In the Guise of Mercy (Maggie Macgowen Mysteries)

by Wendy Hornsby

  "That's it," I said. "You see how the well-trained investigative mind works?"

  He picked up his tray again. "A hellfire-and-brimstone preacher talking about rooting out the devil among us, cops feeling they were under siege, shackled by outsiders who didn't understand what they were up against, shackles that kept them from protecting their community; a catalyst."

  "Where is the guy?" I asked.

  "The preacher? He's still on the job."

  "Where is Lewis Banks?" I asked.

  "Getting loaded for all I know."

  "Nick?"

  "Can't find him." Nick wouldn't look at me. "He didn't report in to Central, and his cell phone says his line is 'engaged.' But don't worry. We came up with a plan. Your neighbor guy, Drummond, says he'll drive you home."

  After Nick left, I dropped by Studio 8 to check with Early. His producer, Ida, accosted me as I walked past her office, did a body block across her studio door to keep me out.

  "You can't have him," she intoned in her distinctive croak, a sound that seemed to come from some cavern deep within her nasal sinuses. "Every time I go looking for Early lately he's off somewhere fooling around with you guys. He was taping an interview with the governor this morning and we got cops traipsing in and out of the studio, disrupting things. The governor, for godsake."

  She slammed her clipboard against the door. "MacGowen, it's got to stop."

  "Hi, Ida," I said, normal tone and volume. "May I speak with Early?"

  She rolled her eyes before she pinned me with a glare and moved away from the door. "He's in the studio. For once."

  I apologized to Early for any grief Ida was giving him. He suggested that we invite Ida along on a field shoot sometime, share the fun, make her happy. Early told me the cops had indeed come to call on him a couple of times about the break-ins. And that he had agreed to drive me home after the six o'clock news went up. I told him to call when he was ready to go, I'd be in my office.

  A few minutes after seven he called to say he would meet me in the lobby. I logged off the computer, gathered my things: dress, heels, notes, discs, laptop, camera. The dress I draped over an arm, threaded my fingers through the shoes' sling-back straps, packed everything else into the tote, turned off the lights, locked the door, and took the elevator down to meet Early.

  "How did the interview go with the governor?" I asked as we crossed the parking lot.

  He laughed. "I tape him, I don't listen to him. Especially I don't listen when the topic is California education reform because you and I both know that next year he'll have a completely different plan, and the system will continue to limp along underfunded, unfocused, and unable to service the actual needs of our kids. All I know is that the kids deserve better."

  "Spoken like a schoolteacher's son," I said, chuckling. If Early had ever met my father I would have accused him of mimicking my dad when he made that speech; Early's mom and my dad had both been college professors. But as he talked, I looked at him closely; Early was always surprising me.

  Before we got into Early's car, we alerted the tail that we were on the move, headed into Malibu Canyon and home. Early made sure the men in the follow car had full directions, in case we got separated.

  Rush hour was long over, but that does not guarantee an easy drive through the Valley, ever. A fender bender, a median-wall repair, a repaving project, different presentations of the usual possibilities slowed us from time to time. But we got off the freeway and into the quiet of Malibu Canyon unscathed, for which I am grateful every time it happens.

  There was only the smallest crescent of a waxing moon. Early's headlights and the lights of the tail car lit Mulholland Highway when we made the turn. Twice, as we came around curves, our beams reflected off the eyes of creatures lurking at the side of the road, yellow bulbs against the black of the brush.

  Early handed me a clicker.

  "What's this?"

  "You can trigger the outside lights now from anywhere inside the house," he said. "If you hear anything, push the green button; you'll light up like a roman candle."

  "Duke won't love that," I said.

  "That's the point." He laughed softly in the dark. "So far, Duke's the best alarm system we have. But, just so we don't overly agitate the old boy, the clicker can disable the automatic lights if you know it's just a coyote or a deer looking for your trashcan. But if you ever get scared or need help, flip the lights on and off a couple of times. Even if I don't see the lights, I'll certainly hear the horses."

