The Disappearance (29 page)

He surfaces, gasping instant breath, then immediately down again, the water directly over his head catching the bullet, a few quick sideways strokes then up for real air this time, gulping it down, taking the chance he has a second or two, the shooter didn’t anticipate that move, he breathes in, out, deep breath in and dive, and immediately another shot, exactly where he was.

Zigzagging his way through the water, forcing himself to push through the pain, he gets closer to shore, each time when he emerges to gasp for breath knowing that the closer he comes to whoever wants to kill him, the easier it will be. Maybe the shooter will run out of bullets—about the only realistic chance he has.

He’s almost to shore now and somehow the shooter hasn’t been able to hit him. A miracle.

Except it’s no miracle, he realizes with dread. It’s deliberate. Every single bullet that’s been fired has hit within six inches or less of its target: him. You don’t consistently miss by that little bit unless you want to. This shooter isn’t someone who can’t quite find his target—just the opposite. This is a marksman who knows exactly what he’s doing.

The problem, Luke realizes, is what if the shooter misses by that little bit, and hits me? I’m dead, that’s the problem.

He’s still moving while his mind races, he’s in knee deep water now and he’s running, immediately diving to the ground and rolling, the shot this time catching the water less than five inches from his body, the bastard’s toying with him, he’s up again running through the surf, it feels like he’s running in slow motion, then he’s onto the shore, another dive to the sand, this time sideways, the bullet hitting an inch, literally, from his head, kicking sand into his face, he can feel the power of the explosion, then he’s up and running for the safety of the bluff, where the hunter can’t get to him, accidentally or deliberately, not from up there, and as he’s running, zigging and zagging, another shot rings out, now he’s close enough to the shooter that the sound and the impact come simultaneously, and he feels the burn in his left side above his hip, the pain immediate and excruciating, a hot poker-slash.

He goes down.

Don’t stay down, don’t stay down,
now that you’re hit the shooter has to finish you off, he’s crawling on his hands and knees, as slow as a turtle, it feels like, instinctively rolling again, by some miracle, this one major—a true act of God—the next shot, which he knows was meant to hit him doesn’t—it misses.

And then he’s under the bluff, protected enough that the shooter doesn’t have a shot.

He’s safe. Until the shooter comes down to the beach to finish him off.

He puts his hand to his side. It comes away red, sticky. But the gods are with him today, the shot didn’t hit bone or anything vital. An inch lower and it would have hit his hip, would have shattered it, he would be unable to move.

He would have been lying there, writhing in agony and fear when whoever wants to kill him walked down and blew him away.

He claws open his daypack and gets the cell phone out—
dear God and all the gods of all the religions, I know I have sinned, enough for a hundred lifetimes, but please don’t be out of range, or blocked by this bluff
—and he gets the police operator, truly the gods are with him today, he screams at her, where he is, what happened, hearing his voice carrying up in the wind, and on the bluff above him he hears a door slam, a car motor starting up, the screeching of tires on dirt, the sound of the car fading.

He collapses to his hands and knees, vomits up his lunch, and starts to shake uncontrollably.

The security patrol, the paramedics, and the highway patrol arrive almost simultaneously. The lead security man, an old surfer who isn’t used to this kind of violence, is twitching with apology when he discovers who the victim is. “We were on the other end of the ranch, we run a skeleton crew on Sunday.”

Luke waves the man off. “I’m not blaming anybody,” he grunts, feeling the pain of the wound, now a dull, throbbing ache, which the paramedic is dressing. “But I do want you to get your people out here and try to find out who did it.” He turns to the cop, who earlier took his statement. “You, too. Or call the sheriff’s office, if it’s their jurisdiction.” He knows it is, he wants this cop to know he knows.

“We’re handling it,” the trooper says flatly. He also knows who Luke Garrison is, and he couldn’t give a shit less.

“We’re ready to take you to the hospital,” the paramedic tells him, finishing his patch job. “Any preference?”

“Cottage. Have someone drive my truck down there,” he charges the private officer, flipping the keys to the man. “And the rest of my stuff,” he says. He’s carrying his clothes and daypack with him.

“It’ll be taken care of,” the security cop promises.

