Runaway Heart

by Stephen J. Cannell

  Next, Paul headed up the Coast Highway, turned right, and snaked over Malibu Canyon road to the Ventura Freeway, drove east toward Studio City, got off on Coldwater, drove back over

  the hill, and finally dropped down into Boy's Town. Then Paul veered right and drove toward Beverly Hills.

  Jack wondered where the hell Paul Nichols was going. And then he found out.

  He was going home.

  The house was amazing. It was in the middle of the block on the very expensive part of North Canon Drive. Jack parked a couple hundred yards down the street. The houses were huge, and the one Paul Nichols turned his blue Chevelle into was among the biggest. It had a kind of nouveau-Ali-Baba motif. The architects in L.A. were doing way too much coke in the '80s.

  Jack watched as Paul Nichols took out his house keys, unlocked the massive oak front door, then made three trips back and forth, carrying the contents of his trunk into the house and disappeared inside.

  Jack flipped on his cell phone to see if it might have regenerated after a few hours of inactivity. He was in luck and getting a little power residue. He disconnected the battery and rubbed it vigorously on his pants, feeling it warm with the friction. He hoped he'd added to the charge as he put it back in, turned on the phone, dialed Wells Fargo Bank, and navigated the computerized customer-service system again.

  It was almost five and he had a sinking feeling there was trouble with one of Susan's checks.

  "Yes, this is Mrs. Donovan," a brittle voice said.

  "Jack Wirta, returning your call," talking fast, trying to beat a battery flameout.

  "Mr. Wirta… good. Yesterday you deposited two checks totaling twenty-two fifty-one, twenty-five, both of which have and the phone went dead.

  "Which? What!?" he shouted into the dead receiver, but she was gone. The phone was beeping and the display flashed LOW BAT. He had to restrain himself from throwing the damn thing at the dash but he knew there was only one way her sentence probably ended with the words "insufficient funds."

  The Strockmires had stiffed him.

  First he had to find a pay phone to finish the conversation with Mrs. Donovan, then he was going to head out to the beach house and start collecting wallets and watches. Just as these ignoble thoughts overtook him the front door to the house opened again and Paul Nichols came out.

  He'd changed. No longer a tweedy academic, he was now decked out in cat-burglar black.

  As Jack watched, he backed the blue Chevelle out of the drive and headed toward Sunset.

  Decision time.

  Why should I continue to tail this guy? I'm not being paid, but my instinct says go for it. But why? Why should I stay on the job when both checks undoubtedly have bounced?

  Let's cut to the bottom line then. What do you really want, Jack?

  I guess what I really want is to get laid.

  There it was: as cheap and transparent as a political promise.

  At its heart, the most appealing thing about this case was its beautiful check-bouncer, Susan Strockmire.

  He put the Fairlane in gear and rolled out after Paul Nichols. Paul took Sunset west to the 405 Freeway, drove south to the Santa Monica Freeway, headed out to the Coast Highway, then took the PCH north to Malibu. Just after sunset he arrived back at Malibu Beach and parked half a block down from Barbra Streisand's house.

  Then Professor Doofus actually took out a pair of binoculars and started scoping the front of Barbra's, looking a lot like Kurt Jurgens in The Enemy Below.

  Jack parked a block up the street and tried to figure out what to do. The guy he was staking out was staking out the guy who hired him to stake out the guy he was staking out. A perfect circle.

  Jack got out of the Fairlane and dashed across the street to the large mansion next door. He paused, recited the Big Dog Prayer, then jumped the gate, trotted down the sidewalk between two huge houses to the beach, and trudged up the sand until he stood opposite the guest house. He looked through the window and saw Herman and Susan working at a table in the main room. He walked through the low gate, crossed the patio, and knocked on the glass door.

  Susan saw him and opened the slider, looking at him skeptically before asking: "Why didn't you just ring the buzzer and use the front door?"

  "Since you're such a stickler for protocol, why don't you cover your damned checks?"

  "Huh?"

  "You heard me, both of the checks you wrote yesterday came straight from Goodyear rubber."

  "Dad, did you remember to make the deposit on…"

  "Cut the b.s., lady. I'm at least ten percent smarter than I look." He pushed past her, entering the house.

