by P. J. Zander
The detective wondered what Banyan might have found out that would cause him to go after the Rossmoors, at midnight. Something must have struck a nerve.
“I’ll check with the Crescenta Valley Station to make sure they send a deputy up there, just in case. Any idea why he’s doing this?”
“Not really. He did say earlier he went to Susan Rossmoor’s house and a car, a Mercedes, came speeding out of the driveway just as he got there. Nathan was driving.” She added, “He did try to reach you but couldn’t get a connection.”
“Yeah, okay. I’m not sure what to make of it, but please call again if you hear from him. Good-night, Raylene.”
“Wait, Ernie. Rusty wants you to call Lieutenant Caldwell of the Laguna Beach Police. Tell him Martin Dwyer is the one who attacked Bondo.”
“What the hell?” He unconsciously leaned back against the car, almost losing his balance.
“Thanks, Ernie. I have to get off in case he calls again.”
#
Quintana got into his car and called Crescenta Valley. A young, alert voice answered. “Crescenta Valley Sheriffs. Deputy Frazier.”
“Deputy, this is Captain Quintana, Homicide Bureau.” He could sense the deputy coming to attention in his chair. “One car is chasing another up Angeles Crest and I need you to send a cruiser after them. I’m not sure where they’re headed, but your deputy should follow all procedures in approaching the vehicles. The first one is a Mercedes, the second a Toyota pickup driven by Frederic Banyan, an . . . investigator. He’s a good guy. Got it?”
Deputy Frazier hesitated, probably taking detailed notes. “Yes, sir. Only there’s one thing. A few minutes ago, we had a citizen call in that there were three cars racing up the highway.”
“Three? Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. That was the report.”
The homicide chief pondered this last twist. If Banyan’s chasing Nathan and his mother, who’s in that third car? One name came to mind right off the bat. This could be turning bad fast. What a time to be unable to reach his friend. “Is your man in pursuit right now?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Get hold of him immediately. Tell him the occupants of the first and third cars could mean trouble for Banyan. They could be involved in the Ojibway missing-person case. And tell him you’ve sent another deputy to assist. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.” He paused, then said, “And I’ll get that second cruiser on the way.”
“That’s it. Good work, Deputy Frazier. And, don’t worry, I’ll square this with Captain Turner and your watch commander.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Nathan looked at the clock which showed it had been about forty-five minutes since he almost smashed into Banyan. From that point, he hadn’t slowed the Mercedes much, even on the ice patches. The all-wheel drive handled them.
“Honey, all I wanted for you was happiness, for you to feel close to someone . . . to me,” said his mother. “I wish you could have been closer to your . . . your brother. But, you were too far apart, too different in so many ways.”
“Stop it, Mother.”
“I tried to shield you from all the bad things around—”
“From the bad things? Shit, Mother, you’re the worst thing around me. Now, shut your fucking mouth. I can’t drive with you talking to me.”
Around the next outside bend, he glanced across the ravine and saw the overlook for a turnout, another three hundred feet in elevation above the Mercedes. His pulse ramped up from the ninety beats per minute during most of the drive. Apprehension flooded his face and he slowed to maintain control of the car. The turnout was less than a half mile away.
#
Despite the traction control, the light ass end of the Tundra was becoming a problem as he hit icy stretches. Just three months before, he’d bought the new Toyota because it seemed to accommodate his size better than others, plus he could slide the nose of his surfboard through the rear power window. Aerodynamics were not a consideration, and that was obvious now as the tires had trouble holding the road while he pushed the truck through the steepening turns. For the past eight miles or so, Banyan was mostly toggling between second and third, using both lanes to straighten the curves as much as possible. He buried the thought of oncoming traffic. No way would someone be foolish enough to drive here now, he chuckled to himself. But he concentrated hard on the asphalt. Over the years, he had driven the highway a number of times to visit Raylene. Yet, he never felt as though he knew the road, consistently knew where he was at any given time, comfortable enough to anticipate the switchbacks. And right then, he might as well have been driving it for the first time, with the foreboding shapes in the landscape always on the periphery, as if poised to charge onto the asphalt and tear him a new one.
