Chasing Venus (39 page)

She didn’t look.
 
She didn’t wait.
 
She dove headfirst, catapulting her body
out the open gaping space.

She didn’t get
far.
 
He’s got me
.
 
He had his
hands on her calves.
 
He was holding
on.
 
He was trying to wrench her
back in.
 
Most of her body hung
outside the window.
 
She braced her
hands against the cabin’s exterior siding, slippery from nighttime damp, and
struggled to get free.

He’s got his hands on me
.
 
She let out a guttural scream.
 
Bastard
!
 
She flailed, kicked, kicked again.
 
Damn
him!
  
She heard him grunt,
felt his hands slip.
 
Good!
 
She kicked again, harder, trying to get
higher, hoping her foot would connect with his face.
 
This
bastard’s not gonna get me!
 
Again she kicked.

Loose, she was
loose.
 
Falling.
 
She hit the ground hard, hands, arms,
shoulders, head.
 
Every part of her
stung.
 
No time for elation.
 
Up
.
 
She leaned against the cabin’s siding as
she struggled to her feet.
 
There
was dirt on her, grass, pebbles.
 
She felt dazed.
 
Move
.
 
She took an unsteady pace.
 
Another.
 
He’s
going to come after you
.
 
Another step.
 
Run
.

Where is he?
 
No
idea.
 
No sound except the
high-pitched screeching between her own ears.
 
Then … footsteps.
 
On the gravel on the front side of the
cabin.
 
He must’ve gone out the front door
.
 
He was seconds away.

Run
.
 
Away, toward the
forested hill behind the cabin.

She had to leave
everything.
 
Her cash, her carryall,
her glasses, everything.
 
Her
computer link to Reid.
 
Reid
.
 
No choice.
 
She heard footsteps on the side of the
cabin now.
 
Near.
 
Nearer.
 
Run
.
 
Her legs started moving, trying to gain
purchase on the grass and dirt slick with moisture.
 
Run
.
 
That she could do.
 
That she knew how to do.

He was behind her, she
could hear him, the pounding of his feet on the ground, his ragged
wheezing.
 
Faster.
 
Don’t look back
.
 
She felt the beginnings of the
incline.
 
Now it would get steep
fast.
 
Bad for a killer with a gut.
 
Good for her, with all those running
miles she’d logged.

What’s that?
 
Lights on the oak trees just ahead, from
something behind her, bouncing rhythmically up and down, up and down.
 
Headlights from a car?
 
Bouncing up the lane to the cabin?

Reid?
 
Oak trees
now.
 
Between two trees.
 
Hard to see.
 
A branch slapped her face, nearly caught
her up.
 
Run!
 
He was still
behind her but she thought he might be falling back.
 
Don’t
look.
 
Run
.
 
That was all she could do, whether Reid
had come back to the cabin or not.

He was on his own
now.
 
And so was she.

8:30 Sunday night.
 
Decadence Central in Sheila’s
bedroom.
 
She lay in bed wearing an
old-maid flannel nightgown, eyes glued to the TV across the room, watching one
of the many crime dramas to which she was addicted.
 
A spoon dipped regularly into the bowl
balanced on her belly, which contained chocolate fudge brownie ice cream topped
with M&Ms.
 
On those rare
occasions when she set down the spoon, it was to reach for the wineglass on the
nightstand.

The phone on said
nightstand trilled.

“Shoot.”
 
She glowered at the phone, which had the
gall to ring again.
 
She paused the
drama, forced her reluctant body upright, and lifted the receiver.
 
“Hello?”
 
She tried to sound annoyed at being
disturbed, which wasn’t difficult.

“You’re not going to
frigging believe what’s gone down here.”
 
It was her brother, sounding highly agitated.

“Rajiv, don’t be so
dramatic.
 
Just tell me what’s going
on.
 
I’m busy.”

“I didn’t know if I
should call you first, or mom and dad.
 
I figure you’re more used to this kind of shit since you deal with the
criminal element.”

“What are you babbling about?
 
Get to the point.”

“All right.
 
I’m at the cabin.
 
Fuck.”

She sat up
straighter.
 
“Watch your
language.
 
And what do you mean
you’re at the cabin?
 
You never go
there.”

“That’s not the
point.
 
The point is that some bad
shit has gone down here.
 
Somebody
broke in and trashed the place.”

“What do you mean,
trashed it?”

“I mean trashed
it.
 
The bathroom door’s bashed
in.
 
I mean, totally broken
down.
 
The window’s open, too, you
know that bathroom window nobody can open?
 
And the toilet’s got footprints on it like somebody was standing on
it.
 
I think they got out that way,
like jumped out the window.
 
I don’t
know what the fuck happened here.
 
Sorry.”

She rubbed her
forehead.
 
This was not good.

Rajiv kept
talking.
 
“I also think somebody was
living here.
 
There’s crap
everywhere, clothes lying around and dishes in the sink.
 
And the bed’s a mess.”

“But nobody’s there
now?”

“No.
 
Carrie or I didn’t see anybody when
we—”

“Wait a minute.
 
Who’s Carrie?”

Silence.

“Rajiv?”

His voice got
quiet.
 
