by Lee Goldberg
The man was Nick Stryker. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, his lips cracked and bloody from dehydration, but he was alive.
Mark opened Stryker's shirt and in the glow of the flash light saw blue-purple discoloration on each flank and around his belly button, indicating a broken pelvis and internal bleeding. Stryker's left leg was badly lacerated and, judging by the purple skin and swollen calf, he'd broken his fibula.
Those injuries were the least of Stryker's problems. Over the last five days, Stryker must have endured severe thirst, crippling fatigue, excruciating muscle cramps, and lapses into delirium from the blood loss and dehydration. Even the simple act of breathing robbed his body of water.
Mark assumed that he was dangerously close to kidney failure, perhaps only hours away from lapsing into a coma and dying.
He checked Stryker's neck and head for injuries and felt a drop of water hit his cheek. Stryker had dragged himself underneath the cracked windshield wiper reservoir. Soapy water was, Mark supposed, better than no water at all.
"Nick, can you hear me? It's Dr. Mark Sloan."
Stryker groaned, which was about the best response Mark could have hoped for. At least he wasn't in a coma yet.
"You're going to be all right," Mark said. He didn't know if Stryker could hear him, but he figured some reassurance never hurt. "I'm going to help you."
Mark reached for his backpack, unzip and removed the bottled water. He held it to Stryker's lips and poured. As soon as the moisture touched his lips, Stryker reflexively opened his mouth and greedily sucked in the water.
"Easy. There's plenty more where that came from."
He let Stryker have only a little water. Too much, and Stryker would vomit, worsening his dehydration. He moistened a towel and considered his next move as he gently dabbed Stryker's face.
There was no signal, so calling for help on his cell phone was impossible.
He couldn't carry Stryker back up to the car himself and, even if he could have, it was too dangerous.
There was really only one thing he could do: Stabilize Stryker as best he could and leave him behind, climb back up the bill, and drive to Oatman for help.
Stryker would just have to hang on for a few more hours.
Mark cleaned and disinfected Stryker's wounds, then began looking around the wreckage in the bright moonlight for the materials he needed.
He used some foam padding from the car seats, hard plastic from the door panels, and duct tape from his earthquake kit to fashion a splint for Stryker's leg.
He was giving Stryker another sip of water before leaving when he heard the growl of an engine on the road above.
And then he remembered his car. He'd left it parked on the road, on the blind side of the tight curve.
In the dark.
Mark scrambled out from under the Escalade in time to see a motor home rounding the curve too fast and smashing into the rear of his Mini Cooper, launching the small car off the cliff.
Directly at him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Everything happened within seconds, but for Mark Sloan, everything slowed to a crawl. He dove back under the Escalade, grabbed Stryker by the ankles, and dragged him away as fast as he could.
At the same moment, Mark's car smacked into the hillside and careened towards them in a wave of dirt, rocks, and scrub.
Stryker's screams of agony were drowned out by the earthshaking thunderclap as Mark's car plowed into the Escalade and exploded in a roiling fireball that punched into the night sky like a coiled, flaming fist.
Mark fell backwards, losing his grip on Stryker and hitting the ground hard. He rose shakily to his feet to see the two vehicles consumed by flames. Through the black smoke, he could see people standing illuminated in the glow of the headlights of their motor home, looking down at the flames.
He checked on Stryker, who was moaning pitifully. At least he was still alive.
Mark stepped clear of the smoke and yelled to the people on the road.
"Is anyone up there hurt?" he yelled.
A grizzled old man wearing an eye patch and cowboy boots hobbled to the cliff's edge. Behind him stood a family of four—a man, his wife, and their two teenage daughters.
The four of them, all in pleated khaki shorts and brightly colored polo shirts, were very shaken and stood huddled together, keeping their distance from the one-eyed man.
"We're fine," the one-eyed man yelled back. "What the hell were you doing parking your car on the road?"
