Blessed are the Meek (25 page)

 

Chapter 57

M
Y ORANGE BEATER
starts to sputter as I cross the Golden Gate Bridge. It's already been thirty minutes since I spoke to Annalisa.

“Please don't die on the bridge,” I pat the dashboard. “Come on, baby, you only have to make it across to the other side. You can do it.”

I have been running through all the old military installations in my head, trying to determine which one Emerson would pick. Where would be the easiest place to get away with murder? Not Fort Cronkhite or Fort Barry, too touristy. It must be Wolf Ridge. I remember my uncle took my cousins and me there one summer. It's the least accessible area in the Marin Headlands. You have to park and hike to the ridge. On a day like today, where the fog is seeping in across the Bay, you won't be able to see anything up there unless you're at the top yourself, some eight hundred feet above the breaking surf below. And a lot of ­people won't be out in today's cold wind and fog.

When I was ten, and my uncle took me to Wolf Ridge, I thought it was cool but creepy. Giant cement platforms dozens of feet in the air were once home to target-­tracking radar systems. Old Cold War bunkers were dug into the hillsides, with their rectangular openings slanted like big, black, gaping mouths. Some bunkers had collapsed into caved-­in piles of timber and dirt. My older cousin, Sal, had dared me to go inside one. I got as far as the first few steps inside, then I came out at a run. It reminded me of a basement.

That's it. Wolf Ridge. It has to be. I dial Donovan's number again and get his voice mail.

“Donovan, I think Emerson is going to kill Annalisa. You have to send some help. I'm heading to Wolf Ridge. I'm pretty sure that's where she's meeting him. Please, please hurry.”

I hang up. Last time I was going after a killer, I didn't call Donovan. This time, I want him and need him here, and yet, he's not picking up his phone.

I dial 911 again. This time I get through.

“There's going to be a murder at Wolf Ridge. I need officers there right away. If you think I'm a nut job, contact San Francisco Police Detective Jack Sullivan and tell him Gabriella Giovanni said there's going to be a murder at Wolf Ridge! Tell him it's about Mark Emerson!” I hang up. I know I sound crazy, but I think that by dropping Sullivan's name, they will take me more seriously, and maybe the message will get to him. And he won't be able to resist. He'll show. He might get here faster than Donovan. I have a gun, but I know I need more than that. I need cops here to help me. When I went after Jack Dean Johnson, I thought I could do it on my own. That was a mistake. This time, I know I need help. But if I wait for the cops to get here first, it's going to be too late for Annalisa. I can't wait and take that chance. I don't like her, but I don't want her death on my conscience, either.

On my way to Wolf Ridge, also known as Hill 88, I slow near the path leading to Hawk Hill. I doubt this is the meeting spot, since it tends to be more popular with tourists, naturalists, and bird-­watchers. I look for Annalisa's car in the line of cars parked on the side of the road before the tunnel to the lookout point. There are only about a dozen cars. In a few months, the trail of cars will stretch all the way down the hillside because each fall, bird-­watchers come to see tens of thousands of hawks, falcons, eagles, and vultures fly by this area of the Headlands, following warm thermal winds directly through the area.

I continue on. As I round the corner, at the base of Fort Cronkhite, Annalisa's gleaming Ferrari emerges through the fog, which has grown thicker with each turn. It's the only car parked here. If Emerson's here, he must have walked.

I park, tuck my gun into the big front pocket of my thick sweatshirt, and grab my backpack out of my trunk. I'm going to need the flashlight inside it. I peek into the Ferrari's windows and spot a tube of lipstick on the floorboard. I touch the hood. It's still slightly warm. Good. Maybe I can get to her before Mark Emerson arrives.

The fog prevents me from seeing anything very far ahead. I scramble upward, glad I wore my sneakers. The path to Hill 88, once a paved road, is washed out in places where landslides ripped out huge chunks of concrete and sent them plunging into the rocky surf below. My limited visibility in the fog reveals hillsides of damp, droopy wildflowers that scent the air when the wind blows. The path is dotted with wooden staircases and chaparral-­torn pavement.

At the top of Hill 88, a crumbling guard shack greets me. The antiaircraft pallets rise in the fog like ghostly specters some twenty feet in the air.

