guns probable. Surrender immediately. Do not resist in any way. This is a direct order.
The two SUVs cruised along, not quite fast, as if this thing would unfold exactly on their schedule. They stopped at the booth. The guard stepped to the lead vehicle and the driver’s-side window went down. A heated exchange, the guard jabbing the gun toward the house.
The driver pushed him away and the SUV lurched forward, followed closely by the second. On they went. The guard lumbered after them for a few yards, then gave up, an old dog outrun by rabbits. The two vehicles picked up their pace. It looked like half a minute to the house, another ten seconds to get in, and after that they’d probably clear the place like we did in Fallujah, one room at a time, all screaming and arm language, room to room, then to another and another. There are few things more intense and adrenaline-spiking in this world. Carrying life and death in your hands. Yours and those of others. Making all that follows back home feel dull and inconsequential.
3:06 PM
Men coming! Do not resist. DO NOT!
I figured if Clay was packing by now, or even Sequoia—through some understandable lapse in a nineteen-year-old’s judgment—there would soon be a brief firefight and two young lovers, or whatever they were, would be left lying side by side and forever dead.
Then: movement up by the house. I swung the binoculars onto the silver truck, which came accelerating down the drive, fast. The SUV drivers swung across the narrow road and parked. The four men dropped out and ran to cover in the trees, two on each side of the road. One with a handgun drawn. Clay charged toward the roadblock. I could see him behind the wheel, hands at two and ten, sunglasses on and his white hair bouncing. Beside him, Sequoia sat low, her head jammed back against the rest, hands braced on the dash.
On approach Clay downshifted, snaking right then left as he looked for a way through the blockade. From my higher view I saw the way. Clay did, too. He accelerated with a scream of engine, skidded around the first vehicle, shot the gap between, fishtailed around the second SUV, then gunned his truck down the tree line. The men held their fire.
The truck slid back onto the road and sped toward the guardhouse while the men scrambled into their vehicles. The guard had lowered the gate arm again and taken a position in the tree line. He knelt, heavy and off balance, trying to steady the buttless weapon with both hands. When the truck was a hundred feet in front of him, he fired into the air high above it. Clay didn’t slow down. The guard was clumsily jacking in another round when Clay splintered the gate and roared past the guardhouse. By the time the old man got himself up and turned and ready to fire again, Clay and Sequoia were out of range. The guard slammed the gun to the ground.
Moments later the silver pickup truck sped past me. My gut reaction was to give chase, but even if I managed to pull them over, then what? I could neither detain nor arrest. Could I talk enough sense to calm down a psychotic young man, off his meds, who has just been shot at? I didn’t think so. My first moral responsibility was still Sequoia’s safety.
The two SUVs skidded to stops at the guard gate and the men got out. The guard started yelling, then everybody was yelling at everybody. Their voices came to me as distant yelps. The BMW from the big house came barreling down, and it skidded to a stop, too, and a late-fifties-looking couple jumped out.
I watched the truck bouncing back toward the highway, Clay essing along in gentle left and right swerves, enjoying the getaway. Enjoy it, I thought. You are very lucky to be turning that wheel rather than bleeding on it. I had to shake my head as Clay and Sequoia disappeared around a curve.
The man I assumed to be Rex Hickman punched a finger into the old guard’s chest. The presumed Patricia Hickman grabbed her husband’s arm. The two SUVs hauled down the drive after the silver truck, and a moment later the BMW tore back uphill toward the house. No one saw me or paid Pete Bagnoli’s semi-hidden Taurus off in the trees any mind.
I waited a few minutes, then called Rex Hickman, told him who I was, that I was in the neighborhood, and would like to talk to him.
Hell no, he said, bad timing.
I told him I’d seen the shooting that had just transpired outside his home.
“Those men are mine,” he said. “And so is this property. Stay off it.”
“I’m on my way,” I told him. “Tell fatso not to shoot me when I come up the drive.”
13
I stood on the Hickman porch and listened to the voices, upstairs and distant. Rex hollering in torrents, Patricia silent, then shouting back. Couldn’t hear the words, but things were escalating by the sound of it. I rang the doorbell once more, waited, then called Rex again.
A few minutes later he swung open the front door. He had a Kick your ass expression on his face and a derringer dangling from one hand. Medium height, short brown hair, and pointed ears.
I overrode my instinct to go after him. “Cute gun, but I come in peace.”
“What in hell do you want?”
“To help your son. You don’t mind, do you?”
A few steps behind him materialized Patricia—tall, blond, workout clothes. She stared at me from behind his shoulder. “We don’t, do we, Rex?”
Without another word they led me through the foyer. He wore a purple polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. He looked as harmless as a man with a gun can look. The nylon soles of his shoes tapped on the hardwood floor as we walked past a great room with a towering ceiling, nineteenth-century portraiture, and a central flower arrangement the size of a Christmas tree.
Then into a study. Walls of bookshelves and a cavernous fireplace, picture windows facing west and south. At a bar beneath one of the windows Rex set the gun down and poured a glass of red wine for his wife. And what looked like a scotch and soda for himself. He took the wine to Patricia, who had encamped near one of the windows. I declined the drink they didn’t offer.
From here the Hickman grounds looked pastoral, as if nothing had happened. No gunfire. No car chase. No crazy son on a crazy mission. But here in the study, in close proximity to Rex and Patricia, I felt as if some flammable gas had pooled and a spark could set it off.
“Look, Hickmans,” I said. “You can stay on mute as long as you want, but I’m trying to find your son and bring him to some kind of safety.”
“My men will do that,” said Rex. “They’ll return him to Arcadia, where he’s safe and well taken care of.”
“I wonder why he ran away, then.”
“Not for you to know,” he said.
“Do you?”
He pondered this. “This is what I know. I know the quality of care he gets. His quality of life. And I know how much money I spend to provide it for him.”
“Honey.”
“Try twenty-five thousand dollars a month.”
I did try it, and it came to three hundred thousand dollars a year. At that rate, Arcadia’s sixty patients brought a breezy eighteen million dollars annually to “Dr.” Briggs Spencer, who also owned two other facilities. I remembered that he’d called his hospital profits “pocket change.” I smiled at the stubbornly cheap natures of so many very rich men.
; “What is it that you find funny?”
“Let’s be frank, Mr. Hickman. Twenty-five grand a month doesn’t even budge your bottom line.”
“It certainly doesn’t help it. But really, how far out of your way will you go to miss a point? The point is, Clay is a very troubled young man, and he has been that way for a long time, and Pat and I have done everything in our power to get what is best for him. And now Clay has had yet another break. His medications have become toxic or obsolete. Again. His mind is firing wrong. Again. Whatever was keeping him stable—relatively stable—has somehow gone wrong.”
Half a mile down the road I saw the heavy old guard come from the booth, look down at the broken barrier lying in the grass, then go back inside. “Has Clay ever complained to you about his treatment there?”
Mr. and Mrs. Hickman exchanged looks. “All we know is he was stable,” said Rex. “Then this.”
“Why did he come here today?” I asked.
“Because we’re his parents and we love him?” Rex asked.
My turn to ask the obvious. “If you love him, then why don’t you see him more than once a year?”
Rex colored, then drank. Patricia turned her back to us and looked out a big window. I hadn’t wanted to bring that up yet, but their armor was hard and I needed something strong to get through it.
“He loves us,” Patricia said to the glass. “But few and brief visits are all he can stand of us. He experiences terrible anxiety when we visit. Once, he chewed himself like a dog, the day before we were to see him.”
“So we stay away,” said Rex. “Even the once-a-year is . . . difficult.”
The Room of White Fire Page 8
