“To what?”
“Never mind!”
Keep them talking. Say anything.
I let a few seconds pass before I said, “Roxanne, those photos you took of Galen—the ones in the box under your bed—they’re beautiful art studies.”
“How did you know they were me?” Light demanded.
Lucky guess. “Because you have beautiful hands,” I said, suppressing a shudder at the memory of him pawing me. “I saw the photos before we met, but later I remembered them.”
“So that’s why you set the girl reporter on Roxanne. That’s why she was watching us!”
“Shut up, Galen!”
“Don’t talk to me like that, Rox. Who’s she going to tell—Saint Peter at the pearly gates?”
“I might as well,” I said. “You won’t be meeting him.”
He raised his arm to strike me. I flinched, pulling away from him as far as I could—but Roxanne’s voice stopped him before the blow fell.
“Not in the car!” she yelled. “For Christ’s sake, Galen, have some self-control. In another twenty minutes it’ll all be over.”
Twenty minutes. Wherever they’re taking me is another twenty minutes away.
Up ahead, I saw the Pacific Coast Highway, and the ocean beyond. Little diamonds of moonlight sparkled on its surface. I felt a fresh stab of fear in my chest. Would this be the last night I’d ever see the ocean?
Get a grip! The trip’s not over yet.
Roxanne turned north onto Pacific Coast Highway and increased her speed.
We’re in Malibu. What’s twenty minutes from here?
I was on the opposite side of the car from the ocean, on the land side of PCH. There wasn’t much to see: two- and three-story small apartment complexes; a few single family homes, lights on inside but no one visible; cars in driveways.
Ticking off the time in my head, I figured twenty minutes had passed when Roxanne began to ease up on the gas pedal. She slowed down, and made a sharp turn onto a side road.
Now we were going up. From the way the car bounced I knew the surface wasn’t paved, but I could see that it was wide enough to accommodate one vehicle traveling in each direction. Unluckily for me, ours was the only car on this road.
We passed a signpost. I just caught a glimpse of one word—“Wild”—but that was enough to tell me we were on Wild View Drive.
Now I knew exactly where we were, and what the destination was—and that we would reach it in less than a minute.
All this time in the car, I had been trying to work my hands free, but even though I’d stiffened my wrists to make them a little bigger, Roxanne had tied the knot too tightly. Still, I might have managed it if Light hadn’t strapped me so hard against the back of the seat.
Several narrow roads branched off Wild View Drive. I kept hoping that someone would come out of one of them, see us, and wonder why anyone was going to the top of this popular hiking area at night. Maybe they’d wonder enough to stop us and ask.
Dots of soft, steady lights off in the distance signified houses. People inside, but no place was close enough for anyone to hear me scream.
We were traveling up a canyon that was about half a mile north of Malibu Bluffs Cliff, heading to a higher elevation that would dead-end at Malibu Falls. I hadn’t been here in five or six years, but I knew the location because Mack and I had hiked it a few times.
“ ‘I wandered today to the hill, Maggie, To watch the scene below. The creek and the rusty old mill, Maggie, Where we sat in the long, long ago . . .’”
Mack had sung those first few lines of the old song “When You and I Were Young, Maggie” to me on our tenth anniversary, when we were reminiscing about the crazy day we’d made love beside Malibu Falls—and paid for our recklessness with a bad case of poison oak.
I told myself not to retreat into memories. Stay in now.
Two small, man-made parking areas had been bulldozed into the side of the canyon; each was about the size of a lot in a lower-income housing development. Roxanne passed the first one, but turned into the second and cut the motor.
We were about a hundred yards below Malibu Falls. In the distance I heard the faint sound of rushing water. During Southern California’s many periods of drought, the water would diminish to little more than what would come out of a bathtub faucet, but the heavy rains of a few weeks ago had replenished the falls.
“Last stop,” Light said. He unbuckled my seat belt. “Everybody out. Especially you, Della. This is your last stop, ever.”
