The 7th Canon (39 page)

He approached Dixon Connor’s house in a thick blanket of fog, using arm and hand signals to tell the officers to fan out. Two went down the side of the house. Two went to the front door. Ross touched the hood of the SUV in the driveway. It was cold. He pressed his back against the stucco exterior and looked inside the windows. A television glowed. He went down the side of the house to a gate and peered over the top into an overgrown back yard. He unlatched the gate and went in, the officers following. As Ross approached the back door, he noticed that the staircase handrail was broken, the railing lying in the tall grass. He stepped on something hard, bent down, and picked up a police service revolver. He knew Connor’s preferred weapon was a .44 Magnum. This was not it.

He stuffed the revolver in his pants, held the SIG in front of him, and stepped onto the porch, feeling the wood sag. He tried the door handle and found the back door unlocked, which seemed unlike Dixon Connor.

He nodded to the two officers. One used a radio to alert the two officers at the front door that they were going in. They entered the house combat-style, low to the ground, aiming left and right. The kitchen was clear. So was the dining room and the living room. Ross turned to the hallway and two closed doors.

Connor sat with his back pressed against a car frame, the sleeve of his jacket bloodied and torn. He couldn’t be sure of the extent of the damage in the dim moonlight, but he suspected it was bad. He took off his jacket and used the metal shiv to cut strips of cloth, tying two strips tight around his forearm. He could do nothing about the wound in his back, which he sensed was also bad. The dog lay nearby on its side.

Connor holstered the .44 with his good hand and stumbled to his feet. A searing pain burned down both legs. His shirt stuck to his back. He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Peter Donley was here somewhere, and he had the tape and Bible with the log-in record. Without them, Connor was screwed.

In pain, he stumbled forward, through the rows of cars.

The dog circled, sniffing at Donley’s cheek and ear, nudging him with its bony head, growling. Then it stepped back and barked. Donley didn’t move, thinking of those red taillights he used to watch on the Bay Bridge, thinking of himself in one of those cars, leaving. Across the junkyard, a dog yelped, followed by a gunshot. The first dog was dead.

Connor was coming.

The chain around the animal’s neck rattled and shook. Donley opened one eye and watched the dog step back, maybe four feet, and turn its head in the direction of the sound. It took two steps down the path, sniffing the air before turning back to Donley and growling, as if to warn him not to move. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the dog darted between the rows of cars. This time, Connor would not be surprised. He would kill the second dog immediately.

Donley jumped up quickly, stumbled to the fence, and started to climb. Poorly anchored, the fence swayed like unsecured netting, making it difficult for Donley to pull himself up, to find the next toehold. It forced him to climb cautiously, fearful of losing his grip, of falling and having to start over. He put his toe in another link, climbing higher, chain link by chain link. The fence looked a hundred feet tall.

The second dog barked, followed by the echo of another gunshot.

Connor was coming.

Donley fought against the urge to rush, maintaining a methodical pace. At the top of the fence, he grabbed the metal tube with his hands, but he lost his toehold in the chain link and, momentarily dangling, kicked at the fence. The rattle echoed in the empty yard, giving away his position. He regained his toehold, pushed up with his legs, and wrapped one arm around the top of the fence. He had to figure out quickly how to get over the barbed wire.

He slid one leg over the top so he was straddling the metal pole. Carefully, he removed his leather jacket and flung it over the wire.

He looked down into the yard. A shadow step from behind the rows of cars and started down the dirt path. With a full moon, Connor would see Donley atop the fence like a target in a carnival booth. Donley didn’t have time to climb over and down the other side. He gripped the metal pole with his hands and lifted himself up so that both feet were on the bar, like a swimmer bent over on the starting block. The fence swayed. He hesitated a split second when he realized he could see nothing below him but darkness.

Then the big gun thundered, and Donley jumped.

He had no idea how far he would fall.

His heels jarred upon impact with the ground, splinters of pain shooting up both legs. Donley fell forward, like a board pitching end over end, his hands unable to break his fall, unable to stop his momentum. He tumbled repeatedly, the ground slamming hard against his chest, his legs whipping over the top.

When he had finally stopped rolling, he slid headfirst. Sharp brush whipped against his bare arms and face. He grabbed a branch, but it ripped from his grasp. He reached again, failed, reached, gripped, and held on. His lower body slid past in a half circle, like someone clinging to a rope after falling over the side of a building.

