Bolthole

by Jeff Mariotte

  Fortunately, a call from Eric Beale interrupted his thoughts before they could veer any further toward the morose. They were using Earwigs, because the cell service had not been restored yet. They had satellite phones for backup, but for the moment, the Earwigs would do.

  “Guys,” Eric said, “I have a possible lead.”

  “What is it?” Callen asked, anxious to hear some good news.

  “You’ve seen the Peabody pictures, right? The cabin with the unique rock outcropping behind it?”

  “Sure,” Sam said. “We have ’em on our phones.”

  “Right. Well, I consulted with a UCLA geologist who’s been studying the Hollywood Hills for decades. He narrowed those pictures down to one of two locations. He can’t be certain which it is, he said, because so much of what you can see in the photographs is determined by the lighting, the time of day, the weather, and so on. But both sites are relatively close together, and not that far from where you are now.”

  “Is there a cabin?” Callen asked.

  “I’ve been looking at satellite imagery,” Eric replied. “One has a small, rustic house that could be described as a cabin. The other has a much bigger house, but it’s also newer—built sometime within the last decade, anyway, and probably more recently than that. I’ve been trying to find historical imagery of that precise location, to see what was there before the house, but so far, no luck.”

  “How do we find these sites?” Sam asked. “We’ll try the one with a cabin first.”

  “Okay,” Eric said. “First, you need to make a U-turn…”

  * * *

  They followed Eric’s directions to the cabin site. Pavement ran most of the way, but the last quarter mile was on a stretch of unpaved road that appeared to have been maintained by a chiropractor desperate for new patients. The cabin was nestled in a shallow bowl, shaded by live oaks, with a rock wall behind it that could have been the one in the photographs. They parked the truck out of sight of the cabin, and hiked in far enough to get a glimpse.

  “What do you think?” Sam asked. “That look like the place?”

  “Might be,” Callen said. “It’s not exactly right, from this angle. But those were snapshots, taken more than a dozen years ago, and they were trying to capture people and activities, not show off the location.”

  “I don’t see any Buicks.”

  “Could be behind the house,” Callen said. “I don’t think we can tell anything useful from here.”

  “Yeah. You ready?”

  “I’ve been ready. I want to get this guy.”

  “I feel you,” Sam said. “So do I.”

  “Not like I do.”

  “I feel that, too. Check your emotions at the door, G, and let’s go.”

  Rather than approaching from the road, they circled around on foot, keeping the cabin out of view to their left, so they could come at it from the least likely direction. Their path took them through thick underbrush; more than once, thorns snagged Sam’s pants. It would have been nice if the federal government could spring for an apparel allowance, considering how many of their assignments ended with what had been perfectly good clothing turned into rags.

  Callen was a little on the grumpy side, and Sam understood. Their work sometimes required killing. Typically, the dead were bad guys, involved in the commission of crimes or terrorist acts, and their deaths were in the interest of public safety. Callen felt a special obligation to that—like all of them, he hated seeing innocents threatened, but G took it more personally than most. To do their job, they needed to be able to compartmentalize. Taking a human life was always hard, but they couldn’t let it cripple them.

  Every agent had his or her own way to cope with it. Sam tried to sort his knotted feelings about each killing into individual threads: pain, sorrow, fear, rage, loss, blame, and anything else particular to the event in question. Once he had identified those, he could close them into a mental box and set it aside. Later—when the case was closed, when he was alone or walking on the beach with Michelle, both of them lost in their own thoughts—he could open the box and address each one separately. Most such incidents were kill-or-be-killed, or they involved the certain death of another person or people, if that action wasn’t taken. That gave him a place to start, a way to rationalize the necessity of the act. From that point, the rest could be considered, one by one. The hurt he felt, the knowledge that every person he killed was somebody’s son or daughter, was special to someone, was more than the sum of his or her crimes, would never go away. Ultimately, though, the knowledge that by taking one life he had saved others was what pulled him through, enabled him to go on.

  Callen might have felt responsible for the deaths in the Brentwood house, and for whatever became of Betsy Peabody. But he wasn’t. Hal Shogren was responsible for Betsy’s fate, and was in large part responsible for all the other deaths. The participants in the shootout shared that blame with him. All Callen had been trying to do was to save the lives of people he had never met, never would meet, but who would have been endangered by yet another major blow to American-Iraqi relations.

  Theories about why people became terrorists were easy to come by, but it was usually a combination of factors that included poverty, hopelessness, a sense of isolation, and the perception that others disrespected one’s beliefs or culture. The theft of an important Iraqi artifact might not have been enough, by itself, to make anyone join a terrorist organization. But it could have been the last straw for some.

  From the far northeastern corner, Sam still couldn’t be sure if the rock face was the same one in the photos. Even if it was, erosion could have changed its profile in the intervening years. Rockslides and earthquakes could make significant alterations in what amounted to the blink of an eye, and wind and weather sculpted stone slowly but surely.