"Never mind that. I'm a doctor and I've got a man down here who is critically injured. We need to get him to a hospital. Is that motor home in any condition to drive safely?"
The one-eyed man glanced back at the land yacht. The front grill was smashed, but everything else seemed intact.
"Your car was just another bug on this baby's windshield," the one-eyed man said.
"Then I need you to come down and help me bring this man up," Mark said. "We have to get him out of here."
The Dinino family brought sheets and blankets from their rented motor home when they came down the cliff. With their help, Mark fashioned a litter and dragged Stryker up to the road. The family's driver, Cletus Mabry, waited for them in the motor home, unwilling to risk his remaining eye and testicle by negotiating the steep slope on foot at night. He was watching out for any other traffic on the road.
They laid Stryker on the bed in the master bedroom and Cletus steered them the rest of the way into Oatman. The road was too narrow, and the vehicle was too large, to risk turning around to go back to Kingman, though Cletus offered to drive backwards the whole way.
"I've done it before," he said before heading, almost reluctantly, towards Oatman.
Mark stayed at Stryker's side, mostly to care for him, but also so he didn't have to watch Cletus drive.
When they finally reached the ramshackle town, Mark looked out the window and was surprised to see wild burros wandering the dusty streets and sidewalks in front of the wooden frontier storefronts.
Cletus parked the mobile home on front of the Oatman Hotel, a two-story adobe-block building. Mark got out, eased past an overly friendly burro, and used the phone at the front desk to call 911.
Within minutes, the burros were stampeding up the sidewalks, baying madly, terrified by the Mohave County Search and Rescue helicopter that was landing in the street, the rotors kicking up a huge swirl of dust.
Two medics jumped out of the chopper and Mark rushed to meet them, briefing them quickly on Stryker's medical condition.
Within minutes, Mark, Stryker, and the medics were back in the chopper, on their way to Kingman Regional Medical Center, where a trauma team was waiting for Stryker and sheriff's deputies were waiting for Mark.
Stryker arrived at the hospital unconscious and suffering from severe dehydration, renal failure, internal bleeding, a shattered pelvis, and a badly broken fibula.
The trauma doctors, under Mark's watchful eye, began rehydrating the patient with IV fluids, gave him a blood transfusion to counter his anemia, and started him on dialysis before wheeling him into surgery.
It would be a long time before Stryker was on his feet again.
While Stryker was in the operating room, Mark went down to the cafeteria, refusing to talk to the deputies until he'd had some dinner, figuring if he was going to be interrogated, it might as well be a catered event.
While he ate a hamburger and fries, he was questioned by Sam DeWitt, a thirty-five-year-old sheriff's department homicide investigator who carried himself with an almost military bearing. DeWitt sat ramrod straight in his chair, probably because he had no choice. His uniform was starched as stiff as cardboard.
Mark gave DeWitt a radically abridged version of events, starting with the letter he'd received. He left out the details of Stryker's blackmail activity and focused instead on recounting Stryker's investigation into Jimmy Cale.
"So let me see if I have this straight," Deputy Sam DeWitt said, referring to his notebook. "You'
re a doctor from LA. You received a letter from a private detective named Nick Stryker that said, basically, 'If you're reading this, I'm dead.'"
"That's exactly what it said."
"You then proceeded to retrace Mr. Stryker's activities prior to his disappearance. You discovered he'd traveled to Kingman to talk with Sanford Pelz, a broker of collectible bank notes, in regards to an ongoing investigation he was conducting. Is this accurate so far?"
"Yes."
"You visited Mr. Pelz's residence and found him shot to death. On your way to report the murder to authorities, you happened upon an auto accident and rescued Mt Stryker, who'd been laying injured under his vehicle for several days. Is this also correct?"
"Those are the broad strokes," Mark said.
"I see." DeWitt closed his notebook. "That's the damnedest story I've ever heard."