“I got a roommate at the
apartment, remember?
 
And that’s not
always so convenient.”

“You’re not supposed to
use the cabin for hookups.
 
Since
when have you been doing that?”

“That’s beside the
point, isn’t it?”
 
He paused, then,
“By the way, I think you should be the one to tell mom and dad.”

So did she.
 
“All right, I will.”
 
But not now.
 
Later.
 
After she spoke with Reid.

But what if she
couldn’t reach him?
 
What if he had
gone up to the cabin with Annette Rowell and something terrible had happened to
him?

“What do we do
now?”
 
Rajiv was speaking
again.
 
“Call the cops?”

“No, don’t call the
cops.”
 
She threw back the
bedcovers, stood up.
 
“I’ll call
them.”
 
Maybe; maybe not.
 
“I’m coming up there.”

“What?
 
Why?
 
I can handle it.”

“I don’t doubt that,”
she lied, “but I want to get an idea how bad it is before I call mom and
dad.
 
Plus I deal with cops all the
time.
 
I’ll know better what to say
to them.”

“What am I supposed to
do in the meantime?”

“Nothing.
 
Just stay there and wait for me.”
 
She picked up the TV remote and punched
the power button.
 
It was amazing
how in the last few weeks her favorite crime dramas weren’t nearly as dramatic
as her own sorry life.
 
“I’ll drive as
fast as I can.”

“It’ll take forever.”

“Live with it.
 
I’ll be there.”
 
She hung up.
 
Within three minutes she was dressed;
within five she was backing her Jetta out of the carport and speed-dialing
Reid’s cell.

“Hey, Sheila,” he
answered.

Her heart did a
tumble.
 
He was okay.
 
“Where are you?” she asked.

“Home.
 
Why?”

“Were you at the cabin
earlier?”

“I just got back a
little while ago.”
 
He paused, then,
“Why are you asking?”

“Something
happened.”
 
She gave him the
details.

“What about Annie?
 
Did Rajiv see Annie?”

Sheila stomped on the
accelerator.
 
Annie.
 
Always Annie.
 
Annie the Innocent.
 
Annie the Victim.
 
“He told me he didn’t see anybody.”

“Then where is she?”

“You’re asking me?
 
How am I supposed to know?”

“Sheila, don’t you get
it?”
 
His voice rose.
 
“Something happened to her.
 
After I left.
 
Dammit!”

“Listen, Reid, I have
had just about enough of Annette Rowell.”
 
Sheila hightailed it through a just-turning-red light.
 
“I am in serious trouble here.
 
What if the cops find out about
this?
 
What if Simpson finds
out?
 
My parents own that
cabin.
 
And a wanted fugitive was
hiding out there?
 
How am I supposed
to explain that?”

“Don’t call the
cops.
 
Then they won’t find out and
you won’t have to explain.”

Sheila slammed her palm
against the hearing wheel.
 
Those
were his top two solutions these days.
 
Lying and covering up.

“I’m going up there,”
he said.
 
“Don’t do anything until
we talk again.”
 
He hung up.

*

Action.
 
Finally, after nearly 24 hours on this
surveillance assignment, Sam Trotter was getting some action.

From the driver’s seat
of his GM sedan, parallel-parked half a block from his target’s Glendale home,
he watched Reid Gardner’s black Ford pickup back out of his garage, then his
driveway.
 
The garage door slid shut
and the truck pivoted on the street to face away from Sam.
 
It headed off at a sedate pace.
 
Sam waited a few beats, turned the key
in his own ignition, and once Gardner’s truck hung the first right, edged out
of his space to follow.

He glanced at the
digital clock on the dash.
 
8:42
PM.
 
Sunday nights were usually a
lot less exciting than Saturday nights in this business, but in this case it
was impossible to be more dull.
 
Gardner had been AWOL the prior night and Sam had been stuck watching a
darkened suburban home with no occupant.
 
But that didn’t mean he could stop watching.
 
For—in the surveillance business
as in war—anything could happen at any time.
 
Alertness was key.

Sam tailed the truck
easily as it navigated the one mile to the Ventura freeway, then rolled up an
on-ramp heading east.
 
The traffic
flow on the four wide lanes was Sunday night lite.
 
Initially Sam was surprised when Gardner
stayed in the slow lane, on the extreme right, then figured he intended to exit
quickly.
 
They passed through the 2
interchange.
 
Another half mile went
by.
 
Still Gardner stayed on the
right, driving at the speed limit, something Sam never did except under duress.

He maintained his
distance when Gardner exited the freeway shortly after the interchange with the
210.
 
Now they were in Pasadena,
home of the Huntington Library, Cal Tech, and the Rose Bowl, and altogether a
more upscale community than Glendale.
 
The Ford pickup made its way to the Old Town area, a commercial district
loaded with gentrified redbrick buildings housing boutiques and
restaurants.
 
Sam hung back as
Gardner slid into a short valet parking line for a high-end Thai restaurant
that looked to be hopping.
 
Sam
joined the valet line, too, but pulled out after Gardner stepped out of his
truck, handed his keys to the valet, and shouldered his way into the restaurant
with the rest of the hungry mob.

Time to park,
again.
 
Time to watch the front
door.