Allison (A Kane Novel) (39 page)

“You’ll see,” said Mike.

“Tell me where we’re going.  I can’t stand secrets.”

“Tough,” Mike laughed.  “Let’s get moving.”

Reluctantly, I followed Mike through the gate and descended a narrow walkway.  As we approached a streambed below, I could hear the roar of flowing water.  When we reached the creek, I saw that the waterway cutting down Santa Ynez Canyon had been swollen by the recent rains, and in places it was threatening to overflow its banks.  As Mike and I started up a dirt path bordering the raging stream, I also noticed spray-painted gang graffiti festooning a concrete culvert running beneath the road.

“Seems some of our inner-city brethren have visited recently,” Mike remarked dryly, noticing my gaze.  Then without looking back, he took off briskly up the trail.

I lengthened my stride to keep up, still wondering what we were doing there.  At first the canyon rose gently, limbs of sycamore and live oak forming a dripping canopy above us.  Lining the path, lupine, morning glory, and mariposa lily wildflowers gleamed like jewels amid thickets of buckwheat and fern.  As we walked, I smelled the moldy odor of rotting leaves, mixed with an occasional hint of anise and sage from the hillsides higher up.

Soon the trail steepened, and the canyon’s sandstone walls and limestone outcroppings gradually closed in.  On both sides, streams newly born from the rains cascaded down steep inclines to join the flow of the main drainage below.  Continuing on, Mike and I came to a dilapidated wooden fence, above which the storm-choked streambed forked.  When I joined Mike at the water’s confluence, I found him inspecting a large sandstone boulder with a circular depression on its upper surface.  “Check this out,” he said, indicating the rounded concavity.  “Chumash Indians used this rock to grind acorns thousands of years ago.”

“I thought the Chumash lived farther up the coast,” I remarked.  “At least that’s what we learned in school.”

“The Chumash had permanent settlements at the mouths of all the main watercourses around here,” said Mike.  “Point Mugu, Malibu and Little Sycamore Canyons, and La Jolla Valley.  This place is full of history.  Did you know that the treaty for the Mexican-American War was signed at the foot of Cahuenga Pass, right here in the Santa Monica Mountains?”

“No, but thanks for the history lesson,” I replied crankily, still annoyed that Mike had yet to disclose our reason for being there.  “You can put that in your book of things nobody cares about.”

“Maybe I will,” Mike chuckled.  Then, taking my hand, he stepped into the icy current.  “C’mon.  We have to cross.”

Hanging on tightly to Mike’s hand, I made my way to the opposite bank, at times wading up to my thighs in the frigid water.  Thankful I had worn hiking boots, I followed Mike up the left fork of the rushing stream, reaching another branch in the waterway a hundred yards farther on.  There we reforded, this time taking the right channel.  At a spit of land beyond, two stone chimneys rose from the underbrush—apparently all that now survived of what had once been an old cabin.  Past the ruin, Mike and I climbed progressively higher into the canyon.  The path, which had initially paralleled the stream, gradually deteriorated—repeatedly forcing us to detour up the steep hillside to circumvent narrow sections of creek and impassable rock faces.  After a strenuous section of boulder-hopping, Mike called a rest.  “We’re nearly there,” he announced, sitting on a stone outcrop.  “Let’s take a breather.”

“No argument from me,” I said, sitting beside him.  A constricted section of streambed had forced us to bushwhack a route higher on the ridge, and from our elevated position we had a clear view down the canyon.  From where we sat I could see no trace of habitation, no indication that man’s hand had ever touched the land below.  Visible only were the sandstone cliffs, the rugged mountains higher up, and ominous banks of thunderheads rising on the horizon.

Enjoying the impromptu hike despite Mike’s continuing refusal to tell me where we were going, I closed my eyes and listened.  In the distance I could hear the liquid trill of a bird piping its staccato song; nearer, over the rush of the stream and the rustle of wind in the chaparral, I could make out the intermittent “kr-r-reck—ck” of a Pacific tree frog.  From higher on the ridge came the ghostly hoot of an owl.  Amazed that such an untouched setting still existed so close to civilization, I opened my eyes.  When I did, I found Mike studying me.

“So how’re things going at work?” he asked, not seeming the least bit embarrassed to have been caught staring.

