Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (35 page)

Stepping off the cement blocks, I went over to the redwood grove
and started through it. On the other side was an open meadow, dotted
with scrub oak. I crossed it and again found myself at the edge of a
steep slope, looking down into a valley many hundreds of yards below.

There were buildings down there, a large stone one with a slate
roof and several smaller ones. I could look down on top of them. A
black van and a jeep stood in front of them, but there was no other
sign of life. What was it? I wondered. A ranch? I tried to orient
myself. Possibly it was the winery that went with the vineyards I'd
seen on the hill. Given its curves and switchbacks, the road could
very well have brought me deceptively close to civilization. Perhaps
if I found out how to get down to the buildings, the people to whom
the van and jeep belonged would be able to tell me something about
Levin and the fire.

Intending to go back to the MG, I turned again and headed across
the meadow. I was only a few feet from the redwood grove when I heard
a buzzing sound close by. I stopped—and then I heard the crack
of the shot.

I froze, then dove for the cover of the trees. A second shot
cracked, and then another.

I landed on my hands and knees just beyond the first line of
trees. Quickly I crawled deeper into their shelter, trying to figure
out from which direction the shots had come. It was completely quiet
now; even the cries of the birds were stilled. I crouched there,
shaken, clutching a tree trunk.

The silence went on for what seemed forever. I strained my ears,
but heard no one moving in the underbrush. The shots had come from
close by; as near as I could tell, whoever had fired them was
somewhere between me and the road where I'd left my car.

But who was it? Someone who now owned the land and didn't like
trespassers? But the land wasn't posted or fully fenced. And didn't
reasonable people warn you before shooting?

Of course, this didn't have to be a reasonable person.

I shivered, suddenly cold. The silence went on. I took the absence
of bird calls to mean the sniper was still out there.

Was he waiting for me to make the next move? I could lay still,
wait him out—but for how long? Until dark? That was hours away.

Slowly I began to move through the redwoods toward the ruins of
the cabin. I stayed in a crouch, going from the trunk of one tree to
another. When I got to the edge of the grove, I would have to run
across open space to the ruins. It was only a short way, though, and
once there I would have the foundation for protection. Then if I
could get to the thicket by the creek—

Another shot rang out. I dropped to my stomach, cursing the pale
pink blouse that made me easy to spot, even in the deep shade.

The shot, however, had helped me pinpoint its source: near the
clearing on this side of the plank bridge. Possibly the sniper was
using the tumbledown shed as cover.

After a few moments I began to move again, keeping as close to the
ground as I could. If I could get to the thicket by the creek, I
could wade across it and climb up the other bank to the road. The
stand of sumac I'd come through earlier would screen my approach to
the MG from anyone in the clearing by the shed. Providing the sniper
hadn't found the car and disabled it—a frightening
possibility—I would then get the hell out of here.

I was at the edge of the redwoods now. Several yards away stood
the ruins of the cabin. If I could get across that seemingly immense
space, the foundation and chimney would shield me.

I dashed out from the shelter of the trees, leaped over the
foundation, and hurled myself behind the chimney just as a bullet
smacked into the stone wall a mere three feet from me. The shot
echoed and then died away.

Lying there on my stomach, my nose in the ashes, I felt pure rage
rise up to supplant my terror. Dammit, no one had the right to play
this deadly kind of game with another human being!

I began inching through the rubble, determined to get to that
thicket. When I reached the other side of the foundation, I raised
myself and peered over it, braced to duck a bullet. Everything
remained silent. I suppose my black hair was not noticeable against
the charred debris, but when I stood up and started running, I would
make a clear target. Still, I had to get to the road…

I leaped over the foundation and ran in a crouch for the
protection of the thicket. Another shot sounded as I slid into the
thicket on my knees. Stumbling to my feet, I fought through the
underbrush, branches slapping my face and tearing at my clothes.

