Incriminated (4 page)

Underneath the bend in Mulholland Highway, the firm dirt of the slope gave way to gravel. Paolo began to slide. Arms stretched out for balance, he half fell, half scrambled down the side of the hill. By the time he reached the bottom of the gully he was covered in dust, palms grazed, mouth dry from the parched earth. He looked up. The road where he'd left Meredith was about twenty yards above him. It was still light enough to see without a flashlight. Anyone who stopped by her body would only have to throw a casual glance in his direction to spot him. About fifty yards away was the edge of a pine grove. It was the nearest cover.

Paolo turned and sprinted hard toward the pines. Behind him, he heard a car speed right past the spot where Meredith had fallen. Some people were soulless dirtbags. But for once, that was working in his favor. He kept his eyes down. The ground was full of rocky obstacles. Every yard brought hazards. This was hiking country, not a running track. But he couldn't slow down.

Thirty yards to go. Twenty. The sound of a car slowing down. Noises amplified by the dry terrain. If they stopped their engine they might even hear his footsteps.

Ten yards, five. On the road behind him, a car door opened.

Paolo dashed behind the thick trunk of a pine. He pressed up against it, tight to the bark. His chest rose and fell, burning. He spat dusty saliva, picturing the scene on the road above.

He'd left the BMW's driver's-side door open. Meredith's body was on the ground about ten yards along the road. To anyone who stopped, it would look like she'd been alone. Tests would show that she was drunk. A drunk-driving accident.

My fingerprints are all over the steering wheel.

But what would even make them think Meredith wasn't driving?

Paolo raised his hands in front of his face. They were shaking. He interlaced his fingers as though in prayer, breathing in through his nose. He exhaled slowly. Apart from his fingerprints, there was no sign he was ever in that car. No reason to suspect she wasn't alone.

His heart thudded against his ribs. He could feel blood draining from his head. Panic rising from nowhere, threatening to engulf him.

Think. Be still, and think.

He closed his eyes and thought of
deuce
. Match point to the opponent on deuce, his own second serve. Blow this
and you blow everything. Be calm. Becalmed, like a sailboat. There's no wind. The sea is like a mirror. This boat is going nowhere.
Breathe
. Pull back your racket and serve.

Paolo's eyes opened. The sounds from the road carried with absolute clarity across to where he stood hidden. At least two cars had stopped now. Raised voices. Phone calls were being made.

There's no sign I was ever in that car.

He clung to this thought as he began to navigate through the trees. Every step took him farther into the wilderness. Roads and hiking trails twisted across these hillsides every which way. He'd be sure to run across one, eventually. And then what?

Clumsy, ambling movements eventually became a regular strolling pace as Paolo adjusted to the minimal light. In the east of the sky, a pale, greenish tinge hinted at the approach of the full moon. He wasn't wearing a watch, as usual, and so he checked the time on his cell phone. It was a little after 9:40. He pocketed his phone again and peered into the gloom of the gulley into which he'd stumbled. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. The ground was dry and cracked beneath his feet. Dry scrubby grasses lined the route. Somewhere to his left, Paolo heard the trickle of water. The vaguely clear path that he was following veered in that direction. The grasses closed in, until Paolo had to brush them aside as he walked.

It struck him then that terrain like this might house rattlesnakes. Paolo stopped and made his way back to a cluster
of trees that he'd passed minutes ago and began, carefully, to examine the ground for any kind of stick. He found a twig no longer than his forearm and he used that to scratch around for another, longer specimen. It took longer than he'd hoped, with the dim light challenging his eyesight. His senses became more alert in the quiet, magnifying every tiny noise, and made him jolt to attention. Eventually, he found a stick, about a thumb thick and a yard and a half in length.

Making his way back along the trail, Paolo swept the staff before him, clearing the path, just in case any snakes were dumb or sleepy enough not to scoot out of the way at the sound of his footsteps. The sound of water became stronger, but never reached more than a healthy gurgle. If this was a river, then it was mostly dry, like many rivers in the California desert.

For the first time since he'd left Meredith, Paolo allowed himself to relax, just slightly. It couldn't take more than an hour or so in any direction to happen across one of the crisscrossing roads. The whole area was a national park, so there would have to be some kind of visitor parking lot, eventually. He wasn't exactly lost, but he still needed to find a way home.

Paolo felt for his cell phone and then stopped. The cops could trace cell phones, if they're used. If they were scanning for calls, hunting for the hit-and-run driver, they might use the GPS on his phone to place him at the crime scene. They might connect Paolo to the accident. They might
even find the hit-and-run driver—who would tell the cops that Meredith wasn't the driver.

