F is for Fugitive (27 page)

The silence was undercut by the intermittent high whining of a siren out on the highway. An erratic breeze, as moist as the inside of an ice chest, rattled among the tree branches. With the strong odor from the mineral springs in the air, it was difficult to discern
any other scent. I've been known to find bodies with my nose, but not in this case.

The spa had a bi-fold insulated cover pulled over it with a plastic handhold along the rim. I hesitated for a moment and then lifted it. A dense sulfurous cloud wafted into my face. The water in the redwood tub was pitch black, as still as glass. Mist hovered on the surface. I could feel my mouth purse. I wasn't going to put my hand in there, folks. I wasn't going to plunge my arm in up to the elbow, feeling around to determine if Shana's body was submerged in the depths. I experienced a nearly physical sensation of undulating hair, soft and feathery, at my fingertips. At the back of my mind, it did occur to me that if Shana'd been killed and then dumped in here, she'd be floating by now, buoyed by accumulating gases . . . sort of like a pool toy. I could feel my eyes cross. Sometimes I sicken myself with my own thoughts.

At knee height, there was a wooden door that apparently opened onto the heater and pump works tucked away out of sight. I pulled the door open. The body had been jammed in feet first. She unfolded from the waist, her bloody head coming to rest against my foot, sightless eyes staring up at me. A sound came up in my throat like bile.

“Don't move!”

I jumped, whipping around, a hand against my lurching heart.

Elva Dunne was standing there, flashlight in her left hand.

“Jesus, Elva. You scared the shit out of me,” I snapped.

She glanced briefly at Shana, not nearly as startled by the sight as I had been. Belatedly, I noticed that she had a little .22 semiautomatic pointed at my gut. Gun buffs are dismissive of a .22, apparently convinced that a weapon doesn't count unless it's capable of blowing a fist-sized hole through a board. Unfortunately, Elva hadn't heard about this and she looked as if she was ready to drill me a second belly button right above the first. Let a little .22 slug rip around in your gut and see how good you feel. It'll bounce off bone like a tiny bumper car, tearing up every organ in its path.

“I got a phone call from some guy who said Bailey Fowler was up here,” she said. “Just stay where you are and don't move or I'll shoot.”

I raised my hands like they do in the movies, thinking to reassure her. “Hey, no Bailey. It's just me and I'm cool,” I said. I gestured at Shana's body. “I hope you don't think I did that.”

“Bullshit. Of course you did. Why else would you be here?”

I could hear the siren now in its winding approach on the road down below. Somebody must have called the cops as well. Mention Bailey's name and you got service real quick. “Look, put the gun down. Honest to God, I saw Shana's keys in the lost-and-found box this afternoon. I figured she must have been here at some point, so I thought I'd check it out.”

“Where's the weapon? What'd you do, hit her with a baseball bat?”

“Elva, she's been dead for days. She was probably killed Wednesday night. If I'd just done it, the blood would be bright red and, uh, you know . . . spurting.” I hate it when people can't comprehend the elementary stuff.

Elva's gaze jumped around and she shifted nervously. Dr. Dunne had said she was a paranoid schizophrenic, but what does that mean? I thought all those people were tripping out on Thorazine these days, as placid as rocks. This woman was big, one of those ham-shouldered Nordic types. I already knew she was as weird as they come. If she'd whacked at me with a Wilson, what was she going to do with a gun in her hand? Two deputies, with flashlights, were zigzagging up the path from below. Things were not looking good.

I let my eyes drift toward her pants, and lifted my eyebrows a bit. “Oh wow. I wouldn't worry about it, but there's a spider the size of a meatball crawling down your leg.”

She had to look. How could she not?

I kicked upward, my running shoe lifting the gun right out of her hand. I saw the .22 do a high, tumbling somersault and disappear into the dark. I rammed into her, knocking her ass-over-teakettle right after it. She yelped as she tumbled backward, crashing down the hill.

