Crosscut (40 page)

“Yes.”

She would. She had to. Un-Valerie began making its way across the final twenty yards of the slope, picking its way cautiously among the loose rocks. Abbie stretched her arm, and stretched again. The grenade was solid green, lying on the sand an inch beyond her fingertips. She breathed in, hearing that sucking sound from her chest, and shoved herself at it. She grasped it in her hand and dragged it back to her side. Feeling how heavy it was, and how weak her arm was, she had no doubt.

“I can’t throw it.”

“I know.”

She closed her eyes.

Tommy’s voice was weak but pure with meaning. “You have to time it absolutely right. Pull the pin and let go of the striker lever.”

Opening her eyes, she stared at the sky. “How long once I let go?”

“Three, four seconds.”

Un-Valerie reached the dry bank above the sandy creek bed. Its face was greedy and almost luminous with longing.

Abbie weighed the grenade in her hand, making the final calculation. She felt its potential energy. She heard Un-Valerie jump down into the creek bed and footsteps scuffing across the sand toward the van.

“Get ready,” she said.

 
Brinkley stopped the cruiser, unbuckled, and climbed out with his hand on his sidearm. Dad leaped from the backseat.

“Get behind the car and stay down, Evan.”

I threw open my door. Dad leveled the shotgun and advanced toward the lip of the ravine.

 
Abbie held the grenade in her good hand, clasping the striker lever as best she could. She slopped her bad arm into the van, finding Tommy’s shoulder. She let it rest there, feeling his chest labor up and down. A second later he dropped his own broken arm on top of hers.

“Now,” he said.

Wally, I love you
. She put the ring of the pin between her teeth.
Dulcie, Travis, Hayley. My world
.

Coyote stepped into sight behind the van, the blade in her hand flashing with sunlight. Abbie pulled the pin.

I ran around the patrol car, shotgun aimed at the sky. Ahead of me Dad and Brinkley charged toward the lip of the ravine.

The explosion roared out of the gorge, echoing off the hills and bridge and rocks around us. Dad dropped to one knee, aiming the gun. Black smoke threaded up from below.

I heard flames crackling. The smoke boiled thicker. I brought the barrel of the shotgun level with the ground and ran at the edge of the ravine.

Dad jumped up and grabbed me around the waist. “No.”

The echoes dimmed. The smoke thickened and a chill ran through my marrow. I strained against him, trying to get to the edge and see down to the bottom.

“Abbie,” I yelled. “Tommy.”

Dad clutched me tight and lifted me off my feet and hauled me back from the edge.

“Don’t look.”

“Abbie
.” I kicked in his arms, throwing my head back, knowing and refusing to know. “Let me go. They’re down there.”

“No, Kit.” His voice was broken against my cheek. “They’re gone.”

 
The flashing lights were garish. The area near the bridge crackled with China Lake patrol cars, Kern County sheriff’s cruisers, a shore patrol Jeep, county fire trucks, and a search and rescue team that had nobody to rescue, only remains to recover. Under the hot wind I sat in the back of Officer Brinkley’s cruiser. Outside, Dad drank coffee from a thermos that Captain McCracken had wangled from one of the firefighters.

McCracken was grave and pale. He spoke in undertones to Dad, trying to shield me from the information that was gradually coming in. Dr. Tully Cantwell had been crushed by a freight train. Antonia Shepard-Cantwell lay murdered in their home. Valerie Skinner and her mother were both dead from knife wounds at the house on Jimmy’s Ranch Road.

“The Skinners,” Dad said. “Nobody knew they were missing?”

“Mrs. Skinner worked two weeks on, two off, at the motel. She was off this past week so nobody suspected. Sounds like she was a bit of a loner. And Valerie”—McCracken glanced in my direction—“told her coworkers at the Vons down in Canoga Park she was taking a week off and going to her high school reunion. Nobody had a reason to think she was missing.”

Dad shook his head. “No husband, no friends . . .”

“Apparently not.” His weight seemed to hang heavily on him. “She lived alone. Not even pets.”

There was a flurry of movement at the edge of the ravine by the bridge abutment. The search and rescue team was winching up the basket holding the first body.