He wondered if Ray had connected with Quintana. While he had experienced dangerous situations, there was something about this one that made him especially wary. Volatile, unpredictable guys like Nathan could be a real problem when confronting them one-on-one. Add another individual to the mix and there was an exponential rise in peril. Banyan couldn’t fathom what Nathan had planned or the role his mother was to play in those plans. He couldn’t imagine her being as cool and controlled as he’d observed to this point. But maybe she could get through to him, talk her son down from this craziness and out of whatever notion he had pinballing around in his head. On the other hand, the young man might be winging it, with no idea what he was up to, just fleeing from whatever or whomever, and going wherever. He simply panicked and ran when Banyan called him. An assist on this one from ol’ Ernie probably would have been a good idea. But he was way beyond that. He checked the clock—about fifty minutes since he got run off the road.
Something caught his eye up and to the right. Momentarily, a light came on, then went off. It didn’t seem intentional. If they’d stopped, Nathan would have turned off the headlights. This wasn’t that bright and was contained, as if inside the car. Maybe it was a flashlight, or a dome light as a door was opened and closed.
#
Nine miles back, Dwyer carefully carved his way up treacherous Angeles Crest Highway. The drive was not one he would choose to make, though he had done it once before. But, it was imperative he reach his brother before Nathan created something worse than what they already had. Until recently, he had been able to manage the situation, keeping a tight rein on all the pieces, not letting any stray from their proper places. He had run the show for months, as the family’s patriarch, and that’s the way he liked it. In fact, he’d been the man of the family since he was fourteen and killed his father to protect his mother. After they’d moved to California to start over, he wondered why his mother left him with his father’s last name when she changed hers and infant Nathan’s. He’d concluded that it was her way of telling him that he had supplanted his father, that the mantle had been passed to him. It was one of her ways of crowning him.
But lately, his brother had become more of a problem. Unlike himself, the kid had no tools to cope. Early on he could tell Nathan was hurting badly. Countless times Dwyer would find his little brother sobbing in his room, breaking his toys and saying how he hated everybody. Through his formative years, he simply could not fully comprehend the circumstances under which he’d been conceived and into which he had been born. So, not all was explained to him. He was spared significant details. When Dwyer had gone off to college and law school, and moved on with his life, he was rarely around to be a big brother, and he knew that sooner or later Nathan was going to break. There would come a day when he would realize he hated himself as much or more than those around him. And when he tried to climb out of the hole he’d had no choice but to dig, there were going to be casualties.
Right then, Nathan was coming apart, bringing all of them high up into these scarred mountains on a bone-chilling night. It was enough of a problem just among the three family members. But, the wild card would be there also, the big shadow that wouldn’t go away—Banyan. He braked going into a
curve, then sped up the sinuous road. Angeles Crest will be the crossroads for all of us tonight, Dwyer figured.
#
Slowing as he neared what he guessed was the area where he’d seen the flickering light, the shape of a turnout came into his headlights. Banyan shut them off quickly and stopped the pickup on the shoulder. With their lights off, his must have stood out like huge spotlights signaling a Hollywood movie premiere. There was no doubt they knew he was coming.
Banyan waited a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the night, hoping that the stars would give him a measure of light. Slowly, the silhouette of a mountain ridge much higher up emerged against the background of stars. Up and to the south, Orion looked invincible, hunting throughout the ages. Bringing his eyes down he began to make out the dull, galvanized steel rail where the turnout began some twenty feet up from where he’d stopped. Beyond that, just dark on dark. He took a compact flashlight out of the glove box, cursing the courtesy light, then using it to check the Ruger’s cylinder load. After eyeing and seating the SIG’s magazine, he was bent down strapping the .38 to the inside of his left ankle when a prickly sensation suddenly tickled the back of his neck. He shut the glove box and snapped his head up with the automatic in his right hand, picturing the big ex-soldier rushing the car. Nothing. Jesus Christ.
