Runaway Heart (2003)

by Stephen Cannell

  "No!" Sandy yelled. "The pool!"

  She ran right through the broken sliding glass door, pulling Herman after her, as the chimera rolled to its feet and with amazing speed leaped forward, running on all fours, quickly closing the distance between them.

  Herman could hear the strange sound of the leather gloves scraping against the concrete pavement behind them. Sandy yanked him hard and suddenly they were both in the pool. As they landed in the deep end the chimera skidded to a halt inches from the water. It screamed, then ran around the edge, jumping and grunting, looking for a way to get at them.

  "My God, what is it?" Herman said.

  "I think it's one of your new clients," Sandy gasped as they treaded water. "A chimera. They can't swim."

  "How do you know?" Herman yelled as he watched the frightening animal growling at them, its eyes filled with murderous rage.

  "It looks mostly chimp. They're too heavy to swim. Too much muscle. No body fat. Chimps are afraid of the water," Sandy treaded water and stared at the angry beast. She obviously knew what she was talking about, because it was now clear that this thing had no intention of going in after them.

  As the hybrid ran back and forth around the pool it finally noticed the steps in the shallow end. Screeching angrily, it waded in up to its waist but now the electronic vest was getting wet. Herman could hear circuits popping. After a moment of indecision, the chimera waded out of the pool, then scurried around to the diving board. It ran out to the end and clung to the edge, reaching toward Herman and making a loud, plaintive scream.

  "It wants us to help him." Herman started to swim toward it.

  "Get back ... are you nuts?" Sandy yelled, then grabbed him, pulling him further out of range.

  The chimera jumped up and down on the diving board, regret on its hairless face.

  Suddenly they heard police sirens winding down outside the house. A pair of car doors slammed and a moment later the first of the Malibu sheriffs jumped up to look over the wall into the pool area.

  "Help!" Sandy called. "We need help!"

  The deputy climbed to the top of the wall, then jumped down, landing twenty feet from the enraged chimera.

  "What the fuck?" the deputy sheriff said when he saw the beast.

  Pan sees the Geega female turn and drag the male out through the broken place. Out to the wet place where water shimmers.

  Pan knows he must stop the Geegas before they get there. If Geegas get to the wet place he will not be able to follow. He will fail.

  Pan is almost on them, reaching out with the knife, slashing, but getting nothing but Geega clothing. Pan screams in fear and anger, almost falls, teetering on the edge of the wet, but finally regains his balance. The Alpha Geega Dave is yelling in Pan's earpiece.

  "Kill them! Get them!" Pan wants to do what Dave commands. He can imagine the Geega bodies in his grip, ripping, shredding. Pan wants to use the PB-99, but the Alpha Geega says no, not unless he is being captured.

  Pan runs around the pool, stopping at some steps where the water looks shallow. He runs down, feeling the warm wet against his fur. He goes deeper, almost to his waist.

  "Pan! No! Don't get the vest wet!" Dave is yelling at him. "You'll short it out."

  Pan hears the vest popping, but he ignores it. He is a warrior. He has come from a faraway place to shred and kill. He will not fail

  Pan backs out of the water and runs to the wood plank hanging out over the other side. He creeps out to the end and can now almost reach the male Geega. He grabs the underside of the wood that is hanging over the water and stretches out as far as he can, reaching for the big Geega, but he is still too far away. The Geega begins moving toward him . . . maybe close enough to grab.

  Pan hears something behind him9 turns, and sees another Geega jumping up on the wall This Geega wears a cap and has silver on his shirt. The Geega jumps down off the wall.

  "What the fuck?" the Geega says.

  Pan screams his warrior scream. He runs at the new Geega standing by the gate. He grabs him and jerks him forward. Using the knife, Pan rips him open. Blood spews. Pan keeps jabbing and cutting. The Geega's screams are gurgles now as he chokes on his own blood. Pan has no mercy.

  The Geega falls forward. Blood spills from the huge wound in his neck. Pan jumps up and down on the ground> then snarls at his dead enemy.

