by Brian Harper
“Just had to raise my voice a little.”
“You should have used me.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Charles was surprised to hear Cain say that. They had argued the point at length.
Both had agreed that every detail of the breakin had to be carried out as if Cain had no inside information. For that reason Charles had not supplied Cain with house keys or told him the alarm-system access code. Instead Cain had pirated the code with a digital decrypter, which he’d conveniently left in place to be discovered by the police.
Cain hadn’t been given the combination of the safe either. For realism he would obtain it openly from some member of the Kent household, who would later include that detail in an official statement.
Charles had thought he should be selected. Cain had held out for Ally, saying that an honest witness would provide more persuasive testimony. As a lawyer, Charles knew this to be true and finally had yielded.
Barbara, of course, had never been an option. She would not be making any statements to anybody after tonight.
“If Ally did what you wanted,” Charles said slowly, “what the hell’s the problem Why’s she in her bedroom and not in the closet with the rest of us”
“She hasn’t been harmed.”
“Barbara doesn’t know that. She’s practically hysterical. The agreement was that after Ally gave you the combination, you’d have her join us. Then you’d take Barbara and Judy-“
“I’m familiar with our agreement.”
“So what’s the delay You can’t keep us in there all night. Danforth’s already talking about breaking out. The guy’s a hothead, and he’s had too much to drink. Your people shouldn’t have pushed him around; it got him worked up. And killing that cop-“
“Forget the goddamned cops.”
Suddenly Cain was leaning over the armchair. Charles stared into his eyes and saw hardness and madness there.
“We got ourselves a situation, Mr. Kent. Involving your precious daughter.”
Charles coughed, a light, almost dainty sound. “What … what about her”
“She saw my face.”
25
Sixteen years had passed since Trish earned a Girl Scout Brownie Try-It patch by tying square knots, but there were some skills a person never forgot.
With her knife she cut a coil of nylon dock line into shorter segments. She bound her arrestee’s hands and feet, trussing him like a turkey, then gagged him with the ski mask from his pants pocket.
Her hands were the only part of her that still trembled, rattling the links of the handcuff chain. The nausea and the worst of the shaking had passed quickly enough, leaving her numb and drained.
It seemed difficult to concentrate, to get her mind in gear. What was she supposed to do next No situation remotely like this had been covered at the academy.
Well, come on, it wasn’t rocket science. She had to get help. That was the logical next step. Get help.
But how
Wald had said the Kent house was the only residence on the lake. The lightless sweep of hillsides around her seemed to confirm it.
She remembered passing trailers and mobile homes on the drive up, but the nearest ones were three or four miles away. Even to reach the road she would have to cut through the woods, impenetrable to someone who didn’t know the trails, or through the Kent property, fenced and gated and patrolled.
Could she call for help somehow Her radio had been confiscated, and the killer’s was gone. Lost in the lake, presumably.
She could check out the two sport boats. There might be a portable hailer aboard.
Before looking, she emptied the young man’s pockets, hopeful of finding a handcuff key.
There was none. All he had was a six-inch flashlight and a pair of lightweight, folded binoculars, remarkably compact. The flash was water resistant; she rotated the bezel switch, and a bright beam of light appeared.
She scanned his gun belt. No key holder. No cuff case.
For the moment she was stuck with the handcuffs. Grin and bear it. At least she was alive.
Pocketing the flash, she crossed the dock to the ladder and climbed into the nearest boat, the one she’d tipped from below.
It was a mini-jet, the fiberglass hull emblazoned Sea Rayder. The craft wasn’t large, perhaps fourteen feet long, and it listed noticeably as she stepped aboard.
There was no radio installed in the cockpit console. Without an ignition key she couldn’t have used a built-in unit anyway. She checked the stowage compartments but didn’t find a hailer.
But in the bow she discovered the killer’s walkie-talkie, dropped near a grab handle, unbroken and still dry.
