Authors: James Scott Bell
Don't Leave Me (19 page)
Chuck’s arms itched like freaking crazy.
The canyon was filled with poison oak. Every SoCal kid knew that. Leaves of three, let them be.
No time to be discriminating.
His arms itched but he couldn’t scratch. He’d have to put up with it even as he kept moving.
He was at the bottom of the canyon now, sliding in mud. A creek bed. But apparently he wasn’t being followed.
Yet.
Calibrating his direction from the road, Chuck figured he was facing away from the ocean. He had to keep moving. What choice did he have?
But it was like walking in cold pudding filled with broken glass. Chuck had to be careful not to jam his foot on something sharp and cutting.
He tried not to think about anything else being underfoot. Like snakes.
Don’t think about snakes.
Too late.
He tried to get into the minds of the kidnappers. They were up on what was probably a two-lane highway in an SUV. They couldn’t sit in the road unless they found a turnout. Those were few and far between if this was a stretch of road typical of the area. They would probably drive back and forth for a while, or maybe call in some heavy lights.
They probably already reported to the head man, whoever was hiring them. Chuck was still convinced that he was to be taken alive.
Now he wasn’t going to be taken at all.
He was going to find Stan.
Maybe he should just wait it out, wait out the night. But that didn’t sit well with him. It would just get colder and colder. This was Southern California, so he wasn’t going to freeze to death. But it wouldn’t exactly be Zuma Beach in the summer, either.
And weren’t there mountain lions out here, too? He seemed to recall a surfer last year, stoned out of his mind, wandering up the canyon and getting torn apart by a mountain lion.
Gnarly, dude.
There you go again, thinking about things you can’t control.
How often have you counseled men in battle on that very subject? There are things out of your control, things created by the acts of evil men. You can only live in the present.
Live.
“Stop your carrying on,” the man said.
The way he said it scared Stan, but he was not going to show him he was scared. That was what he wanted, and he was not going to give it to him. He would wait then. Wait for his chance. He told himself to be calm, even though his body was tight in that way he got.
They were in a small room with soft furniture. The room had no windows. It had a sink. A silver sink with a mirror and some cupboards behind it. Two men had brought Stan here and locked the door. The same two men who caught him in the hills.
Then this man came in. He had a blanket with him and draped it over Stan’s shoulders. The other two men left.
“That’s better,” the man said. He was a strong man. He had a look of someone who was in charge. It was sort of like Mr. Cambry’s face at Ralphs Fresh Fare, only much stronger. Maybe this man owned many stores or many homes like this one. Yes, that was it, this was a very rich man.
“You are not in any danger here,” the man said. “We both want exactly the same thing.”
His voice was strong, yes, but also soft and reassuring. What was he up to? Why did he have men with guns take Chuck away?
“We both want to see your brother, don’t we?”
“Yes!” Stan said, then told himself he was being too anxious. He had to control himself. This was a mean man.
“That’s right,” the man said. “I need to talk to him about a certain matter.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m someone who knows your brother.”
“What’s your name?”
“You may call me Steven.”
“I had a friend named Steven once,” Stan said.
“There. And so you have again.”
“You’re not my friend.”
“I’d like to be.”
“Why?”
“The world would be a better place if people were friends, don’t you think?”
Stan didn’t like the way he was feeling. Steven was saying the right things, but they sounded funny. That’s what tricky people do.
“I don’t want to be your friend,” Stan said. “I want to see my brother now.”
“He’s not here,” Steven said. “But soon he will be. He will want to make sure that you’re all right. In the meantime, you can help him.”
“How come you have guns?”
“Do you see me with guns?” Steven held out his hands and they were empty.
“But mean guys with guns killed people and took us!”
“May I call you Stan?”
Stan didn’t know what the right answer was. “I guess so.”
“Stan, listen to me. Guns are used when there is danger. Your brother is in danger. I want to protect him. That’s why I’m having him brought here.”
Could that be right? Could he be telling the truth? Maybe there were other mean people with guns trying to get Chuck. But I’m going to wait for him. I’m waiting for Chuck.
Steven said, “Did you hear me, Stan?”
Stan said nothing. He thought about the specials. He thought about the prices. He better not miss any work because of these guys. They better let him and Chuck go.
“I need you to talk to me, Stan, because you can help your brother right now.”
“I can?”
“Oh yes, by telling me some things about him.”
“I don’t think I’m going to,” Stan said.
“Now, that’s not being friendly, is it?”
“You want to hurt Chuck.”
“Is that what you think?”
Stan nodded.
“Do you believe in miracles, Stan?” Steven asked.
How should I answer that? Stan wondered. It could be another trick.
“I’d like to hear your answer, Stan. Do you believe in miracles?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why?”
“Because God can do anything. He can save Chuck and me right now, so you better not be mean.”
“I believe in God, too.”
“You do?” But how could he, and still do mean things, like kidnap people?
“Of course I do,” Steven said. “You have to be blind not to believe. I look out at the ocean, and know that God is the creator of all things. If that is so, he can do as he pleases. He can perform miracles.”
Stan remembered his mother said once that the devil can perform miracles to fool people. He folded his arms.
“You won’t help me?” Steven said.
Stan shook his head.
“But you do believe in miracles?”
Stan said nothing. He just wanted the man to go away.
“I will perform a miracle for you,” Steven said. “Will that help you talk to me?”
Stan stayed silent. He can’t do miracles! He’s fooling me!
