Mission Canyon (29 page)

‘‘Maybe she fell over the rail,’’ Utley said.

A moment’s quiet. They were looking. I felt the hair on my scalp rising.

Utley said, ‘‘Okay, Einstein, where’d she go? She went down the stairs.’’

The door to the bell tower opened. He said, ‘‘Come on, before she beats it out of here.’’

‘‘No. Think about it, Win. She didn’t get by us. She’s up here.’’

‘‘Do you ever admit you’re wrong, Cherry? Come on; Mickey’s gonna go ballistic if we don’t find her. After Vegas, you don’t have any credit left with him.’’

‘‘After Vegas. After this fiasco. How come it’s us up here? How come we’re always the ones taking the chances?’’

‘‘ ’Cause he’s a sadistic head case. I don’t care how hot he is in the sack; that’s what it comes down to. That and the fact that he pays us the money.’’

Quiet. Then she said, ‘‘It’s all going to blow up. I know it.’’

‘‘Maybe for Mickey.’’

‘‘For all of us. The FBI is here, for chrissake. They’re going to find out about Segue.’’

‘‘Just a few more days, that’s all. We’ll have Blackburn, and we can move the rest. Then it’s straight to Cancún.’’

‘‘Gonna hit the beach? You think Mexican girls go for guys with the thrifty gene?’’

‘‘Let’s go. Screw Delaney; we’ll do the thing with the physicist.’’

The physicist . . . they were planning to do something to Adam. Thea turned her head into my chest and closed her eyes again. I felt her little legs relax.

‘‘Okay, we’ll go,’’ Lopez said.

Relief swam over me like a warm wave. I leaned back against the wall. All I had to do was wait here until they were gone.

My cell phone rang.

Utley said, ‘‘You hear that?’’

The phone was in my back pocket, where I couldn’t reach it without dropping Thea. There was only one thing to do. I started running on tiptoe across the ceiling of the church. Planks were laid crosswise over thick wooden beams, and I hurried toward the far end of the church, trying to keep my balance. Below the beams was plaster. It held the chandeliers, but might not break my fall if I tipped off the plank and landed hard.

The phone kept ringing. Thea woke up and started crying. I ran. Behind me the small door opened.

‘‘It’s her,’’ Utley said.

Down at the far end of the church was one of the screened ventilation windows. Where did it lead—to steps, a lower roof, a fall?

Lopez yelled, ‘‘Move. Move, Win. Let me go first.’’

‘‘Then get out of my way.’’

I glanced back. They were wedged in the little door together, fighting to get through. I kept going. The phone rang and rang. Thea was wailing. I swung her over onto her stomach and held her like a football under my arm.

Sharp footsteps running behind me, Cherry Lopez coming hard now.

I reached the window. I sat down and kicked the screen out. It clanged onto the tile roof of a side chapel about four feet below me. The roof sloped and the tiles were mossy. I knew now that I wasn’t going to survive this evening, because if Cherry Lopez didn’t kill me, Nikki and Carl would.

I scooted out the window and picked my way across the tiles to the edge of the roof. It was too far to jump, but near one corner I saw a buttress, a thick adobe support for the wall. It was steep, far steeper than a play-ground slide, but better than jumping. I sat down on the edge of the roof and swung my feet over the edge.

I tucked Thea against me. ‘‘Hold on, baby.’’

I leaned back, flattened my shoes against the buttress, and slid. My feet bounced and squeaked. I accelerated, feeling my jeans heat from friction, my shirt bunch up in the back, plaster scrape my exposed skin.

The lawn was coming up too fast, too fast. . . .

I punched into the grass, crumpling like a skydiver, rolling to protect Thea. I stumbled to my feet. Where were we? In a small garden, surrounded by high walls and old archways, deep in the grounds. Thea wailed, grabbing me with her little fists.

Above me, Lopez climbed out the ventilation window onto the chapel roof. I heard her clattering across the tiles. Turning, I saw an open door. I ran through it and saw that I was in the church sacristy. I heard Lopez thud to the ground outside. I ran through the sacristy, out another door, and found myself on the altar, looking down the length of the empty church. I heard Lopez curse and knew she was coming behind me.

Just her. Win Utley had to be thudding down the stairs in the bell tower. He would be waiting for me at the front door of the church. I cut through a row of pews and ducked out a side door. I barreled out into the cemetery, running past worn headstones with eighteenth-century dates. I looked back and saw a skull and crossbones above the door.