Eagerly she retrieved the radio, then studied it in the starlight.
Instant disappointment. Unlike police-issue transceivers, this unit was strictly short range, capable of operating only in the simplex mode. Its signal would never get past the encircling hillsides.
Even so, she clipped the walkie-talkie to her waistband, the volume dialed low. If any transmissions were sent out over the preset frequency on channel three, she could eavesdrop.
The second boat, moored astern, was something called a Celebrity FireStar, fifteen feet long. Again, no radio gear, but she did find a waterproof package of hiking supplies: first-aid kit, compass, granola bars, matches, and a map of the lake.
In the first-aid kit, a bottle of Advil caplets. She dry-swallowed twice the recommended dose. A serious headache was coming on.
Then she unfolded the laminated map and studied it in the flashlight’s glow.
The map showed the Kent estate at the lake’s south end, dense woods along most of the remaining perimeter. At the north shore, approximately four miles away, was a small park with a picnic area.
According to a notation on the map, the park closed at dusk and offered only minimal facilities, indicated by simple icons.
Boat launch.
Snack shop.
Rest rooms.
Pay phones.
It took a moment for the significance of the last item to register.
Phones.
If she could get there …
Walking would take too long; the shoreline of the many-fingered lake stretched for miles. One of the boats could make the trip in a few minutes, but each required an ignition key.
Too bad the Brownies hadn’t offered a Try-It patch for hotwiring an engine. In the movies, the procedure always looked easy, but she had not the faintest idea how to go about it in real life.
Of course, there had to be keys to these boats somewhere.
In the Kents’ house, no doubt.
All she had to do was sneak inside and …
Inside
Crazy. Even armed, she would be taking a suicidal risk.
She shook her head, suddenly overcome by fatigue. Nothing in her training, nothing in her life, had prepared her for what she’d been through tonight.
It was a miracle she’d survived this long. To press her luck was more than insane. It was ungrateful.
The smart thing, the sensible thing, was to melt into the woods and wait there until her unit’s absence was noted and backup was sent.
But the woman with the lisp had done an awfully credible job of imitating her voice. She could fool either of the night dispatchers, Lou or Thelma, at least for a while.
How long would it take the killers to finish their work Even now they might be preparing to leave-and before going, perhaps they would execute the hostages.
The Danforths, Mr. and Mrs. Kent … and Ally.
Trish thought of the girl’s eyes, wide and frightened and red with tears.
Marta’s eyes.
No. Wrong.
Marta was dead, and Ally was a different person entirely, and there was nothing Trish could do for her, no further action she could take.
She was wet and cold, shivering in the night breeze, hands manacled, knuckles and wrists badly abraded. Her head ached, her limbs were tender with bruises, her every muscle w
as sore with strain.
No medals for quitters.
Cut it out. That was ridiculous. Nobody-not even her Girl Scout leader, Mrs. Wilkes-absolutely nobody could blame her for quitting now.
Nobody except herself.
“Oh, hell,” she murmured, disgust and self-aware amusement in her voice.
She knew what she had to do, and she would do it. Because she was a cop-a patrol officer, as she’d told the gray-eyed man with her chin lifted. She had taken an oath to protect and serve. Now it was crunch time, when those words meant something, or ought to.
Or maybe she just wanted to prove she wasn’t a damn Mouseketeer.
It seemed as good a reason as any for getting herself killed.
If she was going to do this, really do it, then she needed weapons, tools, any advantage she could get. She returned to the beach. Kneeling, she inspected her captive’s gear more closely.
His belt carried a sheathed knife-full-tanged, the blade wickedly honed-and a holster for the pistol and a cartridge case for spare magazines.
She pulled the gun from her waistband. A Glock 17, made in Austria of polymer and steel, lightweight and durable.
After five shots, the sound suppressor was so badly degraded as to be useless. She unscrewed and discarded it, then removed a round from the chamber.