Mark wasn't sure what to make of that and said so. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"I haven't decided yet," DeWitt said. "You mentioned your son is a homicide detective on the LAPD."
"Yes, he is."
"I'm going to be giving him a call," DeWitt said.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd do more than that," Mark said. "Could you send him the ballistics report on Sanford Pelz, his autopsy, and an inventory of the items recovered in his trailer?"
"Why should I do that?"
"Professional courtesy." Mark said.
DeWitt snorted. "For all I know, Doctor, you murdered Mr. Pelz."
"Why would I?"
"For his money."
"He didn't look very rich to me," Mark said.
"Pelz has nearly a million dollars in his account at the Bank of Kingman," DeWitt said. "He got a finder's fee and a percentage of the final sales price of all the currency deals he brokered."
"If he was so rich, what was he doing living out there in such squalor? What was he saving all his money for."
"A rainy day," DeWitt said. "Or the overthrow of the United States by the storm troopers of the shadow government."
"Sounds like you knew him," Mark said.
"Kingman isn't Los Angeles," DeWitt said. "I know everybody. Pelz was a colorful character."
"I'm surprised he trusted the bank."
"He owns it," DeWitt said. "It's been in his family for generations. Doesn't mean he trusted it entirely, though."
"You might want to see if his account has received any major wire transfers in the last few months. I have a feeling more than a few came from offshore banks. I'd be curious to know exactly where they came from."
DeWitt stared at him. "With all due respect, Doctor, I work for the Mohave County sheriff. At this moment, you are a person-of-interest in a homicide."
"Sanford Pelz has been dead for days," Mark said. "I have no motive and can account for my whereabouts at the time of his murder."
"Maybe you hired Stryker to kill Pelz and take his money," DeWitt said. "Stryker had a car accident leaving the scene. When you didn't hear from Stryker, you were afraid he might have run off with the money himself. So you came out here looking for him."
It hadn't occurred to Mark before that Stryker might have killed Pelz, but he rejected the notion right away. Somehow it didn't feel right. Stryker was a blackmailer, not a killer, and he wouldn't gain anything from murdering Pelz, at least not as far as Mark could tell.
"Interesting theory," Mark said, "but there are some big problems with it."
"Such as?"
"Forgetting for a moment that I never heard of Pelz until the day before yesterday, if his money is in the bank, what good would it do for me to send Stryker to rob and kill him?"
"Lots of folks think Pelz has money buried at his place in case his bank and its assets are appropriated by the shadow government during the overthrow."
"Even if that was true, why would I rescue Stryker and go call for help."
"You didn't have a choice after Cletus hit your car and everything blew up," DeWitt said. "If that hadn't happened, you might have left Stryker there to die."
"You refer to Cletus as if you know him."
"He was a sheriff's deputy here for thirty years," DeWitt said. "Got injured twice in the line of duty."
Mark didn't want to hear the story behind the old man's other injury.
"Well, if you're going to arrest me for this fiendish plot, you better read me my rights," Mark said. "Otherwise, I'd appreciate it if you could recommend a decent hotel for the night."
"I'm waiting to hear back from the forensic boys at Pelz's place and the accident scene," DeWitt said. "I don't want you going anywhere until I get some answers. I'll have deputies posted at the exits."
Mark didn't intend to leave Kingman until he had a chance to talk to Stryker anyway. "As you may have noticed, I don't have a car, a change of clothes, or a toothbrush. How far could I go?"
That seemed to satisfy DeWitt for the moment. He rose from his seat. "We'll talk again, Dr. Sloan."
The doctors at Kingman Regional Medical Center were a lot friendlier to Mark than local law enforcement had been. They extended to him full staff privileges, allowing him to shower in the locker room and change into a borrowed set of surgical scrubs to replace his dirty clothes.
Fed and refreshed, Mark went to the doctors' lounge and called Steve, reaching him on his cell. Steve was still at work, writing up his reports on the day's arrests.