  Maybe this will make Dave happy. Pan knows he must go. He turns and easily leaps over the wall9 landing on the other side, then runs toward the van. But as he does he hears two loud bangs. He knows that these are from a Geega fire-stick. Then a third bang. Something hits him hard in the back. Pan flies forward, feeling nothing but the impact that turns him in the air as he falls. Pan lands on his back and sees a second Geega wearing the same uniform with silver pinned on his shirt. He is standing off the walkway pointing his fire-stick.

  The man shoots again.

  "No!" Dave Silver said, watching on the monitor as his chimera lay bleeding in the street.

  "Abort destruct," Norm Pettis ordered, but Silver's face was twisted with indecision. Pettis reached out and pushed a radio detonator. The vest Pan was wearing would react to the radio command by injecting the chimera with an explosive chemical that would travel quickly to five areas in Pan's body, drawn by electromagnets located in the vest. Pettis pushed a second button, which sent a radio wave to the DARPA satellite in space, then bounced it back to the detonator on Pan's body computer.

  Nothing happened. The vest had shorted out.

  Dave Silver knew Pan was mortally wounded. Pettis grabbed the mike. "Pan! You must go. You must hide!"

  They watched on the monitor as the deputy approached Pan, gazing down in wonder.

  "Pan, run! Run!" Pettis ordered angrily.

  Surprisingly, Pan rolled to his feet and shoved the deputy aside.

  "Son of a bitch," Pettis said softly. "These little fuckers are tough."

  As Dave Silver watched in awe, Pan started to run. Leaking blood, the chimera limped up the beach road, crossed into the brush by the hillside, then disappeared.

  Chapter Thirty-Six.

  Jack and Susan were halfway to Malibu in the stolen XKE when Herman's cell phone rang. Susan dug it out of her purse and answered.

  "It's me." Herman's tired voice seemed to come from far away. "We gotta meet, but I'm pretty sure these calls are being intercepted."

  "Hang on a minute, Dad," she said and turned to Jack. "He wants to meet."

  "Pick some place you both know, but don't mention the name."

  "Dad, without saying it, remember where you took me for my birthday?"

  "Yeah."

  "Meet us there. It'll take us less than an hour."

  "Right." Herman hung up.

  The separate structures that made up the Malibu Beach Inn clung to the rocky crevices like brightly painted barnacles. Some units were wedged into the hillside, others perched on granite pads high above the ocean, with views that looked down on spectacular rock formations. The entire ocean side of the inn was wrapped by a meandering patio that contained six tables for the tiny gourmet restaurant.

  Susan and Jack walked into the lobby and stopped at the front desk. Herman had registered, taking two rooms under his own name.

  Great, Herm . . . why don't you just take out an ad? Jack thought.

  Herman had left a note for Susan that read: We're on the veranda.

  They made their way out onto the rambling, narrow cliff-side patio and found Herman and Sandy seated at a table overlooking the ocean. The crashing waves spewed foam that glistened in half a dozen powerful Xenon spotlights.

  Herman was in his lawyer mode, half-glasses perched on the end of his nose and yellow pad open, scribbling hieroglyphic notes as they approached.

  When Susan hugged her father he felt her damp clothing. "You're wet," he said, looking at her with concern.

  "So are you," Susan said. Jack turned to the Asian woman seated with him. "You must be Sandy."

  Herman introduced them. After Jack and S
usan were seated, it took about fifteen minutes for them to bring each other up to date.

  Herman listened to the account of Jack's speargunning of the DARPA commando on Lido Island and their close escape. His basset jowls were pulled tight, and he frowned when Jack told him about the stolen Jaguar. "Where's the car now?"

  "In the parking lot, but I switched the plate with another car parked there." Jack smiled. "That oughta keep the ride cool for a few hours."

  "Maybe you should ditch it and get a rental."

  "Except the Wirta Agency is ever vigilant as it watches over your expense sheet." If Jack was expecting some kind of praise for his courage and frugality, he was disappointed. What he got were strained looks all around. It seemed the spear gun caper and car theft had turned his karma brown.

  Sandy and Herman recounted their ordeal with the chimera in Streisand's guesthouse. Jack thought it was by far the better story.

  "You actually saw one?" Susan asked, amazed.

  "Honey, not only did I see it, but it wanted us to help it."

  Susan frowned. "I thought you said it tried to kill you."