Steven smiled. His eyes crinkled when he did. He stood up from the chair and walked to the door. There was a keypad next to it. He hit four keys and the door clicked open. He made a motion to someone on the other side. Stan hoped it would not be one of the men with guns coming in to watch him.
It wasn’t.
And Stan almost screamed.
But he couldn’t, he couldn’t make a sound, because he was maybe going crazy, the devil was making him crazy right now, because a ghost walked into the room.
“Hello, Stan,” Julia said. “It’s good to see you.”
And sometimes, Chuck thought, you just have to get mad.
He remembered in seminary, what they called the imprecatory psalms. The ones where David raged against his enemies, calling down wrath on them. And he was a king. He had it pretty good. He had an army, too. I’m a guy in bare feet in the wild at night and hands tied in front of him.
But rage is going to keep me going.
Serbian mobsters. On our shores. Cockroaches. Step on them.
How’s that for an imprecatory psalm?
Chuck laughed, and was glad he still had that capacity. He was moving like a blindfolded man across a mine field. Each clump in front of him had to be felt with either hand or foot, the way a blind person would use a cane. But up top he did not see the lights of a car, waiting. He was a good distance from the point where he’d gone over the edge. Maybe they were gone now.
Maybe they’d be back.
Chuck stepped on something hard and sharp. He pulled his foot back before putting full weight on it. He bent over and felt around. His hands found the rock. It was about the size of a baseball, but flatter. One side of it came to a dull point.
Chuck picked it up and parked his butt. He set the rock point side up on the ground, between his knees. Using his knees like a crude vice, he held the rock in place and started working the duct tape against the point. All he needed was a tear, and he could do the rest with his teeth. But the tape had several layers of thickness to it.
He counted ten passes over the rock before he felt a rip. He tried rolling his wrists to get more play. The tape held firm.
This was going to take some time. But it wasn’t like he was late for a train. Nah, I got nothing to do, boys, how about we play the tie up and try to escape game? Let’s do it at night in the middle of nowhere, too.
He rubbed the tape on his crude cutting rock, the caveman discovering tools. Give me a flint and I’ll make fire. Ugh.
Stay mad, Chuck. Stay mad.
Stationary, he was aware now of only the sound of the occasional car passing on the street above, and the
phtt
of tape against stone. The whole thing was rhythmic now. Maybe he’d invented a new sound. Duct tape jazz.
phtt
of tape against stone. The whole thing was rhythmic now. Maybe he’d invented a new sound. Duct tape jazz.
He felt a significant tear in the tape. This time his wrists
could
move. He got about a half inch more of play.
could
move. He got about a half inch more of play.
Then heard something moving in the brush. Something very close.
.
Sandy Epperson said, “Mark.”
“What the hell time is it?”
“Time to talk. I found something.”
“It better be Jimmy Hoffa.” Mark’s voice sounded thick and slurry on the phone. Sandy couldn’t blame him for being mad. But if you want to be a homicide detective, you have to learn that sleep is a luxury. What better time to give it to him than now?
“Better,” she said. “I found a connection.”
“This can’t wait?”
“It’s hot on my mind.” She knew Mark was well aware of that phrase. It was one of the first things she taught him—to talk to the partner when something is hot on your mind. In the initial phase of forming a case theory, it was the synergy of front burner thoughts and the partner’s fresh input that could make all the difference.
“I got another word for what’s on your mind,” Mark said. “But go ahead.”
“How about the Raymond Hunt Academy?”
Pause. “What, Samson’s school?”
“Yes. From Ed Hillary to Ray Hunt, to—”
“Wait. Ed who?”
“Hillary, the guy who ran down Samson’s wife.”
“You still on that thing in Beaman?”
“There’s a through-line there.” The most important aspect of detective work for Sandy was the through-line. Even in the most complex cases you could always find a main thread, something that ran through the entire series of events. Almost always it was related to motive.
“What does this have to do with Nunn?” Mark said.
“Nunn connects up to Samson.”
“You playing with Legos? Thanks. Now I’m up.”
“Run through this with me,” she said. “You want to make some coffee?”
“Nah, I’ll just tape my eyelids open. Go on.”
“A little over seven months ago, Charles Samson’s wife is killed in a little town outside of Los Angeles County. It happens. But then it turns out that the guy who hit her, Ed Hillary, was not some random drunk driver. He was, in fact, a major donor to the Hunt Academy in Calabasas. He gave money to the school where Samson worked.”
Pause. “Okay, you have my attention.”
At least his voice sounded alert now. “Scenario one. What if Hillary was trying to kill Samson’s wife? What if it wasn’t an accident?”
“Motive?”
“Samson’s wife was a reporter of some kind. She told Samson she was doing a story on alligator farms. Turns out to be bogus. So instead, she’s digging into something involving Hillary or the Hunt Academy, or both. And Hillary doesn’t want her digging any further.”
“Might be something there. You have another theory?”
“Scenario two. What if somebody wanted Hillary dead too? And set the whole thing up to look like a drunk hit-and-run? The thing that troubles me about Hillary is that he had so much alcohol in him at the time. When you look at what he had at the bar that night, he was nowhere near what his BAC was at the time of the accident.”
“What are you saying then?”
“That somebody may have poured booze down his throat and set the thing up.”
“And who would that somebody be?”
“That’s a question for Ray Hunt, don’t you think?”
“Sandy, I think you and your famous gut instincts need to get some sleep, like me.”
“Wait––”
“Good night.”
The call cut out.
And Sandy Epperson cursed at her phone.
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