The creek was narrow at this point, and I waded into it, feeling
the shock of the cold water through my tennis shoes. Then I was on
the bank beyond, scaling the rocky slope that I hoped led to the
road. I reached the top, gasping with relief when I saw the broken
pavement.

Cautiously I stepped out a couple of inches and peered down the
road. My car stood where I had left it. If the sniper had come across
the countryside rather than along the road, there was a good chance
he hadn't even seen it.

I began moving down the road in the shelter of the underbrush.
Since the last shot, I had heard nothing. Pausing at the entrance to
the rutted driveway, I listened. Silence. I sprinted across the
entrance and kept going.

There was a crashing in the sumacs to my left. I stopped, half
panicked, only a few feet from my car. A deer came leaping from the
trees. It cleared the road in a single bound and disappeared.

Weak with relief, I closed my fingers around the car keys in my
pocket. Then I ran for the MG and jumped in. I hunched low in the
seat and jammed the keys into the ignition. The car started on the
first try.

I let out the clutch and gunned the MG wildly down the road.

Boulder Creek was a bigger town than I'd imagined. It was the
gateway to Big Basin State Park, and its streets were crowded with
vans and campers, even though it was only May. There were lines at
the filling stations, and people with wilderness gear lugged boxes of
supplies out of the grocery stores. Even the bars were jammed. I took
one look at the confusion and decided to go back to San Francisco.

I probably should have reported the sniping incident to the local
law, but I'd decided there was no point in it. The sniper would be
long gone, and talking to the police and giving a statement would
only cause me unnecessary delay. I headed toward the freeway and
drove north, going over the incident in my mind, trying to make sense
of it.

The person had definitely been shooting at me, but he hadn't been
aiming to kill. None of the bullets had come very close to me; he'd
have to have been an exceptionally poor shot to have missed me so
many times. No, his intention had been merely to scare me. But why
not shout a warning and save his ammunition? I still didn't
understand.

Of course, the mountains down there had a reputation for harboring
crazies. Bodies were frequently found in the wilderness and the
nearby city of Santa Cruz had been dubbed, unofficially, the "murder
capital of California," due to more than one series of mass
murders. So maybe I'd just crossed paths with one of the resident
lunatics.

The city, with fog boiling in over the hills, was a welcome sight.
I exited the freeway at Army Street, remembered to keep going
straight rather than turn toward my old apartment on Guerrero, and in
minutes I was home. Don's gold Jaguar stood at the curb; I eased the
MG in behind it.

He was in the living room, spackling the walls. When I came in he
turned, wiping the putty knife on the tail of his old workshirt, a
cheerful grin on his face. The grin faded when he saw me.

"What happened to you?"

I looked down at my jeans and pink blouse, which were grimy with
soot.

Don waited.

"Somebody shot at me."

"What!"

"A sniper. I don't think he was trying to hit me, and I'm
fine. Only a little dirty, that's all."

"Where did this happen?"

I told him, briefly, trying to minimize the seriousness of it. He
listened, stroking his mustache. Finally he said, "You shouldn't
have gone down there alone."

"I tried to call you, but you were out."

"You should have waited."

"Don, it's my job. I couldn't wait."

"Yeah. Your job." He turned away, set the putty knife
down, and put the top back on the spackle.

I felt a sinking sense of
dèjá
vu
. This had happened before with other men. "Don, please
don't hate my job. It's the most important part of my life; I have to
do it. If you hate it, you're also hating me."

"Oh, babe." He turned back, his face full of concern.
"That's not it at all. I'm just worried because I love you."

Relief flooded through me. "I love you too." That was
the way it had been with us since the day we met: simple, easy. How
could I have thought he'd be like the others? "How did your tour
of the studios go?" I said. "Did they play your demo tape?"