  Parked in back was a dark-blue pickup truck that looked like its best days had been in the 1970s, and a Dodge so rusted that its original color was impossible to discern, sitting up on crumbling cinderblocks. No gold Buick, but as Callen had said, Shogren could have switched vehicles. Sam read the license plate to Eric, who reported back that the truck was registered to one Louis Bilsen, whose residence was indeed this property. “That complicates things a little,” Sam said. “Any idea if Bilsen evacuated?”

  “He should have,” Eric said. “That area hasn’t been opened for return yet. But there are no records for people who did, unless they’re staying in one of the official shelters or checked into local hotels.”

  The flames hadn’t reached this protected alcove, and were currently burning thousands of feet higher, so it was probably likely to survive. Not a bad place to hide out for a few days, if one needed to.

  He and Callen moved forward, keeping to the cover of trees and brush for as long as possible. Finally, there was nothing but open space for a span of about twenty-five feet. The house itself had a lower tier of native stone, then logs above that, painted brown but raw and weathered. The roof was shingled, and overhung the walls by a couple of feet on all sides. In the back was a small porch, made of logs painted to match the house, with a couple of Adirondack chairs on it. A coating of leaves and ash made it look as if nobody had been here in a long time.

  Which, of course, was what Shogren would want anyone to think, if he was waiting inside with a gun.

  The eastern side of the house had no windows, so they would move in there, then make ingress through the door off the porch and the front door at the same time. They’d been partners for so long that they could easily communicate without words; a gesture here, a nod, a twitch of the eyes was all it took in a case like this.

  Callen went first, darting across the open patch while Sam covered him. When he was safely against the wall, Sam sprinted to his side. Sam pointed, Callen nodded, and they went in their separate directions. Sam’s took him to the front corner. He peeked around, saw nothing out of line, then took a longer look.

  From here, there were two windows, each about five feet from the ground, be
fore the front door. On the far side of the door was a bigger window, almost floor to ceiling, then another pair of windows like the first. Above the door was a dormer window; he couldn’t tell if it was real or maybe just decorating a crawlspace/storage space above the ceiling.

  When he saw Callen take off toward the back door, Sam crouched and hustled to the front, passing below the two windows. He flattened against the wall beside the front door, counting down and listening for Callen’s footsteps on the back stairs. He didn’t hear a thing, so when his countdown got to zero, he went for it.

  “Federal agents!” he shouted as he kicked in the front door. At the same moment, Callen went in through the back, issuing the same warning.

  A shotgun boomed, and Sam hit the deck.

  46

  Kelly Martin unfolded a map of the Hollywood Hills and studied the roads marked on it. He liked paper maps; they gave him a better sense of space and proportion than a little map on a screen, and there was a certain tactile satisfaction to be had from opening them up, tracing the lines and shapes marked on them, noting the colors, gauging the distances. When he’d spent a few minutes with it, he took a topographic map from the same waterproof pouch and examined it. In his head, he superimposed the elevation lines on the topo map over the road map, and converted it to a three-dimensional image more accurate and more securely embedded in his mind than anything he could get from an electronic device.

  He used digital maps when he had to, but then he found himself having to refer to them more often. They just didn’t stick like his own internal 3D picture did. He had developed the technique out of necessity. The American military had the best GPS technology in existence; a soldier, sailor, airman, or Marine could strap a device to his arm that showed where he was, what his position was in relation to the rest of his unit, mounted or dismounted, and instantly communicate that information back to the command post running the show, a mile away or around the world.

  But technology failed. Batteries died, an unexpected impact could break a screen, and sometimes there was no evident cause for a malfunction. Paper and his eyes and his brain gave him a sense of confidence that no device could match.

  Having done that, he turned his attention to the actual landscape ahead of him. He had parked off Benedict Canyon Road, a little less than a third of the way up the hill. Fire still raged above; if he drove much higher, he would be in the thick of it. As it was, he could taste smoke; his tongue felt like he’d been licking ashtrays.

  His gut told him that Shogren wouldn’t have gone to ground in the middle of the fire. He couldn’t know when it might reach his hideout and drive him out, possibly right into the arms of firefighters or the law. That’s what had led to one of notorious outlaw John Dillinger’s various arrests, after all; some of his gang were staying in a hotel in Tucson, Arizona, when the hotel caught fire. The gang members tipped firefighters to rescue heavy trunks from their room—trunks loaded down with guns and cash. One of the firefighters identified a gang member from a magazine picture, and the men were arrested, along with Dillinger and his girlfriend. Whether Shogren knew the story, Martin couldn’t say, but instinct would tell him to avoid hideouts likely to catch fire while he was in them.

  All the news reports he’d seen said that Shogren and his hostage had entered the hills from the Valley side. That, Martin was convinced, was intentional. Shogren had obviously been careful about avoiding cameras on the way there, so the fact that he’d allowed his unwilling driver to be photographed there meant he’d wanted it that way.

