by Steve Gannon
And anyway, it was time to move on.
Afterward he drove to Malibu and stopped across the highway from the house, inspecting the weathered structure. No lights. No cars in front. Again using his stolen phone, he dialed the number he’d copied from the phone book. No one answered. Satisfied, he proceeded several hundred yards north, parked his car, and walked back along the highway.
He found the electric meter in a service niche near the front door. After turning off the power, he made his way down the side of the house. The flimsy lock on the back door yielded easily. A quick search revealed the residence to be deserted. Nothing to do now but wait.
As Carns savored thoughts of what was to come, a telephone on the coffee table jangled to life. He let it ring. Finally a machine in another part of the house picked up. “Kane residence. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you,” a woman’s voice said.
A beep sounded, then nothing.
Carns reached out with a gloved hand and lifted the receiver. Gently, he placed it on the floor and covered it with a cushion from the couch.
There would be no more distractions.
When Deluca phoned back, his voice sounded strained. “You were right,” he said. “There’s a vault hidden in a hedge that runs all the way to the street. The metal cover was off. We contacted local cab companies. Two hours ago A-1 Taxi picked up somebody at the west gate matching Carns’s description.”
“Two hours ago? And none of our guys at the gate noticed anything?”
“One of the units saw a taxi picking up a jogger but didn’t give it a second thought. We located the cab driver. He said he dropped his fare in an industrial section near Alicia and Fabricante. He thought it was strange, there bein’ no residences down there and all. One of the Orange County deputies thinks there are some self-service garages in that area. Maybe that’s where Carns stashed his cars.”
“Maybe,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. I recalled Berns’s statement regarding the killer’s willingness to strike at anyone he considered a threat. I paused, asking myself what I would do if I were Carns.
A game.
Thrust, parry. Move, countermove.
Suddenly I knew.
“Listen, Dan,” Deluca continued, “I’ve gotta bring Snead in on this. Other people down here know you’ve been calling. I can’t keep you out of it.”
“Do whatever you have to,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
I hung up and redialed Catheryn’s cell phone. No response. Again I called the beach house. This time the phone was busy. Fighting panic, I dialed the operator, identified myself, and requested an emergency interrupt. What seemed an interminable pause followed as she checked the line.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said at last. “That number is out of order.”
52
Allison heard the intruder moving through the music room downstairs, then the thump of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs-slow and deliberate, definitely those of a man. With a plunge of panic, she slipped from her bed and flipped the comforter over her still-warm covers. She quickly smoothed the bedspread as best she could, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice. Without making a sound, she crept into her closet and hid behind a long woolen coat.
She heard the man stop briefly at the top of the stairs, then move to the kitchen, his weight creaking the old floorboards. As if no time had passed in the interim, the paralyzing helplessness she had felt at the hands of another man years before came flooding back.
Can’t let him find me. Out the front door? No time. He’ll be on me before I get it unlocked. The phone in the kitchen? Too far.
Minutes later the beam of a flashlight stabbed into her bedroom. She held her breath as the light swept toward her hiding place… hesitated… and flicked to another part of the room. The intruder moved on. She heard him searching her brothers’ room, then Nate’s former bedroom in the loft above the entry, and finally her parents’ room down the hall. Next he made his way to the living room. She heard a squeak from the couch as he sat, then the clump of feet on the coffee table. Soon another sound drifted through the darkness. At first she couldn’t identify it. Then she had it.
Humming. He’s humming.
Huddled in her closet, Allison swallowed hard, desperately trying to stifle the cough that had plagued her since Christmas. Any sound, even the slightest, would surely reveal her presence.
What time is it? she wondered, forcing her mind from the burning tickle in her throat. Midnight? One o’clock? They’ll be home soon.
She had to warn them.
But how? She dared not move. Even raising her bedroom window and escaping to the street was out of the question. There has to be a way, she thought. I have to do something.
But when she heard Catheryn’s car pull to a stop out front twenty minutes later, she still hadn’t decided on a course of action. Instead, hating herself for her cowardice, she remained hidden, listening with horror as the front door clicked open. She heard muffled voices. Her mother said something about the party. Nate mumbled a sleepy response. Suddenly Travis called out in surprise. A heavy thud. Screaming. Guttural commands. Then the sounds of struggle as one by one her family’s cries were silenced. Next she heard dragging noises, followed by footsteps as the man returned. More humming from the next room. Nate’s room. Slapping sounds, muffled sobs.
The man spoke, his sepulchral tones filled with mocking cruelty. Her heart gripped in a fist of terror, Allison listened to the words he said to Nate. Softly, as though reading from a script, the man told Nate what he intended to do.
Trembling, she heard the sounds of another struggle, this time mercifully brief. Moments later it was over.
As the intruder retreated down the hall toward her parents’ room, Allison jammed her fist to her mouth to silence her sobs.
Nothing. She had done nothing.
And now it was too late.
Oh, God, Nate. I’m sorry, she thought, her eyes squeezed shut against the terrible clinging darkness, tears spilling down her cheeks. I’m so sorry.