"You can't charge Arturo Sandoval posthumously with murder." Mark said.
"I know you have reservations, and so do I, but it's legally sound."
"Not anymore." Mark said. "Nick Stryker is alive."
"Don't tell me you think he faked his death, too."
"Stryker had a car accident in the mountains and has been trapped in the wreckage for days," Mark said. "He's in surgery right now at Kingman Regional Medical Center."
"Oh hell," Steve said, then added quickly, "It's not that I wish he was dead, it's just that this really complicates things
"I understand," Mark said. He knew Steve was worried about how this development would affect the cases they were pursuing on the basis of Stryker's blackmail files. "But while you think about that, there's more you should know."
Mark told Steve about the murder of Sanford Pelz and Deputy DeWitt's theory about what happened.
"I'll take care of DeWitt," Steve said. "Is there anything else?"
Mark reached into his pocket for the note he'd jotted down in Pelz's trailer. "I copied down the account numbers from some phone cards. I'd sure like to know who he was calling."
"You want me to intrude on a homicide investigation in another state," Steve said. "What do you think will happen when DeWitt finds out I've been checking into Pelz's phone records? Since Pelz doesn't have a phone, don't you think DeWitt might wonder where I got the account information?"
"He didn't ask me if I looked in Pelz's wallet," Mark said. "Besides, I thought you said you were taking care of DeWitt."
"I meant I would get him off your back," Steve said.
"Well, then, this should work. He'll be on your back, not mine."
"Gee, thanks," Steve said.
"There's one more thing," Mark said.
"I'm afraid to ask."
"I need our insurance agent's phone number," Mark said. "I had a little accident with my new car."
"How bad is it?"
"It went over a cliff and blew up," Mark said.
Steve caught his breath. "Oh my God, Dad. Why didn't you say that to begin with? Are you all right."
"I'm fine. I wasn't in the car at the time," Mark said, deciding not to share the details of how the accident happened. It would be hard enough telling it to the insurance agent. "I'm at the hospital now, waiting to talk to Stryker when he comes out of recovery."
Steve gave him their insurance agent's number. "Let me talk to the DA and see how he wants to handle this. Sit tight. Try not find any more corpses or blow anything else up, okay? I'll call you right back."
"I'll be here," Mark said wearily.
&nbs
p; CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mark called his insurance agent and told him about the demise of his Mini Cooper. The agent fussed and fretted as if Mark had lost an arm instead of a car. It didn't strike Mark as strange. In Los Angeles, people saw their cars as an extension of themselves. The arm, however, wasn't the extension most of them had in mind.
The circumstances of the accident were unique, and the agent couldn't determine how much Mark was covered for, or if he was even covered at all. He asked Mark to fax him a copy of the police report on the accident as soon as possible so he could get the paperwork on the claim started.
But he wasn't hopeful that things would go in Mark's favor. This was the second car Mark had totaled in a year. Even if he could get Mark reimbursed for the loss of his car, it was going to be very difficult to find him a new carrier at anything less than exorbitant rates.
"That accident last year happened because I was exhausted and forced at gunpoint to drive my car against my will," Mark said. "How can they hold that crash against me?"
"Because they are an insurance company," his agent said. "It's what they do."
After Mark hung up, it occurred to him that he'd lost more than his car. He'd also lost his 1aptop computer and his notes.
It was a good thing he'd e-mailed himself a copy of his work before leaving Monterey.
But he'd still have to buy himself a new laptop, which was another twelve hundred dollars out of Steve's inheritance. This investigation was getting very expensive.
Mark went to the surgical ward to get a progress report from the head nurse on Stryker's condition. She said the surgery was going smoothly and that she'd notify him when Stryker was in recovery and alert.
Mark glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly eleven p.m., but it felt like three in the morning to him. He retreated to the doctors' lounge again, stretched out on the couch, and thought about the events of the day. It was hard to believe that only that morning he'd been in Monterey.