  Martin’s conclusion was that Shogren’s destination was on the far side of the hills. He wanted people to waste time searching on the Valley side, but it made more sense to be on the L.A. side, closer to LAX, I-10, and Mexico. If he wanted to get out of the state or the country in a hurry, he wouldn’t want to be stuck in the Valley.

  So he entered from the Valley side, intending to go over the top and wind up not too far from the city, on the south side. The next thing to consider was what road he would take. There were only a handful that went all the way across: Laurel Canyon, Coldwater Canyon, Benedict Canyon. Combining a few others with some travel along Mulholland offered more options, but Martin thought Shogren would want the quickest up and down he could find. The Buick had been photographed near Coldwater, so that was where Shogren wanted people to think he was going. But it was an easy shot to Benedict from there, too. Martin thought that was likelier. Shogren wanted to throw the authorities off his trail, not leave breadcrumbs for them to follow.

  Having made that determination, he cut over to Benedict Canyon via some back roads—roundabout, but with no traffic—and started working his way up. He ignored the side roads in the relatively densely populated lower elevations. The fire hadn’t burned down this far, and the residents might be allowed to return home at any moment. Shogren would want to be higher than that—close enough to the fire to ensure his solitude for at least a couple of days, but not so high that he’d be burned out. That left a relatively narrow band to search.

  Above the developed areas, Martin slowed down. He drove up the middle of the street, scanning both sides of the road. Fine ash covered it like virgin snow, so tracks would be easy to spot. Even if new ash fall had covered them, the side roads beyond this point were mostly unpaved, so might show signs of recent passage.

  He realized that all his conclusions were guesswork. He also knew that law enforcement personnel, including the NCIS teams, were searching these hills, and had the advantages of technology and numbers. But he was in Shogren’s head. He understood the man, knew what he was going through and how he’d be thinking. Shogren was focused on survival. The city was too hot for him at the moment; all potential escape routes cut off. In another day or two, something else would take his place at the top of the news, and he could slip away.

  Martin meant to find him before that happened. He was certain that he was already close.

  * * *

  Heading west on Mulholland Drive, Granger made good time. There were incredible views from up here—views that people paid millions of dollars to wake up to every morning—but all it cost for anyone else to experience them was a tank of gas and a couple of free hours. He was starting to think he’d make it to the San Diego Freeway, and safety. But then he rounded the bend between Benedict Canyon and Beverly Glen, and was quickly disabused of that notion.

  Firefighters had blockaded the road. It wasn’t hard to see why—flames roared across it with the force of hurricane-driven rain. Even the firefighters were standing well back from the inferno; no tools at their disposal could tame that beast.

  Granger pulled up to the roadblock and rolled down the window. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “You’re not supposed to be up here,” a firefighter said. She was a stocky woman with straight, dark hair and smoldering eyes. Native American, Granger guessed, maybe from one of the coastal area tribes. “These roads are all closed.”

  Granger showed the woman his badge. “NCIS,” he said. “We’re tracking a fugitive.”

  “Oh, I heard about that.” She glanced at the trailer he pulled. “On horseback?”

  He smiled. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Well, if he’s in the middle of that, he’s already cooked,” she said.

  “How long till I could get through here, do you think?”

  “You got a tent? This is gonna burn for a while.”

  “I’ll backtrack,” Granger said.

  “Good idea.”

  “Thanks for what you’re doing. You folks do good work.”

  “Thank you,” the firefighter said. “I hope you find him!”

  “So do we all,” Granger said.

  He was getting pretty good at backing up the trailer. It helped that the road was wide open behind him. He managed a three-point turn in about six points, and drove off toward the east.

  47

  “Drop it!” Callen screamed. “Drop the gun! Now! Get on the floor!”

  He had his HK41
6 pointed at the man with the shotgun. The man was slow to lower the weapon, and Callen thought for a few horrible moments that he would have to shoot him to prevent him from shooting Sam.

  Before that moment came, the man seemed to notice him, there, shouting at him. He saw the machine gun. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open, his jaw quaking. He bent over and, with trembling hands, laid the Remington pump-action on the floor.

  It wasn’t Hal Shogren, unless Shogren had disguised himself by adding twenty years and sixty pounds, lopping off about eleven inches, and growing a patchy gray beard. This man was wearing camo, from his boots to his shirt. The shotgun was camo, too.

  Sam picked himself up from the floor. “Louis Bilsen, I presume?”

  The man jutted his chin out defiantly, a pose made slightly less convincing by the tremor in his voice. “Yep.”

  “Did you not hear us announce ourselves as federal agents?”

  “I did,” Bilsen said. “You ever heard of the Bill of Rights? I got a right to defend my home. Even against federal agents. Maybe especially against ’em.”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “Yes sir, you do.”

  “We’re searching for a very dangerous fugitive,” Callen said. “He has a hostage. If we just knocked on the door, he’d probably kill her.”

  “Well, he ain’t here,” Bilsen said.

  “You shouldn’t be, either. You’re inside the evacuation zone.”

  “Hell, the fire ain’t comin’ down this far. It’s all burnin’ higher up. How can I protect my property if I ain’t here?”