Angeles Crest

by P. J. Zander

  “I hope it doesn’t go on for too long because right now, I don’t like the idea of you being isolated up there.”

  “Well, I’ve been through this before and I think if I had to, I could get my little car down the mountain. I’m not particularly worried. Anyway, they say with some luck, they could have them opened tomorrow.”

  Banyan forcefully exhaled. “Don’t do anything dangerous, Ray. I don’t want to worry about you on those mountain roads.” Right after he said it, he realized how stupid it sounded.

  “Come on, Rusty, there’s no reason why I’d have to drive like that. I just know I could. You know I’m a big girl now.”

  He heard her playful laugh again. “Sorry. You’re right. Before I make any more brilliant statements, I’m going to get back to work down here. Stay warm, and I’ll see you real soon.”

  “As warm as I can all alone up here.”

  At least she was making it sound as if she were having fun, he thought, as he started the pickup.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Banyan reached in the glove box and pulled a piece of paper from under an ankle holster holding a Ruger LCR .38 Special. He checked the brief notes he’d jotted down after talking to Stephanie Brandt. The black pickup was in the same spot near the garage. When he glanced over at the empty gravel pad, he couldn’t resist a smile thinking of Stephanie’s story. He heard no sounds of ecstasy as he stepped to the door which Nathan opened as if expecting him.

  “Came back, huh?”

  “Whoa. Hey, Nathan,” Banyan said, surprised. “Thought you might be out managing those properties.” He got no feedback. “I was able to track down Kyle. He is of the opinion that you liked Jolene. Enough, in fact, that you took him down when he started talking to you about her at the SUB. That true?”

  “I already told you, she was okay, nice . . . and I never took her out.”

  “But, you’re not a loner. You’ve had a girlfriend, haven’t you?”

  Nathan waited before responding. “That’s none of your business.”

  Banyan kept his gaze on Nathan’s face. His expression was impassive, but his eyes were hardened as before. He wondered if the young vet ever smiled. “I heard that Jolene came over here to tell you about a problem with the heating or hot water in her rental.”

  Nathan was quiet.

  “Apparently, you and your lady were really getting it on when she got here.”

  “Who told you that, motherfucker?”

  In no time, Nathan’s whole demeanor changed. As he came toward him, Banyan was thinking the behemoth getting jammed in the doorway would be a good thing right about then. He was caught off guard and stepped back with his right foot, palms facing out passively at his chest, to see what was coming his way. The bad right leg was forward. No weapon. Expect a big left hand, and it was already launched. He started to block the punch with his right arm, but the gym workout still left him stiff and sluggish. The sledgehammer blow glanced off his left temple, enough to stagger him, but not put him down.

  Instinct took over. Slipping to his right he countered with a left hand-right hand knuckle strike combination high on the left ribcage. It sent a shockwave through the young man’s body, but he needed to discourage him more and fast. He followed with two quick rights to the left kidney. The kid’s knees bent and he sucked air in pain. Banyan moved behind for a heel strike to the back of Nathan’s left knee, but it wasn’t necessary. Nathan went down on one knee and held his left side. Banyan was always amazed how fast things happened. Barely five seconds and everything had changed.

  After catching his breath and feeling confident that the younger man was neutralized, he put his hand on Nathan’s shoulder. He recognized the ones with thin and ragged souls, those who had had their fiber stripped and ripped away by bombs, mortars, IEDs, gore, and unspeakable atrocities brought down on fellow humankind, and who were waiting for the bullet that would find them. Maybe he recognized something of himself.

  Nathan jerked his shoulder away. “Get your goddamn hand off me.”

  “Son, let’s stop this. I don’t want to hurt you anymore and I sure don’t want you beating up on me. You’re a combat vet. You’ve seen the shit fly. I’ve been there too. Another war, another time. But, it’s the same shit. You’re carrying a load on your shoulders that no one deserves to carry. If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.”

  Nathan sat on the porch step in silence, head hanging. Banyan took a chance and sat down next to him on the right. He wished he’d stuck the Ruger in his right back pocket because he didn’t want to wrestle this big boy.

