Mission Canyon (21 page)

‘‘No. It’s chilling.’’

‘‘I don’t know how long I blacked out. Minutes, maybe. He would have had time.’’

The intercom squawked again. A horn blared from the car behind me. I ordered, hearing the horn again, impatient. Jesse stuck his arm out the window and gave the driver the finger.

I pulled forward. ‘‘Don’t bother. Anybody that desperate for fast food deserves pity, not reproach.’’

My window was still down, and I could hear the honker’s voice shouting into the intercom. A sharp, twangy Oklahoma voice. I looked in the rearview mirror.

‘‘It’s Taylor.’’

‘‘No.’’ He turned around.

I eased up to the cashier’s window and paid, took my food and pulled forward.

Jesse watched Taylor drive up to the window. ‘‘Jesus, look at all those fries.’’

I turned into a parking space.

‘‘She’s digging straight into them. Look at her go. My God, the woman’s a machine. A terrible, unstoppable eating machine.’’

I turned off the engine. ‘‘I need to talk to her about stealing my address book.’’

‘‘I want to meet her,’’ he said.

My hand was on the door handle. ‘‘No, you don’t.’’

‘‘Yes, I do.’’

‘‘I’ll introduce you another time.’’

‘‘She swallowed that last helping of fries whole, including the box. I think she unhinged her jaw to do it.’’

‘‘Not now.’’ I opened the door. ‘‘Stay here. Please.’’

‘‘You ask too much.’’

His face could look devilish at such times, eyes gleaming, smile so white.

‘‘Don’t you trust me?’’ he said. ‘‘To be sweet to Cousin Tater?’’

She was pulling away from the cashier’s window. Giving Jesse a look, I got out and waved to her.

The red Mazda braked. I saw Taylor’s face through the windshield, fries sticking out between her lips. Her eyes bulged. Recovering, she swallowed, and waved.

She swung into a parking space and jumped out. She was dressed in lemon yellow workout gear, with lines of sweat dampening her shirt. ‘‘What a neat surprise.’’

‘‘I’d like my address book back, please.’’

‘‘I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.’’ She batted her eyes at me. ‘‘But I do know that tomorrow evening you should plan to be at Nikki’s house. Seven p.m. So don’t be a party pooper, just— Oh, is that Jesse?’’

He had stayed in the car, a rare moment of acquiescence, and turned on one of my CDs. The voice of Patsy Cline was now keening from my car stereo, singing ‘‘Crazy.’’ He was singing along.

Taylor strode to greet him, wiping grease from her hands onto her aerobics shorts. Approaching the car, she hunched her shoulders and drew in her hand, as though she were going to shake with a Smurf.

‘‘Well, hello there,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s so special to meet you.’’

He thrust his arm out the window. ‘‘Taylor, you don’t know what a thrill this is.’’

‘‘My, aren’t you the gentleman.’’ She took his hand in both of hers. ‘‘You’ll excuse the way I look. I must have burned off a thousand calories running on that treadmill. ’’ And she cringed. ‘‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk about running.’’

‘‘You can talk about running.’’

‘‘I’m sure it’s a sore subject. Not that you could get sore, running. I’m just so sorry. But it’s a beautiful day and here y’all are, out for a drive.’’

‘‘We were at the pool.’’

‘‘Evan takes you swimming? Isn’t that sweet.’’

I came up behind them, knowing what was going to happen, seeing her sugary smile, and the way she patted his hand, and the look in Jesse’s eyes, dead calm.

I said, ‘‘We have to go. Will you put my address book in the mail?’’

‘‘Hon, I told you I don’t know what you mean,’’ she said.

She rose up on tiptoe, trying to look through the window at him. After a few seconds she gave up and opened his door. She stood examining him, puzzlement spreading across her face.

‘‘My word, you look perfectly normal,’’ she said.

For a moment he was silent. Then he said, ‘‘Yes. My work with the faith healer is paying off.’’

She tilted her head, her eyes blank with amazement. ‘‘Why, that is just wonderful.’’

‘‘Yeah, you can’t beat satanism for results.’’

Long, long beat. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘And you know, since I started tithing I’ve been getting feeling back.’’ He popped himself in the thigh. ‘‘Ow.’’

She stood with her head tipped, like a punching bag that had taken too many hits.

‘‘The incantations do tend to draw dogs, but what the hell. Oh, here they come.’’

He pointed over her shoulder. Taylor spun and nearly jumped into his lap.

