The Incumbent (32 page)

“Correct.”

“So what does that mean?” I asked. “Did Allen somehow make his way back into the house without Nat’s cameras seeing him? If so, when did the abductor arrive? None of this makes sense.”

“It will. In time it will. Obviously, we are missing something. When we learn what that is, the pieces will begin to fall together.” He turned to Nat. “Ms. Sanders—”

“I know, I know. You want the videodisks.”

“Actually, the Santa Barbara police have jurisdiction in this area. We’ll have to call them. Can you make copies?”

“Yes. It will take some time, because video eats up a lot of disk space, but I can do it.”

“I would appreciate it. You’ve been very helpful.”

“I’ll get started.”

“This might be important, Mayor,” West said. “Only time will tell. Still, I think it might be best if you left. Chief Webb might not appreciate your presence.”

“Does he have to know?”

“He’s on his way. Your call generated some interest. He wants to know what you’ve found, but I suspect he also wants to know what you’re doing snooping around, especially right after your little confrontation.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I agree, but you’ll never convince Chief Webb of that, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to have to separate you two. I’ve got police work to do.”

I agreed to leave, but with reluctance I didn’t hide. Thanking Nat, I excused myself and walked from the house. My mind was an avalanche of confusion. Nothing had made sense before, and it all made even less sense now. I walked to the car with my head down. I was angry. I was baffled. I was frustrated. I know Webb thought I was an interfering nuisance, but sitting idle has never been my way.

Swinging the SUV’s door open, I plopped down in the driver’s seat, fastened my safety belt, and pulled away. I drove faster than necessary and I caught myself chewing a fingernail. Dayton was gone. That was obvious. He had not returned to the house, and the campaign file was on his desk with the drops of blood. The pattern was consistent. But why, then, did the video show him walking leisurely from his house, never to return? If he was abducted elsewhere, how did the file come to have the two drops of blood on it? Nat’s cameras didn’t show anyone approaching or entering the house. I supposed it was possible that an intruder could have come over the back fence, crossed the rear yard, made entrance through the French doors, and then planted the file, or at least the blood.

While possible, it didn’t seem likely, and such an act would have left signs of forced entry. It was nuts.

I arrived at the freeway five minutes after leaving Nat’s home. The traffic was thick but flowing.
At least one good thing.
I pulled into the middle lane and settled into freeway speeds. It was time to get back to the office and get some work done, if I could. Concentration was becoming more difficult. It is hard to focus on the mundane when you may be the next one abducted in a string of kidnappings.

Video images, fire ants, blood drops, a brokenhearted daughter, murder, and more tap-danced in my head. How could life be turned upside down so quickly?

I merged with the southbound traffic, happy in the knowledge that I would have at least half an hour of solitude. Perhaps that would be enough time for the mental maelstrom to calm to mere hurricane status.

A chill ran up my neck and I released it with a shiver. Odd. I shook my head at my foolishness and checked the rearview mirror—

I jumped and my lungs seized. A face was staring back—a face in the mirror. Christopher Truccoli was in my car.

“Wha–what do you want?” I shouted, trying to sound fierce.

“Take it easy, lady. You know what I want. I want my daughter. You’re going to take me to her.” His words were flat but hot with threat.

“Get out of my car.”

“That would be a little difficult on the freeway, Mayor. Just take me to Celeste and do it right now.”

“And if I don’t?” It was all bluster.

His eyes darkened and his face hardened. He looked like a man who had just lost touch with reality.

“No more games, Mayor. Take me to your home.”

“No.”

“I think you will.” He looked behind him. Satisfied that no one was following, he said, “Your options are limited.”

“Are they?”

“Yes!”
His voice was so loud I thought the windows would crack. “It is my right! I will not be denied! I will not be put off by a woman.”

My heart beat with machine gun speed. I assessed my situation and it wasn’t good. I couldn’t tell if he had a weapon, but I wouldn’t put it past him. Being behind me, he had the situational advantage. He could attack and I wouldn’t see it coming.
Think, think
.
You’re
smart, use those brains.