  "Thank you, Early," I said, fighting back tears again. "This is a tremendous comfort."

  When we came around the last hairpin curve before our houses, Early flipped off his headlights as a courtesy to Duke's sensitivities, and as he approached his driveway he tapped the new clicker to block the yard lights from popping on. Our tail car continued past Early's driveway and went up my driveway next door. I wondered who instructed them to do that, or how they knew to do that, but so far police security had been very thorough. Probably one of the policemen who had spoken to Early during the governor's interview had asked him about the lay of the place.

  No one told the tail about Duke's issues with headlights, however, so when they drove up my driveway their lights sent Duke into full rant mode, and he set off his two buddies.

  As we gathered our things from Early's backseat, our guards came over to introduce themselves. They were both very athletic-looking, keen-eyed young men. Confident, cocky.

  "My partner and I want to secure the premises before you go inside, ma'am," I was informed. "So, if you'll please give me the house keys and wait right here with Mr. Drummond and my partner, I'll go inside and have a look around. When we're secure inside, my partner will secure the perimeter."

  While we waited, Early and I walked over to the corral to calm Duke, Rover, and Red. Carrots and muzzle-scratching quieted them. Red and Rover strolled away for a drink of water, but Duke stayed at the rail as long as we were there, his eyes bright and trained on the policeman behind us, his ears straight up and on the alert.

  Early turned to me as he stroked Duke. "You've been playing different music lately. More classical pieces."

  "It's my stuff. Mike preferred jazz," I said. "The house is so quiet now, I like to have some sound for company. I hope it's not too loud."

  "No, it's fine. I like it," he said. "The thing is, I have season tickets for the LA Philharmonic. I always go on Sunday afternoons, have an early dinner afterward, make a day of it. The program this Sunday is Sibelius, Debussy, and Mahler, and I thought it was a program you might enjoy."

  "Early," I said, looking into his face, "thank you for asking me, but it's just too soon for me to think about..." I could hardly say the word: "Dating."

  "Call it what you want to. I'd call it friends out to the symphony and dinner, but suit yourself."

  I thought over his invitation for a moment. It was too dark to read his expression, but his posture and his voice were comfortable, no nervous-suitor edge there. And he was good company.

  I said, "Thank you. I would love to join you. What's the dress code?"

  "I manage to get myself into a suit and tie. Something like the dress you wore today would be fine."

  "I'm burying this dress," I said, pushing it over my shoulder. "But by Sunday I think I'll be able to find something appropriate."

  While our man kept a watchful lookout outside, staying a respectful distance from us, the other searched inside. We followed his progress from room to room, upstairs and down, by watching lights go on and off.

  Early told me he tries a new restaurant every time he goes to the symphony. We compared favorite places and shared some duds.

  I said, "You've taken care of the tickets. I'd like to take care of dinner."

  "Sounds fair," he said.

  I said I'd do some research and make reservations, surprise him. He thought that was a fine idea.

  The inside man came out the front door and down the steps. We walked up to the house to meet him
. My tote bag was heavy, with a laptop, notepads, files and a camera inside. So, while we talked, I set it down on a lower step, draped the gray dress over it, and set the heels on the top.

  "Looks all clear," the officer said. He asked Early about the yard lights. Then we went inside with him to test the new remote that could, theoretically, turn the lights on or off from inside the house.

  The outside man began his rounds of the perimeter.

  "Don't you get frightened up here, ma'am?" the officer asked. "You're pretty isolated. The property is so extensive, and there are so many potential places where the property can be entered, I think you should think about a good alarm system. And some better locks. I understand an intruder jimmied a patio door and came in."

  I told him I would look into an alarm system. I didn't say that until now I never thought one was necessary. He made certain that the light sensors worked and handed me the clicker.

  He wrote a number on the back of a card and handed it to me. "My cell is on. Any concerns, call. As soon as I see you're locked in here, I'll move the car further down the drive, outside the light-sensor zone. We can see the house, you can see us. We can all see if an intruder approaches because the place will light up."