The bullet’s distinctive crushed-in nose identified it as a Winchester Black Talon, one of the more lethal 9mm Parabellum rounds. As it entered the body, metallic barbs folded back in a six-rayed starfish shape, expanding the diameter of the wound channel.
She had read what Black Talons could do to gelatin targets that had the approximate consistency of the human torso. Her abdomen clenched, and for a moment her resolve wavered.
She thought of Wald’s face, one eye staring, blood everywhere …
Don’t.
What happened to Wald was irrelevant. She was alive and she had a job to do, so she had better get on with it.
She removed the magazine, then assumed the Weaver stance and dry-fired the Glock. The pull was light, the trigger breaking at five pounds.
She tested the high-tech sighting system. Water hadn’t damaged it; the wiring was all internal, running apparently through the trigger guard into the grip, then to a battery behind the magazine well, where the Glock’s butt flared.
More orange than red, the laser was the so-called daylight type, brighter than older varieties with longer wavelengths. The beam covered not less than two hundred yards.
Quickly she inspected the rest of the killer’s ensemble. Black SWAT boots, heavy and padded, with steel shanks and thick rubber soles. Sweat pants and matching jacket of black nylon. Skin-tight leather gloves. A digital wristwatch, waterproof like the flashlight.
Every item was costly and carefully chosen. These people weren’t amateurs. But she’d already known that.
She unhooked the man’s belt and strapped it on, a difficult procedure with her hands cuffed. From the cartridge case she removed a spare magazine and heeled it into the Glock, then chambered the loose round to give herself an extra shot. The partially emptied mag went in the case alongside the one remaining spare.
She holstered the gun, then pocketed the compass. Tried to fasten the watch to her wrist, but the handcuffs rendered the small task prohibitively difficult. The watch went in a pocket also.
Granola High in carbohydrates. She forced herself to swallow one of the bars in three gooey chews. Though her stomach remained uneasy, she needed to replace the food she’d lost.
The killer, now stripped of his gear, was still breathing, still out cold, still tied securely. She would have to leave him. She hoped he didn’t choke on the gag.
Enough of this. Time was wasting.
Trish took a deep breath and decided she was ready.
Tire marks in the sand led to a wide, paved path sloping upward in a gentle grade. The house loomed above her, squares of lighted windows glowing brighter than the stars.
Such an isolated place. The end of the world, Pete Wald had called it.
As she climbed the path, a childhood memory drifted back to her-an abandoned farm, a field of weeds, an empty house with boarded windows and padlocked doors and a dry well near the back porch. Another lonely place, a place where you could cry out for help and no one would hear.
A place of death.
Trish stared up at the Kent estate and wondered if her body would be found on its grounds, blue eyes staring, a roach crawling slowly, slowly over one glazed eyeball.
After all this, she still might not survive this night. Still might end up like Marta, sprawled in the weeds.
She had turned twenty-four less than two months ago. Wald had treated her like a child. Maybe he’d been right.
But she was growing up fast.
26
Charles sat very still, absorbing the news with something like indifference, all emotional reaction on hold.
“Saw your face,” he echoed blankly.
“Yes, Mr. Kent.” Charles had always liked hearing his own name, but not the way Cain said it, as if a Kent were some species of flatworm. “My handsome face.”
Charles felt his mouth twitch in imitation of a smile. That was a little joke Cain had just told. Not a very funny joke, but then neither of them was laughing.
Cain might have been handsome once, with his arresting gray eyes and wolfish smile, his square chin and brush-cut blond hair-until the knife had done its work. Charles had never asked about the details, but the essence of the story was written in the jagged diagonal scar that ran from Cain’s right temple to the left corner of his mouth like a badly knitted seam.
And Ally had seen that face, that scar.
“How” Charles whispered. “How did she … see you”
“That doesn’t matter now.”
It was not like Cain to be evasive.