The first of the deputies had apparently reached the midpoint of the hill. I shoved my penlight in my pocket and ran like hell. I wasn't sure where I was going, but I hoped to get there quick. I angled up through the trees, headed for the fire lane, figuring I could run for a while unimpeded. Shana's Plymouth was blocking the overgrown lane, so even if they managed to get a sheriff's car up here, they'd have trouble getting through. I was making too much noise to hear if anyone was behind me, but it seemed smarter to assume the cops were close on my heels. I quickened my pace, sailing over the trunk of a tree in my path.

The fire lane began to climb steeply, deadening in a gate with a wire fence that stretched away on either side. I took a flying leap, put a hand on the gatepost and arched my back, catching my foot as I tried to clear the top. I smacked down with an “Oof!” rolled, and got up again, suppressing a moan. The fall had rammed the Davis right into my ribs. Much pain.

I plugged on, heading upward. The hill leveled out in a rugged pasture dotted with scrub oak and manzanita. The moon wasn't full, but there was enough of it to illuminate the choppy field through which I ran. I must have been a quarter of a mile from the road, in an area inaccessible to vehicles. I was desperately in need of rest. I looked over my shoulder. There was no sign of pursuit. I slowed to a jog and searched out a depression in the grass.

I sank down, winded, blotting my sweaty brow on the sleeve of my turtleneck. Some winged creature
swooped down close to me and then cruised away, temporarily mistaking me for something edible. I hate nature. I really do. Nature is composed entirely of sticks, dirt, fall-down places, biting and stinging things, and savageries too numerous to list. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. Man has been building cities since the year oughty-ought, just to get away from this stuff. Now we're on our way to the moon and other barren spots where nothing grows and you can pick up a rock without having something jump out at you. The quicker we get there, the better, as far as I'm concerned.

Time to move. I staggered to my feet again and began to trot, wishing I had a plan. I couldn't go back to the motel—the sheriff's department was going to be there in ten minutes flat—but without my car keys and some bucks, what was I going to do? It occurred to me I might have been better off hanging out with Elva until the deputies arrived, taking my chances with the law. Now
I
was a fugitive, and I didn't like it much.

A flash of Shana's face popped into my head. She'd been bludgeoned to death, from the look of her, shoved into the narrow space under the hot tub until someone could dispose of her—if that was the intent. Maybe that's what Elva had trudged up there in the dark to do. I couldn't decide if I should believe her claim about the phone call. Had
she
killed Shana Timberlake? Killed her daughter seventeen years before that? Why the lag time? And why Ori Fowler? Given Elva as the killer, I couldn't come up with a scenario in
which Ori's death made any sense. Could the phone call have been meant to trap me up there? As far as I knew, the only two people who were aware of where I'd be were Jack Clemson and Bert.

I halted again. The ground was beginning to slant downward, and I found myself squinting through the dark at a sharp drop-off. Below, a gray ribbon of road curled along the base of the hill. I had no idea where it led, but if the cops were smart, they'd be calling for backup cars, which might be cruising by any minute, hoping to cut me off. I scrambled down the rocky incline as fast as I could, half-humping, half-sliding on my backside, preceded by a tiny landslide of loose stones and dirt. I could hear approaching sirens as I skidded the last few feet. I was panting from exhaustion, but I didn't dare stop. I hightailed it across the road, reaching the far side just as the first black-and-white rounded the bend maybe six hundred yards away.

I plunged into the brush, hugging the ground as I belly-crawled my way through the weeds. Once I was safely in the cover of the trees, I paused to reorient myself, rolling over on my back. Against the encroaching fog bank I could see the reflection of the vapor lights that lined Ocean Street. Floral Beach wasn't far. Unfortunately, what lay between me and the town was the posted property belonging to the oil refinery. I studied the eight-foot chain-link fence. Strands of barbed wire were strung along the top. No crossing
that. Big oil storage tanks loomed up on the far side, painted in pastel shades, like a series of cakes.

I was still close enough to the road that I could hear the squawking of the sheriff's cars in position along the berm. Lights raked the hillside. I hoped the suckers hadn't brought dogs. That was all I'd need. I crawled to the base of the fence, clinging to it doggedly as I pushed on. In the dark, it served not only as a guide, but as a needed support. More warning signs. This was a hard hat area . . . and me with no hard hat. I was winded and sweating, my hands torn, nose beginning to run. The smell of the ocean was getting stronger and I took comfort from that.

