Bernhardt's Edge (29 page)

Drawing abreast of The Crosswinds, he slowed to twenty-five, as slow as he dared. His peripheral vision was good, something he'd used to his advantage, one reason he was the best, the most expensive. So he could pretend to look at the road ahead while he watched the Nissan as it pulled to a stop in the restaurant's parking lot, headlights switched off. The parking lot was dimly lit, but he could see her sitting behind the steering wheel. Was she combing her hair, collecting her purse before she went inside? If he was parked beside her now, in the empty space beside her, to her left, he could simply slip over to the passenger seat, lower the window, raise the Woodsman with its silencer, do the job, pop pop pop. But the seconds were passing—and the Woodsman was still in the suitcase, no clip in the handle, nothing. So, the prisoner of his own plan, he must continue driving straight ahead, at least for a mile or two, still driving slowly. Then he would make a U-turn, drive to The Crosswinds, make sure her car was empty, make sure she was inside the bar. He'd park the Camaro in the parking lot beside the restaurant, where three or four cars were already parked. He would park—and he would plan, make another plan, one more plan—one last plan.

As he drove, he kept his eyes on the outside mirror until the restaurant building cut off his view of the parking lot. Then, quickly, he shifted his attention to the rearview mirror. The mirror was black. Whoever had been following him had turned off, probably at the four-way stop near the city limits.

She looked both ways, backed out of the parking space, turned onto the highway as she switched on her headlights. In both directions, ahead and behind, the highway was deserted.

Ostensibly deserted. Not actually deserted.

Because, back at the four-way stop, Alan Bernhardt was waiting, lights out, hidden.

And in the other direction, somewhere to the east, lights out, the murderer could be waiting, too—waiting for her next move.

Bernhardt hadn't told her his whole plan, his strategy, not really. But his reasoning was transparently simple. First, he wanted to determine whether, in fact, the anonymous murderer had found her, tracked her down. If that had happened, then Bernhardt might try to help her.

If it hadn't happened—if she was safe—then she would do as he'd told her. She would write it all out, tell her mother what she'd done, put the envelope in her safe deposit box, sealed and dated, to be opened in the event of her death.

They could get through this night together, she and Alan Bernhardt—the actor who eschewed the dramatic, the quiet, thoughtful man, so gentle, so self-effacing, and yet so resolute, so solid, so determined. Somehow, they would get through. Then, tomorrow, she would begin the process of reassembling the shattered fragments of her life. The days, the weeks, the years, would pass, all the empty years, the years of longing, of loneliness. She knew this present ache would subside. She knew that eventually Nick's image would fade from her thoughts. But she also knew that as his image faded, she would be diminished.

Quickly, Bernhardt switched off the engine, took the keys from the ignition, swung open the door. Careful to keep his eyes on the highway, he unlocked the trunk, took out the sweatshirt-wrapped shotgun. He closed the lid of the trunk, slipped behind the wheel, closed the driver's door. As he was bending across the seat to put the bundle on the floor, he heard the sound of an approaching car, saw the intermittent flash of headlights through the screen of cedar trees, coming from the east. The car was slowing for the intersection as it cleared the line of trees, came into full view on the road before him.

It was the blue Nissan.

He thrust a key into the ignition switch, twisted, brought his engine to life. Gently, he touched the accelerator, revving the engine to guard against loading up, flooding.

As the Nissan accelerated out of the stop, Bernhardt began slowly counting. At the count of one hundred, if the Camaro hadn't appeared, he would switch on his headlights, venture out onto the highway, drive to the circle, finally to the motel, following Betty Giles at a distance. Then he would knock on Betty's door and invite himself in for a drink.

There were two possibilities. Only two. Either she'd done it on purpose, planned it—or else she hadn't planned it, hadn't done it on purpose.

She'd put her suitcases in the car, two suitcases. Meaning that she was leaving town. Why?

Why
?

Was she scared, and running? Or was she just moving on, leaving this town for another town? Earlier in the day, he'd seen her in the phone booth. Could she have been warned?