When his momentum stopped, Donley lowered his head to let the avalanche of dirt and debris pass. Stunned and dazed, he lifted his head to assess his situation. He lay on an incline pocked with scrub brush. The fence at the top of the hill looked like a toy model, but he could just barely make out his jacket still hanging from the barbed wire.

Inside the pocket was the video and Bible.

His only hope was that Connor didn’t see it or was too injured to climb up and get it.

Donley rolled onto his back. He was in so much pain, he couldn’t be certain whether Connor’s final shot had hit him or not. He sat up and took a brief moment to catch his wind and assess his condition. When he tried to stand, the pain in his right shin felt like someone had stabbed it. He fell back to the ground. He didn’t have to be a doctor to know his leg was broken.

That didn’t matter.

Connor was still out there, and he would come. He needed to be sure Donley was dead. He needed the tape. He would come.

Donley turned and faced up the slope, then slid downhill using his good leg to push through the thick brush. The process was laborious and slow. He tried not to think about how much time was passing or the pain radiating throughout his body. At the base of the hill, he got to his feet, balancing on his good leg. A cluster of corrugated-metal warehouses was visible in the near distance. It looked like miles across open desert. He picked up a discarded board and leaned on it like a crutch, making his way toward the warehouses, trying not to rush, afraid he would stumble and fall. He groaned with each hop forward, putting his weight on his good leg, propping the board in front of him, lunging.

When he reached the warehouses, he was drenched in a chilled sweat, though his forehead burned. The pain in his leg caused tremors throughout his body. Suddenly nauseated, he lurched forward and vomited, then wretched again, dry heaves.

When the nausea passed, he braced himself on the two-by-four and hobbled toward the back of one of the buildings. He tried a metal door, not surprised to find it locked. Near it were two smoked-glass windows reinforced with chicken wire. He leaned against the wall and wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead, feeling light-headed and weak. He picked up the board and used it to batter one of the windows. The glass cracked but did not shatter. He continued to beat at the glass until the chicken wire gave way. He punched through. When he’d busted out most of the glass, he put the board across the sill and struggled to lift himself onto it. He leaned forward, like on a teeter-totter, and slid. His right leg crashed against the top edge of the window, and this time, he could not swallow the pain. His screams and moans echoed throughout the warehouse.

He didn’t know how long he lay on the cold concrete floor. At one point, he was sure he’d passed out. When the forty-foot ceiling above him quit spinning, Donley managed to sit up. Rows of metal shelving filled with paint cans and paint supplies pulsed in and out of focus. He used one of the racks to pull himself to his feet and shuffled through the maze of cans of paint thinner and acetone, searching for an office and a phone. At the end of the row, he came to a long white counter in front of a glass-enclosed room. It looked like an oasis.

The door was unlocked. Inside, he found a counter with a computer terminal, stools, desks with swivel chairs, filing cabinets, and a telephone.

Ross went room to room, officers fanning out, yelling “Clear!” as they entered and exited.

He flipped on light switches and entered what was presumably Dixon Connor’s bedroom. It looked like a storm had swept through it.

“Holy crap,” one of the officers said, noticing the montage of newspaper articles tacked and taped to the wall, most yellowed with age. Ross felt sick to his stomach. Dixon Connor had indeed gone off the deep end.

Chapter 22

Donley could not move his arms. His shirt, saturated with sweat, stuck to his skin. His fingers and hands felt numb, and he was shivering uncontrollably. He didn’t know how long he’d passed out, whether a minute or an hour, but judging from the darkness inside the warehouse, he had not yet made it through the night. He remembered picking up the phone but couldn’t be certain he’d called anyone.

When he sat, a sharp pain shot up his leg. He gathered his strength, gripped the counter, and pulled himself to his feet. A muted light streamed through skylights, casting shadows off the metal shelves and drums of paint, making it difficult to determine what was real and what was reflected in the office windows. Overhead, an automatic air-conditioning system hummed, pouring cool air through a grill, a strip of red fabric flapping in the breeze.

Donley started for the phone on the counter but froze when a beam of light swept across the warehouse. Someone was coming. He slid open drawers, looking for a weapon. In one of the drawers he found a long pair of scissors. He grabbed it and pressed his back against the wall near the door.

It was all he could do.

The figure passed the counter and disappeared from view. Donley looked down and watched the doorknob turn. The door pushed in, but no one immediately entered. The beam of light swept across the room. Donley clenched his teeth and raised the scissors, not about to go quietly.