The moon was partially obscured by clouds, but there was enough illumination for me to see the grim smile on Galen Light’s face, and the lines of strain on Roxanne’s.
“Your TV fans are going to be sad to lose you,” Light said cheerfully. “When your body is recovered it won’t be in good enough shape for an open casket. Maybe there will be rumors—like with Elvis—that you really aren’t dead.”
Roxanne said, “Please don’t joke about this, Galen.” She untied my hands.
“Thanks,” I said, massaging my wrists.
“I didn’t do that for you.”
“Now don’t get cute,” Light warned me, waving the Glock for emphasis.
Roxanne stuffed the necktie into her handbag. She took out a letter-size envelope, held it up in front of me, and said, “As unhappy as you were, you were thoughtful enough to write a suicide note—typed on a computer that no one will be able to trace. Not to yours, not to any of ours. No one will be able to prove you didn’t write this. At some point, the letter will be found underneath your wallet, weighed down with rocks.” Her voice was tense, without inflection, as though reciting something she’d memorized.
“Let’s go.” Light dug the Glock into the small of my back, forcing me forward, up the trail toward the top. Roxanne was beside me, with Light close behind us.
I asked Roxanne, “What was I thoughtful enough to say in the note?”
“You are overwhelmed with guilt because you know Nick D’Martino killed Alec and you can’t go on covering for him anymore.”
“Did I say ‘Nick’?”
“Why?”
“Everyone who knows me knows I never call him Nick. They’ll know I didn’t write the note. To me, he’s Nico,” I said, using Tanis’s name for him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Light said. “You were upset enough to kill yourself.”
“That’s a big mistake,” I said, chiding her. “If you want to go back and retype the note, I’ll wait.”
Light gave me another painful jab. “Shut up.”
We were almost at the top of the falls. The sound of rushing water was strong. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, making the scene bright enough for me to see that the three of us were trudging along a path bordered by shiny plants sporting a familiar three-leaf pattern.
Poison oak.
Galen Light and Roxanne Redding didn’t seem to know it.
If I don’t manage to live through this night, at least when my body is found, their miserable rashes will tie them to the murder scene.
Light was breathing hard through his mouth by the time we reached the top. Roxanne was puffing, too. It gave me a certain feeling of triumph to discover that I was in better cardio shape than the two of them.
After taking in a few deep breaths, Roxanne bent down and put my “suicide note” under my wallet. She found a couple of brick-size rocks nearby and stacked them on top of the wallet.
Light prodded me closer to the edge of the falls. The water flowed out from a cave a few feet below where we were standing, splashed onto several outcroppings of rocks, and finally into a pool near sea level.
It was a long way down.
But if my memory was correct, it wasn’t a sheer drop onto the rocks. Not if I could get over to my left . . .
I heard Light’s harsh chuckle before he asked me, “Any last words?”
“Oh, Galen, for God’s sake. Just get on with it.”
He snapped his head around to face her. “Damn i
t, Rox! I said don’t talk to me like—”
This was my moment! Instead of standing still until Light pushed me over the falls, I gave him a mighty shove into Roxanne. She stumbled backward and he fell on top of her.
Taking my one chance to stay alive, I sprinted to my left—
And JUMPED!
46
Jumped out into the darkness—praying that what had been there years ago still was there.
Terror at having nothing under my feet but air!
Until I plunged into a thick outcropping of bushes! I grabbed at them, gripping their rough branches. Nettles and thorns pierced the palms of my hands.
I dangled for precious seconds.
My thundering heartbeat was beginning to slow . . . when the bush I was hanging on to moved—and started to pull away from the face of the cliff. Little pellets of dirt from around its base hit me in the face. I bent my head, taking most of the particles of loose earth on the top of my skull.
Then I was going down again, my knuckles scraping the face of the cliff, my feet flailing.
