by Thomas Perry
“And what did he say?”
“We had been in the main lodge, sitting on those hard, straight-backed wooden chairs like they have in some bars. That’s how he talks to you: sitting almost knee to knee in that empty room with nothing to look at but his eyes. What he did was kind of lean forward with his hands on his thighs and stand up. It brought his face close to mine, and in that second, he said, ‘Then let’s get it done.’ It was so quick, so quiet that I said, ‘What? I didn’t quite catch that.’ Then he called in Debbie, my martial arts instructor, and he said, “Tell Debbie everything about this man Billy—everything you know. If you need to go to your office to consult some file about him or something, bring her with you. Then come back. After we’ve got the information, it will take another week to prepare. Then we’ll take you back so you can kill him.’ ”
“Did you do it? Did it happen?”
She ignored the question, but he could tell that she was only delaying the answer. “The week was partly so they could follow him, watch him, figure out how and where to kill him. But it also gave them time to give me a few special lessons. They call going out to kill somebody a hunt. There’s a tracker to find and stalk the target, a scout to choose and secure the place, and a professional hunter to be with you and kill the target if you lose your nerve or make a mistake. I had to learn to work with them. And they wanted me to get used to what it looks like when anything the size of a man dies. They took me deer hunting out in the fields above the camp. The idea was to get me to shoot something that was alive, and see all the blood and suffering, and then I wouldn’t get all nervous later. He tries to get you to like the killing, so you’ll be good at it—have a dead aim. That’s what he calls it. We didn’t find a deer. After a couple of days of searching, we still didn’t find one. It had been a wet spring, and I guess there was plenty of food for them farther into the backcountry, so that’s where they were. I was relieved.”
“Did you kill Billy?”
Her voice went soft, almost a whisper. “Yes. I did.” She took a breath, and said, “Parish and Mary drove me to L.A. I was surprised to see where they had found him. It was a bowling alley. He worked there late at night, waxing the lanes after closing time. The place had a lighted sign that said MOONLIGHT BOWLING, MIDNIGHT TO 2 A.M. After that, it closed, and Billy went to work. It was really pretty easy. Debbie had been at Moonlight Bowling with some other people who worked for Parish. She went into the ladies’ room at one-thirty or so, and hid in a stall. Everybody else left, but she stayed until the place was all locked up, then came out, went to the door, and propped it open a crack. It was a set of glass doors, so we saw Billy when we arrived. He was waxing an alley with a polishing machine. He was looking up toward the pins and walking backward, so he wouldn’t leave footprints. He didn’t even see or hear us come in. The scout was the first in the door, and that was Mary. She held it open for me. The last was the pro hunter, and this time that was Parish. The two of them waited in that sunken area around the scoring table, and I stood up on the foul line. I waited until he was only about eight feet away. I could have shot him in the back of the head, but Parish and Mary and Debbie were there, so I did it the way they had taught me. First and second shots go into the torso where the heart and lungs are, and the third, after he’s down and incapacitated, can go to the head. You never leave until he’s positively dead. When he was, we walked back out of the bowling alley and got into the car to drive home. I didn’t feel bad about it until a couple of months later, after I had gotten over the fear and thought about it objectively. I had done something horrible to him, and because I had, I felt I had to kill him.”
“But that’s why you’re here,” said Mallon. “To do the same thing to me.”
“I know,” she moaned. “It’s the same thing again. Only I couldn’t help it, don’t you see? Parish would kill me if I didn’t. This is my fault. You’re my fault. I didn’t imagine that the woman who committed suicide had anything to do with the self-defense school. How could I? They didn’t have her real name then. So I encouraged you to get through your obsession, even wrote up a contract so you could hire Lydia Marks to help you. I put everyone else in danger—Parish, Mary, Debbie, the other instructors, the special customers Parish teaches to kill people—so how could I refuse to help them solve the problem? They would kill me. How could they let me refuse and live?”
“Good question,” said Mallon. “I guess they couldn’t.” He stood. “I’m sorry for you, and sorry for me. I’ve got to go now.”
“You’re not going to leave me?” she asked. “I told you the truth. You’ve got to let me go. You promised.”
“I promised,” Mallon said. “But I can’t let you go until this is over.”
She was appalled, desperate. “But without me, you won’t get through this. You don’t know enough. You’re not good enough. They’ll kill you. Now that they’ve tried, there’s no way they can ever stop hunting you. They’ll keep trying until it’s done. I could tell you things, recognize people you would never suspect were after you. I can get you away from it. That’s the only way. If you leave me and go out there alone, I’ll just die here, waiting for you to get back.”
“Maybe.” He stepped out the door and locked it behind him. He could hear her shouting, but just barely. Out here, the sound of the ocean was much louder, and even tonight’s gentle breeze made it hard to hear anything.
CHAPTER 31
Mallon drove beside the ocean, heading back toward Santa Barbara. There was no question that the people Diane called the hunters and trackers and scouts would be trying to figure out where he and Diane had gotten to. Probably they had expected to hear from her by now. If they found the bodies he had left on that quiet road in Malibu, they would probably assume she was dead.
