Dying for the Highlife (12 page)

He sometimes saw his brother John on holidays, back in the big house where he used to live, but Earl Homestead was always absent on those occasions. John treated Mort with indifference, as if he was oblivious to the fact that Mort lived in poverty while John enjoyed the relative comfort of a middle-class upbringing. Mort refused to visit again after a Christmas party one year when John rode up and down the sidewalk on a new red bicycle, honking a horn attached to chrome handlebars that sparkled in the cold sunlight. Shortly afterward, Mort’s mother started coming home at dawn a couple of times a week, reeking of booze and cigarettes, her clothes a mess, her eyes as hollow as the empty pint bottles in her purse.

Mort grew to understand his world was one in which he stood alone. He told himself his parents were strangers, and he internalized his anger and never conceded to the slightest vulnerability. By the time he was ten, adults considered him withdrawn or possibly autistic. But inside the walls of his façade, Mort channeled his rage. He had no doubt the day would come when he would prove to the world he existed on a plane reserved for a special class of people.

Finding escape in his schoolwork, he soon realized his intelligence and ability to focus far exceeded his peers’. He saw no reason to develop relationships with those beneath him, at least not until he needed underlings to serve his greater agenda. He left high school early, without a single friend, when he was declared academically gifted and granted a scholarship to a small university in upstate Michigan. By this time, his determination to become rich and reverse the disadvantages of his childhood drove every facet of his personality. But there was also an underlying motivation behind his desire for financial success, one that he didn’t fully understand until he was older—the need for absolute control.

After graduating at the top of his class with a degree in business in three years, he was accepted into the MBA program at Harvard Business School. Two years later he graduated from Harvard with honors, but there were two incidents not reflected in his transcripts.

During his undergrad studies, he attended a fraternity party where he planned to introduce himself to a coed he’d been watching on campus. But she was the object of constant attention from a group of beer-drinking frat brothers and seemed particularly enamored with one in particular, a handsome, blond-haired man. Mort finally approached her when the man left to use the bathroom. She was polite, and her smile made Mort’s heart skip, but their brief conversation ended when the man returned. He led her away as if Mort’s presence was of no significance, and took her into one of the bedrooms. The events of that evening would have been wholly unremarkable, save for one fact: the blond man was found stabbed to death a week later, his bound and gagged body left in a drainage ditch on the edge of campus.

The second incident involved a tenured professor at Harvard who disagreed with a case study Mort submitted discussing the future impact of the personal computer on the banking industry. The professor felt Mort’s view was exaggerated and imprudent, and gave him a failing grade. Mort visited the professor in his office to discuss the matter, but the grade would not be changed. Within a week, a fire consumed the professor’s Tudor-style home and burned it to the ground. He barely escaped with his life, resigned his post, and relocated out of state. The younger teacher brought in to replace him thought Mort’s paper was brilliant and awarded him an A.

Though the police considered Mort the prime suspect of both crimes, they were unable to produce any evidence, forensic or otherwise, that was strong enough for an arrest. After weeks of interrogation following both episodes, they finally gave up on Mort, who then threatened to sue for harassment. He was told to not leave town, but the day after graduating he drove west, having decided that the thriving technology arena in Northern California was the best place to launch his career.

He made only one diversion as he drove across country toward San Jose. It was midnight when he stopped in a small suburb outside of Detroit. Despite the hour, it was still so humid his clothes began sticking to his body as soon as he left his car. The house where he lived the first eight years of his life looked shabbier than he remembered, the paint peeling and the lawn overgrown. A braided rope that once held a tire dangled from the oak tree in the front yard, its end frayed and rotted with age. He went into the dark house with the key he had kept all those years, and crept silently up the stairs.

The man asleep in the bedroom barely knew what was happening before he was gagged and hogtied. He sat staring in mute horror at the strange man in the room. But now that the moment had come, Mort was surprised to find he was at a loss for words.

“You’re really just a loose end I need to clean up,” he said finally. He tore the duct tape from Earl Homestead’s mouth. “Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

“Who are you?”