Thea squalled. I ran for the gate, pushed it open, and hurried down the stairs toward the street.

My phone started ringing again. Thea was pistoning her arms and legs. I ran around the front steps of the church, watching out for Utley. Ahead, at the far end of the church complex, I saw people climbing the steps toward the parish office. Off in the side of my vision, in the shadowed archways next to the bell tower, I caught sight of a large figure in black, huffing along. Utley.

I yelled for help. And yelled again, louder.

A woman turned and saw me. I hurried toward her and the others. Utley slowed, turned around, and headed in the opposite direction. They were letting me go, melting away.

They were going to cause havoc for Adam.

The cops gave Thea and me a ride home. I wrestled the stroller out of the squad car and thanked them. Thea waved as they drove away. Across the street, Helen Potts peeked through her blinds at us.

I marched up to her door and knocked. She answered, gripping her cardigan tight at the neck.

‘‘Will you watch Thea until Carl and Nikki get home? It’s not safe for her to be with me,’’ I said.

She didn’t waver. She held out her hands. ‘‘Of course. Come here, sweetie pie.’’

I was jogging back down the walk when she called to me. ‘‘Evan. Does this have to do with the gold car I saw parked down the street?’’

I stopped cold.

‘‘I don’t see it now, but it’s been there on and off all week. Sometimes there’s a man sitting behind the wheel, just sitting, watching your place.’’

I felt a shiver. I said, ‘‘Lock your doors, Helen.’’

It had to be Brand.

Adam’s line was busy, and I was going crazy. I drove to his house.

His truck was in the driveway, the sun glaring off the windshield. The wind was rustling the manzanita bushes outside his front door. I knocked and got no answer. Through the door I could hear the television.

I knocked again. ‘‘Adam?’’

I peered in a window and saw the TV on in the living room, looked like a sports channel. The door was unlocked. I opened it.

‘‘It’s Evan. You here?’’

I walked across the entryway into the living room.

‘‘Adam, are you okay?’’

Put that one on my list of Top Ten Stupid Questions. He was sitting on a footstool near the TV, watching a video. ESPN sportscasters chatting. Behind them was a pool.

I saw a cardboard box on the floor next to the footstool. Inside were more videos, CDs, odds and ends. The label on the box said
Isaac.

‘‘Have you come as Jesse’s emissary?’’ he said. ‘‘Because I can’t.’’ Shaking his head. ‘‘I can’t talk to him.’’

The words gouged me. I, Princess Pedal-to-the-Metal, who twenty-four hours earlier had run away and refused to talk to him myself.

‘‘I came to warn you,’’ I said. ‘‘I-heist has plans to hurt you.’’

He looked up from the TV. ‘‘Jesse sent you to tell me this?’’

‘‘No. They’re after
us
, Adam. They’re using us to pressure Jesse.’’

‘‘Pressure him in what way?’’

‘‘He should tell you.’’

The gloom in his eyes distilled. ‘‘You are his emissary.’’

On the television, graphics appeared: Men’s four-by-one -hundred freestyle relay. Texas, Stanford, Auburn, UCSB . . . it was the NCAA nationals. The camera panned to the teams walking onto the deck, young men looking intense. The crowd was noisy, cheering and waving banners, stomping on the bleachers.

Adam stared at the screen.

I said, ‘‘Hey. I want you to lock your doors and windows and keep your eyes open. They have plans to do something to you.’’

‘‘They’re going to
get
me, is that it?’’

I threw my hands up. ‘‘I’ll do it myself.’’ I started walking around the living room, latching windows. ‘‘Please don’t be sarcastic. These people are dangerous.’’

He laughed. It was an awful, cheerless sound. ‘‘You think I don’t appreciate that? They killed my brother. They already got me.’’

On the television, the relay’s leadoff swimmers stepped up onto the blocks, rolling their shoulders, adjusting goggles, trying to loosen up. The names of each team’s four members flashed on screen. UC Santa Barbara: Matsuda, Sandoval, Sandoval, Blackburn.

I locked the sliding glass door. ‘‘Be careful at home, when you’re driving, and when you’re on campus.’’

‘‘Don’t worry; I can defend myself. I have a spear gun and powerheads to load it with; they can stop a white shark.’’