Before opening the door, he slid the dome light switch to off. The soft click of the latch sounded to him like the cracking of a whip. Crouching low behind the open door, he peered past the side view mirror at the turnout edge nearest him and saw nothing. He shivered and became aware of how cold it was. His ears and nose were stinging, and his hands were beginning to cool off. His fleece would have to do, but it wasn’t a match for the below-freezing temperature. A picture of himself flashed in his mind, a permanent squatting ice statue. Zipping the jacket to his chin, he slowly rose and moved toward the large area of frozen gravel and patches of snow, gun down at his right side, flashlight in his left hand but off.
After five steps he saw a glint of something shiny like chrome over snow, maybe thirty yards back and to his right. If I see them, they see me. He turned sideways to where he saw the chrome, making a thinner target, although thinner in his case was relative. His hands were beginning to freeze. It was time to move this thing forward. He switched on the flashlight.
“Nathan?” he said as the vehicle shone in the light. Banyan’s eyes grew large and he instinctively crouched.
FIFTY-SIX
In front of him was a small flatbed truck. Fresh snow covered the bed and cab, and the windows were iced over. The grill was near the berm next to the guardrail. The front end was jacked up and a wheel removed. He turned the light and gun to the left. Near the highway at the far end of the turnout, the Mercedes was backed in so he could see the front seats. Then it hit him. Geert Hulsing knew it was a European car, maybe German, that had hit the dog that night. Maybe it wasn’t Dwyer’s BMW. Susan Rossmoor was on the passenger side shielding her eyes from the beam. The driver’s seat was empty.
“Shit,” he said under his breath and was about to search for the young man when he heard a scuffing sound on the gravel behind him. A flashlight came on and cast Banyan’s shadow on the Mercedes’ hood.
“That’s right, motherfucker. Don’t move. I’ll blow a major hole in your head.” Nathan was talking fast in a high pitched voice. He was on the brink.
“Okay, Nathan. Okay.”
“Toss your gun and flashlight over toward the Mercedes.” Banyan hesitated, and the barrel dug at his spine. “Not tomorrow, cocksucker. Now.”
They clanked and skidded on the frozen gravel.
“Hey, kid, I’m not here to mess up your plans. Only trying to find out what’s going on.”
“You messed things up when you started asking questions, old man. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. Even if I’d never met you, I’d have ended up right fucking here.”
“What do you mean? I don’t follow you.” He was still wired, but Banyan thought he noticed a slight slowing of his speech. The more he kept Nathan talking, the better his chances. Maybe.
“Think about it, smartass. It’s cold as shit, black as hell, miles from anywhere. Why the fuck would I come to this spot now?”
“No idea, Nathan. A few hours ago, I wanted to talk to you. Next thing I know, you’re speeding up into these mountains with your mother.”
“Uh-huh. And just what did you want to talk to me about?”
He didn’t mind carrying on this conversation with the ex-soldier, but, Jesus, he was cold. “Listen, Nathan. I’m freezing. Can I at least stick my hands in my pockets?”
“Don’t move your hands, asshole. Keep them where I can see them and answer my goddamn question.”
“All right, all right. I thought you might be able to . . . I wanted to see if you knew anything about Anthony Mattingly, the apartment manager who was killed last October around the time Jolene—” He stopped. I’d have ended up right fucking here. Nathan hadn’t planned to lead Banyan to the turnout. He was drawn here like metal to a magnet because it represented something—maybe a memory, maybe a bad memory. He didn’t want to believe what he was thinking. Oh, Jesus Christ, could Jolene have been somewhere around here? Is she now?
“Click. Light bulb went on, didn’t it?”
He could hear Nathan’s smile through his words.
“You’re quiet all of the sudden, big man.”
“How about I turn around so we can face each other while we’re talking, work this out.”