Carns paused in the center of the bedroom, surveying his surroundings. Candles washed the chamber in hues of yellow, sending a montage of light and shadow flickering across the walls. The woman lay trussed on the floor, the older boy hogtied beside her.
Carns knelt to examine their gags, making certain they hadn’t slipped and blocked their breathing. Satisfied, he rechecked the plastic ties binding their hands and feet. He felt a thrill of anticipation as he noticed the woman’s eyes widening in terror, her body shuddering at his touch. She was exquisite. Although he knew from earlier surveillance that Kane wasn’t living at home, he intensely regretted that the troublesome detective wasn’t present. Unfortunately, the boy would have to do. As Carns rose to his feet, a satisfying thought occurred to him. Kane will know. He won’t know how, but he’ll know. And he won’t be able to do a thing about it.
Everything was nearly ready.
Carns dragged the boy to the closet and jerked him to his knees, noting that his face and eyes were still red from the pepper spray. Seizing a fistful of hair, he circled the youngster’s neck with a noose, tied the other end of the rope to the closet doorknob, and inserted the pipe. He gave it a twist, careful not to cinch the noose too tight. As with the gags, he didn’t want to end things prematurely.
The woman next.
Carns scooped her up and dumped her onto the bed. Working quickly, he tied one ankle to the corner of the bed frame. His pulse quickened as she renewed her struggles, her skirt riding up over her thighs. Cupping her chin, he passed a noose around her neck as he had with the boy, fastening it to the headboard. Next he looped a second line around her other ankle, running it to the opposite corner of the bed frame. The last step entailed cutting the plastic tie binding her feet. He tensed, readying himself for what was to come.
Now.
She kicked, lashing out with her legs, just as the others had. He grabbed her free ankle and levered it down, pulling the rope taut at the
same time.
Done.
Smiling with satisfaction, he climbed onto the bed, straddling her. Her chest heaved as he crawled on top, the weight of his body causing her breasts to strain against the fabric of her blouse. Reaching behind her back, he found her hands. Roughly, he rolled her onto her side and tied a length of rope to each of her wrists, then cut the final plastic tie. She renewed her struggles, but less forcefully than before. Her earlier resistance had tightened the noose around her neck, cutting off her air. Carns knelt on her arms and fastened them to the frame above her head. It was a critical maneuver that always gave him difficulty, but at last it was done.
He removed the noose from her neck and tossed it to the floor. She lay defenseless, a halo of auburn hair framing her face. Her skirt had bunched under her hips, exposing her long and shapely legs. The struggle had also torn several buttons from her blouse. Reaching to the nightstand, Carns picked up the knife he had taken from the kitchen. After severing the remaining buttons of the blouse, he cut away the rest of the silky material, dropping the shredded garment to the floor beside the rope. Next he slit the shoulder straps of her bra. She shivered as the blade touched her skin. With a yank, he jerked the lacy fabric down to her waist.
Her breasts were firm, almost perfect. Leaning down, he gently bit her left breast-not too hard, not taking tissue yet-just enough to make her moan. And again, moving to the flawless skin at the base of her neck. And again on her shoulder, harder this time, tasting her fear. She bucked beneath him, helpless.
Take her now.
No. First things first.
Carns climbed from the bed. After retrieving his knapsack from the hallway, he returned to the woman’s side. Slowly, he opened his bag and withdrew several of its contents, laying items out in a neat row upon the sheets. Surgical scissors. Prophylactics. Camera. Gun. Tape recorder.
And the knife.
Blood racing with excitement, Carns smiled at the woman. Then he picked up the scissors and moved toward Travis. Abruptly, he froze.
Someone was banging on the front door.
Damn! Who could it be at this time of night?
The police, like last time?
Run?
What about the woman and the boy?
He couldn’t leave them alive.
No time…
Don’t panic. The police can’t know. They can’t. It must be someone else. See who’s there.
Carns put down the scissors and grabbed his knapsack and gun. Stealthily, he crept to the front door.
Allison heard the knock. She couldn’t believe her ears.
Please God, let it be the police.
More knocking, louder this time. “Malibu sheriff,” a voice called.
Allison opened her mouth to reply, stopping as she heard footsteps moving down the hall. Seconds later she heard the outside gate bang open, then a rustle of beach cane as the sheriff began making his way down the side of the house. The intruder stopped in the entry, then quietly descended the stairs.
Get out. Quick, before he comes back.
Allison forced herself from her hiding place.
The front door?
No. He’ll see me.
The window.
Her bedroom window hadn’t been opened since a heat wave the previous summer. Allison fumbled at the latch. Somehow she got it open. Panting with terror, she strained to slide the sash up the paint-thickened jamb. It wouldn’t budge.
Please open…
A creak.
Hurry…
Another creak.
Abruptly, the window jerked up an inch. And another.
Come on, a little more…
With a lurch, the window rattled open wide enough for her to squeeze through.
Allison squirmed one leg into the opening, then an arm, finally her head, expecting at any moment to hear the intruder bolting back up the stairs. With a five-foot drop to the ground and freedom, she paused on the sill.