Suddenly, the branches of another shrub slapped me. I grabbed it, clung to it, and regretted every dish of pasta or piece of pie that might have added a few ounces to my hanging weight.
This bush, too, began to move, pulling slowly from where it had taken root.
I looked down and could make out a dark shape a little ways below me: a rock shelf!
Bracing my feet against the cliff, I eased my palms—scraped almost raw from my slide—down the branches. A few agonizing inches more . . .
I released my grip, and dropped.
Oh, please God . . . I landed on the ledge, fell to my knees, and grasped the edge so I wouldn’t go hurtling over.
The edge was surprisingly smooth. The ledge itself was narrow, but solid. The impact of my body hitting it hadn’t caused a tremble.
Water from the falls sprayed me, soaking my face and hair and clothing. I was about to brush water from my eyes, but remembered the poison oak and put my hands back down.
I strained to listen for voices above me, but all I could hear was the rush of water.
I waited, counting seconds into minutes.
Five minutes. Six. Seven.
Did Roxanne and Light think I was dead? Had they left? Or were they still up at the top, waiting for me to emerge so that Light could shoot me?
My hiding place was a pretty good one—on a narrow shelf of rock beside the falls, below a thick outcropping of bushes that had grown straight out from the side of the cliff.
Unlikely survivors, those shrubs. I was an unlikely survivor, too.
Tension and terror had given me a powerful thirst. My mouth and throat felt dry as sand, but I didn’t dare drink the water that sprayed me; I knew it wasn’t pure. There had been newspaper articles about people who’d acquired serious internal parasites because they thought that what was gushing from a natural waterfall was safe to drink.
I took inventory of my situation. Against big odds, I was still alive, but I couldn’t stay on this narrow ledge. If exhaustion overwhelmed me and I fell asleep, I might well tumble over it to my death.
From what I could see of the face of the cliff below me, I couldn’t go down. No more life-saving branches to cling to.
There was no hope of rescue because no one knew where I was. My car was parked on Liberty Avenue, but it wouldn’t get attention from Parking Enforcement until tomorrow, when one of those people saw that the meter had expired and slipped a ticket under my windshield wiper. My handbag was on the front seat—as were my cell phone and Harmon Dubois’s bouquet of brandy roses. Would the parking person glance inside and become suspicious that something had happened and report the contents of the car to police? I doubted it. Generally, those warriors against parking scofflaws were single-minded in their search for expired meters and other forms of vehicle sins.
Eileen would call John to tell him that I hadn’t come home, and that I hadn’t answered my cell phone, but it probably wouldn’t occur to her to worry until midnight.
My best chance to get out of this situation alive would be to climb back up the cliff—but not at the place where I came down. If Roxanne and Light were still up on top, they would be trying to spot my body, and were probably looking down from where I’d taken flight. I couldn’t predict how long they would wait before concluding that I was dead.
The narrow ledge I was on stretched to my left perhaps another dozen feet, but there was no covering brush above that part of it.
If I couldn’t go left, I would have to go right and explore the cliff behind the waterfall.
Feeling my way along, I saw there was a depression behind the cascade. But first I’d have to plunge through that chute of water.
Yikes—was it cold! But behind the sheet of water was a dry hollow that went about four feet deep into the cliff.
Out on the ledge, I’d been dampened by the spray from the side of the rushing water; having gone through the deluge, I was soaked. Not a bad thing, actually. A thorough dousing would probably wash away most of the poison oak, but I still had to be careful not to touch my face.
The red wool jacket I wore over my pale blue sweater and navy slacks was my favorite, but it was too heavy to wear now that it was soaked. I shrugged out of it and let it drop to the rock floor of this little cave. Immediately, I felt lighter, and my arms were no longer constricted by the jacket’s sleeves.
As I explored behind the falling of water, I saw it was a shaft that went way up the face of the cliff. It looked as though it reached to the mouth of the opening through which the water gushed from the underground spring that was its source.