  “What is it between you and Kyle, Nathan?”

  He was motionless, head still down.

  “Besides the weed,” Banyan saw him briefly raise his eyes, “Jolene’s the only common denominator. Kyle says you liked her and he admits he does. Why would he think you know something about what happened to her? Did you get pissed off at him, didn’t want him to have her so, what, Nathan, did you do something?”

  “Don’t ask me so many bullshit questions, motherfucker.”

  His eyes were still on Banyan as he stood up, favoring his left side. Banyan did the same, hand on right hip out of habit. For a moment they just looked at each other. He saw nothing aggressive in the kid’s posture, but his right hand was still reaching for the phantom pistol grip.

  “You see where I’m going with this, don’t you, Nathan?”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck where you’re going, ’long as it’s away from me, asshole.”

  “Did you take her so Kyle couldn’t get near her?”

  “I’m not talking to you. Just get the fuck outta here.”

  Banyan read the tension in his rigid stance. “What is it you know? Don’t bullshit me, Nathan. As much as I don’t want to go another round with you, I sure as hell will. Now, you tell me straight.”

  The young man was breathing hard and staying defiant. “I’m not telling you shit. No matter what you think you can do to me, you’re getting nothing. Now, leave me the fuck alone.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket. “What do you know about this?”

  Nathan looked at the red bandana and shrugged his shoulders. “Not a fucking thing.”

  “You ever seen it before?” Banyan unfolded it so the circular emblem was showing.

  “Fuck, I don’t know. Seen a lot of goddamn do-rags.” He started to turn toward the door. “You’re full of dumbass questions.”

  “What’s this?” He pointed at the symbol.

  “Talk to Kyle about that, asshole. Tuning forks. Yamaha logo.”

  Banyan, surprised at Nathan’s sudden willingness to respond, nodded his head. “Okay, son. Thanks. If you think of anything else or you just want to talk things out, you have my number. Call any time.”

  “Fuck off.” Without looking at him, Nathan hurriedly limped back into the house and slammed the door.

  Banyan walked slowly to his truck, gingerly feeling the lump on his temple and squinching his face at the pounding coming on in his head. Sitting behind the wheel, he couldn’t get a handle on this odd triangle of Jo, Kyle and Nathan. But that relationship wasn’t what set the Iraq War vet off. It was Banyan alluding to that interrupted sex show.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Banyan tied a knot in the plastic ice bucket liner and carefully placed the bag on his temple. Reclining on the hotel bed, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply to slow the throbbing pain.

  When unfamiliar ringing gradually penetrated the snooze, he first thought it was his ears buzzing from the big thump earlier that day. But he opened his eyes in the direction of the sound and then remembered the other cell phone. As he boosted himself up against the headboard, he flipped it open.

  “Rusty, you on?”

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah, Chris.”

  “Man, you sound out of it. You on life support or just tired?”

  “Got in a bit of a tussle with a guy. Think I might be slightly concussed.”

  “What?” He sounded incredulous. �
�You? Who the hell was this guy?”

  “One big, pissed-off youngster. Shoulda just stuck my gun up his goddamn nose and told him to sit his ass down.”

  “Hey, big fella, don’t screw around with this thing. Seek medical attention soon. You don’t want to find yourself dead from it. Want me to call back?”

  “Nah, Chris. Thanks, but I think I can take it.” He wanted to believe he would remember whatever it was Chris was going to tell him.

  “Well, there is a little out there on your man.”

  “Okay,” Banyan breathed, fully awake and bracing against the pain. “Lay it on me.”

  “Moss had a normal childhood in Santa Fe. Dad worked at Los Alamos Lab as a bigwig physicist. Two sisters. Good life. He did attend NAU, but didn’t graduate. He was on the ski team for a couple years before he abruptly left and didn’t return. After that, some inconsequential items on skiing in Colorado—Snowmass, Vail, Steamboat Springs—ran the ski academy, headed the ski patrol, that kind of stuff. Then back to New Mexico where he settled down in Taos. From what I can tell, he’s lived by himself most of his adult life.”