The only sound is the distant clanging of a fog bell far below me. Occasionally, the mist parts, giving me glimpses of a building not far away. I creep closer, listening for any sounds while trying not to make any noise myself. At the entrance to the building, I stand to one side of the door and draw my gun before peering inside. Nothing but broken timbers and walls covered with colorful graffiti.

A scream breaks the eerie silence. Oh no. Emerson's already here somehow. The scream came from somewhere to my right. I run, following a steep path leading down a hillside. The fog lifts a bit and reveals a gaping black entrance to a bunker. I stop, panting. My heart races with fear. I can't go inside. Not underground. I hear more screaming and shouting.

I take a big breath and, heart pounding, pause by the entrance. I rummage around and dig my Maglight out of the backpack, turning it on. My hand is shaking as I point it at the big, black, yawning hole in front of me. I close my eyes and steel myself to enter. I put one foot inside and pause.

I can't. My fingers clutch the edges of the door, fingernails biting into the old rotten wood. My vision starts to narrow. I can't get enough air into my lungs.

She's going to die if I don't do something. Maybe Donovan got my message and is on the way. Sullivan should be sending his troops. Maybe I can lure Mark and Annalisa out of this bunker. Maybe not.

Another scream pierces the silence.

As much as I wish I could, I can't wait around for somebody else to rescue Annalisa. I throw my backpack on the ground at the entrance. I hope it will be a sign I'm inside to anyone else who arrives—­Donovan or Sullivan or other cops. A small flight of worn, stone steps lie before me. I press my back against the wall, and, as if my foot is leaden, I force myself to take a step.

Just one step
. Okay, now I'm just inside the entryway. Half of my body is shrouded in darkness—­the other half remains in the dim fog. Already, I can feel the chill of underground—­the difference between above earth and below. My nostrils can smell the damp, musty, earthy smell of the bunker, which has never seen the light of day or had sunshine pour down and warm it. I close my eyes for a moment and try to concentrate on my breathing. In and out. Just like Marsha taught me. Calm your fears and anxieties through deep breathing. I know it works, but why is it so hard to do?

In and out. In and out. I hear a small whimper. Annalisa. He has her.

No more breathing exercises. I don't have time for this nonsense. The gun is heavy in my front pouch. The weight is reassuring. I slide down the next step, one hand on the flashlight, which I click off. I don't want whoever is down there to see me coming. My other hand gropes the slick, slimy wall, which gives me zero traction. The steps are slippery under my feet, as well. I take a step and land on my butt with a thud.

Another whimper and what sounds like ghostly whispering. A chill spreads across my scalp as an eerie wailing sound pierces the stillness. I freeze, eyes widening in the growing darkness. I crouch against one wall, pressing my back against the wet slime. The sound starts up again, this time accompanied by an icy breeze. The tension whooshes out of my limbs. But it's just the wind. It's whistling through cracks in the bunker. For a second, it is silent, then whimpering and that creepy whispering sound again.

I remember Marsha's telling me to try to stifle my fears and anxieties with rational self-­talk.
This is not your childhood basement. Your dad is not dead down there
. . .
but if you don't get your shit together, there
will
be a dead body below!

My teeth are chattering. I can't tell if it is because of the cold or my fear. My back scrapes along the wall as I stand, legs shaking. I'm starting to imagine seeing things in the dark. As my eyes adjust, I see a glow at the bottom of the stairs. I turn and look at the entrance to the stairway. It's only a few feet away, but it is as if the bunker is a black hole, and the light seems a mile away. I feel the dark closing in on me. I can't stand it any longer.

I click the flashlight back on, keeping my other hand cupped over the end so only the smallest beam of light is at my feet. I peer down into the darkness. How far do these steps go? I slowly make my way down the steps, with my back scrunching along the wall. A few steps more, I accidentally dislodge a rock that noisily tumbles down the stairs.

A wave of anxiety flattens me. I feel weak, as if my knees are going to give out. I press my back hard against the slippery wall and close my eyes, trying to calm my breathing and my heart, which is thumping loudly in my ears. After a few seconds, I open my eyes, and it seems as if the dark stairway has grown lighter. The pounding in my ears has subsided, and now I hear other sounds.