Running my hands along the face of the shaft, I felt a few rocks jutting out. I grasped the closest one, tested it for strength, and found that it held my weight. Bracing my feet against the wall, easing myself up another foot, I found other chunks of stone—big enough to hold on to.
Could I climb up the cliff behind the waterfall until I reached the roof of the cave from where the surge was coming? If I could manage that, I’d be only a few feet below the top of Malibu Falls. If I got that far, I would hide there, invisible, until daylight. Then I’d have a good chance to attract the attention of someone below or of hikers above.
No one was coming for me. What choice did I have?
Pulling myself up by the first jutting rock, forcing the toes of my shoes into any crevice, I mentally gave thanks for all those sessions at the climbing wall on the Santa Monica Pier. My times there had begun as a friendly competition with Nicholas. Later, I used it in an attempt to keep my arms from acquiring the dreaded “middle-age flap.”
Ironic that Roxanne’s caustic warning about loose underarm flesh might be what saved my life—after she and her lover tried to kill me.
I put fierce concentration into inching myself up without sliding back down. When I finally reached the crude ledge just below the gush of water from the underground spring, I had no idea how long it had taken. All I knew was that my arms and my thighs burned as though my bones were on fire.
But it was a pain I could stand—no, almost welcomed—because it meant I was still alive. I lay on the floor of the last shallow cave beneath the opening in the cliff from which the Malibu Falls poured, taking long breaths, exhaling slowly. In a few minutes my pulse had retreated from its pounding high back to a near normal steady beat.
Thirsty, hungry, and shuddering with cold, I felt wonderful. It’s amazing, I thought, that one can be thankful for epic discomfort. Given the alternative . . .
Looking through the sheet of water, I was startled to see what looked like bright light.
I sat up and leaned forward. It was bright light—a search light.
My ears had become so accustomed to the sound of the falls that suddenly I could hear another sound: voices. Yelling. Calling my name! And yet another sound: the whup, whup, whup of a helicopter!
Crawling to the side of the rush of water, I fought my way through to the other side where th
ere was just enough room to stand.
“Here!” I shouted. “Here I am! Down here!”
A man peered over the top of the cliff.
I waved at him wildly.
He turned his head and called, “Here she is!” Back down to me: “Stay where you are!”
I laughed. Then I felt hot tears filling my eyes and making rivulets down my cold, wet cheeks.
The helicopter hovered over my head, the lights from it pinning me. A rope ladder, with a man on it, was lowered down. Closer. Closer . . . Close enough for me to grab the man’s extended hand. He held on to me as the helicopter began to rise and I was able to grasp the bottom rung of the ladder with my other hand.
Once again, I felt nothing but air beneath my feet—but this time, instead of going down, I was being pulled up to safety.
The man who had come down the ladder helped me up into the body of the helicopter.
I yelled “Thank you!” There was too much noise for him to hear my words, but he grinned and gave a thumbs-up in acknowledgment.
In what seemed only like moments, the helicopter settled onto the ground. Another man—now I could tell he was dressed in some kind of uniform like the first—helped me down.
My feet touched solid ground, and suddenly my knees buckled under me. He kept me from falling, and steadied me for the seconds it took for me to be able to stand on my own.
Looking around, I saw at least a dozen more men wearing those same uniforms. Sheriff’s department, I thought. They were smiling and high-fiving each other. And then I saw yet another man. I knew him, but his was the last face I would have expected to see: Harmon Dubois.
Harmon Dubois? What was my elderly cooking school student doing here?
47
Harmon rode with me in the Fire Department Rescue Squad’s all-terrain vehicle.
He said, “I was following you from the TV studio—”
“Following me?” I sat up on the gurney.
“Please don’t be angry,” Harmon said quickly. “I wasn’t following you for any bad reason. You see, I had a present for you, but I didn’t want to give it in person, so I was going to leave it on your doorstep. Or put it through your mail slot, if you have one of those. But I didn’t know where you lived.”
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