She looked wildly around. ‘‘You . . . where . . . I don’t . . .’’

I sighed. ‘‘He’s kidding.’’

She stared at me, and him, then back at me, and around the parking lot again.

He said, ‘‘Sorry, bad joke. I’m really an atheist.’’

My life was over.

Taylor’s face surrendered to confusion. ‘‘Then I don’t get it. How come you don’t look all paralyzed?’’

I said, ‘‘Gotta go,’’ and sprinted around to the driver’s side of the car.

Jesse said, ‘‘Court order. I got a permanent injunction against it.’’

‘‘Be serious,’’ she said.

I hopped in and started the engine. Threw it in reverse, not waiting for Jesse to shut the door, backing out, seeing the bewilderment on Taylor’s face.

He yanked the door shut. As I dropped into gear, he leaned out and said to her, ‘‘Viagra, and lots of it.’’

I floored the car. We bounced out onto the street.

He said, ‘‘Go ahead, give it to me.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t dream of it. She deserved every word.’’

He tried to read my expression. ‘‘But you’re worried about the next family reunion. People asking you about marrying a sex-crazed satanist.’’

‘‘Not at all.’’ I punched the accelerator. ‘‘Because I’m never going to one again. I’m sending you.’’

Stu Pyle ran his plumbing business out of the back of a van. It smelled like pork rinds and wet metal, and had a topless hula doll stuck to the dashboard. This late in the day he charged double for a call-out. At about the same time I was jousting with Taylor, Pyle was driving along a back road in the foothills, looking for the house belonging to the woman who’d called him and begged him to come right now. Her address was scribbled on a Post-it note that he’d stuck below the hula girl.
Miss Jones. Toilet overflowing—freaking out.
And freak-outs often meant he could charge whatever he wanted.

But the houses had died out half a mile back, and he crept along the winding road through overgrown trees and dry brush, chewing on a ham sandwich, trying to find the place. The asphalt petered out into dirt and gravel. Finally, he came to a dead end. Stopped.

Stupid broad gave him the wrong directions. He set the sandwich on the seat, wiped mayonnaise from his hands onto his shirt, and called her on his cell phone.

The mechanical phone company voice came on. ‘‘We’re sorry, but your call cannot be completed at this time. . . ."

Stupid, stupid broad.

He pulled a three-point turn and was putting the van into gear when the car pulled up in front of him. A gold car with a rental company dashboard sticker. Driver waving. Asking for directions, getting out, unfolding a map on the hood of the car. The man looked like a rich tourist, wearing that fancy cashmere jacket, maybe up from L.A. for a polo match. Something familiar about him. Stu Pyle got out of his van to look at the map.

It was his last good deed.

Pyle was big, but he was outweighed. And when the passenger climbed out of the car, he was outnumbered. They grabbed him and he couldn’t beat them off. They dragged him around to the back of the van, yanked open the doors, and threw him inside on the floor. The smell was stronger here, wet metal overlaid with sewage. All his tools and supplies were arrayed around him.

They chose the snake.

The metal cable hummed when they extended it. It was aluminum, once clean and shiny but not now. He kicked, knocking washers and pipe fittings out of the boxes in the back of the van. Bolts and pipes and tools flew, ringing down like coins. He stretched his fingers, trying to reach the wrench, but it was too far, so he fought, screaming, but no one was around to hear him. They held his head down and forced his mouth open.

They cleaned him out.

I didn’t hear about it until the next day at Jesse’s. It was early morning and I was running on the beach, long and fast, to keep from barking. Fourteen hours left until the deadline.

Sandpipers skittered in front of me, outrunning the breakers. I rounded the point and the coastline flared into light, the harbor a bowl of gold beneath the green rim of the mountains. The waves provided the backbeat to my breathing. Offshore, the Channel Islands rose blue against the horizon. I did two miles and came back, splashing through the waves. I was humming with heat. I saw Jesse swimming out beyond the surf line, his freestyle stroke so smooth it looked lazy. I waved.

I looked toward the house and saw the men in suits standing on the deck.

Correction. Two men were standing on the deck. The third, FBI Special Agent Dale Van Heusen, was sitting in Jesse’s wheelchair.

I felt myself tighten. I slowed to a walk, suppressing the urge to charge at Van Heusen, topple him onto his back, and box his ears. I’m told that goes down badly with the Bureau. What he was doing was rude, presumptuous, and intrusive. And from the smirk on his face, he knew it, too.