The parking lot at the country club. Paolo's breath caught in his throat as he struggled to remember. Were there security cameras? He was pretty sure there were. If he'd been recorded getting into her silver BMW, then it was all over. He'd have to make some kind of excuse—say that Meredith gave him a ride somewhere, dropped him off.

But why would he need a ride if his car was right there?

Paolo could feel desperation swelling his chest. He needed to do something about his car. But how? If only he could call someone. John-Michael would help him. John-Michael kind of owed him for going halfway to San Francisco to pick his ass up after he totaled his Benz. Not to mention that like everyone else in the house, Paolo was keeping quiet about the fact that John-Michael had driven it, quite intentionally, off the coastal highway.

He urgently needed to call John-Michael. But Paolo couldn't risk using his phone.

The trees grew more densely as the slope began to rise. Paolo's progress slowed. He paused to get his bearings. Mulholland Highway was still right behind him. He was about one hundred yards away now. Still no sign of a trail. He pressed on. There was barely enough light to see by. The crickets creaked loudly in the undergrowth. It was the worst time of day for snakes. They'd be coming out now, slithering across his path. The best strategy was to make as much noise as possible to scare them away. But Paolo
wasn't sure if he dared to make loud, human sounds. All it would take was for one person on the accident scene to wonder if there had been someone else in the car and the police might come looking for him.

Who's gonna tell? Not me
.

The hit-and-run driver wasn't likely to come forward, either. Paolo felt a queasy sensation as he realized—he and Meredith's killer were now in this together. If one of them were to come forward, it would immediately trigger a hunt for the other.

It was a pretty solid bet that the driver wouldn't be the one to come forward. But what if the guy got a sudden attack of conscience? Or realized that he might get caught and decided not to risk getting charged with a more serious crime, like trying to get away with it?

There could be no relaxing about this. Paolo had to do everything in his power to avoid being linked to Meredith's death.

To his left, Paolo could hear the nearby creek trickling, an anemic sound compared to the heartier gurgle higher up the gulley. From over the rolling peaks in the east, a dazzle of moonlight now lit up a whole sector of sky. He looked up hopefully. Maybe soon he'd have enough light to be able to see a road. He was pretty sure he'd spotted the occasional red taillights streaking past, a long way ahead. Paolo stepped out with confidence, determined and optimistic.

His footstep landed on the sandy ground but didn't rebound. Instead, it sank farther, broke the apparently dry
surface, and gave way beneath him. The momentum of his walk carried his second foot inexorably into the same position. Both his feet were immobilized, one just below the surface, the foot completely submerged. Paolo felt panic clutch at his chest. He cried out. Terror swept through him as he struggled to understand what was happening. It only took him a few seconds to figure it out, yet those seconds passed slowly, vague thoughts infiltrating his mind.

I'm stuck. I'm stuck in quicksand.

Moments after he'd felt that first foot slump underneath him, Paolo began to realize that he was sinking deeper. He pulled hard at each foot, twisting this way and that. With every movement he sank a little more. Now he was submerged to the knees. The deeper he went, the more he panicked. The dual sensations of being trapped and of sinking were simply overwhelming. Any minute now he'd be in up to his waist. Then he'd have no hope, none whatsoever. The slowness of it all only added to the horror. It was like witnessing his own demise in slow motion.

With a flash of good sense, Paolo reached into his pants pocket for his phone and transferred it to the slim, tight pocket of his polo shirt. His right hand then dropped to the surface of the quicksand, which was dry and crumbly. He stared hard at the area around him. The surface of the gloopy mud gave absolutely no indication of what lay beneath. Experimentally, he stuck three fingers into the quicksand and quickly pulled them out. They were coated in thick mud the consistency of whipped heavy cream.

The mud now reached the top of his thighs. Paolo looked around. There was nothing for him to do but yell for help. Even that wasn't likely to bring anyone. And if he were found, how would they even get him out? He might be stuck for days.

I might be on the point of death by then.

Paramedics would be involved, the cops, too, most likely. Questions would follow. Where had he come from, what was he doing here?

It dawned on Paolo with a burst of clarity—the only way out was to get someone to come for him. He'd have to contact John-Michael. Even if it meant risking the phone.

For the next few minutes, in the darkness and silence, Paolo weighed the risks. Dying of dehydration under the California sun. Immediate exposure to the cops, with questions sure to follow about Meredith. The phone was a far lesser risk, he could see that. Yet, who really knew what they could tell from cell phone data? Paranoid libertarian types were always bleating about how the NSA could figure out what you had for breakfast from your data trail, but how much of that was grade-A wingnut nonsense, and how much was true?

Paolo faced up then to the fact that he really didn't know. But if he wanted to stay out of prison, he probably shouldn't use his phone.

Which left only one option. He had to accept that no one would come to help him. Paolo had to get out of the quicksand, alone.