  Herman was on his feet, but with one hand still on the game table for support. "Aren't you supposed to be following Professor Nichols?"

  "I am following him. I'm on my break."

  "I don't see how you can be here and following him at the same time," Herman wondered aloud.

  "It's complicated, but I'm gifted." Jack walked over, picked an apple out of a fruit bowl, then took a big bite. He needed to get some nourishment into his system, some natural sugar, because his brain was stalling out on him.

  "How can you be following him and be here at the same time?" Susan demanded.

  "Because he's parked on the street outside scoping out this house with binoculars. I followed him over here. My cell battery is fried, so I couldn't call and announce myself which, let me hasten to add, is my normal business practice." Pissy now, dripping sarcasm. "But, before we go any further, I must warn you that the Wirta Agency Business Affairs Office is instructing me to withhold further service until the matter of your two NSF checks can be dealt with. Failing that, my Legal Affairs Department is suggesting court remedies."

  "Mr. Wirta, I'm sorry, but at this particular moment we don't have the money to pay you," Herman said. "I thought I woyld have it when we hired you, but conditions have changed, due to a courtroom setback. A very steep fine. I may still be able to get your money, but right now we are a little strapped."

  "I see." Jack thought, It shouldn't be this hard for a P.I. to make a living. Maybe I should open a dating and escort service. Take Miro's overflow. Call it Deflections.

  "Please, Jack," Susan said earnestly. "We really need your help. Dad told me about the secret lab those kids are working for the government. I changed my mind. If Professor Nichols came out here that means something is definitely wrong. You've got to help us."

  Jack could feel himself falling for it but he said, "I'm gonna need more than that."

  "Here." She took off some rings and her watch.

  "Honey, that's your graduation watch," Herman said sadly.

  Jack thought, This can't be happening. "I don't take used jewelry," he said, retreating deeper into the guest house.

  "Will you help us? Please? We'll figure something out about the money," Susan said.

  "Do you have a cell phone?"

  She nodded and handed him one. "But I don't think it's worth much."

  "No not for payment. For communication. Look, I'm gonna go back outside. Herm, I need you to go with me. We'll be back in about an hour. Take your cell phone, get in Barbra's car and pull out.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "I want you to lead Paul Nichols up into the hills. There's a road off Malibu Canyon I know about. We did a crystal drug bust up there when I was a cop. Buncha bikers. It's nice and empty. There's a clearing with a baseball diamond. I'll give you directions, talk you in using the cell. You drive up there. Paul follows you, I follow Paul."

  "What am I supposed to do?" Susan said.

  "Call downtown and get us a parade permit."

  "Funny," she snapped.

  "What's your plan?" Herm persisted.

  "Once we get him up there I'm gonna pull his scrawny ass out of that blue Chevelle and beat some answers outta him. Like Susan said, something is definitely wrong here."

  Chapter Twenty-Three.

  Jack slid back into his Fairlane, then used Susan's

  phone to cal
l Herman inside the house. "Okay, I'm set. He's still parked out here. Get in the Mercedes and head up to Malibu Canyon Road."

  "Okay," Herman replied. "But Susan just decided she wants to go."

  "You tell Susan if I see her in that car I'm turning around and going home."

  He heard a muffled conversation as Herman and Susan argued about it, then Susan was in his ear, buzzing like an angry hornet: "I'm not going to be left behind like somebody's little sister."

  "I know you have an extensive background in law enforcement, Ms. Strockmire, but let me stress this, and I'll say it slowly, so even you can understand…"

  Why was he being such an asshole? Was it because he couldn't control her? Was this why he had had such a string of uninspiring relationships?

  "Ms. Strockmire," he continued with exaggerated politeness. "It is always a bad idea to have all your assets stacked up in one place. You're rear guard a position usually assigned to the most dangerous motherfucker in the outfit, which, without a doubt, is you."

  "Now you're really going over the top."

  "Do I have your word on this? Otherwise, I'm going home."

  "Dad's coming out," she hissed. "But Wirta… if anything happens to him, I'm coming after you."

  "Your challenge. So, I get to pick time and choice of weapons. How 'bout midnight, with thongs and nipple clips."