Abruptly, the fence took a hard cut left. What opened up in front of me was a dirt path strewn with trash, a lovers' lane perhaps. I didn't dare use my penlight. I was still in the hills above Floral Beach, but I was getting closer to the town. In less than a quarter of a mile, I found myself at the tag end of the lane that spilled into a cul-de-sac. Oh glory, now I knew where I was. This was the bluff above Jean Timberlake's old apartment building. Once I reached the wooden stairway, I could climb down to the rear door of her place and hide. To my right, I spotted the glass-and-frame house where I'd knocked earlier. Lights were on inside.

I skirted the house, groping my way along the property line, marked by waist-high shrubs. As I passed the kitchen window, I caught sight of the occupant looking straight out at me. I dropped, realizing belatedly that
the guy must be standing at the kitchen sink. The window would be throwing his own reflection back at him, effectively blocking out the sight of me, I hoped. Cautiously I rose and peered closer. Dwight Shales.

I blinked, debating with myself. Could I trust him? Was I safer up here with him or hiding in the abandoned building below? Oh hell, this was no time to be shy. I needed help.

I doubled back to the front porch and rang the bell. I kept an eye on the street, worried a patrol car would cruise into sight. At some point they were going to realize I'd slipped through the net. Given the impenetrability of the oil company property, this was probably the logical place to end up. The porch light came on. The front door opened. I turned to look at him. “Kinsey, my God. What happened to you?”

“Hello, Dwight. Can I come in?”

He held the door open, stepping back. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“That would cover it,” I said. My explanation was worthy of a box top, twenty-five words or less, tendered while I followed him through the foyer—all raw woods and modern art. We went down a step into the living room, which was dead ahead: two stories of glass looking out toward the view. The roof of Jean's apartment building wasn't visible, but I could see the lights of Floral Beach stretching almost as far as the big hotel on the hillside half a mile away.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said.

“Thanks. Do you mind if I clean up?”

He nodded to his left. “Straight down the hall.”

I found the bathroom and ran some water, scrubbing my hands and face. I blotted my face dry, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. I had a big scratch on my cheek. My hair was matted with dirt. I found a comb in his medicine cabinet and ran it through my mop. I peed, brushed myself off, washed my hands and face again, and returned to the living room where Dwight handed me some brandy in a softball-sized snifter.

I took it neat and he poured me a second.

“Thanks,” I said. I could feel the liquor defining my insides as it eased through. I had to breathe with my mouth open for a bit. “Whew! Great.”

“Sit down. You look beat.”

“I am,” I said. I glanced anxiously toward the front door. “Are we visible from the street?”

The narrow panels on either side of the front door were frosted glass. It was the exposed living room that bothered me. I felt as if I were onstage. He crossed the room and closed the drapes. The room was suddenly much cozier and I relaxed a bit.

He sat down in the chair across from me. “Tell me again.”

I went back through the story, filling in the details. “I probably should have just waited for the cops.”

“You want to go ahead and call them and turn yourself in? The phone's right there.”

“Not yet,” I said. “That's what I kept telling Bailey, but now I know how he felt. They'd just keep me up all
night, hounding me with questions I don't have the answers for.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Don't know. Get my head together and see if I can figure this out. You know, I was up here earlier and knocked on the door, but you weren't home. I wanted to ask if anybody up here ever saw Jean using the stairs.”

“The stairs?”

“Up from the Timberlakes' apartment. It was right down there.” I found myself pointing to the floor to indicate the base of the bluff.

“Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten about that. Talk about small towns. I guess none of us are that far from anybody else.”

“That's for sure,” I said. At the back of my mind, uneasiness was beginning to stir. Something about his response wasn't quite ringing true. Maybe it was his manner, which was suddenly too studiously casual to be believable. Pretending to be “normal” is a lot harder than you'd think. Did it mean anything, his having lived this close? “You forgot Jean Timberlake lived thirty feet away?”