She'd driven to the airport, parked, waited until he'd come to a stop beside the highway, more than a mile east, out in the desert, out of sight behind a low rise. Then she'd started the car, gone back the way she'd come. Why?

Why
?

Had she simply changed her mind—decided to leave, then decided not to leave, decided to go back to the motel, wait until morning? Was it as simple as that?

Ahead, the Nissan's taillights were winking as she slowed for the four-way stop. Only a half-mile separated their cars. The mile-long stretch of road from the four-way west to the circle was deserted. The UZI was on the seat beside him, cocked, with the safety off, a cartridge in the chamber, ready. One burst—two seconds—and it would be over. Everything.

As if the thought had turned to action, his foot was pressing harder on the accelerator. The engine surged, the car leaped forward—

—just as, from the circle, a headlight beam was curving, steadying, coming directly toward him, a mile ahead. Meaning that he couldn't do it, not now, not with a car coming toward him on a two-lane road.

Still automatically, his engine came back to idle; the Camaro was slowing for the four-way stop. Once more, one more time, his body had taken over from his mind, made the right decision. It was like an override, everything automatic: a machine, making the-decisions. Or an animal, going on instinct.

“
You've got reflexes like a cat
,” Venezzio had said once. “
Just like a big cat. A tiger
.” He could still remember the pride he'd felt, hearing Venezzio say it.

Even before the Camaro actually appeared, Bernhardt's heart had begun to race as the headlights had shown up, a half mile behind the Nissan. And now, incredibly, the Camaro was less than a hundred feet ahead of his car, the manifestation of a fear that had miraculously materialized, the thought that had become reality, a clear and present danger. It was as if Bernhardt had designed a fictional computer image and pressed the computer's button and watched as the car and the driver had come to life in the empty screen, a perfect match. Surreal green letters might appear on a black screen:
This is your killer's car. This is your killer, the black man behind the wheel. Soon, he will attack.

Because in minutes—moments—as soon as Betty turned the Nissan into the city center circle and then turned out of the circle toward the south, returning to the motel, the killer would suspect that he'd been tricked, that he was under suspicion.

And Bernhardt's car, also turning into the Ram's Head driveway, would confirm it.

The Camaro was accelerating now; in another few seconds it would disappear, cut off by an angle of the school building on Bernhardt's left.

So, on cue, a reluctant actor trapped by his own script, he must now enter the action, begin playing his part.

He took his foot from the brake pedal and placed it gently on the accelerator. As the car began moving slowly forward, he put his left hand on the switch that controlled the headlights. His hand was trembling.

Ahead, the Nissan was turning into the Ram's Head entrance. Behind him, headlights were curving out of the circle, following him.

Was it the sheriff's car, behind him?

Could they have gotten to Carter, whoever he was, and arrested him for the Santa Rosa murder? Could Carter have turned him, to get a deal?

Had the Los Angeles police called the sheriff? Could the sheriff have contacted the woman, told her to put her suitcases in the Nissan, drive out to the airport, suck him in, then drive back to the motel, still with him following, exposing him?

If it had happened, if Carter had turned him, then there would be more than one car, more than just one car. There would be five cars filled with police: deputy sheriffs and state police. They'd be hiding in the motel grounds, cowboys and Indians, the fucking wild west.

He glanced at the speedometer. Yes, he was driving at a steady thirty-five, exactly the speed limit here. On his left, the motel entrance was coming up fast, too fast. He lifted his foot from the accelerator, let compression slow him down, no brake lights showing. Minute-to-minute, second-to-second, the angles were changing as the motel office came into his line of vision, and the lanai, and the floodlit pool, no one swimming—and the Nissan parked in its regular parking place, lights out, the Nissan and only one other car, a guest's car, nothing changed.

Now the Camaro had carried him beyond the entrance, cutting off his line of sight. At the next intersection, he would turn left, then left again, bringing him behind the motel grounds. If they were hidden among the motel cabins, with their M16s and their riot guns and their vests, he'd see their cars. In the desert, so empty, they couldn't hide their cars. Not in the few minutes it had taken him to drive out to the airport and then return to the Ram's Head, they couldn't hide their cars.