“Don’t fucking move. I can see you and that’s good enough.”
His optimism of a moment ago faded. Nathan was still jumpy as hell. Derailing him from the path he was on, wherever it led, would be next to impossible. Banyan felt his survival instinct come to the surface. He resigned himself to the coming mayhem. Any second he would be fighting for his life.
#
If he stood still much longer with his hands exposed to the cold, he would be stiff and slower than wet gun powder, and have virtually no chance against Nathan. His joints were beginning to ache, and he could feel numbness spreading across his knuckles. The clock had struck on fish-or-cut-bait time. “So, you mean to tell me you drove all the way up here not caring that I was following you?”
“Doesn’t matter you or anybody else is here. I figured it out on the way up. This is where I work out the problem. And now, you might be part of it.”
“What problem is that, Nathan?”
“Don’t play dumb fuck with me, old man. You been on this thing like a goddamn hound since October. Don’t tell me you don’t have some sorta idea about Jolene.”
“What does she have to do with you being here right now? What happened here, Nathan? What did you come here to do?”
“Nathan, let’s not talk about any of this. Not now.” It was his mother. While Banyan had been fumbling for a plan, he hadn’t noticed she’d gotten out of the car and picked up his gun and flashlight. “Remember what your brother said.”
“Shut up, Mother. This is my thing.”
“But, you know he can help you, dear. You just have to trust him like you always have.”
“Trusting him’s not the problem. It’s you, you blood-sucking bitch.” His words and the loathing dripping from them startled Banyan. He was just beginning to digest what Rossmoor had said seconds earlier, not talk about any of this. She knew something about Jolene? What did she have to do with Jo? And her youngest sounded like he was ready to kill her.
He kept an eye on the gun in the realtor’s bare hand. The muzzle was pointed at the ground and so far, he saw no indication she intended to raise it. While they jabbed at each other, he began pivoting ever so slowly so that he could see her big son out of the corner of his eye and still have her in view a little to his right. The kid was aiming his gun at where Banyan’s back had been, and had his full attention on his mother.
“I’ll be quiet, but you really need to wait for him.” Her voice was calm, measured, but there was no mistaking wh
at she meant. She wasn’t asking her son. It was an order.
“Uh-uh. This time it’s my show and your bullshit isn’t going to stop me. I don’t have to wait for anybody.”
Banyan had begun slipping his hands into the fleece pockets for what little warmth they could offer, but he paused at the last exchange. Wait for him. Jesus. Dwyer was on the way. It looked like he’d have his second meeting with the lawyer, after all.
#
He knew from their little scuffle before Christmas that Nathan was a lefty with a bum right leg. From the way he now stood not quite perpendicular to him, the gun was in his left hand and a good four feet away vaguely aimed in his direction. In Banyan’s favor, the son was still distracted, hot and heavy into breaking away from his mother. But he knew such luck had a nasty habit of vanishing in an instant. He took three deep breaths and began shifting his weight to his right leg. Now.
“Nathan, listen to—” Her words died as he exploded toward her son. Before he could react to the attack, Banyan had grabbed his left wrist and kicked hard at his right knee, collapsing the leg. The flashlight came to rest with its beam casting an arc on the cliff wall across the highway. Nathan was in agony as he went down on the knee. Yet, he threw a big right that landed just below Banyan’s navel . . . solidly.
He gasped in pain, but kept pushing desperately with his right hand against the gun. Nathan was trying to stand to gain leverage, but another kick to the side of his knee sent him back down grabbing his leg with his right arm.
Forcefully exhaling, Banyan stretched awkwardly to reach his ankle gun with his left hand. He couldn’t get it. The ex-soldier had bone-crushing strength and his left arm was pressing in toward Banyan, bringing the automatic ever closer to his head—so close now that he could see it was a Beretta. Maintaining his grip on Nathan’s hand, he sprang up and struck hard with his left at the inside of his bicep. The gun discharged, a jolting boom as loud as a cannon reverberating into the dark abyss.