He was aware that he was going to have to do something quickly, or he was going to die. Diane had been right: there appeared to be a plentiful supply of people from that self-defense camp who had either been eager to join the hunt for him or been induced to join it to protect secrets. If their secrets were like Diane’s, they had little choice but to try to prevent him from drawing attention to the camp. He thought about the police.
Detective Berwell had been trying to trap him into saying something incriminating. The Santa Barbara police seemed to Mallon to have been more receptive to his theories, or anyway more sympathetic, than the Los Angeles police. At least Detective Fowler had seemed to be. Maybe with what Mallon knew now, Fowler would be able to do something. Mallon writhed in the seat to reach his wallet, found Fowler’s business card, picked up Diane’s telephone, and turned it on. Instantly the silence was shattered by the annoying musical ring. The little screen showed him which button to press to answer, but he did not press it. Instead, he turned off the phone for a few seconds, then turned it on again and quickly dialed Fowler’s number.
A male voice answered. “Police department.”
“Hello,” said Mallon. “My name is Robert Mallon. I need to reach Lieutenant Fowler right away. It’s an emergency.”
The cop’s voice was beginning to change from sleepy to irritated when he spoke. “I’m sorry, but Lieutenant Fowler works during the day. It’s now after one A.M. He’ll be here in about six hours, and I’m sure he’ll call you back. But if this really is an emergency, then somebody else can certainly help. Can you explain what the problem is?”
“You don’t know my name—Robert Mallon?” asked Mallon, incredulous. “I’m the man that somebody tried to kill on Cabrillo Beach.”
“Of course I know who you are,” said the cop. “It would be hard not to. If you’re in trouble again, tell me about it. Where are you?”
“I’m in a car, using a cell phone.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Yes, I am. They’ve tried twice more in Los Angeles.”
“Is someone after you now?”
“They’re searching for me,” he said. “They haven’t given up. But I can’t describe them yet, because I won’t know the
next set until I see them come for me.”
“Mr. Mallon. Tell me exactly where you are.”
Mallon had a panicky feeling. He instinctively evaded the demand. “I’m on a cell phone. I can’t hear you very well.”
“Are you still armed? Do you have a gun?”
Mallon hesitated. He had never said he was armed. He said loudly, “I guess my battery’s gone. If you can still hear me, I’ll call you again from a regular phone later, when Lieutenant Fowler is in.” He pressed the power button to end the call. If the cop knew about the gun, he knew about Malibu. It had not sounded as though the cop had wanted to help. It sounded as though he wanted to get Mallon into custody.
Mallon was in trouble. He was driving the stolen car of a woman he had kidnapped. He was carrying three loaded guns—also stolen—and undoubtedly had powder residue on his hands from killing the men who had owned two of them. If he went to a police station anywhere, he was going into a cell. He would be in the newspapers, and the hunters would know exactly where he was. Even if the police released him on bail, the killers would be waiting for him. He had killed people. He had done it to stay alive, but at the moment he could hardly look less innocent. Tonight, he realized, the police were as dangerous to him as the hunters.
The term made him think about the people who were trying to kill him. The ones he had seen were spoiled rich people who were paying for the privilege of killing him for a thrill. But the others—Parish and his friends—were professionals who had made killing into a business. As he thought about them, he told himself it was because he was trying to decide what he would do about them, but he was not really considering anymore. He knew. He had to stop them from killing anyone else, and tonight was probably his last chance. He had to do it tonight.
He was calm, able to look at his own predicament from a distance. The facts that had been making him feel hopeless had not changed, but once he had gotten beyond hope, he could see other aspects of them. He was driving a stolen car, but it was Diane’s. It was a car the enemy probably knew. If they saw it coming, they would sense no threat.
Mallon drove on, watching the sights along the freeway to detect signs that the exit for Route 33 was coming. What he had wasn’t a plan. It was a reflex, a fighter’s simple physical movement to block an attacker by striking first, a lunge to rock him backward before he could straighten an arm into Mallon’s face. He was going to drive away from the ocean, northward past Ojai, and up into the hills to that camp. If there was any evidence to prove what these people had done, that was where it would be.
Mallon watched the rearview mirror for headlights, but he saw none after he had coasted off the freeway onto the exit ramp. He kept looking, because on a weeknight after one A.M., any other car on this stretch of road might be one of the hunters. There were no headlights coming toward him either, but the emptiness of the road ahead was little comfort.
The road meandered a bit as it came away from the coast above Ventura, and every time a new stretch presented itself to his sight he strained his eyes to see anything that might indicate someone was watching for him. He envisioned a car just off the highway, maybe parked on a narrow dirt road as though it belonged there, or shielded from view by bushes. If he had been running something like this camp, he would have defended it. After a time, he decided that he had not been thinking clearly. Ojai was still ahead. It was a good-sized town with plenty of traffic most hours of the day. If there was a sentinel somewhere, he would be on a smaller road somewhere north of the town.
