Power Slide (15 page)

I couldn’t believe Guthrie was a thief. A smuggler? A fence?

I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the truth was I didn’t know what to believe any more. Guthrie’d been so distraught, then so relieved after he’d talked to Leo. If I could call Leo—But Leo was off at the monastery, far out of phone range.

If I could find Ryan Hammond, I was guessing there’d be plenty he could tell me—about this house, the Oscar, and what Guthrie had been
up to. I shone the light around, but there were no papers at all here—no sheets, business cards, receipts, nothing that could give me even a hint where he was. Whoever had been here last hadn’t missed a scrap.

But what about that ranch Guthrie’d talked about, the one where he’d tried to deal with whatever it was he’d done?

A ranch in a hole in the desert, he’d said.

Hole in the desert.
Blink had used that very phrase. About Zahra Raintree’s place. He’d seen Guthrie there.

I’d heard about Zahra Raintree’s secret stunt ranch ever since I started in the business. The place was almost myth, located in the high desert somewhere around the old oasis of 29 Palms where Hollywood stars of the talkies went to get soaked or dry out. Or both, maybe. When Guthrie and I had been on location out there, I’d heard tales of Zahra Raintree’s secret place, Rancho Desperado. But no one knew quite where it was, and when pressed, no one really knew anyone who’d been there. As if it were a mirage.

Guthrie’d had a Jeep that week and we were sure we’d find Zahra’s no matter how well concealed or how forbidding the terrain. We were, after all, stunt drivers. But things heated up on the set, and when my bit was done, I had a message from my agent to hightail it back to Burbank for a gag on a TV show that was sure to turn into steady work, but didn’t.

Guthrie, though, had no need to rush away. I’d left him as I always did, with a kiss and the certainty that there’d be a next time even if I didn’t know when. Almost a year had passed before I saw him again. If I’d thought about Rancho Desperado at all, I might have assumed he’d tell me if he’d unearthed it. I didn’t think to ask. And now it struck me that he might have found the place and, like the rest before him, kept it to himself.

I didn’t expect Zahra Raintree to answer all my questions—not by a long shot. If Guthrie’d been out there trying to get his head straight, she might not know a lot, but she was the best hope I had.

I climbed back up the cement steps to the road. The gun in my fanny pack slapped my back. A gun that could have been involved in theft or who knew what. I’d skated too close to the edge to have it found on me. Time to wipe it down and get rid of it. If I left it under the clutter in the garage it could be there for years unnoted.

I pulled open the garage door and looked . . . looked at the empty space. The car was gone. The green Mustang like Steve McQueen’s in
Bullitt
.

Like?
I remembered one of the cops, this afternoon, carrying on about how well preserved it was, scrapes and dents and all.

One way to tell. I called my brother, John. Luck was with me—the call went to voicemail and I asked him to see if he could come up with the vehicle identification number for the
Bullitt
car and check it against the VIN I remembered.

The car hadn’t been heard of in years. I couldn’t begin to guess what it would bring from a collector. Maybe the memorabilia trade here was a lot pricier than a couple posters.

I checked the garage door again. If there had been crime scene tape, it had been ripped off.

There might be other possibilities, but one thing I knew was that “Blink Jones” and “playing loose with the law” went together. I hadn’t mentioned the Mustang to him. But there’s a time and place for everything. This was the wrong place to be hanging around making phone calls; the hour was way too late. I punched in his number anyway.

“BLINK?” I SAID to his machine. “Blink? Pick up. I’m not calling from jail. Hey, I just want to ask you a question.” Still no response. I peered out at the steep, narrow street, thinking about Guthrie’s tale of Blink burning rubber on this residential street. Odd, for a guy who valued keeping a low profile. Why take the chance? Why here? But he’d recognized Guthrie’s address right off. Odd, too. You know where acquaintances live, but how often do you remember the house number?

Just what
was
going on here? Was Blink involved with the memorabilia stash in Guthrie’s house? Was the stuff hot? And the Mustang, was it hot, and more to the point,
where
was it?

Calling him now was not the safest move, but it was nothing to my next plan. “Hey, Blink, how long’s the message memory on your phone? I’m ready to use it all.”

That got him. “What?”

“I need to ask a question. I don’t expect you’ll know the answer, but—”

That smallest of grunts I heard now wouldn’t mean anything to someone who hadn’t just spent a couple of hours with the man. I recognized offense taken.

“Rancho Desperado. How can I get there?”

“You can’t.”
Big surprise!

“Because?”

“Well, obviously, because you don’t know where it is.”

“And you do?”

“I didn’t say—”

“So you don’t know, right?”

No reply. Silence with Blink was a bad sign. “That’s okay. From everything I’ve heard, Zahra Raintree’s very picky about who she lets in. Guthrie went there in—”

“Guthrie?”

“Yeah.” I was fishing and he knew it.

Another grunt was all I heard.

“Yeah, well, I get that no one goes around talking about it, but I’ll bet she hasn’t heard about Guthrie. I’ll bet, too, she’s the kind of woman who’ll be pissed if she sits out there ignorant.” I was holding my breath. Maybe Zahra never got angry; maybe I’d trotted too far out on this frail little limb. He stayed mum and this time I didn’t break in. If he didn’t bite now . . .

“She’s probably already heard,” I said, as if backtracking.

“Maybe so.”

Enough of this!
“Listen, I’m headed out there. Are you going to help me or not?”

“I didn’t say—”

“What
are
you saying?”

“Come to my house and let’s talk.”

If it seemed like I’d landed my fish, I actually wasn’t fooling myself. I knew he figured his best bet was keeping an eye on me.