Charles leaned forward slowly. “What did you do to her”
“I didn’t hurt her.”
“Did you … did you try…”
“She would have been better off,” Cain said without expression, “if she’d let me.”
Delayed emotion finally kicked in. A spasm of anger propelled Charles half out of his chair, hands bunched into fists.
Perhaps the fact that Cain did not move, did not flinch or frown, did not even do him the small courtesy of making some conciliatory gesture or remark-perhaps that was the reason he hesitated, then sank back down, palms flat against his thighs.
When he spoke again, his voice was toneless and dull. “She can identify you.”
“Yes.”
“She’ll be interviewed by a police artist. There’ll be a sketch …”
“They won’t need a sketch.” Cain paced, big arms swinging. Charles had seen those arms uncovered-hairy, prison-buffed, laced with popped veins. “Just a description.”
He was right. The local police had modem access to data bases of known felons in several counties. A keyword search would cull the names and mug shots of all facially scarred white males of the appropriate age.
Cain would be on that list.
“They’ll I.D. me in a half hour,” Cain said as if tracking his thoughts. “Then they’ll look into my past. And find you.”
“Bakersfield,” Charles whispered.
“You.”
Two years ago Charles had read a brief write-up in the Santa Barbara News-Press on a brutal beating in Bakersfield, a matter of local interest only because the victim was a Santa Barbara man on a business trip.
The man had stumbled on a thief breaking into his rented Dodge in a parking garage, and had tried to be a hero. When paramedics reached him, he was nearly comatose from blood loss. His assailant most likely had left him for dead.
But he recovered, and having seen his assailant’s face-his scarred face-he identified a known felon named Cain.
Even then Charles had begun to fantasize about tonight’s operation. From his rap sheet Cain had sounded like precisely the sort of man he would need. And so Charle
s offered to relieve the overworked public defender of the case.
Barbara and Ally, passing the summer at a seaside retreat in Majorca, never knew about the week Charles spent in Bakersfield, holed up in a cheap motel where he wouldn’t be recognized, breathing smog and defending Cain.
Cain was guilty, of course, but Charles had no qualms about that. Nearly all the hotshot drunk-driving movie executives and wife-beating record producers he defended were guilty too. His challenge was to persuade the jury that Cain had been wrongly identified.
The scar was the only detail the battered victim recalled. In a day and a half of cross-examination Charles got the poor bandaged son of a bitch to admit that the scar might have run from right to left or from left to right, might have ended at the assailant’s mouth or continued down his chin, might have been straight or curved. The garage lighting had been poor, the encounter brief and violent, and the victim’s concussion might have altered his memory.
On the stand, Cain swore he’d gone straight. He’d been in Indio that night, two hundred fifty miles southeast of Bakersfield. A disinterested witness, a girlishly lisping young lady named Lilith, confirmed his alibi.
The jury set Cain free. Justice, American style.
Charles asked nothing for his services, merely requested that Cain keep in touch. If he could mail a card to a post office box in Ventura now and then, updating the phone number where he could be reached, Charles might make it worth his while someday.
Someday had arrived. And now everything was going wrong, spiraling out of control.
The cops would look into Cain’s past and learn that his attorney in the battery case had been Charles Kent. Charles could say it must be a coincidence or some sort of twisted revenge on Cain’s part, but the police wouldn’t buy it. Coincidences of that kind didn’t happen.
Anyway, why would Cain want revenge against a man who’d obtained his acquittal Why had Charles gone all the way to Bakersfield to take a pro bono case Why had he stayed in an obscure motel instead of his customary lavish accommodations Why hadn’t he deducted his traveling expenses as a charitable contribution on his 1040 form
And when investigators looked into his bank accounts, when they discovered the recent liquidation of a $100,000 certificate of deposit six months before maturity-when they learned of an account in Cain’s name in Carlsbad, New Mexico, which had been credited with a matching deposit the next day-then they would have more than questions for him.