  "The more I think back . . . I'm not sure. Sandy doesn't agree, but I think it was reaching out to us, with a pleading look all over its face ... in its eyes."

  Sandy looked over at Jack. "Herm wants to believe it was pleading for help, but I can tell you the only way we got away was by jumping into the pool. They can't swim."

  They all sat awkwardly at the small table searching for something to say. Finally it was Herman who continued. "We grabbed my things, then went out through the side gate and escaped up the beach. We had to leave the cars. Since the chimera killed the deputy, there're enough cops standing around at Barbra's to open a donut franchise. We walked the two miles to get here." Then Herman announced his legal strategy. He was going to file a TRO against DARPA on behalf of "Charles Chimera, a being." He was going to use this case to change the rules on standing. Then, as they sat in stunned slence, he detailed the rest of his plan.

  "I hope it works," Sandy said softly. "If it doesn't, you'll be on CNN, eating crow."

  Herman and Sandy ordered food while Jack and Susan had coffee. Sandy Toshiabi started sketching on her paper place mat while waiting for the food to arrive. By the time they had finished dinner she had completed the drawing. She turned it around for all of them to see. It was a remarkably good sketch of the thing that had chased them into the pool.

  "It really looks like that?" Jack asked, thinking it resembled a prehistoric man, but with a more intelligent face.

  "That's exactly what it looks like," Herman confirmed.

  After paying the bill they walked back to the lobby. Herman said he and Jack could share one room, Susan and Sandy the other. At Jack's suggestion, they stopped at the front desk to change the registration into Sandy's name.

  Jack said, "I wanna check on this address in Bel Air that Shane gave me. See who lives at 2.64 Chalon Road. I'll be back in two or three hours."

  "I'm coming with you," Susan said. Jack started to refuse, but, the truth was, he was really enjoying her company, so he ended up agreeing.

  They left Sandy and Herman plotting the lawsuit and got back into the Jag and drove south on PCH, then followed Sunset toward Beverly Hills.

  What they were about to find wasn't as strange as Herman's chimera, but it sure as hell would change the events that followed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven.

  Halfway to Bel Air, Susan opened the glove box and

  started searching around inside. "Whatta y'doing?" Jack asked. "I want to see who, exactly, is gonna be charging you with grand theft auto." She pulled out the registration and read it. " 'Baxton Hammond Jr.' " She looked at Jack. "I think I've heard of him."

  "You're kidding, right?" Jack said. "And the hits just keep on coming." "Who is he?"

  "Bax Hammond. The Orange County D.A." Suddenly, Susan started laughing. Whether it was just a release of tension or she thought it was really funny, Jack couldn't tell, but her laughter was infectious, and soon he was roaring as well. He had tears in his eyes. Hopefully they'd still see the humor

  after completing their two-and-a-half-year GTA sentences in Soledad.

  Jack continued down Sunset. "That's it up ahead."

  They were both still smiling as he turned into the Bel Air entrance. After driving for about six blocks up into the foothills they found 264 Chalon Road.

  It was an impressive Spanish mansion, and there was some kind of a high-profile party going on. Black-suited security was checking every invitation at the foot of the pillared driveway. Valets in red coats scurried back and forth, jumping into arriving cars, pulling away fast, and racing them up the hill to park. A truck from Along Came Mary Catering was parked across the street.

  Jack pulled up to the nearest attendant. "Is this the Goldberg's party?" he asked a teenage boy, who looked like he had probably just started driving about a week ago.

  "No sir, this is the Ibanazi house. Invitation only." The valet wrinkled his nose in distaste. Jack's wardrobe was finally dry, but it must have fallen well below the guest profile.

  "Wrong blast. I'm going to Whoopi's. Sorry!" Trying for some payback.

  Jack put the Jag in gear and pulled up a side street away from all the valet madness. As he looked for a place to pull over, he handed Susan the car phone. "Call 411 and see if he's listed."

  She dialed Information and asked for Russell Ibanazi's phone number on Chalon Road. She scribbled it down and hung up.

  Jack mulled options. Then he picked up her cell phone.

  "What're you gonna do?" she asked.

  "Gonna get us invited to this party." He dialed the number.