“This is illegal, you know.” It was a stupid thing but I wanted to keep him talking. His silence was more intimidating than his words.

“Do you think I care? This is about my daughter, and no one is going to keep me from seeing her.”

My cell phone! I couldn’t just make a call; Truccoli would never allow that. But if I could sneak it out of my purse, I could activate it without his knowledge—I hoped. I had to keep him preoccupied.

“What if I don’t do as you say?”

“That would be a bad move, Mayor. A real bad move.”

Slowly I lowered my right hand and moved it toward my purse, which rested on the seat next to me.

“Did you abduct your, wife, Mr. Truccoli? Did you kidnap Elizabeth Stout and Allen Dayton?”

“Don’t be stupid. Why would I kidnap my former wife? She was a nothing—less than nothing. No ambition. No goals. She was just another waste of flesh. I don’t know the others. They’re of no concern to me.”

I pulled the purse a few inches closer and slipped open the latch. Again I checked the rearview mirror. Truccoli sat in the center of the rear seat. He was looking from side to side and occasionally behind him. Nervous.

“Then why did you marry her?”

“I was young and poor, not that it’s any of your business. I thought she could make me happy, but she failed.”

“You’re unhappy and it’s her fault?”

He leaned forward and placed his mouth next to my ear. I snapped my hand back from the purse. His breath was sweet. “You’re dancing on thin ice, lady. Don’t try to psychoanalyze me. You’re not qualified. Now shut up and drive.” He leaned back again.

“I’m just making conversation,” I managed to choke out. “We have some time before we get to Santa Rita.” My breathing was ragged. Feeling oxygen-deprived, I calmed myself and focused on my inhalations. I reached for the purse again and fingered the cell phone. My heart skipped a beat and I felt I would lose control of my bladder any minute. I needed a distraction, something to get Truccoli to look away.

I glanced at the rearview mirror and let my eyes linger, looking away just long enough to make sure I wasn’t about to drive my SUV up someone’s tailpipe. Truccoli caught the glance and turned around in his seat to look out the back window. I slipped the phone from the purse, hit send, and set it on the seat. I wondered who I had last called, but couldn’t recall. Like most cell phones, mine automatically dials the last number called unless the user enters another phone number. I prayed that someone would be there to hear.

“What? What did you see?”

“Nothing. I’m just scared. You’re a frightening man.”

“Most women find me attractive.” He sneered.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Any of them out of prison?”

“You got a smart mouth, lady.”

A tiny voice emanated from the phone. Someone had answered.

“What are you going to do to me, Mr. Truccoli?” I asked, sounding as desperate as I could. “I’m just a small-city mayor; I can’t make your daughter love you.”

“No, but you can make her hate me, can’t you?”

“I didn’t do that!” I shouted. I wanted to be sure that whomever I called heard. “You sneak in my car, hide in the back, and make me drive south to Santa Rita. How did you find me, anyway?”

“Easy enough. I parked on the street across from your office and waited for you to drive from the parking lot. Then I followed in my own car. I almost lost you in the traffic but I was able to keep you in sight. These big SUVs are easy to spot.”

“So you snuck in while I was at Allen Dayton’s house?”

“I was going to confront you in the backyard but then the exterminator guy showed up. I had just left my car. We even said hi to each other. I was going to follow you again, but then you pulled back to the curb and went in that other house. Do you know how maddening that is? I checked your car. You were careless and left it unlocked. I thought you’d never come out.”

“You don’t see how wrong this is?”

He laughed. “Wrong is a subjective term, lady. I have the right to see my daughter.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

“Because you’ve poisoned her mind. This is your fault.”

“I took her in so she’d have a place to stay.”

“Who asked you to?”

“Some people do the right thing for no reason at all, but you wouldn’t understand that.”

He swore. “Take me to your house!”

“No!” I screamed back. I glanced in the mirror and saw him sweating. His eyes were wide and wild. His jaw was clamped so tight that I expected to hear his teeth break. He took several deep breaths, and another glance showed me that he had calmed himself a little. I felt a moment’s relief.