What about the others? Maybe it’s not too late…
No. I can’t do anything. Go.
But what about them?
There’s nothing I can do. Hurry, hurry, before he comes back. Go
…
Despite her fear, Allison hesitated, suddenly recalling her father’s words to her in the cemetery: “When things go bad, really bad… remember who you are. ” At the time his advice had seemed superficial and facile. Now, with a flash of understanding, Allison realized its meaning.
She hesitated a moment more. Then, clenching her teeth to still their chattering, she eased back into her room.
53
Following another failed attempt to reach Catheryn on her cell phone, I made a second call to the Malibu sheriff’s station, then jumped into my Suburban and sped north. Even though I badged my way past several jam-ups, it took twenty minutes to reach Topanga, where I found a police unit diverting traffic. Again, I flashed my ID and raced past.
On the other side of the police barricade, I found the four-lane coast highway eerily deserted. Three miles farther on, as I rounded a bend and reached Las Flores Beach, my heart sank. Police cruisers were lined up on the far side of the road. Weapons drawn, a dozen sheriff’s deputies were crouched behind their vehicles, their attention focused on a beach residence across the highway.
Mine.
Swerving to avoid a black-and-white angled across PCH, I skidded through a line of highway flares and screeched to a stop across from my house. With a lurch of horror, I saw Catheryn’s Volvo parked out front, Travis’s Bronco close behind.
Too late? Oh, God, please let me be in time.
“Kane! Over here.”
I glanced toward an officer huddled behind the nearest patrol car. It was Brian Safire, a sheriff with whom I had spoken earlier. Waving frantically, Safire motioned me over. Nodding that I understood, I pulled my automatic. Head down, I exited my Suburban from the passenger side and joined my friend behind his cruiser.
“Fill me in,” I said, staring at my house. Most of the police units had their spots on it, bathing the structure in an unearthly glow.
Sergeant Brian Safire was only in his early thirties, but years of desk work and a steady diet of junk food and cigarettes had taken their toll. “We have an officer down,” he said, his face shining with sweat. He swallowed, seeming more out of breath with each word. “After you called, I had dispatch send over a unit. There was already a car at Carbon Beach, so it got here fast. One of the guys recognized your wife’s Volvo out front. When nobody answered the door, he climbed down the side of the house to the lower deck. Caught a bullet in the chest out one of the back windows.”
“He going to be okay?”
Safire nodded. “Vest stopped it. He’s shook, but he’ll be all right.”
“Anything since then?”
“We got a phone line open twenty minutes ago. The asshole inside says he wants a helicopter and safe passage or he’ll start killing hostages. I’m sorry, Dan.”
“Are they all right?”
“I don’t know. After making his demands, the guy gave us thirty minutes to respond and then cut us off. We evacuated the adjacent homes and stationed teams on either side as well as out on the beach. Nobody’s seen or heard anything since.”
“You talked with him twenty minutes ago? That gives us ten minutes.”
“Give or take. I called SWAT right away. They’ll be here soon. Meanwhile, that dirtbag ain’t going nowhere.”
I holstered my automatic, opened the door of Safire’s cruiser, and reached inside.
Ignoring Safire’s puzzled look, I flipped the radio-console toggle to bullhorn position and grabbed the mike. Seconds later my amplified voice boomed into the night. “Victor Carns. This is Detective Daniel Kane.”
Silence.
“Carns, I know you’re in there. Put the phone back on the hook. I’ll call you in thirty seconds. I have something to tell you. I guarantee it’s something you want to hear. Thirty seconds.”
Safire stared at me. “You
know this guy?”
I tossed the mike back into the cruiser. “I know him.” I opened my cell phone and punched in my home number. It was busy. I tried again. The second time someone picked up. “You now have six minutes,” a voice declared harshly.
“Then that’s about what you have, too,” I replied. “That is, unless you pay close attention to what I’m about to say.”
“I’m listening.”
“First off, the helicopter’s on its way,” I lied. “It took off from Santa Monica a few minutes ago.”
“Good.”
“Not good, Victor. Regardless of what you think, there’s no way you’re getting on that chopper with civilian hostages. It just isn’t going to happen-even if it means everybody winding up in body bags, including you.”
Again, silence.
“There is a way,” I continued, easing into my next lie. “The word civilian is the key here, Victor. I’m not a civilian. Take me. Let the civilian hostages go.”
“An interesting proposal, Detective. I accept.”
“Let me talk to them first.”
“Talk when you get here. You now have four minutes.” With that, the line went dead.
I attempted to call back. I got another busy signal. I thought quickly, trying to decide what to do. Finally I stood, took off my jacket, and laid it on the hood of Safire’s black-and-white. As I began unstrapping my shoulder rig, an LAPD cruiser squealed to a stop beside me.
Lieutenant Snead rolled out from the passenger-side door. “What are you doing here, Kane?” he demanded angrily, crouching behind Safire’s vehicle.
“I live here, Snead. What brings you down?”
“After talking with Deluca, I got a squawk from the SWAT unit,” he replied. “You’re not the only one who can do simple addition.”