  "What an asshole!" she said, but he heard her laugh as she hung up.

  Ten minutes later Herman lumbered out, climbed into the silver Mercedes, and backed out of the driveway. Jack watched in amazement as Paul Nichols actually turned on his headlights, hung a U-turn and followed.

  Jack dialed Herman's cell phone. When he picked up: "Herm, he's behind you."

  "How could I miss him?" Herman wheezed sarcastically. "He's got his high beams on."

  "Okay, listen: Take Malibu Canyon Road up about two miles. Just before the tunnel there's a dirt road on the left with a wooden gate. It's always unlocked. You don't have to get out, you can butt it with your bumper and it'll swing open. Drive up the road and take the first fork. You getting this?"

  "Yeah, take the first fork. Then what?"

  "Keep going until you get to a meadow. It's up on top of the hill. There's a sports field up there. A little baseball diamond, a track, some volleyball nets. Pull across and park by the dugout, then wait."

  "Okay."

  Jack hung up and dialed Shane Scully, his ex-partner.

  "Hello," the dark-haired cop answered.

  "Shane, it's me."

  "Me? Would that be L.A.'s newest gumshoe? How's the office? You set up yet?"

  "We've already had our first robbery, our first client, and I'm on our first stakeout… just like Magnum, only without the Ferrari."

  "Whatta you need?" Shane asked.

  "Can you find out who owns the residence at 2352 North Canon Drive in Beverly Hills? A guy named Paul Nichols lives there, but I want to know if he owns the place, is a guest, or what?"

  "Any reason to think he doesn't own it?"

  "It's big, maybe worth four or five mil, but Paul drives a cheesebox with wheels so I have my doubts. Run the address through county records for me. There's a cold beer in it for you."

  "Done."

  Herman turned left off Malibu Canyon Road and followed a small dirt drive to the wood fence. He nudged the gate open with his bumper as Jack had instructed. It swung wide. He saw the blue Chevelle pulling in behind him.

  Herman was feeling very alive. His heart rate was steady, and when he checked his pulse it was up around 92 not arrhythmia excitement. It made him feel more energized than he had in weeks. But he was glad he had Jack Wirta back there for protection.

  The baseball diamond came up on the right. He pulled across the outfield, then parked near the batting cage and turned off the headlights. In his rearview mirror he watched the blue Chevelle pull up onto the field and stop thirty or forty yards behind him

  with the headlights off. His cell phone rang again and he picked it up. "Yeah?"

  "He up there?" Wirta asked.

  "Yep. Parked in the outfield."

  "Okay. Get out and walk slowly toward him."

  "Do what?"

  "Don't worry, I just need you for a diversion. I'm twenty yards down the road. I'm gonna move in on foot. I'll take him before you get to him."

  "Okay."

  Herman hoped his heart didn't spin out on him. He took his pulse again: 98 still in the high-normal range. He got out of the car and began to walk slowly toward the blue Chevelle. It was strange how exhilarated he felt. He was actually enjoying this.

  When he was about fifty feet from the car, he heard somebody yell: "Hey! Hey, whatta you doing? Stop it!" And he knew Jack had made his move.

  Herman lumbered up as fast as he could without running, and when he arrived at the Chevelle he found that Jack Wirta had Professor Nichols face down on the ground, handcuffing him.

  "You'd better unhook these if you know what's good for you," Nichols demanded.

  "If I knew what was good for me I wouldn't be driving a Fairlane and working these hours. Why don't you tell me why you're following Herman Strockmire?" Jack pulled him into a sitting position.

  "None of your fucking business!" Nichols's forehead was wet and he had a little damp grass stuck to his bullshit Vandyke.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  It started with a whispering sound that brought a wind with it, bending the long grass around the baseball diamond. Herman looked up and saw a huge helicopter, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. It had a sort of stealth configuration and was extremely quiet as it hovered over them. He glimpsed the underbelly and part of the nose for only a second before a huge xenon light snapped on, blinding him.

  "Stand where you are! Put your hands in the air!" a bullhorn blared down at them.