The state trooper’s been on the horn. “Someone from the sheriff’s office will meet you at the hospital, to interview you. I’m going to go up top and take a look, see how many spent shells I can find,” he says, letting Luke know he’s on the job.

“If you run a metal detector over the sand,” Luke says, pointing back to where he was hit, “you should find some bullets, too.”

“I’ll pass that on to the sheriff’s department,” is the reply.

Taking one last look at the bloody patch he left on the sand, he climbs into the paramedic’s van and lies down on the bench.

“You are one lucky fella,” the emergency room doctor comments as he patches Luke up. “One inch lower, shattered hip. One inch to the left, bye-bye kidney.”

“Yeah, I’m lucky,” Luke says without irony. He’s alive, therefore he’s lucky.

It’s a relatively clean in-and-out. There’s minor muscle damage, and he’s going to be sore for a few days—his torso will be black and blue. The doctor inserts a drain and gives Luke a tetanus shot and some antibiotics. “Do you have your own physician?” he asks.

“Not anymore here.” He winces as the doctor probes.

“Come back tomorrow and I’ll check this,” the doctor says, meaning the drain. “We want to make sure this is clear.” He starts bandaging the wound.

Luke’s already talked to Riva; he called her as soon as the wound was examined and the doctor was satisfied it wasn’t life-threatening. She freaked out, predictably.

“You’re getting off this case!” she screamed at him.

“Calm down,” he told her, surprised by his own placidity over the phone. In that paramedic’s van on the way to the hospital he had trembled for a long time.

Inwardly, he was still shaking.

“It’s too late to get a flight tonight. I’ll come back tomorrow morning, as early as I can.”

“Stay there and finish what you have to do,” he’d said. “It’s over now.”

She was adamant over the phone. He was not risking his life for a client.

Which was all well and good. He shouldn’t. But there is another facet to this, and it’s monumental. Joe Allison didn’t take that shot at him—Joe Allison’s in jail. Someone else has a huge investment in this, so huge he is willing to commit murder. And the understanding of that enrages him. He will, absolutely, not abandon this case.

Earlier, within minutes of his being admitted, the press showed up. A reporter and two-person camera crew from Doug Lancaster’s television station (talk about irony), reporters and camera crews from other papers and stations. They’re waiting outside, hoping for a statement.

The doctor finishes with his bandaging. “Do you feel all right to drive?” he asks. Luke’s truck is parked outside, delivered to the door by a ranch security driver. The driver had a message from the security company: they wanted Luke to know they’d cover all his medical bills, they had already phoned the hospital to make the arrangements, and if there was anything else he needed, he shouldn’t hesitate to call. Anything to forestall a lawsuit, he thinks. The corporate mentality.

He’s stiff, but he can move around. Tomorrow’s when it’ll be bad. And the days after. “Yeah, I’ll be okay to drive home,” he assures the doctor. And have a drink. Several. “Can I take a shower?” He wonders if he should stay in the house tonight or check into a hotel.

“Uh-huh. The bandage’ll hold. Try not to get it too wet.” He hands Luke a packet of pills. “Take two of the antibiotics and one of these before you go to bed,” he says. “That’ll knock you out so you can sleep.”

Luke struggles into his T-shirt. He feels sticky from the salt water, sand, blood. “Thanks for the help,” he says, shaking the doc’s hand.

“Glad to be of. You really are lucky. Count your blessings.”

Luke signs the release forms and walks stiffly, slowly into the lobby. The reporters start to rush him. He puts up a hand to stop them. “I’m going to make a brief statement,” he says, “and that’s all. No questions, please.” He stands as erect as he can, looking straight ahead. “Here’s what happened. Someone shot at me while I was up at the Hollister Ranch beach, swimming and surfing. It was dark, I don’t know who it was.” He pauses. “I was hit, once, luckily a minor wound. The police have interviewed me, and hopefully they’ll be able to shed some light on this.”

He starts to push through the crowd. As they’re making way, a reporter blurts out, “Do you think this was motivated by your defending Joe Allison, and is that going to be affected by your being shot at?”

He turns to the questioner. “What do you mean?”

“Might you not withdraw from this case because someone tried to shoot at you? Aren’t the shooting and your client and your defense of him connected?”