When I got out of the cruiser, Dad put an arm around my shoulder and we trudged over. For now, at least, I had laid down my anger at him. The cops and paramedics and shore patrol officers fell quiet. Almost as though we’d rehearsed, we wandered ourselves into a row, standing sentinel.

The sun was so sharp above the Sierras, about to drop and touch the high peaks, that I felt pain behind my eyes. And I had to turn my head away for a moment when they hauled the rescue basket over the slope onto sandy ground. The black bag was thick and shiny, aggressively zipped and strapped into the basket. I pressed my face to Dad’s chest. The search and rescue team handed duty over to the EMTs, who lifted the bag onto a gurney and rolled it toward the back of an ambulance.

“Do they,” I began, and had to clear my throat. “Do they know who?”

McCracken was close by, his jowls sagging. “Tommy.”

I watched them load it in the ambulance, wishing for words to offer, some consolation or farewell. But faced with that black shroud, the finality, the absence, the barrier, was absolute.

Over my shoulder I heard one of the rescue crew say, “The next one’s on her way up.”

There’s no way you can watch your oldest friend dragged dead up a hill in a body bag. I closed my eyes and listened until I heard the gurney roll into the back of the ambulance. Dad gently turned me toward the patrol car.

“No.” I tugged him with me toward the ambulance.

“Kit, honey, don’t put yourself through this.”

“Tommy and Abbie shouldn’t be alone.” I glanced at the EMT. “Is this . . .”

McCracken approached. “They’re sure it’s Mrs. Hankins.”

I nodded, standing there blankly trying to offer some witness, a moment of worthiness, something besides silent helpless grief.

Officer Brinkley came up to McCracken, accompanied by a firefighter. “That’s it. They lifted the vehicle. There’s nobody else.”

It was confirmation, not news. For the past two hours the cops had been talking about two DBs. Two dead bodies, not three. They’d found a trail of blood leading away from the van up the dry creek. Footprints showed that a person had climbed out of the ravine half a mile upcreek, out of sight of the bridge. But this, the verification that Coyote had not died with Abbie and Tommy, drilled home our unmitigated failure. It was the worst outcome possible.

Brinkley shifted, gun belt creaking. “Fire captain served a hitch in the marines. He’s seen scenes like this before. He says it looks like the vic, the woman, she may have been the one who blew the grenade.”

McCracken looked up sharply. “What?”

“Maybe attempting to kill Coyote when she got close enough.”

I turned back to the ambulance and, with every reverence I could muster, I touched my fingertips to the black plastic of the body bag.

My eyes were dry. My voice came back to me. “This isn’t the end. I swear it to you, Abbie.”

I walked away, calling to Dad, “Let’s go.”

 
McCracken dropped us at the hotel. When Dad opened the door into the lobby, I saw Mom hurrying toward me, arms out. I fell into her embrace. The desk clerk stared, riveted, until Mom gave him a glare. I felt numb and aware that this wouldn’t last, that the weight and darkness would arrive soon. But for the moment I laid my head on her shoulder and knew that she was holding me up.

She spoke softly to Dad, touching his hand. He told her he’d be along in a second. Pulling some change from his pocket, he went back outside to get a cold drink from the vending machine.

She led me across the lobby. “Nothing for it now but to pray.”

“I can’t.”

“Not for them, Ev. Your friends, what they did out there, the courage it took ...” She clutched my shoulder. “They’re already home. There’s no pain, only welcome. Pray for Wally and for all the kids.”

I nodded.

“Miss?” The desk clerk was leaning across the counter, holding out message slips. “These came for you.”

I glanced at them. They all said,
From Jessie
.

Outside, tires squealed. Mom and I turned and saw a beige car pull up next to the vending machine. The door swung open. Out jumped federal agent Pepa. Salt was behind the wheel.

“Uh-oh,” Mom said.

I froze. “They’re feds.”

I felt a real need to run. Pulling Mom’s arm, I backed across the lobby, wondering if we could get out the other side before they came through the door.

Outside, Pepa walked up to my father and put a hand on his elbow. He stuck him with a flat stare and words I couldn’t hear. Dad stiffened. Salt jumped from the car, came around, and took Dad’s other arm. They led him to the car and shoved him into the backseat.