Paolo swung both arms around, trying to find anything he could grab on to. There was nothing. His stick was partly submerged, poking out from the dry surface. Paolo pulled it out and wiped off the mud that coated the top ten inches. He tried swinging it around, hoping to catch on to something in the nearby undergrowth that might be rooted deep enough to hold him. But whatever he did manage to hook with the stick came out of the ground at the slightest tug.

He stopped swinging. The movement had taken him down even farther. Now the mud reached his belly. Paolo's breath became ragged. He could hear the blood rushing to his head.

I'm not gonna die. Worst-case scenario is prison. Absolute worst.

The idea of prison was terrifying. Paolo had some idea what prison would do to a good-looking guy like him, someone with zero connections in the criminal world.

He simply could not allow that to happen.

“I'm getting out of here,” he said aloud. A little louder,
he added, “I'm not going to prison. No one is ever going to find out about Meredith. Everything is going to be fine.”

For a few minutes, determination pulsed through him. He lay the stick down ahead of him, across the surface of the sand. It didn't break the crumbly layer at the top.

The surface. I have to spread my weight.

Bending himself over at the waist, Paolo positioned the stick just below his chest, perpendicular to his body. With both hands, he grabbed the ends of the stick, which was about a yard and a half across. His torso fell across the surface of the quicksand, broke it in places. Now his chest was covered in the thick mud. But to his immense relief, he didn't sink far, no more than an inch or so. It was frightening when he was forced to touch his face to the top layer of quicksand, but even then, only his chin disappeared into the mud. Meanwhile, behind him, Paolo was kicking hard with his legs, resisting the thick suction of the mud as he drew them up closer to the surface behind him. The sheer effort had him panting and sweating within two minutes. His entire body was covered in mud now, his arms buried fist-deep at the surface, his face smeared from chin to forehead, his torso completely coated.

But when Paolo tilted his exhausted face to the sky, he realized that he was mostly lying on the surface, with much of his body submerged by less than a foot. Like some slithering creature, he could crawl across the patch of quicksand using the stick for leverage, until he reached dry land. He took a few deep breaths and gathered his strength. He
could do this. He was going to be free.

He let his weight fall forward, spreading himself as wide as possible with his arms. He squirmed, but still he resisted the final submission of burying his face in the slime. The tendons in his neck strained from the effort of holding his chin a fraction of an inch away from the mud. But when he relaxed, he was crushed to see that he'd made almost zero progress.

Desperation shot through Paolo like an arrow. He gulped down a huge breath. This time he flung himself into the mud, no resistance whatsoever. His face sank beneath the surface. He wriggled and put every ounce of his energy into twisting his hips, bucking upward to free his legs. Thirty seconds later he dragged his head free and gasped loudly, dragging down another breath. He was tiring fast. A little more of this and he'd be wrecked. They'd find his mutilated body days from now, perhaps. His eye sockets would be empty—he knew that much. Buzzards went for the eyes of weakened prey.

This final thought was what pushed him to the edge. With a final burst of concentrated effort, he tossed and turned in the mire, until finally he felt his legs freeing enough to allow him to roll onto his back. His neck rested against the edge of the riverbed and—finally—solid land.

After resting for another five minutes, Paolo hauled himself to his feet. He checked his cell phone. It was dirty but mostly dry. The tight fit of his polo shirt's pocket had protected it.

He began to walk, shuffling now, like a swamp zombie, until the sandy mud trapped beneath his clothes began to grate his skin. He stopped and stripped off his clothes, until he was wearing only boxer briefs, socks, and sneakers. He shook the jeans and shirt until he'd gotten off as much mud as possible. He had to do something about the rest of the mud, now, or else it was going to make movement impossible.

To his left he could still hear the creek, but the knowledge that there was quicksand in the area made him anxious. In the end, Paolo decided that he had to reach the water. Now even more cautious than before, he approached, tapping the ground in front of him until he'd reached the trickle of water. He knelt down and dunked his whole head in the cool water, almost sobbing with relief. Soon enough his clothes were all rinsed through and wrung out. He dressed in the damp garments and pocketed the cell phone and the wallet he'd removed during the washing. Once again, Paolo began to walk. And as he walked, he made a plan.

Finally, he came to a narrow country road. It was overhung by trees with low branches that cast a trellis of shadows in the dusky light. The temptation to check the GPS on his cell phone was extreme. Fear restrained him. He followed the road to his left, walking just to one side so that any passing cars might not spot him. In the twenty minutes he spent on the road, only four cars drove by. The road bent and twisted on itself several times. Eventually he arrived at a crossroads. On the opposite side was a sight
that made him feel light-headed with hope.

A Department of Parks and Recreation parking lot. From here he could follow a road out of the park. It would take hours to walk to the coast, but he was easily fit enough. Once he was out, he could find a bus to take him closer to Venice.