“The real question is who I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not your son, remember? I can still hear you telling that to my mother.”

“My god,” the man whispered hoarsely, sweat beaded on his forehead. “She died a month ago.”

Mort looked at the person lying helpless on the rumpled sheets of the bed. “You can go meet her in hell, then.”

“You’re out of your mind, no, you can’t do this…”

But Mort was already resealing Earl Homestead’s mouth, wrapping the duct tape tightly around his head. Then he took a spring-loaded clothespin from his pocket and placed it over his father’s nose, locking the nostrils shut. He stayed in the bedroom for a few minutes, watching Earl Homestead’s face turn purple and his eyes bulge as he suffocated. When his head fell forward and his body stopped jerking, Mort went downstairs and grabbed some cold cuts and a loaf of bread from the refrigerator, then walked to his car and drove away.

• • •

Mort concentrated on staying a few cars behind the Lamborghini. He suspected Jimmy might be headed to another hotel in town, but was more likely leaving Las Vegas. Mort hoped it was the latter—kidnapping Jimmy would be easier to do in a less crowded environment.

Mort had studied the roadmaps and knew if Jimmy were leaving town he would most likely take Interstate 15 heading west. All other freeways were eastbound into the Mohave, with the nearest destinations being Salt Lake City or Phoenix. Interstate 15 led a hundred miles through the Western Mohave to the junction at Barstow. From there, one could turn south to the Los Angeles area, north on 395 toward Lake Tahoe, or continue west to Highway 5, toward San Jose or San Francisco.

If Jimmy headed east, there was a good chance he’d stop to spend the night in a small town. If he was westbound, he might drive straight through to wherever in California he was headed. The Lamborghini drove to the far end of the strip, toward the airport, and like Mort predicted, took the entrance to 15 West. It was noon and the sun was white in the colorless sky. In a few minutes the glitter of Las Vegas faded and was replaced by the brown emptiness of the desert.

The Toyota buzzed along at seventy-five, a couple hundred yards behind the Lamborghini. Mort ate a sandwich and drank a bottle of water as he drove, wondering if Jimmy would stop for lunch. Half an hour later they crossed the border into California. The road was nearly deserted, and Mort relaxed and turned on the radio. All was going as planned. But then, near the exit for Wheaton Springs, a black Corvette blasted by Mort at well over a hundred miles per hour.

Within a few seconds, the Corvette passed the Lamborghini. Mort heard the roar of the twelve-cylinder Italian motor as Jimmy jammed open the throttles in pursuit. Exhaust spewed from its pipes, and the sleek orange car launched forward. In less than ten seconds, Mort could no longer see either car.

Mort floored the Toyota, but the straight-four engine was built for economy, not performance. The speedometer flirted with ninety-five, but after a few miles the motor started to miss, and the temp gauge moved into the red zone. He backed down to eighty-five and turned off the AC, straining his eyes in hope that the Lamborghini had slowed and would become visible. The minutes ticked by with no sighting. Ten miles ahead lay the town of Baker, but after that there was nothing but highway for fifty miles to Barstow. If he didn’t see Jimmy by the time he reached the turnoff for Baker, Mort needed to decide whether to stop and look for him in Baker, or continue to Barstow.

Neither choice was good. Suppose Jimmy didn’t stop and continued to Barstow? If so, and Mort stopped to look for him in Baker, Jimmy would end up too far ahead for Mort to ever catch him. But if Mort continued to Barstow, and Jimmy had in fact stopped in Baker for food or gas, it was doubtful Jimmy would stop in Barstow; he’d probably just stay on the freeway and keep going.

Mort was pouring sweat in his disguise. It was at least a hundred outside, but every time he turned the air conditioning on, the engine started overheating. So he left it off and kept his speed at eighty-five. The black interior of the car was like an oven, even with the windows open.

He reached the exit for Baker without seeing the Lamborghini. He drove past the exit and continued for forty minutes, until he reached a tiny city called Yermo, about five miles outside of Barstow. A truck stop near the off-ramp was built on a rise in the terrain. Mort found a parking spot with a clear view of the freeway, and waited. He removed the apparatus that gave him the appearance of a fat man and tossed it in the backseat, never taking his eyes from the freeway.