Mom and I ran outside.

The agents hopped in the car and pulled out. Dad turned, looking out the back window. The resignation in his eyes was utterly unfamiliar. But he wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at Mom. They shared a connection that said,
Long time coming, but it’s finally here.

Mom dropped the phone back onto its cradle. “He’s on the base.”

“Why’d those goons take him out there? He’s not in the navy anymore.” I paced in the hotel room. “And why won’t you tell me who you were talking to?”

“The men who grabbed him—who do you think they were?”

“CIA? FDA? Mormons?”

“Naval intelligence.”

It should have set me burning with curiosity and anger, but all I felt was a quiet click at the base of my brain.

“Why’d they grab him?”

“They’re undoubtedly investigators.”

“What do they think he has to do with Coyote?”

“Evan, they’ve never been after Coyote. They’ve always been keeping an eye on your dad.”

“Why?”

“Best guess, they keep watch on cleared personnel who’ve raised a red flag. Like Phil did, running around asking everybody questions about South Star.”

“And now they’ve arrested him?”

She looked at the phone. “No, they haven’t. But black projects are supposed to stay black, and he was shining a bright light on this one.”

“So if he’s not under arrest, then what?”

“They’re questioning him. They’re going to hold him on base for twelve hours.”

“Shit.”

I rubbed my forehead, staring at the message slips the clerk had handed me. They left the taste of anxiety in my mouth.

“These types like to show off. But they’re also exceptionally serious about their job.” Her eyes were knowing. “And they may actually think they’re doing him a favor, getting him out of trouble with the China Lake cops over this matter of a hijacked police car.”

That left me feeling cold. “How do you know so much? If you tell me you’re a spook, I will . . .”

“You don’t think a stew could be a spy?” She crossed her arms.

“No, Mom, that’s not what I mean.”

“For your dad to get his security clearance, they effectively had to clear me as well. Let’s just say that if I ever want a job with the NSA, I’m set.”

“And you’re not going to tell me who you spoke to just now?”

“No.”

She put her hand on mine, trying to lessen the sharpness of the response, and frowned. “You’re cold.”

And when I held out my hands, my fingers trembled. “I’m scared for Dad.”

And I was off balance about the messages from Jesse. I stared at them as though trying to decipher runes.
Call. Urgent. Vital
. But I couldn’t find him. Sanchez Marks said he’d taken a personal day, and he didn’t answer at home or on his cell.

Mom patted my hand. “How about a club sandwich?”

I nodded and she ordered room service. I changed out of my suit into jeans and, feeling grubby, went to the bathroom and rinsed the dust from my face. I heard my phone ring. When I walked out of the bathroom Mom handed it to me.

“Lavonne Marks,” she said.

She was Jesse’s boss. “Lavonne?”

“Where is he?”

“What’s wrong?”

“If that’s a feint, I’m not having it. Put him on the line.”

“I don’t know where he is. I’ve been getting alarming messages from him.”

“I’ll bet. I just received a call from the Los Angeles Police Department. They say Jesse trashed an apartment in Hollywood, and ran before they arrived. It was a murder scene. They’ve issued a warrant for his arrest.”

Light-headed, I sat down on the bed. “That’s . . . no. That’s wrong. I—”

“Moreover, the blockhead actually left his business card with the building super, so the LAPD knew exactly who he is and how to hound my keister. Find him. Tell him this is no laughing matter. Not only could he lose his job and his law license, he could go to jail.”

I hung up, blank with fear, and the room phone rang. Mom got it. Alarm crossed her face and she turned on the TV. I took the phone from her.

“You watching the news?” said Captain McCracken. “Here I walk in the station and find a message from your fella, wanting to give me evidence about Coyote. Very worried, very good-citizen. Only problem, he contaminated a crime scene and the LAPD thinks he’s in on a murder.”

I put my head between my knees.

“His prints are all over Coyote’s apartment. So LAPD’s wondering how that partial of Coyote’s they lifted from Jesse’s shirt a few days ago actually came to be there,” he said. “And by the way, Coyote’s prints from the apartment match Robin Klijsters’s. Only the name that popped up for the LAPD was Kaija Torrance. There’s your gal.”