  Sounded reasonable to me. I did not feel that there was imminent danger, but if my burglar, who so far had been less than efficient, made a drive-by I believed the presence of my watch cops down near the road would be sufficient deterrence and he would just, as Mike would say, keep to steppin'.

  The policeman said good-night and reminded me to check all the doors and windows in case he had missed something, and then he went outside to rejoin his partner.

  Early walked through the house with me, making certain that all the doors and windows were locked. When we had made the circuit, he checked the clicker a last time, walked with me to the back door, and waited to make sure I had bolted the door behind him; someone had installed a new bolt, probably Early. When the lock clicked in place, he waved and started toward his own house. But something seemed to occur to him and he hurried back.

  "What time do you need to go in tomorrow?" he asked through the glass. "I need to be at the studio by noon."

  "Thanks, but I'll have a car."

  He nodded and waved again. "See you tomorrow."

  I walked through to the front of the house, feeling more spooked because of all the fuss about security than I ever had when all I had to rely on were my own ears and instincts, and Duke. And Mike. It occurred to me that I had not lived alone since I was a very young woman, by choice. I felt a moment of panic, and then a flash of anger. This was not the way Mike and I had planned for things to be. What happened to "Grow old along with me"?

  I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was not entirely alone. Through the front window I could see that the two officers had moved their car down the driveway and parked, apparently, outside the "zone." I thought I could discern that someone was inside the car, but I couldn't be certain; lights and shadows play tricks. I wondered if I should have offered them the use of the bathroom before they settled in for a long vigil, and considered calling them and making that offer, but they were pros, certainly equipped to handle their own needs. And I was reminded of my mother's words when we went hiking in the redwoods: they could pee in the woods like the bears.

  I saw the glow of Early's living room lights illuminate his deck and knew he was inside, close by. The horses were snuffling around as usual. Coyotes howled in the canyon. Night sounds settled in.

  It was too early to go to bed, to try to sleep. I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine from a previously opened bottle, went into the living room and turned on the television. I watched most of one rerun episode of "Law & Order", flipped channels, decided there was nothing I wanted to watch.

  I was restless, probably the adrenaline reaction that roadside lothario of a doctor had mentioned the day before. I certainly was muscle-sore, as he predicted.

  The remedy I chose was a long soak in a hot tub with some music playing, a second glass of wine, and a book. Replenished glass in hand, I crossed the living room to pick up my bag. But the bag wasn't in its usual dumping spot just inside the front door. Then I remembered that I had left it outside on the steps.

  Grousing under my breath, I unlocked the door, flipped on the stair lights and, leaving the front door wide open, went out to get my bag off the steps. I waved at the car in case my men were inside, to let them know I was fine. If they waved back I could not see it. I couldn't see either of them.

  I clattered down the wooden steps, picked up the high heels, slung the dress around my neck, but as I bent to grab the handles of the tote bag, the dress slithered off my neck and down a few steps before coming to rest against the base of the rail support. Probably I swore as I walked down to retrieve it. Stooping awkwardly, shoes and bag held by the same hand behind my back so that I didn't let any part of me past the bottom step to set off the yard lights, and thence Duke, I reached out for the dress.

  A gloved hand came around from the dark beneath the stairs, gripped my wrist and pulled me off balance. I caught my fall by wrapping the arm holding the bag around the far stair rail. It was stupid to keep hold of the bag, but my first thought was, Don't break the laptop and the camera. My second thought was more practical as the shape of the man still gripping my wrist emerged up from the dark and reached for a more substantial hold on me.

  I made the best windup I could and clocked him with the bag. The blow didn't fell him but it surprised him enough that he relaxed his grip enough for me to jerk free. I knew I couldn't get up the steps and away from him and into the house safely; he was bigger, he was better built, and he was doubtless faster. And I did not want to risk being dragged into the house and behind locked doors.

