Beyond Recognition (12 page)

“Are you telling me you can guess the weight of the person who climbed the ladder?”

“Estimate,” Lofgrin corrected sternly. “
You
guess,
I
estimate. Let's get that right, Lou. We measure, we test, we simulate, we analyze, we scrutinize. Guess? What do you think they pay me for?”

Boldt held his tongue.

“Soil compression is difficult to re-create, to measure, and I've only had a few hours, don't forget. But give me a few days and I'll have a minimum and maximum weight for your ladder climber, and with that we can estimate his height. For the cloth fibers—and that's what they are, by the way—give me the better part of a week.”

“Can you memo me the Werner ladder info?” Boldt asked. “I want to get LaMoia on it.”

Lofgrin passed Boldt a handwritten note containing the details. “Consider it done,” he said. “And don't call me, I'll call you.”

Boldt reacted physically to the information, a knot forming in the center of his chest. He retrieved his damaged shoes, already ensconced in aluminum foil.

Lofgrin took the last piece of melon, stood, and left. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said.

Boldt followed the man with his eyes, out the door, down the drive, still chewing the fruit. Court cases relied so much on physical evidence that Bernie Lofgrin was arguably the most influential person on the force. A civilian with an attitude and a good ear for bebop trumpet.

Boldt held the memo in his hand: hard evidence at last.

Ben awakened in Emily's cedar tree to the sound of a car pulling into her driveway below. Collecting his bearings, he realized he was lucky not to have rolled off the platform, for he was precariously close to the edge, lying face down, one arm dangling off into space. As he sat up, he winced with pain and recalled the whipping that sleep had kept him from thinking about. He wondered if it was time to give Emily the evidence against his stepfather that she requested, time to do something, but he shuddered with the thought, terrified of what would become of him if the guy ever found out.

He heard the car door open below him and looked down to see not a car but a blue truck with a white camper shell, and his heart raced in his chest as the man with the buzz-cut hair climbed out and headed for Emily's front door. Ben remembered the man with the fused fingers. She had said his name was Nick and had called him a criminal; her powers of observation had filled in a dozen details about him.

The camper's skylight window was open.

Ben moved around the trunk of the tree and lowered himself to the next branch, telling himself he was just climbing down, but feeling his curiosity getting the better of him. Two sides of his thought process entered into competition, as if both arms, fully outstretched, were being tugged on at the same time, threatening to pull his joints apart. He didn't want to descend and go wait in the kitchen, eye trained to the peephole; he wanted a look inside that camper shell.

The excitement grew inside him as he worked his way down through the branches. It was not an excitement inspired by a chance to see Emily; it was not the thrill of being in a tree—it was that open skylight immediately below him, for, as he paused and looked down through it and into the camper, he saw a dark steel tube that just had to be the barrel of a gun.

His decision was made.

Ben moved through the tree fluidly, lowering himself from limb to limb nearly as effortlessly as a monkey. He was completely at ease in a tree, regardless of height. He trusted the live branches and avoided the dead. If he went well out on a limb, he made sure to keep a strong hold on the limb overhead and to balance his weight between the two as evenly as possible. He made just such a move, inching his way out over the camper shell, the truck parked immediately below, hands overhead, fingers laced, dividing his weight between hands and feet. The farther out he went, the more the branch bowed under him, bending down and pointing toward the camper like an invitation. If he could have rolled a ball down the limb it would have bounced off the roof of the camper. He was incredibly close.

He fixed his full attention on his position and the decreasing support offered by the limbs over and under him. He needed to walk another three feet to reach the edge of the camper shell—two or three steps—and it began to feel like walking the plank. The limb below him sagged drastically. He hoisted himself into a pull-up and distributed as much weight as possible to the overhead limb, but it too was sagging. He glanced down, realizing he faced a fall of ten or twelve feet over gravel if the limbs snapped. It wouldn't kill him, but it wouldn't be fun. He could easily break something. Worse, he could draw attention to himself and his intentions, and that could get Emily in trouble as well.

He tested the next step and both limbs drooped tremendously, and he realized he had reached the extreme limit. His only hope of making it to the camper was to take the overhead limb and jump out and off the limb he stood on, using the flex in the overhead branch to swing him onto the shell. Again, he checked the ground below—it suddenly seemed much farther away. He slid his hands out on the overhead limb, held his breath, and jumped.

The sensation of being carried through the air, of being lowered by the bending limb, immediately reminded Ben of an elevator. He swung out, the limb sagged, and Ben's sneakers caught and grabbed the edge of the camper. He timed it perfectly, letting go of the limb just before it arched too greatly and missed the camper shell altogether. He hurled himself forward and came down quietly on the aluminum roof—toes, knees, palms—as if in bending prayer. The limb whipped back up over his head, sounding like a group of startled birds, wings aflutter.

His good eye, which he had shut unknowingly, lighted on the open skylight, only a scant few feet away. He crawled carefully as the roof curved beneath him, spreading himself flat to keep from caving it in. He attempted to keep most of his weight over the ribs where the rivets showed and where he could feel support; the area to either side seemed fragile and weak. Inch by precious inch he wormed toward the open skylight, like a puppy stretching itself out on a rug. The frame of the skylight was wood, with heavily caulked edges; it looked as if it had been added, not part of the original shell. Ben slipped his head into the gap and peered down inside. It
was
a gun, lying on the padded bench. And next to it, on the floor, on top of an open sleeping bag, was a green army duffel bag. On the floor were several empty beer cans and an open copy of
Playboy
magazine. Ben pushed on the skylight, and it resisted. Then he spotted the hook and three different eyelets, allowing the skylight to be hooked open at different heights or locked shut. He pulled on the hook and it came undone and the skylight opened.