He set his hands on the wheels. ‘‘Pretty slick ride. Ultralight frame, custom seat—how much does one of these set you back?’’

‘‘That isn’t a toy, Agent Van Heusen, and it isn’t up for grabs. Please get off.’’

He talked over his shoulder at the other men. ‘‘What do you guess, Rome? Fiori? Two grand?’’

They stood stiffly, their ties flapping in the breeze. To his credit, Clayton Rome looked embarrassed. Van Heusen shrugged and took his time standing up. He gazed at the house. His badger nose wrinkled.

‘‘Quite a spread your boyfriend has here.’’

‘‘What is it you want, gentlemen?’’

Rome stood with arms akimbo, gold cuff links and belt buckle winking in the light, looking at me with calm suspicion. ‘‘Stu Pyle was murdered yesterday.’’

Van Heusen said, ‘‘They held him down and drove a plumber’s snake into his throat.’’

Rome said, ‘‘Where were you yesterday at six p.m.?’’

My stomach was jumping, my head abuzz. And I heard the deliberate plural in Van Heusen’s description.
They
. I told them I had been at In-N-Out Burger. To prove it, I went out to my Explorer and dug the receipt out of the ashtray.

Rome took it. ‘‘Anybody who can verify this, besides Mr. Blackburn?’’

‘‘Taylor Boggs.’’ I looked at Van Heusen. ‘‘You met her the other day.’’

‘‘Neat-looking blonde, with eyes that are extremely blue, almost . . .’’ Van Heusen wiggled his fingers in front of his own eyes, searching for the adjective.

‘‘Violet,’’ I said.

Nodding, he took out his notebook. I gave him her phone number. My legs felt watery. This was the final flourish: All at once, I was in Taylor’s debt and at her mercy. I needed her to verify my alibi. With the FBI. In a murder investigation. She had just won the gossipers’ Triple Crown.

Rome said, ‘‘Does Mr. Blackburn own any other vehicles besides the Audi out front?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘And you?’’

‘‘Just the Explorer.’’ I looked at him. ‘‘What did you do, check our tires against a tread pattern you found at the murder scene?’’

He shifted his shoulders. I saw a set of handcuffs glinting on his belt.

Van Heusen said, ‘‘Don’t get cocky. The only vehicle we’ve eliminated so far is that one.’’ He pointed at the wheelchair.

They knew Jesse hadn’t been involved. They had to doubt it was me. What was the FBI doing here? The murder was an SBPD matter, not a federal crime. I still didn’t know what, exactly, Van Heusen was investigating.

But I knew that everything had spun out of control. Chris Ramseur was dead, and Stu Pyle. Brand was killing off people who knew about the crash. All at once I felt a visceral memory of Brand shoving me to the floor at the motel. Cologne, marbled weight, his words.
You’ll see. You’ll all fucking see.

I felt sick to my fingertips. ‘‘Jesse’s in danger. You have to protect him.’’

Van Heusen said, ‘‘I want to talk to him. Where is he?’’

Circling overhead at twenty-thousand feet, jackass. He can fly.

I said nothing. But the other FBI agent, Fiori, nodded toward the water and said, ‘‘That’s him swimming. She waved at him.’’

‘‘No kidding.’’ Van Heusen looked at me. ‘‘Go get him.’’

I felt a prickle on my cheeks, the flush of abasement. But I walked down to the water and waited for Jesse to swim back. He rode in on a wave and pulled himself out of the water.

Sitting on the sand, he took off his goggles. ‘‘The FBI?’’

I crouched down next to him. ‘‘Stu Pyle was murdered yesterday.’’

His shoulders fell. ‘‘No.’’

He stared at me, and at the men. I could see the strain on his face, the shine of the swim draining into shock.

He said, ‘‘Let’s go find out what they want.’’

He sculled up the beach, lugging with his arms, pushing with his better leg. Rome and Fiori looked away, discomfited, but Van Heusen stood at the edge of the deck, his mouth creased with impatience. When I walked past him to grab Jesse’s beach towel, he said, ‘‘You don’t need to be here. Go home.’’

I turned my head. ‘‘You should check your sunscreen. I think you may have applied asshole factor forty.’’

He sucked on his teeth. ‘‘You don’t take direction well, do you? It’s not a request.’’

‘‘Do you have a warrant?’’

‘‘That’s beside the point.’’

‘‘I thought not. Then you’re a guest here. Try acting like one.’’