“Great,” I replied.  And they were.  The numbers on Sunday’s exclusive reservoir report had been stellar, ratcheting me up the network ladder several rungs in one stroke.  Unfortunately, my reservoir report had also fed a growing tension between Brent and me.  Despite Brent’s ill feelings, New York had requested that I do another network spot, and later in the week Lauren had dispatched me to cover a heat-transfer-tubing leak at the San Onofre nuclear power plant south of Los Angeles.  With Max Riemann’s help I turned in a short but professional clip that aired nationally, being used to fill a vacancy in the news schedule.  Afterward Max had labeled me a natural, saying I possessed a “red-light reflex” that enabled me to connect with the camera.  It seemed to me, however, that my on-camera composure was simply a matter of having a good memory, being able to ad-lib, and not being cowed by anyone or anythingtraits I had developed growing up in the Kane household.  But whatever it wasmy seeming confidence, my cut-to-the-chase interviewing style, or even the spillover from my televised rescue effort at the wedgeone thing was becoming increasingly clear to everyone at CBS, especially corporate management:  According to the numbers, the viewing public liked Allison Kane.

Nevertheless, even when I reported on an unrelated story like the power-plant leak, I suspected that the Jordan French factor, as I had come to think of it, was in play.  Because of my family ties, I had become solidly linked in the public consciousness with the ongoing murder investigation.  Though to date CBS had made no on-air mention of it, my Dad’s being the lead investigator on the case was something about which every other network, newspaper, and tabloid had reported in depth.  In a sense, I had progressively become
part
of the story, and as such I often found myself dodging aggressive, irritating questions from other correspondents.  Since Sunday’s reservoir report, in order to avoid a gaggle of waiting reporters outside work, I had started parking my car in the Farmers Market lot and using the back-alley door into the newsroom.  It was a situation I didn’t relish, but one that I hoped would ease with time.

Mike shifted on the rock outcrop, trying to get comfortable.  “Congratulations on the reservoir piece,” he continued.  “That spot you did on the San Onofre power plant was excellent, too.  I knew you were going places.”

“You did, huh?” I said, feeling myself flush with pride.  “Well, a lot of it is thanks to you—including my getting the job at CBS in the first place.  I couldn’t have done the reservoir piece last weekend without you, either.  I really appreciate your help, Mike.”

“My pleasure,” said Mike.  “Speaking of which, you didn’t tell anyone I shot that footage, did you?”

“No.  I think Brent suspects, but he hasn’t said anything.”

“What about Lauren?”

“She didn’t push it.  Don’t worry.  It’s our secret.”

“Good.  Like I said, if that information were to get out, I would definitely be in hot water over at Channel 2.  Speaking of which, how’s everyone at network handling your success?  Liz, for instance?”

I smiled.  “Green with envy.  As for Brent, he was furious about my scooping him again.  Lauren, on the other hand, has been surprisingly supportive.  Management called from New York on Friday to offer me a full-time position.  I think she had something to do with it.”

Mike raised an eyebrow.  “Full-time?  Are you going to accept?”

I nodded.  “I can’t pass up an opportunity like that.”

“I’m happy for you, Ali,” Mike said quietly.  “As long as it’s what you want.”

I couldn’t read what was in Mike’s eyes.  “They may have something big for me coming up soon,” I went on.  “CBS has been negotiating with the Frenches’ publicist and lawyers, trying to set up an interview.  Assuming it happens, guess who stands a good chance of being involved.”

“You?” said Mike, his expression still betraying nothing.

“Uh-huh.  Oddly enough, it was at the request of Mr. and Mrs. French.  In fact, it was one of their stipulations.  I’m not sure network will go for it, but if CBS gets the interview, Jordan’s parents want me there.”

“Why?”

I shrugged.  “I suppose that aside from the obvious tie-in with my father, they think the interview will play better to the public if they’re being questioned by a young woman not much older than their daughter.  You know, like when a rapist hires a female attorney to handle his defense, or when someone accused of a hate crime gets an African-American lawyer to plead his case.  Plus, after my interview with Mrs. French at the museum, Jordan’s parents probably think I’m sympathetic.”

“Are you?”

“I was at first.  Now I’m not so sure.”

“Mr. French’s knowing about the reservoir location changed your mind?”

“There’s more to it than that,” I said, recalling the material I had seen in my father’s murder book.

“We talked about that last Sunday,” said Mike.  “You indicated there was something in the autopsy report implicating the parents.”

“I didn’t say that.  You did.”