  In that split second before the light went on Herman saw what he thought were noise-cloaking panels on the belly. These "whisper panels" had been described to him when he'd filed a class action against the government on behalf of Tom Lawson and Gil Grant, two Marines who had gotten horribly sick from something they'd contracted at Area 51, the supersecret government airbase at Groom Lake, Nevada. It was Tom and Gil who had originally gotten him interested in Area 51. He had hoped his lawsuit would force the government to reveal what testing was really going on out there.

  The helicopter hovered, blowing sand and dirt as it whispered silently above the field. Suddenly, men appeared on the ground all around them. They had either jumped from the low hovering helicopter or had been up here already waiting. They converged from all sides. Herman felt hands grabbing him as ten or twelve soldiers swarmed them. They were all dressed in camouflage jumpsuits with a strange, red Delta insignia sewn over the uniform's left breast pocket.

  I was right! Herman thought, recognizing the Dulce Base insignia that had been drawn for him once by Tom Lawson.

  Herman and Jack were quickly frisked. Jack's AMT Hard-baller was yanked out of his holster. They were both cuffed while

  Paul Nichols was uncuffed, then they were hustled to a spot at the side of the field as the strangely-shaped black helicopter landed, throwing dirt and stones everywhere, stinging their skin and eyes.

  Ten commandos dragged Herman and Jack toward the helicopter, but Paul Nichols yelled something at the soliders who had a hold of Jack.

  "Huh?" one of the commandos yelled back, over the windstorm coming from the idling futuristic chopper.

  "Turn him around," Nichols demanded, pointing at Jack. They did as he instructed, then Paul stepped up and fired a right cross.

  Jack's lip split and blood flowed. "That all you got?" Jack yelled at Nichols.

  The commandos yanked Jack around, then continued pushing Herman and Jack toward the helicopter.

  Canvas hoods were snapped over their heads as they were forced into the chopper. The roar inside was much louder than on the outside. Herman and Jack felt the helicopter shudder and rise. As they took off they were both pretty sur
e they would never be heard from again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four.

  While he breathed his own hot breath inside the

  blackout hood Herman felt the annoying tickle in his throat. He felt sluggish and without energy and knew his heart had gone into another arrhythmia.

  As he and Jack Wirta were whisked away into the night, Herman cursed his heart. He was almost certain the strange, futuristic helicopter taking them to God-knows-where was one of the new Aurora Hyper-aircraft that Tom and Gil had told him about.

  An hour later the helicopter began to slow. Herman felt the vibration increasing as the pilot added power and pulled up on the collective, making the chopper hover.

  "Dreamland Control, this is Psych Twenty-seven. We are downrange and entering the box," the pilot reported.

  Herman knew all about Dreamland.

  It was the secret testing site at Groom Lake, Nevada. He also knew that "Psych" was the call sign for all experimental aircraft being tested at both Groom Lake and Papoose Lake, which was located ten miles to the north. It was hard for Herman to believe, but it now seemed that he and Jack were actually being taken to The Ranch, the nickname given to the ultrasecret test facility encompassing the two five-mile-long runways on the two dry lake-beds.

  If that was true, they were about to land at the secret facility known as Area 51. Only people with top Pentagon security could work there.

  Herman had spent two months out there in the late eighties, staying in a motel named the Little A-Lee-Inn. He had been taking sworn statements from government radiologists and toxic waste people at Area 51. He'd been refused entry to the base and was forced to take his depositions off-site. His sinuses were always plugged while there, because he was allergic to something that seemed to be perpetually blooming in the central Nevada desert. It was the only place he'd ever had sinus trouble.

  Once, when he was still working the case full-time, he'd taken a rented, four-wheel-drive Jeep up to Bald Mountain, the highest peak in the Groom Mountain range. He'd squatted in the old, deserted silver mine with his tripod and long-lens camera pointed at the secret base almost four miles away. All the while he was afraid that he was being observed by the telescopes mounted on the top of the east-end Area 51 support buildings. Those roof scopes were always pointed toward the mountains, surveying the growing crowds of conspiracy addicts who were convinced that alien research was taking place on The Ranch. In the nineties the government had finally taken over the Groom Mountains, making them a part of Area 51. He'd heard stories about the CDF troops that sometimes raided these hills to keep snoopers out. Luckily, he'd gotten his photos before that had happened, snapping almost twenty rolls.