Should he follow the Camaro out into the desert? The Camaro was faster than his car, much faster. He would—

Ahead, at the first intersection beyond the motel entrance, the Camaro was turning left. Immediately its headlights disappeared behind the motel's buildings, flickered intermittently between low-growing trees and high-growing cacti—then disappeared again.

If the black man turned left again, behind the motel, parked, got out of the car, stepped over the low split rail fence that surrounded the motel grounds, crept through the desert flora to her cabin, he could break down Betty Giles' door, kill her, and escape, all within minutes—one minute, two minutes.

Quickly, Bernhardt turned the wheel sharply left, braked to a stop in the motel's driveway, beside the small neon sign. He swung open the driver's door and walked to the phone booth: five long, urgent strides. As he walked, he kept his gaze on the head-high oleanders that divided the motel grounds from the road. Growing only a few feet from the phone booth, cutting off his view of the cabins, the oleanders would offer a killer perfect cover. But he must take the chance, must use the phone, his only hope now. Because the telephone system inside the cabins was inoperative, still being repaired.

Inside the lighted booth, a helpless target for anyone concealed nearby, desperately scanning the darkness, he lifted the receiver, listened for a dial tone, touch-toned 911. The dial tone ceased when he touched the “9,” began again when he touched the “1.” The line began ringing: three rings, four—five rings. From the south, headlights were coming fast; a large sedan hurtled past, toward town. And from the north, other lights were approaching, two pairs of headlights. They were—

“—help you?” It was a woman's voice: a sleepy-sounding voice.

“Yes. I—this is an emergency. I want the sheriff's office. My name is Alan Bernhardt. I'm a private investigator, from San Francisco. And I've—”

“—are you calling from, please?”

“I'm calling from Borrego Springs, at the Ram's Head Motel, from a phone booth there. And I've got to—”

“—moment, please.”

He heard the hollow-sounding clicks as she made the connection and another voice came on the line. It was a recorded voice, speaking in metallic officialese:

“You've reached the San Diego County Sheriff's office, at Borrego Springs, California. We're out on patrol right now, but we'll be checking for messages every fifteen to thirty minutes. So please tell us the nature of your report, or problem, and leave your address and phone number when you hear the tone. Also, leave your name. Speak slowly and distinctly, and take your time. If any further assistance is required you can call the California Highway Patrol, located at Indio, California. Their number is—”

Indio—forty or fifty miles to the north. Bernhardt waited for the message to conclude, and the beep to sound. Then: “Yes, this is Alan Bernhardt speaking. I'm a licensed private investigator from San Francisco. I'm registered at the Ram's Head Motel, and I've got reason—good reason—to believe that one of the guests here, Betty Giles, in cabin number seven, could be in danger. The phones at the motel aren't working, so please come to cabin number seven, at the Ram's Head. We'll be there, the two of us, waiting for you. And hurry. Please hurry.”

He replaced the phone on its hook, and returned to the car. The driver's door was still open, and the engine was still running.

And on the floor, on the passenger's side, was the oil-stained sweatshirt, bundled around the shotgun.

She set the night chain, took the empty suitcases to the closet, put one suitcase on the floor, one on the shelf.

Bernhardt hadn't told her what would happen now, after they returned. He'd told her, in detail, what to do, where, when: drive to The Crosswinds, park, switch off the lights, wait two minutes. Switch on the lights, start the car, drive back to town, back to the motel. Take the suitcases inside, lock the door. Wait.

Obediently, she'd done as he'd asked, not questioning him. But she knew, of course, the purpose of the plan. She knew he suspected someone was following her. But, strangely, she hadn't asked him for details. And, strangely, the possibility that a killer was out there hadn't really troubled her.

In everyone's life there were moments when death lost its sting, and the void beckoned. When she was younger, a teenager, she'd often wished she'd never been born. But during those years anything, it seemed, could plunge her into deepest despair: a bad grade in school, a trivial argument with her mother—a giggling group of girls in the high-school hallway, avoiding her eyes as she approached. And the wish not to have been born, she'd once read, was only one step removed from—