  “Hmm. Anything on the dark side?”

  “Did I mention after eight years in Colorado, he took a break from skiing?”

  “Oh? What’d he do?”

  “Enlisted in the army, became a Ranger. Served in Somalia in 1993.”

  “You don’t mean the Blackhawk Down—?”

  “That very one. Left the army after that, returned to Colorado for a couple more years, then moved back to New Mexico. Soon, he started discovering Truckee.”

  “Ranger School explains a little. He’s built like a brick shit house and doesn’t get ruffled.” Banyan adjusted the ice bag as he pondered Chris’s information. “But Somalia wasn’t his dark side.”

  “Next item. During the last years he was skiing in Colorado, there was an incident that got some in-depth coverage. It makes pretty good reading. He was riding the lift a few chairs back from a couple hotheads who were bouncing the cable. Shaking other skiers on the lift. He radioed up to the attendant at the top and told him to not let the two ski. When he got off the lift, the attendant was holding snow to a welt on his cheekbone. Moss skied down after them, cutting them off. They were tough, they thought. Stepped out of their bindings and went after him. He broke a jaw, broke an arm. Skiers cheered, resort basked in the fleeting fame.”

  “Jesus. So, he was a good guy?”

  “Until the assholes brought a lawsuit against the resort which settled to avoid negative publicity and any possibility of losing in court. Though not explicit in the papers, my guess is that, whether or not justified, resort management warned him about excessive violence.”

  “Still doesn’t sound so dark.”

  “Not yet,” Chris agreed. “Incident two. A year after the above happened, a photo appeared in a local Denver version of one of those enquiring-minds-want-to-know kinda tabloids. Big, beautiful dark-haired woman, and I mean a giant. Dressed in a stylish gown that didn’t hide her Greek-sculpture muscles. The rag started a regular piece, Who Is This Mystery Woman. Readers could call in their guesses, send photos, reveal sighting locations. As it happens, the original photo was taken at a Denver club that has stage performances. Some impersonations. The tabloid had doctored the photo to not disclose the setting. This fostered much speculation among its readership on the Amazon beauty.”

  “I’m beginning to see a connection, but, keep going, Chris. I like your storytelling.”

  “Thank you. I can’t be sure, but I have a feeling that not long after the act at that Denver club, Moss began spending time in Truckee.”

  “How did you arrive at that?”

  “Well, he was somewhat careful, performing three-hundred miles away from his home in Taos. Maybe somehow he caught wind of the Denver tabloid circus. Maybe The Taos News picked up one of the weekly articles as a filler and Moss saw it. He got out of Dodge before it caught up with him.”

  Banyan blew out a lot of air. “So, Moss is the Amazon.”

  “Absolutely. I wish your phone was smarter so I could send you a pic. I say there is no doubt, not because I can identify Moss. Dressed in a black wig and women’s clothes, he doesn’t look like Moss. Rusty, I swear to God, he looks like Jolene.”

  #

  Old Town Pasadena was its usual weeknight busy, more so due to the season. Singles and couples, some sauntering, others hustling like race-walkers, filled the sidewalks below the shimmering Christmas decorations strung from streetlight to streetlight. Laughter, chatter and street sounds rose in the cool, winter evening. Hands jammed in his pockets and trying to ignore his head, Banyan moved slowly with no intent, yielding to the urban din and mental images of that cross-dressing Ranger.

  THIRTY

  The morning was beautiful, and although a weekday when most people would be at work, it was one of those calling-in-sick kind of days. Taking a sun day off could make anybody feel better, at least on the surface. Sean Lowry liked to ride his mountain bike during the winter to save on gas, but that day there still was quite a bit of slushy snow and ice on the road, and he hadn’t yet put winter tires on the bike. So, he drove to work.

  He parked at the Grizzly Café and clocked in right on time at ten-thirty. Business was picking up by eleven o’clock and customers were beginning to have to wait for tables. Sean was hustling, even cracking a contented smile now and then.