More whispering and what sounds like scuffling. I click my flashlight off and freeze, holding my breath, waiting for something or someone to come rushing up the stairs. Nothing happens. No sound. My breath returns to normal. I tuck the flashlight in my pocket slowly and my fingers wrap around the cold metal of the gun as I draw it out.

In the dark silence, another small whimper. My arm holding the gun is pointing toward the bottom of the stairs, with my finger on the trigger. The click of the safety coming off echoes in the silence.

“Sean! Don't shoot! Please. He's holding me in front of him.” Annalisa's frantic voice sends chills through me. They think I'm Donovan. Good. Maybe that will scare Emerson into letting her go.

Annalisa says something else, but it's muffled, as if Emerson is holding his hand over her mouth. A sudden, deafening blast drops me to my knees. I scream.

Mary Mother of God! He fired at me. He thinks I'm Donovan. Clumps of dirt and dust rain down on my head, dislodged by the shot. I sprawl on the step, with my cheek on the cold stone. My heart is in my throat, thumping madly. I press myself as flat as I can, with my knees curled in front of me. I hold the gun down, toward the bottom of the stairs. I'm waiting and listening, but the echo of the gunshot has made my ears ring. The only sound is the eerie wailing of the wind whistling through the bunker again and what sounds like more whispering.

“Don't shoot,” I say, my voice echoing down the stairwell. “It's Gabriella. I'm not here to hurt you or arrest you, Mark. I just want to get Annalisa and go home. The cops are on their way. They aren't here yet. You still have a chance to turn this around, Mark. You can still get away. But you have to leave now. If you stay down there, you'll be trapped. Send Annalisa up. We'll leave. You can get away.”

I wait, straining my ears to hear his answer. But the whispering has stopped. Then, a sound—­something else. At first I question whether I'm imagining it, but after a few seconds, I'm certain. Somebody is creeping down the stairs above me. My eyes have adjusted slightly, but as I squint toward the opening, it is still too dark to make out any shapes.

“Donovan?” I say, barely above a whisper.

Bang. Another blast. This time a jagged chunk of concrete hits me in the shoulder. I try not to scream from the pain.

“Game over, Emerson.”

It
is
Donovan. His voice sounds firm and confident. Relief rushes through me. “Send Gabriella and Annalisa up, and you'll get out of here alive.”

“Fuck you, rookie!” It's hard to believe how much venom Emerson can put into three short words. I can almost hear the spittle flying out of his mouth. I clutch my gun, finger poised near the trigger.

More scuffling, but my ears are ringing from the echoes of gunfire in the stairway. I can't tell which direction the sounds are coming from. I feel cold metal against my neck and whispering in my ear. “Don't say a word. Down the stairs.”

Emerson.

I make a move to shove my gun into his stomach, but before I can, he head butts me. I see bright shards of light zigzag across my closed eyelids. My gun clatters down the stairs as my hand goes limp, and I collapse in a heap. In my dazed state, Emerson yanks me downward by one arm, nearly tearing it out of its socket. I painfully clump down the stairs until I land with a thud at the dirt bottom.

For a second, I'm free, and I scramble to my feet before a claw like grip clamps down on my arm.

“Not so fast.” He shoves me. I crash into a warm body. “Annalisa?”

I'm answered by muffled sobbing.

A bright light is shining in my eyes. I blink, unable to see beyond it. Annalisa is crouched in the dirt beside me. A dirty rag is covering her mouth. Her eyes are wild with fright. A small, purplish bruise is forming around one eye, and her cheek looks like it has a rash on it. I reach out and tug the gag out of her mouth.

Emerson sees me and kicks me in the thigh. “Annalisa, here's your prize. Have at her.”

Annalisa gives him an incredulous look, eyes wide.

“¡Te voy a matar! ¡Pudrete en el infierno!
” My Spanish is rusty, but I'm pretty sure she just told him to eat shit and die—­or something along those lines.

“I did it all for you,” he says, giving her a flirty smile.

Annalisa watches him in horror, with a hand pressed against her mouth and her eyes wide.

“Everything has been for you.” His eyes are glassy. The deadness suddenly gone. “You never had to bring those tapes. You never had to try to get money from me. Don't you understand? Everything, everything I have is yours. I give you everything willingly. I will treat you like a princess. Don't fight me, my love.