Ben heard voices to his right. “You're sure today is okay?” the deep voice asked. “It's sudden, is all.”

“It's fine,” Emily answered.

At first, it didn't register. But then Ben formed an image of what was going on: The guy who owned the truck and the
gun
—Nick—was at the door. He was
leaving
.

Ben glanced up. The man was standing at the door, just pulling it shut. In a matter of a second or two he would turn and face his truck; he would see Ben spread out on the roof, his head halfway inside the plastic skylight. Ben would be caught.

He couldn't breathe; his heart felt as if it had stopped, but then it swelled to a painful size and tried to explode in his chest. Ben never thought about choices or about excuses he might use; his reactions were entirely instinctual. He pointed his head down, reached up to grab the lip of the skylight, and slithered inside. He swung down into the camper space, his toes nearly touching a folding table, and let go. He dropped to the floor, rolled partially under the homemade couch, and held his breath. The blood in his ears sounded like thunder; he couldn't hear anything else. His racing heart felt as if someone were gargling in the center of his chest. On the other side of the truck's cab the driver's door came open with a loud complaint. The two spaces, cab and camper, communicated by a small sliding window hidden on the other side of a curtain that was—thankfully—closed.

The man's words echoed inside Ben's head: “I'll be back.” Perhaps he was simply retrieving something left in the cab; perhaps he needed a cigarette break. Perhaps, like Ben's stepfather, he had a bottle of booze hidden under the seat or a joint in the ashtray. He wouldn't be the first; Emily's readings could get to people.

The truck's engine came to life with a roar. Ben glanced up at the skylight. It seemed so small, so far away. So out of reach. The truck rumbled and backed up.

Ben scrambled on hands and knees for the half-sized back door. He reached up and turned the handle, preparing for the moment when the driver paused to shift into forward. He would use that instant to leap from the truck.

He twisted the doorknob, and to his joy it moved. It wasn't locked.

The truck slowed and then braked, and the gears made a sound as the driver shifted. Ben pushed on the door. It stopped abruptly, only open an inch—padlocked from the outside.

The truck roared off. Ben tried the door again, but it would not open. The pavement blurred through the open crack in the door.

He was trapped inside.

Panic seized every muscle in Ben's body. For the first few minutes of the drive, he couldn't help but focus on how much trouble he was going to be in. He had violated Emily's one rule—once and only once—and yet here he was locked in the back of a pickup truck, heading who-knows-where, with a suspected criminal behind the wheel. Surprisingly slowly, his fear of getting into trouble migrated into a realization of his predicament and focused on the importance of figuring a way out of the camper. Fast. The truck was moving quickly and not stopping at lights anymore. It seemed increasingly apparent to him that they were on a highway, and the only logical candidate was I-5, either north or south. North was Canada; south, Oregon and California. What if the truck never stopped? What if Nick had been checking out a date with Emily because he intended to commit a crime? Fear ran his blood hot and his skin cold.

The side windows were tiny things with locking screens; there was no way he could go out through one. He kept looking up to the skylight—to the heavens—his only way out. It might be possible to jump from the folding table, catch his hand on the lip of the skylight, and pull himself up and out, but only if the skylight were open, and it had fallen shut behind his less-than-graceful entrance. He realized in a calculating and determined way that escape was a multi-step process: force the skylight open and keep it open in a way he had yet to figure out; climb up onto the table and jump; pull himself up and out; wait for the truck to slow; and either climb down or jump off. All this, without being seen or heard by the driver. He felt on the edge of tears—it seemed an impossible task. He felt afraid for his life.

The gun in the holster and the duffel bag both kept staring at him, as if alive and with eyes of their own. He crawled around the soiled carpet searching out a broom handle or some other device to help him push the skylight open. As the truck changed lanes, he was thrown off balance and onto his stomach, and he struggled back to his hands and knees. It was a tiny space, and he quickly realized there was nothing in plain sight to help him, and he felt convinced that if he opened the tiny closet or any of the drawers, Nick would catch on to his presence, kill him, and leave him dumped along the highway, which was where all bodies were found anyway.

He lost his balance again and was tossed up against the duffel bag, and he couldn't resist looking inside. One end was clipped shut, using a webbed strap that ran from the fabric handle. He unclipped this, opened the canvas folds, and stuck his head inside, hoping something might prove itself useful to his cause. What he found instead scared him half to death: large, clear plastic containers filled with milky fluid. A chemical formula was handwritten on the nearest container in black marker.

He didn't have to know chemistry to know what it was. Drugs! He had seen a police raid of a meth lab on TV. The thought that he was trapped in the back of a pickup truck being driven by an armed drug dealer sent his head dizzy, and he swooned, nearly losing consciousness, only brought back to reality by the swerving of the truck and its sudden slowing—the whine of the engine lowering and softening in pitch. He looked up in time to see the green flash of a highway sign outside the window:

He glanced at the duffel bag. Nick was taking a trip. He would be coming after his bag in a matter of minutes! Ben had not considered the possibility that the truck might stop and the driver come into the back. He had pictured himself heading off forever. Suddenly, he found himself a victim of the clock; they were only a matter of minutes from the airport. Time was running out. He needed a place to hide.

Panic-stricken, he glanced around as if seeing this place for the first time: a tiny, claustrophobic space with the only obvious hiding place a broom closet that seemed too risky to open, given the small break in the curtains that hid the back from the cab. It was this gap in the curtains that kept Ben low, on hands and knees. Where else to hide?

The truck slowed more and took a strong right turn at a light. It was the entrance to the airport.