He spoke again, but this time his voice lacked the heat of fury. His words iced me over. He recited Randi’s home address. “She recuperating there, isn’t she? That’s what my hired man says.”

Hired man?
The implication was clear. “You leave her alone. One of your men has already injured her.”

“That was nothing. As PIs go, he was an upstanding citizen. My new friend doesn’t much care about the law.” Suddenly he pulled himself forward and stuck his mouth by my ear again. I fought the urge to gag. “The conversation is over. You will drive me to your home and let me talk to Celeste alone, or bad things will begin to happen. Do you understand—” He stopped abruptly. “What is this?” He reached over the seat and snatched up the cell phone. A second later I heard the rear window open and felt the air rush in. Through the side mirror, I saw Truccoli hold the phone out the window and drop it. It bounced off the freeway surface, skipping along until it tumbled under the tires of an eighteen-wheeler one lane over.

“I’ll make you pay for that,” he said through clenched teeth.

Waiting was over. Things had gone from bad to worse. I couldn’t know if the message got through the cell phone, but I did know I wasn’t going to take this madman to my home, where Celeste and my parents waited. I had no way of knowing if there really was a hired bruiser perched at Randi’s home. It might be real; it might be a bluff. All I knew was that this would be a good time for Paul Shedd’s God to get involved. In my terror-saturated mind I heard my voice saying, “And Peter’s God.”

I knew one other thing: enough was enough.

I glanced in the mirror once again and saw that traffic behind me had slowed a little. There was some distance between me and the cars behind. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and slammed the brake pedal down. The SUV decelerated rapidly. I waited for the tires to lock up but they didn’t. The term
antilock brakes
flashed in my brain. But the vehicle came to a quick stop in the middle of the freeway—sharply enough to throw Truccoli into the back of my seat.

The squeal of tires, the blaring of horns, filled the air. Traffic behind me came to a clamorous stop. Several cars in the outer lanes shot past.

“What are you—”

I didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. I grabbed my keys and reached for the door handle, but he pulled me back by the hair.

“No, you don’t.”

Pain scorched my scalp as he yanked my head back. I reached to the top of my head, groping for his hand. It was easy enough to find and so was the thing I was looking for—his little finger. Seizing it, I yanked it back as hard as I could. Something snapped and a scream that made my skin tingle filled the vehicle. Truccoli released me and I bolted from the SUV.

The rear door opened. Truccoli was climbing out of the back, a half second behind me. My instinct was to run, but I needed a bigger lead if I was going to have any hope of escaping. Instead I charged the door with my hands in front of me. I hit it with all my weight and the heavy metal door closed on Truccoli.

There was more screaming.

I turned. I ran.

I fumbled with my keys, looking for the remote lock. Locking the car was out of the question—the doors were open. I was interested in something else: the panic button. I found it just as a car screamed past, its driver leaning on the horn. I pressed the red button and heard the SUV’s alarm go off. I wanted attention—as much attention as I could get. I had Truccoli’s; I wanted someone else’s, someone who could help.

Turning back, I saw Truccoli exit, his face red and his posture menacing. He started toward me, holding his injured hand and limping. He was picking up speed.

Another car zoomed past, the wind from it reminding me I was on a freeway; although I had been successful in stopping some cars behind me, impatient drivers were zipping around the congestion. California drivers are impatience.

“I . . . want . . . my . . .
daughter!”
Truccoli screamed. From the first phone call to each dramatic meeting I’d had with him, he had struck me as a man teetering on the edge. The cliff had given way.

The music of shrill sirens began to fill the air. They sounded beautiful.

“Get out of the road, you stupid . . .” The driver’s voice faded as he sped by, but his hand gesture was memorable.

A glance over the shoulder made my stomach twist. Truccoli was closing the distance. I veered right, into oncoming traffic. More tires squealed. More horns blared. The lead car in the lane banked right and missed me by a foot. I continued forward, toward the white metal guardrail that lined the western edge of the freeway.

The rail was about thirty inches high. I climbed over and stopped short. I was looking down an embankment that dropped twenty or twenty-five feet to a dirt path that bordered the sandy beach. The slope was steep. Walking down was impossible, let alone running.