"Yes, and liked it a lot, I think. The studios are terrific,
too. I'd never realized what a small operation KPSM is. What I could
do in those studios…"

I felt a defensive tightening that was becoming all too familiar,
followed by a flash of annoyance at myself. "Listen, Don,"
I said, "I want to take a bath. Then you can tell me all about
it."

I spent close to an hour in the tub, periodically adding more hot
water when the temperature cooled. I lay submerged, the ends of my
hair trailing in the water, trying to make sense of this emotional
rollercoaster ride. Finally, though, I had to get out and dry off. A
bathtub is a good place to hide, but not indefinitely.

When I came into the kitchen Don was reading at the table. He shut
the book immediately and poured us glasses of wine. Then he said,
"Look, I think we should talk."

I pulled the belt of my robe tighter and sat down across from him.
"About what?"

"About why you get so uptight every time I mention the job at
KSUN. Is there some reason you don't want me to move to San
Francisco?"

There. It was out in the open. "No. I'm happy for you…"

"Is there somebody you're seeing here, and you feel my living
in town would interfere with that?"

"Lord, no!"

"What is it then?"

I looked down into my wine. Don waited.

"I don't know."

"Maybe you should try to figure it out."

"Maybe." But I already had—the pictures that had
drifted through my mind while I'd soaked in the tub had told me.

In the past two months, because they'd helped me move into this
house, I'd helped two friends move out of theirs. Each had been
breaking off with the man she'd lived with, and each moving day had
been horrible. One man had pretended it didn't matter and had bustled
around the house, rearranging what furniture was staying, talking
about getting on with his life. The other had tried to help us, but
had had to keep going off into another room to cry. I'd had plenty of
time, while carting out boxes and taking pictures off the walls, to
think about the death of relationships, the failure of love. To
realize that hands that once touched you with tenderness could just
as easily shove you away. To know that a voice once soft with passion
could in time become edged with indifference or pain.

It seemed to me that relationships between men and women didn't
last very long these days. And it also seemed that, the more you were
together, the more you hastened that almost certain end.

What I had with Don was very precious and new. I didn't want to
see it end—not ever. But what if being together more—as
we would be if he lived here in town—caused it to turn into
something less? What if…

"Don," I said, "I'm afraid—"

The phone rang. I gave it what must have been a murderous look. It
rang again. Don squeezed my hand and said, "You better answer
it."

Willie Whelan's voice came over the wire. "Sharon?"

"Yes, Willie." I glanced at Don. He was reaching for his
book.

"I tried your office, but they said you'd been out all day.
Where were you?"

"Getting shot at."

"What?"

I explained about my talk with David Halpert and Ben Cohen, and
the resultant trip to the Santa Cruz Mountains.

"Jesus," he said. "You better be careful. No
telling what kinds of lunatics are running around. But listen, the
reason I called, I've got something for you."

"You found the Torahs?"

"No, but I know where they were."

"Where?"

"In with the rolls for the player piano."

Of course. To the untutored eye, they wouldn't look all that
different. "How do you suppose they got there?"

"Somebody must have thought it was a good hiding place. And
it sure fooled me. What I don't get, though, is who did it—or
how he sneaked them in here."

"Does anyone have a key to your house?"

"No, ma'am. In my business you got to be real careful about
things like that."

"I guess so. Wait a minute—you said they
were
in with the rolls. What happened to them?"

"It's like this: I came home and was going to hunt for them,
like Zahn said you wanted me to. But first I fixed myself a sandwich
and took it and a beer to the front room. I was just sitting down
when I heard the door to the passageway open."

"The passageway?"

"You know that little door to the left of the garage door, as
you're facing the house?"

I could picture it vaguely. "Yes."

"It opens into a passageway that leads to the backyard
There're gas and electric meters in there, and a second dooi that
goes into the garage, back where my desk is."

"Okay. Go on."

"The door opened; it's never locked because the meter readers
have to get in. I went to the window and looked down, but I didn't
see anybody. So then I went to the garage, to make sure the other
door was locked. And it wasn't."