  "Ibanazi residence," a pleasant-sounding woman said.

  "Good evening, this is Mr. Wirta. Project supervisor for Along Came Mary? To whom is it that I might be speaking?" Saying it like he had a broom handle up his ass.

  "This is Mrs. Dorsett. I'm Chief Ibanazi's record company vice president."

  "Good. Right-o. I was in the neighborhood, just wanted to make sure all of your catering choices were delivered exactly as planned." Adding a tinge of Limey accent now for flavor.

  "Yes, I guess. But I'm not the one who made the catering arrangements."

  "Did the smoked-duck empanadas with caviar centers arrive?" Jack breezed on.

  "Uh ... I don't... did we order those?"

  "Three trays. I specifically told John to have those over by five."

  "Uh . . . John?" She seemed confused.

  "How 'bout the Roma tomato bruschettas, and the brie en croute with raspberry walnut sauce?"

  "Uh . . . well ... I think I saw some shrimp scampi and some spinach quiche."

  "Can't be. The quiche was for Warren and Annette's pool party. Don't tell me the cold octopus pie didn't make it?" Just sort of screwing with her now.

  "Uh . . . cold octopus?"

  "It seems there's been a horrible flummox. To begin with, please tell that wonderful Chief Ibanazi that we are absolutely not charging him for any of the things that he didn't order, and I will personally deduct twenty percent from the invoice for this horrible mistake. I'm going to dash right over to check into this personally. I'd appreciate it if you might notify your security people at the gate, that Mr. Jackson Wirta and Ms. Susan Strockmire from Along Came Mary will be along directly. In the meantime, could you be a dear and make an inventory sheet of what's already out so we can get this mess unscrambled."

  "But the catering was handled by Louis. I didn't arrange for any of this." Ass-covering, pure and simple.

  "Not your fault, Mrs. Dorsett and it's not Louis's either it's ours. And we can thank the Queen's butler, you and I caught it in lickety-split time." Jack almost said "Tallyho," but thought he was already over the top, so he just hung up.

  "That Brit accent really stunk," Susan grinned.

  "It got us into the party."

  They waited a few minutes for Mrs. Dorsett to make the call, then pulled down within sigh
t of the security/valet station. Jack waited until the first valet he'd spoken to whizzed off to park a Porsche Targa. Then he put the Jag in gear and pulled up.

  "I'm Jackson Wirta," he said to another teenager as they both got out. "This is Ms. Strockmire. I think Mrs. Dorsett rang you up." Still using the phony accent.

  "Right," the security goon said. "With the caterers. She just called. Go on up."

  Jack took a valet ticket and then headed up the long, winding brick driveway toward a sprawling Spanish mansion with a red-tiled roof. There were at least four acres of manicured lawns with an Olympic-size pool and seventy-foot palm trees that swayed overhead, waving their giant fronds like skinny, fan-wielding eunuchs. Fountains gushed and spurted. Young Beverly Hills trophy wives clutched their geriatric keepers and mingled competitively.

  Jack and Susan skirted the growing crowd of about a hundred and fifty guests. Across the pool, holding court under the cabana, sat the Indian chief.

  Russell Ibanazi was a remarkably handsome man who, as Shane had mentioned, was only thirty years old. His dark good looks and Hollywood dress gave him a definite nouveau tilt. He laughed at something one of the women near him said, and when he did his smile sparkled like bone china. He was wearing an Armani suit with Gucci sunglasses hanging off his top shirt button. An Amstel Light was clutched casually in his right hand.

  "Groovy-type Indian," Jack said.

  "What were you expecting, a loin cloth?" Susan frowned.

  "No, but I was hoping for a couple of hair feathers."

  Jack began circling Chief Ibanazi like a reef shark scoping prey.

  "He's so young," Susan said.

  "He's also listed. In Beverly Hills, you're only in the book if you're still hoping people will call you. Sure sign of social insecurity. Could be a sucker for my Daily Planet thing."

  "Your what?"

  "Just play along," Jack said, and strolled toward Russell, pulling a pen out of his pocket along with his small spiral detective notebook. He waited for a hole in both the conversation and the swirling entourage, then stepped neatly through both.