“I don’t know the reason I was shot at,” he says, trying to stay calm, “so I haven’t thought about that.” A blatant lie. Of course that’s the reason the sniper was trying to kill him, and he’s thought of little else since. “Now please—I need to speak to the police, and I need to go home.”

He and the sheriff’s detective go into an empty examining room, where they have some privacy. Luke gives the man a statement, basically the same one he’s already given where the shooting took place: he doesn’t know who shot at him, he has no idea regarding who it might be specifically, he knows there are many people in the community, including the dead girl’s parents, who don’t want him on this case, it’s pretty clear from his motorcycle being trashed, the hostility he’s encountered, et cetera. Beyond that, he doesn’t want to speculate.

The detective leaves. He’s finally on his own. He starts for the exit door.

Ray Logan, huffing like a locomotive, comes rushing in, almost colliding with Luke. Logan’s wearing a Big Dog golf shirt and Bermuda shorts—the first time Luke’s ever seen him not in long pants. A glance at his former assistant’s spindly, milk white legs explains why.

“I just heard,” Logan says breathlessly. “Are you all right? I guess you are,” he adds, “if you’re walking out of here on your own.”

“It was only a flesh wound,” Luke hears himself saying, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. He feels like John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood.

“Have you talked to the police yet?”

“Twice, once out there, then here. I just finished giving my statement.”

“This is horrible,” Logan says. “Sheriff Williams is outraged. We all are.”

“So do something about it.” He’s angry, tired, frightened. He feels an overwhelming lassitude coming over him. He wants out of here.

“We’re going to, believe me. But before you go, can we talk for a minute?” Logan is flushed, anxious.

“I’m beat, Ray. Getting shot takes the starch out of you.”

“Just for a minute?” The man is almost begging.

They walk into a small empty lounge off the main desk area. Slowly and stiffly Luke sits on an orange Naugahyde bench. Why do hospitals go for the ugliest colors? he wonders as Logan sits catty-corner from him. To remind you that you’re in a house of pain?

“What do you want, Ray?” He doesn’t bother to cover his impatience. He was just shot, almost killed. He should be allowed his space. So he can shake in private.

“First, let me say how appalled I am at this,” Logan says. “I don’t know who in the world would do something like this.”

Luke starts to laugh, but it hurts too much, so he stuffs it as best he can. Jesus, this hurts, it throbs. He wants to get out of here, go home and take those pain pills. “I can think of a few people who would love to see me out of the way, permanently. Starting with Doug Lancaster.”

“You can’t be serious.” Logan is flushing red from the mention of it.

Luke tells him about the frenzied telephone call he had from Doug Lancaster Friday night. “There was an implied threat in that call. Almost an overt warning.”

Logan whistles. “Damn. He shouldn’t be calling you. He shouldn’t have any contact with you.”

“That’s what I told him. But he wouldn’t shut up, he went on and on about his daughter’s reputation being tarnished. Like it isn’t going to be, anyway.”

Logan nods somberly. “I have to tell Doug to stay away from this.”

There’s an itch inside Luke to tell this pink-faced, jittery man sitting in front of him, this man who still seems cowed by his former boss, about the bribe Doug Lancaster laid on him. Logan would have a heart attack, and then he’d never get to go home. No, keep that for when it’s really useful, such as when he’s cross-examining Lancaster on the stand.

“Here’s something you might not know,” he says. “Doug Lancaster’s whereabouts can’t be accounted for between one and nine in the morning on the night Emma was taken from her room.”

Logan’s face darkens. “Yes,” he says cautiously. “I’m aware of that—that rumor. I’m not sure that it’s relevant. Or true.”

Does he know something about it that I don’t? Luke wonders. Does Doug have an alibi for those hours? He needs to check that out before he goes down a blind alley that could bite him in the ass. “Why?” he asks. “Do you know where he was?”

Logan composes himself. “You tell me,” he challenges.

“So much for your feeling bad about tonight,” Luke flares. “Is that why you came down here? To pump me while I’m feeling like shit? I ought to go to the judge and ask him to sanction you.”

He starts to get up. A lightning flash of pain shoots up his left side. He steadies himself, one hand on the couch.

Logan’s quick on his feet, assisting Luke. “No. That’s not why I came down here. I apologize.” He seems truly contrite. “I really was concerned about you.”