Barcum Lane was dark, too rustic for street lights. The wind fingered my hair and iced my neck and back, reminding me anew that even in August, it’s cold near the coast. I grew up a couple of blocks from the Pacific; how could I have forgotten even for a moment? Despite the attempts to landscape it otherwise, Southern California is desert; after sunset the heat evaporates fast. I got out and double-checked Blink’s address. If he’d had me come to a trailer park I wouldn’t have been surprised, but this hacienda was on a full lot with old trees. There was no outside light on, but even so I could tell the house was in good shape. I was halfway to the door when he appeared, shutting it behind him.

“Shhh. We’ll take my truck.”

“It’s 3:00 A.M.”

“We’ll get there with the sun.”

“Let me use your bathroom first.”

“I need to get gas and pick up coffee. You can—”

“I’ve done this before. I can be quick.”

“Do it at the gas station.”

I patted his arm. “Is there a reason you’re keeping me out of the house?”

“Damn right. Like you already admitted knowing, it’s three o’clock in the morning. My wife has to get up at six to get to work.”

Your wife!
Knock me over! Wife, and a house on a tree-lined street! He’d sure landed on his feet! “Gas station’s fine. But one request.”

“What’s that?” He opened the door of a tan pickup.

“The coffee. Is there some better place to get it?”

“Like you said, it’s three in the morning. Even in Frisco you’d be drinking swill.”

“Maybe on the way? It won’t be three o’clock forever.”
Coffee shop or any other place I could use as a landmark?

“Just get in, honey-love.”

“I’ll follow you.”

He glanced at the rental. “Not in that. We’re not talking pavement out there.”

I climbed into his truck. Most of the time when I’m in the death seat, I’m alert for every danger a nonprofessional driver’s going to miss—the belch of pavement that can flip a fast-moving car, the hidden slicks on the road, the kids and bikes shooting out from between cars, idiots chatting away on cell phones and pulling into traffic without a glance. But Blink was making rent doing car gags. The truck was dark and warm, the suspension good. And it had been how long since I’d slept? I was so tempted. But not enough to be riding into the dark and not map the route as we drove. If things went bad, I needed to know if the nearest town was San Bernardino or Calexico. “Okay, you’re right. Coffee first. No matter how bad, it’ll be better than nothing.”

That was untrue, as I realized when I woke in a panic hours later at sunrise in the high desert.

How could I have let myself sleep?

Now I had no idea what direction we’d come or where we were. Blink could have driven in circles for all I knew. Now—oh, shit! My eyes were crusted shut and I had a headache, maybe from sleeping funny, or could it have been something added to that revolting coffee? Was I really safe with this guy? “Where are we?” I said, trying to keep the panic from my voice.

“Almost there.”

“What’re we near?”

“Nothing.”

That was the truth. Flat and tan in all directions. “What’s the last—”

We shot over a hill and off into air. I grabbed for the door moments before the wheels hit road. We weren’t going straight down, but close to
it. I braced my feet. Ahead was scrub brush. The “road” was a path with sharp turns. “No wonder no one comes here on their own.”

“Getting out’s worse.”

“Great.”

Dust blasted through the window, but I wasn’t about to let go to press the button to raise it. On one side was the hill, on the other a drop. The truck hit a rock and bounced so close to the edge there was only sky out my window. “Slow down!”

“Don’t dare.”

I knew what he meant. On runs like this you’ve got to focus on things as they are. A change—
any
change—will throw you. Literally.

The truck bounced against the hillside, slammed into the track, skidded right. The front wheel was off the track. It was spinning in air.
Ease left! Don’t pull hard. Just ease it!
I kept quiet. Any change . . . I was desperate to slide to the window, stare out, find a spot out there to jump to, to start my tumble down into nothingness.

Instead, I did the smart thing and slid tight against Blink, shifting the balance in the truck. The wheels grabbed. Neither of us sighed, not yet.

Ahead was air. Blink pulled hard left around an outcropping.

“Goat trail,” I muttered.

He made a sound that could have been anything.

The air was hotter; the bright morning sun glinted off the hood ornament.
Hood ornament! What a stupid—

He hit the hillside, using it to slow the truck. Then I saw why. The path shot straight down. The hillside gave way. The wheels were on the edge on both sides. It was like driving on a rope. I eased back midway to the window, my hand braced as close to the handle as I dared. If the truck went off, it would go where Blink couldn’t see the edge, on my side.
There’d be no time to aim, only to slam the door open, leap, and try for a controlled slide.

Something scraped the sides. Cactus. I risked a glance out the window. Barrel cactus was growing up over the edge. The truck was slowing.

“Look ahead, Darcy.”

“Omigod!” Under an awning of anorexic desert trees were cabins, alongside what looked like an adobe lodge and a barn. A hundred yards to the side were three tall cylinders. Bud vases for prehistoric flowers? But straight ahead, out in the open, was the thing that caught my eye. “That’s what I heard about this place.”

It looked like a thin jumble of wires. Like a high-wire setup gone mad. Wires curved and turned, like the scariest of roller-coaster tracks. But there were no comforting support beams; only the air seemed to be holding them up. It took me a minute to spot the platform forty feet in the air and make out a girl standing on the edge, one hand reaching behind to what had to be a carabiner attaching her to the wires, the other hand over her heart as if she were praying.

“Look, she’s going to shoot the wires! Wow, this really is a great place!”

“Yeah,” Blink agreed. His tone reminded me he was a car guy, not someone who did high falls or leaps. He wasn’t looking with envy as I was.

The girl was dead still, like she was doing a run-through in her mind, picturing herself pushing off hard enough to take the first loop. She reached around her hips to check the lower carabiner behind her sacrum.