  I was frightened, surprised, but not panicked because I expected the dome lights in the police car to pop on as my protectors flung themselves out of their car, or for two hunks of manhood to come barreling from wherever they had been lurking. But when I glanced toward the car I saw it was still dark. I thought I saw a dark shape in the front seat and swore, thinking that if it were a man and not a trick of light and shadow, that he was sleeping. Whatever, whoever, if, the darkness behind the windshield did not move.

  Duke pawed the dirt and whinnied loudly to express his distress. Hearing him, I knew immediately where to go. Instead of running up the stairs, I jumped down, hit the ground hard and ran toward the corral. I triggered the sensors and suddenly the yard was flooded with bright, silver light.

  Just steps before I reached the corral I felt my pursuer fluff the air behind me as he lunged to grab me. I dove for the ground, rolled under the bottom iron rail of the corral, and came up in a crouch on the far side of Duke. Duke nuzzled me hard enough to roll me over; I saw the rage in the old horse's eyes. His agitation had set off Rover and Red.

  Rover charged across the corral and butted Duke's rump with her head, hard, as if they were conspiring together, pumping each other up. The heel of my pursuer's shoe clanged on the top bar of the corral as he climbed over, coming after me. Duke pivoted toward the man, reared up on his hind legs, punched the air with his front legs and screamed into the night as he backed the man against the rail. I saw the glint off the barrel of a handgun rise and aim toward Duke's huge belly.

  I screamed, "No," picked up the closest object at hand, a five-gallon bucket of water, and flung it at the man. The bucket hit him in the stomach, water exploded up over his face. I think he roared, but maybe it was me. He turned the barrel of the gun in my direction, but he was off balance, sputtering as runnels of water poured down his face, trying to defend against Duke at the same time he tried to draw a bead on me. I dove forward and body-slammed him into the iron rail, hitting him square in the solar plexus with my shoulder.

  I heard his "Oof," as my blow forced the air from his lungs, felt something in my shoulder give. The gun glowed in the yard lights as it flew in an arc, coming to rest beyond his reach. Before I landed on
my butt in the soft, churned dirt and muck of the corral, I knew who he was.

  I rolled back to my feet looking for the next thing I could throw at him, when Rover turned her capacious rump toward him, rocked her weight forward and shot out her powerful hind legs, dropping him with a mighty jackrabbit kick square to his temple. A horse's iron-shod foot connecting with bone makes a terrible, unforgettable sound.

  Harry Young slid into a pathetic, motionless heap.

  I skirted the horses, reached under the rail, and retrieved the gun Harry dropped when I hit him, though from his limp and inert posture and the dark stream spilling from his head into the dirt I knew he wouldn't be fighting me for it anytime soon. My concern at that moment was the cops. Where were they? Who were they? And whose friends were they?

  Friends, I thought, a clique, a set, or a gang. In December of 1998, some young patrolmen, bolstered perhaps by righteous fury after a prayer meeting, decided to take out the boogey man, Rogelio Higgins, a Christmas present for the community. Of those men, one was in prison--he got carried away with possibilities at some point, before or after--three were dead young, and perhaps Harry would be the fourth to perish. Among the men Mike identified, only Lewis Banks was left, though there could be others. I half expected Banks to come walking out through the trees, guns blazing. Where the hell was he? And where were my cops?

  Rover and Duke pawed the dirt around Harry's motionless form. Red came over and gave Harry's middle a push with his nose as if trying to roll him under the rail and out of his corral, away from Red's friends.

  I took a handful of Red's mane and pulled him away from Harry, but I stayed inside the corral with the horses, in the shadows, my back against the tack shed, holding Harry's gun, a powerful Beretta, raised with both shaking hands as I searched the dark beyond the ring of light for some sign of movement, some glint of lights off metal.

  The horses were still agitated, pacing in tight circles around me to work off their excess steam. I thought Rover was gloating over her take-down. She went over again to nuzzle Harry's shoulder, just to humiliate him, I thought. I wondered what she would do to Harry if he had happened to fall completely inside the corral where she could use her hooves on him again.