Mallon came through Ojai at one-twenty A.M. He drove past the long, low row of stores along the main street, and reached the block with the overhanging roof and the tan fake adobe arches and pillars, still watching for a sign that anybody was awake and paying attention to him. The sight of the place brought back an old memory. During the brief period after the divorce, when he had discovered he was wealthier than he had imagined, he had considered Ojai as a place to live. He had driven along this street and liked the architecture. He had spent a day thinking about acquiring a block of businesses farther up the street and rebuilding them in the same Spanish-revival style, but his enthusiasm had faded with the sun. He’d had a quiet dinner in his hotel and admitted to himself that he could not go through with the project. It had seemed to him that going into another business was so unnecessary that it amounted to an absurdity, an indefensible vanity, like French aristocrats pretending to be shepherds and shepherdesses while real peasants starved.
Tonight those times seemed to Mallon to be distant, almost unimaginable, his concerns outgrown like the concerns of a child. Suddenly, he decided that he knew something more about Catherine Broward. He had never thought clearly about what happened when a person took the life of another human being. Now he knew, and he was beginning to understand why Catherine had been so determined to drown herself. Seeing what could be done to another person, the harm that needed to be done to a human body to kill it, was a minor revelation. The bigger revelation was that once a person had done that to someone, he was changed too.
Catherine must have felt different afterward. The knowledge, the memory of killing her boyfriend, had made her feel tarnished and diminished. She had wanted the feeling to end, but it didn’t end. That was why she had been so determined: she believed that if she lived another day or a decade, there would be no improvement. Mallon knew that he too had changed, but his change had been different, and it felt like a clarification of his vision. He did not feel regret, or mourn the loss of the men he had killed, or search for a way that he could have avoided it so he could accuse himself of not having tried hard enough. He hated them. He was relieved that they were dead, and that he was not. The reward of victory was being alive.
Mallon was already through Ojai, and the road to the north was narrower and darker. There were no cars now but his. He endured a long period when nothing looked familiar to him. The trees seemed thicker and taller than he remembered, the dark hills lay in new patterns. He wondered how he could have gotten onto the wrong road. But then he saw a configuration of rocks that he had seen when he’d come here with Lydia—just a flash in the headlights, but undeniably the same—and then the turnoff to the right that led eastward into the hills. He drove from there unerringly to the spot where the high chain-link fence around the self-defense camp began. He resisted the temptation to turn his headlights off. If anyone inside the camp was looking, a pair of headlights moving past on the road would probably cause no alarm, but a driver trying to keep his car from being seen would be worrisome. He kept going at a slow, constant speed, and continued far past the gate before he turned off the lights and let the car quietly roll to a stop on the layer of pine needles at the shoulder of the road.
He got out, walked to the fence, stared through it, and listened. He could just see the back of the long, low building where he and Lydia had gone to talk with Michael Parish. Diane had called it “the main lodge.” There were lights on, and now and then he saw something beyond the window shades that looked like movement. He was disappointed. He had felt confident that he would be able to find some piece of evidence in that building that connected Parish and his self-defense camp with at least one of the attacks on him. It had seemed likely that the staff would have retired to their quarters at this hour, leaving the building unoccupied.
He remembered the square blacktopped parking lot across the driveway from the building on the front side. He could see only part of it from here, but he could make out four or five cars, parked close to one another. Then he recognized one of them. It was the black Lexus that had blocked his way in the hotel parking garage, the one driven by the young man with the reddish hair. He could see no human shapes, hear no sound but the breeze in the upper boughs of the pine trees beyond the fence.
Mallon carefully arranged his weapons. He put the two identical Beretta Model 92 pistols he’d taken from the two men on the road into the side pockets of his jacket, where he could reach one easily with either hand but they did not restrain his m
ovement. He considered taking Diane’s small pistol with him, but he admitted to himself that the two Berettas probably held more rounds than he would live to use. He hid hers under the passenger seat, then walked off to search for a place to climb the fence.
Mallon strode along the road for about three hundred yards, looking up along the top of the fence at the coiled razor wire, and down at the fence posts. He had worked construction sites where somebody had deemed it necessary that the usual chain-link fence be wired like that. Whenever it had been strung, he had insisted that the fence rental company handle it, instead of his crew. The wire was treacherous stuff that had a way of springing around whenever it was cut, and taking a gash out of anyone nearby.
The wire along this fence was strung in a way that compressed it tightly, more like the wire around a prison than a construction site. The chain-link mesh was pulled taut, so there were no spots along the bottom where a man could get a bit of slack and slip under, and the posts were set in concrete.
But Mallon knew something about this kind of fence that Parish probably didn’t know. Installing them was heavy, dull work that pinched fingers and dug gouges in flesh. It was work that the installation companies hired young, inexperienced laborers to do. A straw boss could go through, pound wooden stakes into the ground where he wanted posts, and then go away for a few hours while his crew dug postholes, mixed cement in small batches, and set posts. A day or two later, the crew could come through again, unrolling chain-link mesh along the line and connecting it to the posts. The work was hard and heavy. Mallon had no doubt that the posts near the front gate and the buildings were set in very deep, wide holes with plenty of cement. He could see that in the stretch he was walking now along the road, they were still pretty good. But the farther the fence got from the front gate, where the bosses and the customers were, the worse the work would be.