I finished locking up and stood staring at him. Finally, as if feeling the weight of my thoughts, he looked up. The light in his eyes was agonized.

‘‘It’s illogical, I know. How can I blame Jesse?’’ he said. ‘‘But I can’t seem to stop it. How can I quiet this hissing in my head? Tell me. I don’t know if I should pray, or scream, or punch him. How do I climb back out of a gravity well, into rationality?’’

From the TV, the starting Klaxon. The swimmers burst from the blocks. I turned, wanting to shut off the video.

Adam stared at the screen. ‘‘Don’t.’’

The leadoff swimmers plowed the lanes, racing four laps of the pool. When they charged home the second-leg swimmers leaped, flying over them, and there was Isaac. He was behind but going wild, chasing the leaders with windmill arms and a white-water kick.

He held on, neither losing nor gaining ground. On screen Adam appeared, stepping onto the blocks, fired up, waiting. Isaac powered toward him and touched the wall. He sprang. He was a body length behind the leaders. The noise from the crowd shook the walls. He was flying, clawing back the deficit stroke by stroke, moving up as they turned and came back on their final lap.

Ahead of them the anchormen waited, knowing it was now. Jesse climbed onto the blocks and stood there, a stone statue. Goggles shining, arms relaxed. There was electricity in his stillness. I found myself walking toward the TV just to see him.

The leaders came into the wall with Adam half a length behind, head down, digging. Jesse bent, went into his roll, and leaped. He looked like a leopard striking. The crowd was thundering, the announcers shouting above them: Texas, Stanford, UCSB. Jesse broke the surface of the water only two feet behind.

On the footstool, Adam rocked back and forth to the cadence of Jesse’s stroke, urging him on. I was overcome with the comprehension of how much he loved him.

And finally it was the last lap. At the far end of the pool they flip-turned. The underwater camera caught them, Jesse timing it perfectly, feet hitting the wall and shoving off, gaining another foot on the leaders.

‘‘Go, man,’’ Adam whispered.

My heart was racing. The announcers were breathless, saying, ‘‘Stanford and Texas but look at UCSB . . . Jesse Blackburn is experienced . . . swims on the U.S. National Team . . . you can’t count him out.’’ My throat lumped.

The arena was ringing. Jesse sliced the water, arms wheeling, the effort entirely concentrated. So like him. God, I felt proud. Texas and Stanford were dogfighting each other, and Jesse was inching up on them. And inching. The wall came closer.

The three swimmers dead even, a final lunge, the crowd bringing down the house, and bam, into the wall. Water lapping in waves. Too close to call.

ESPN saying, ‘‘And Blackburn takes it.’’

Jesse in close-up now, pulling off the goggles and looking up at the scoreboard, blowing hard, squinting at the times, hoping. He sees it. Neon grin, fist in the air.

In the living room, Adam stared at Jesse’s face on the screen. I had to breathe, tingling, thrilled. I watched the TV, Jesse vaulting out of the pool and his teammates mobbing him, Adam grabbing his shoulders and babbling in joy. Isaac leaping on Adam’s back, laughing, yelling.

I looked down to see Adam’s shoulders heave. He sobbed and plunged his head into his hands. I dropped to my knees and threw my arms around him. He crumpled into my embrace.

‘‘Everything’s gone,’’ he said.

My throat grabbed, and tears stung my eyes.

‘‘Why did he have to die?’’

Then he wept without restraint. I rocked him. There was nothing I could say.

I pulled up to my house with bluegrass keening on the radio. I could barely rouse myself to get out of the car. Dread enveloped me like dead space, cold and empty. I looked up and down the street, afraid Brand’s gold rental car would be parked in the shadows. I saw only darkness.

I was locking the Explorer when my cell phone rang. The display said,
Jesse.

‘‘Can we talk?’’ he said.

I walked toward the garden gate. ‘‘I’m at home.’’

‘‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’’

I opened the gate. I smelled green grass and star jasmine. ‘‘You got my message?’’

‘‘What message?’’

Doubt pricked at me. ‘‘I phoned last night. It was late.’’

‘‘I didn’t hear the phone ring.’’ He said, ‘‘Ev?’’

She was sitting outside my door, hugging her knees in the blue dusk.

‘‘Harley’s here,’’ I said. ‘‘I don’t think you should come over right now.’’

‘‘I’m already on my way.’’

I hung up. Harley was climbing to her feet, brushing dust from her capris.