There was still the problem of his car, parked in the lot of the country club. That was the priority now. He had to get ahold of John-Michael.

Paolo approached the parking lot cautiously, staying in the shadows. A few vehicles were parked in a largely empty lot. There was a public restroom, a vending machine that sold water, sodas, and candy. And a pay phone. Hands trembling, Paolo checked his wallet. He only had two twenties and a five. He examined the parked cars. One was open, the male driver leaning against the passenger door, smoking.

Paolo doubted he could risk a simple approach, like asking the guy for change. In soaking wet, mud-stained clothes he'd be way too memorable, when what he needed was to be invisible. Desperately, Paolo forced himself to review his options.

He could ask for change and make the call to John-Michael. Both actions could be traced to him. He could ask for a ride back to the coast. Another witness, right there.

There was nothing he could do that wouldn't in some way incriminate him.

Nothing
legal
.

The key was to avoid using any
traceable
method of contacting John-Michael.

He needed access to someone else's cell phone. He'd delete any record of the call and no one would be the wiser.

Paolo went to the hut that housed the restrooms. He waited by the vending machine, careful to keep his face turned away. After ten minutes a woman approached with a little boy around three years old. As they entered the ladies' room, Paolo turned to see which car they'd come from. It was a navy-blue Buick LaCrosse. There didn't appear to be another passenger in the car. He approached, trying to remember if he'd heard the woman activate the lock. He didn't think he had. Nor had the headlights flashed. Paolo increased his pace. He felt a surge of hope.

He reached the side of the car. He checked back at the restrooms. No sign of the woman and child. Inside, he could see the blinking light on a cell phone. It was lying right there on the passenger seat. He put a hand on the passenger door. It opened.

He reached for the phone. Then he froze. A girl around ten years old lay asleep in the back of the car. The shock jolted him. He straightened up fast, slammed his head against the roof of the car. The girl didn't budge. Paolo pulled back clumsily. The cell phone was in his right hand. He just about had the presence of mind to close the car door as he made a hasty retreat, as quietly as possible to avoid waking the girl. Ten seconds later he was behind a tree at the edge of the parking lot. He looked across to the
car. The woman was on her way back, the little boy's hand in hers.

He didn't have much time to make his call and drop the phone back into the car without being seen. Paolo dialed quickly—the only number he knew by heart, the house landline. Candace's mom had insisted they get one for emergencies.

Please pick up, John-Michael. Please pick up.

Only John-Michael could help him now. He was practical, calm—the only housemate who wouldn't ask too many questions.

His friend's pleasant, tenor voice answered, “Hello?”

The air left Paolo like a gust of wind. “John-Michael, thank God. I need your help. This is serious, man. It's
extreme
.”

“Go ahead, dude. I got your back.”

“Get the spare keys to my Chevy. Take a taxi to a gas station in Malibu, but don't stop right at it—walk the last part. Pick up a five-gallon container of gas and a baseball cap, pay for it in cash. Take a second taxi. This time, you're wearing the baseball cap. Keep it low over your face. You got that? Baseball cap. Don't make the taxi wait, get another one. Take that taxi to the Malibu Lawn Tennis Club. You'll see my car in the parking lot. I want you to put the gas in my car.”

“Paolo . . . you sound awful. D'you need medical help?”

He felt himself nodding hard. “I'll be fine, JM. Just listen. Keys. Taxi to a gas station in Malibu, but get dropped off before you're actually at the station. Gas container.
Baseball cap. A second taxi. The country club. Put gas in my car. Drive it home. Stay there. Now, repeat that back.”

Paolo waited, motionless, as John-Michael stumbled his way through the instructions, twice. “Okay. Good. Also—don't call my cell. Don't call this number.”

“I won't.”

“One last thing, John-Michael. You're me. You got that? I'm the one going to the gas station. I'm the one taking a taxi to the country club. I'm the one putting gas in my car. My car is out of gas, that's why I had to go to pick up gas. Then I drive home. That's all.
You're me.
So borrow my clothes. I'm wearing blue jeans, gray shoes, and a pale yellow polo shirt. Do the best you can.”

There was a momentary pause. “That's a pretty messed-up set of instructions.”

“I don't have time to explain. You get what I need you to do?”

“I got it,” John-Michael said. “What about you?”

“Don't worry about me.
You're
me. Tonight, I got gas for my car, which I had to leave at the tennis club. Then I went home.”

“Dude, I don't look anything like you.”

“That's why you wear my clothes and the hat.”

A sigh. “All right.”

“And don't tell the girls what you're doing.”

There was a hollow laugh. “Hell no, we don't tell
anyone
. I don't know what you've got going on, Paolo, but I already don't want to find out.”