“And you didn’t argue,” Mike pointed out.  “I can keep my mouth shut, Ali.  I’m right, aren’t I?  There’s something in that report.  That’s why your dad kept it sealed.”

Once again I regretted having broached the subject.  I trusted Mike, but I had made a promise to my father.  When I didn’t reply, Mike pushed on.  “The body was submerged in water for weeks, so there couldn’t have been much evidence left—fingerprints, fibers, and the like,” he reasoned.  “It had to have been something else, such as her being beaten, or maybe even sexually molested.  But how could that tie in with the parents, unless . . .”

“Let it go, Mike.  Please.”

Mike snapped his fingers.  “That’s it, isn’t it?  There was some kind of sexual abuse going on, and it showed up in Jordan’s autopsy.  That’s why the police are all over her parents, just like the tabloids have been saying.”

“Mike, I can’t talk about this.”

Mike looked at me quizzically, then lifted his shoulders.  “Whatever you say.  I guess I don’t blame you for wanting to protect your story.”

“It’s not that.”

“Right.”  Mike stood, stretched, and checked the sky.  “You know, I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I overheard my news director talking about you the other day.  Something about stealing you away from network and hiring you as a local announcer for KCBS.”

“Really?” I said excitedly.

Mike smiled.  “Really.  See, you’re not the only one with secrets.  C’mon, let’s hit the trail.”

Mulling over Mike’s surprising revelation, I followed him down an embankment, rejoining Mike by the stream a dozen yards farther on.  From there the walls of the canyon closed in again, once more making for difficult going.  Eyes lowered, I picked my way over the tricky terrain, concentrating on my footing.  As we turned a bend, I was struck by a rush of mist and the roar of falling water.  Startled, I raised my head.

We had come to a stone grotto.  Rock walls towered over us on all sides.  Fifty feet up, gigantic boulders were wedged in a narrow opening of the waterway.  Over the top of the uppermost boulders, a curtain of water hissed through the morning air, falling in a broad, crystalline sheet to a shallow pool near where we stood.

“Oh,” I whispered.

Mike grinned with pleasure at my reaction.  “Most of the year this stream is just a trickle.  As you can see, it’s worth getting up here after a rain.”

I stared, at a loss for words.

“I knew you’d like it,” said Mike, taking my hand as he stepped into the water.  “This is one of my favorite spots.”  Then, making for the far bank of the pool, “There’s a way to the top.  The view from up there is amazing.”

A stinging spray bathing my legs, I allowed myself to be led past the base of the falls, awed by the power of the rushing water.  To the left, dangling from an unseen anchor, a knotted rope trailed down the face of a nearly vertical rock wall.  When we reached the bank, Mike grabbed the rope and tested it, letting it take his full weight.  “It’ll hold,” he said.  “You go first.  I’ll catch you if you slip.”

“We’re going up there?”

Mike nodded.  “Unless you don’t want to.”

I squinted up the stone face.  Thirty-five feet of strenuous climbing would bring me to a ledge, after which it appeared an easy scramble to the top of the falls.  But first I had to get there.  And if I slipped making it to the ledge, my landing would be crippling, even in the unlikely event that Mike managed to break my fall.

“Give it a try, Ali.  If you can’t make it, just slide down the rope.”

Though I wanted to say no, I couldn’t.  “I’ll make it,” I said.  I grabbed the rope.  It felt rough in my hands, the knots thick and knobby.  I gave the line a tug.  It felt solid, but still I had misgivings.  Though fearless regarding most physical endeavors, I hate heights.  Nonetheless, despite my fear, I leaned back and placed my feet against the wall.

“That’s it,” said Mike.  “Now just walk your way up.”

Nervously, I started up the slippery rock, alternately moving my hands and feet.  My forearms quickly felt the strain, but I resisted the temptation to stop partway.  Forcing myself to continue, I inched my hands up the rope knot by knot, progressively scrabbling my feet higher on the wall.  Though it was a struggle, I made the ledge in one continuous effort.

“Way to go,” Mike hollered from below.

“Nothing to it,” I yelled back, fighting to catch my breath.

Mike grabbed the rope and began climbing, making it look easy.  Seconds later he joined me on the ledge.  Then, worming our way through a flared chimney formed by the boulders above us, we continued to the top.  Once there Mike led me to a flat sandstone ledge overlooking the surging falls and the pool below.  I sat carefully, dangling my legs over the edge.  Seeming oblivious of the drop, Mike nonchalantly eased down beside me.