  #

  By mid-morning, Kyle Hemphill was halfway up the Angeles Crest Highway, one with the road on his first ride there since its reopening at the end of November. He’d learned not to be lulled into the sweeping curves that could become tighter without warning. If you went in at a speed allowing the same margin for mistakes as the last one, you might make it through another. But the same throttle on the next, tighter twisty could have you pavement surfing, sliding into the mountain or over the side. He was on top of it, alert, yet calm.

  Although it had rained at lower elevations the day before, the road thirty miles up was in good condition with decent traction. Further on he could expect to see remnants of the big snow storm, but Caltrans had opened Highway 2 to the top that morning. The blue sky was punctuated by puffy white clouds and his orange helmet shone like a ball of fire in the sun.

  He slowed considerably near the top to navigate the occasional icy patches that were rapidly melting and cruised into Wrightwood a little after noon. The Grizzly Café was crowded, but the food was good so he waited. When a couple left, Kyle sat down at a small table before it was cleared.

  #

  About ten after twelve, Sean caught a glimpse of the biker, carrying his orange helmet and waiting for a table. He suddenly turned away, coming close to dumping a full tray of dirty dishes on his way through the door into the kitchen. His heart was racing and he was short of breath.

  “You okay, Sean?” one of his co-workers asked. “Sean?”

  He heard her the second time. “Yeah, yeah, I’m doing fine.”

  Back through the door, he noticed Kyle Hemphill had seated himself at a table that still needed clearing. Taking a deep breath, he went over and cleared the table, while the biker, eyes closed and face drawn, turned toward the flames in the river rock fireplace. Ten minutes later, he delivered Hemphill’s order for which the biker thanked him. At the kitchen door, he stole one more glance at him, told the assistant manager he wasn’t feeling well after all, and left.

  #

  Despite the crowd, Kyle’s order had come quickly. He savored the food and almost relaxed in the din of the crowd and comfort of the fire.

  “You done with your plate, sir?”

  Kyle nodded and a young woman cleared the dishes. After paying, he went out into the sun where his leathers heated up quickly to take the edge off the chill. He went over to the mini-mart to top off the tank, leaning against his bike for a couple minutes until a car needed to get to the pump. He idled to a spot off to the side, put on his helmet and gloves, and rode off on the black Yamaha YZF-R6.

&
nbsp; Five miles down the highway, Kyle was heading into the sun. Here and there, the brightness would flash in his face shield for an instant, almost blinding him. He throttled back and adjusted his rhythm to the twists in the road. In a turnout off the straight section up ahead, a car poised at the edge. He slowed slightly to make sure the driver saw his twin front lights. Through the car’s window, he saw the driver looking at him, so with some confidence, Kyle accelerated.

  The last thing Kyle saw out of the corner of his eye was the car coming at him. His instinct was to put the bike down with his body away from the car before it hit, but he didn’t have time to react. The front bumper crushed his right tibia and fibula, and bent the lower leg outward at the knee. He went down hard on the asphalt, the force of the collision snapping the bike and Kyle over in less than a second. His helmet hit with tremendous force, then he and the bike began to separate as momentum carried them into the sheer mountain wall, repeatedly bouncing his head and back against the rock. He was clear of the bike, but it didn’t matter.

  It was absolutely still. Sunlight bathed the highway in winter warmth and most of the white clouds had disappeared from the dazzling sky. Kyle Hemphill’s crumpled body lay face up, cradled where the road shoulder met the mountain. Thirty yards further down his twisted Yamaha rested on the centerline.

  THIRTY-ONE

  With fresh powder and sunny skies, the ski chalet was seeing solid activity despite early reports of lighter than usual mountain traffic due to occasional spotty road conditions. Those who ventured out found the routes to Wrightwood in much better shape than they anticipated. Updates revised the conditions, and business picked up as the day progressed. Locals who had the ski runs mostly to themselves first thing found visitors packing the slopes by midday.