Baker was a nothing town, a speck in the desert. Mort concluded that if Jimmy stopped there, it would be for food and gas only, which shouldn’t take long. He decided to wait for exactly thirteen minutes. If Jimmy didn’t come along by then, he would be well ahead, already to Barstow, where he would likely stop, for at least a short time.

Mort walked to a bit of shade under a sign and watched for the Lamborghini. Then he moved back to the car and started the motor. The thirteen minutes passed. With a brief curse, Mort hit the gas and got back on the freeway.

Mort now assumed Jimmy most likely drove straight through to Barstow. The driving time from Vegas to Barstow was over two hours. Jimmy would likely stop there, to use a restroom if nothing else.

Mort drove into the center of Barstow and started checking the parking lots of every restaurant, bar, and gas station he came across, driving in an increasingly wide circle. It was still very hot, but the sun had fallen and rested low above the horizon and glared directly in Mort’s eyes. Once twilight came, the air cooled quickly. He continued searching until it was full dark.

When Mort checked into a hotel, his jaw was sore, and he realized he’d been clenching his teeth for hours. He had not anticipated losing Jimmy Homestead, especially when Jimmy didn’t even know he was being followed.

Why had he stopped and waited along the freeway for Jimmy? Why hadn’t he just driven straight to Barstow? The odds of finding Jimmy would have been better if he had. Instead, he waited and evidently gave Jimmy time to gas up and get food and leave for who knows where.

It was a judgment call on his part, and a bad one, he now conceded. He had failed to react effectively to an unforeseen circumstance. He had not analyzed the situation correctly, and that was because he was not prepared. He should have predicted Jimmy might drive the Lamborghini at a high rate of speed across the open desert. That potential simply did not occur to him, and as a result, he had not only lost Jimmy, but also wasted time and a significant portion of his limited financial resources. It was poor planning on his part, and it was unforgivable. Now he needed to come up with a new plan, and he could not afford to fail again.

Mort sat on the bed, his eyes squeezed shut, every joint in his body flexed like a compressed coil. In his head he heard a sound like a phonograph needle screeching across a record, and before he could stop himself, he leapt up and punched three holes in the wall, his fist pumping at lightning speed, his eyes dark and the skin on his face stretched so tight it felt like the seams would split.

C
ody and Sheila had just sat down for lunch at a Mexican restaurant when I called.

“Get your food to go. I’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. “Order me a burrito, too.”

Ten minutes later we were heading west on 15 in my Ford rental. Cody sat up front, manning the GPS. “He’s at least ten miles ahead of us,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll know when and where he stops.”

We settled in and drove in silence for a time, until we crossed the border into California. “What’s the plan when we find him, Sheila?” I said.

“I’ll want to sit down and talk with him in a place where we can have a private conversation. A cocktail lounge would be perfect, as long as it’s not too small. I’ll want you and Cody to be visible to Jimmy while we’re talking. Not close enough to listen, but close enough so Jimmy can feel your presence.”

“How do you plan on convincing him to share his money with you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“You let me handle that.”

“Hey,” Cody said, staring at the GPS. “He’s farther ahead of us now. Looks like about twenty miles.”

“He’s probably speeding. There’s nothing but open road ahead. Let’s hope he doesn’t kill himself.”

“You won’t lose him, right?”

“No way,” I said. “He’s got to stop sometime.”

Sheila had a California map opened on her lap in the back seat. “The next town is Baker,” she said.

But Jimmy didn’t stop in Baker. He continued west on 15, and continued to gain ground on us. We ate while we drove, maintaining an even seventy-five miles per hour, slicing through an empty, sun-blasted landscape that was colorless except for the faded brown of the earth’s floor.

Half an hour later, the red arrow on the GPS stopped moving. The Lamborghini had stopped in Barstow. We were twenty-five miles away.

“If we’re lucky, he stopped for lunch and a few drinks,” Cody said.

But we were still ten miles outside of town when the arrow started moving again.