Cold Springs (13 page)

Norma remembered a few months after Katherine's death, just after Chadwick had left for Texas—Talia Montrose showing up at Laurel Heights in her pink pants and cheap satin blouse and bleached hair, looking like a hooker—her mouth trembling, but her eyes defiant, full of vengeance she had no right to want. She asked for an application for her youngest boy. And four days later, when Ann broke the news to Norma that she was actually accepting the child—Norma exploded. She'd brought up the affair with Chadwick—forced the truth out of Ann. They'd said horrible, hurtful things. Then they didn't speak for two years.

All of that was the Montroses' fault, and Race wasn't any better than the rest. He had brought a gun to school, gotten himself expelled. He'd gotten Mallory involved in drugs, and a murder.

Why would he come here now?

“Ma'am?” the operator was saying. “Can you safely exit the house? The police are en route. Is there a window or a door—”

“Please, Mrs. Reyes,” Race pleaded. “You got to listen. Please.”

The boy was shivering. He was more frightened than she was. He looked like he hadn't eaten in a week—his eyes jaundiced, his lips dry and cracked.

Her maternal instinct stirred, unwanted, the way it used to when Mallory would come over to escape her parents' arguments. She would sit at the dining table, right there, and let Norma stroke her hair while she sobbed.

Norma took the phone away from her ear, punched the
off
button.

“You had better explain yourself,” she told Race. “What are you doing in my house?”

His chin started quivering. He sat down on the couch, smearing it with mud and leaves, running his fingers through his red hair. “Don't say I was here. Please—don't tell anybody. Okay? You have to promise.”

“Race, I can't promise that. The police are looking for you.”

“My mother . . .” he said. “She was murdered.”

The words came out like they'd been cut from him, and suddenly Norma remembered her first reaction when she'd heard Talia was dead. She had thought,
It serves her right.

Now, she realized how heartless that had been, how little Race deserved the pain.

“I'm sorry, honey,” she said. “I really am.”

“Mallory was with me. My momma—she was . . .” He curled his hands as if trying to grasp the image. “She was stabbed . . .”

“Honey,” Norma said. “You need to go to the police.”

“No! No police. I know who they're gonna blame. You got to listen to me. She ain't going to be satisfied until they're both dead.”

“Who, honey? What are you talking about?”

Race swallowed, held out his hand and watched it shake. Norma got the uneasy feeling he had been talking about his dead mother—as if Talia were whispering things in his ear.

“The money,” he said. “Check the money, you don't believe me—”

Then he stopped. Norma heard the sirens a half second later, a long way off, but getting closer.

“Race,” Norma said. “Stay with me. Talk to them . . .”

But he was out the back door faster than Norma would have believed possible—over the deck railing, the fence, then down the hillside, skidding across the black plastic tarp that was supposed to keep the slope from turning into a mudslide on nights like this. He plunged through a wet clump of manzanitas and disappeared over a ridge that dropped ten, maybe fifteen feet, straight down to Columbus Avenue.

When Norma turned, she realized the police had been closer than she realized. Red lights pulsed through her windows, casting blood-colored squares onto her ceilings.

John stopped at the Palace of Fine Arts. He couldn't face the Golden Gate Bridge traffic yet. He knew Pérez would question him, pester him as soon as he got home—and he wasn't ready for that.

He paced under the huge dome of the pavilion—the pink Grecian columns lit up for no one, the park desolate and empty, cold rain falling outside.

He set up his laptop on a trash can.

He didn't realize how on edge he was until a vagrant slipped from the shadows, attracted by the glow of the screen, and wheedled, “You got a little extra, mister—”

John's .22 was in his hand, the muzzle pushed under the old man's grimy, bearded nose, John saying, “You want something?”

“Whoa!” The bum's eyes went completely schizoid, skipping right off the top of reality like a river rock. “Whoa, fuck.”

He backed away, white palms melting into the darkness. Not until he was a tiny smudge of shadow on the far side of the lake did he yell, “Happy Thanksgiving, asshole!”

John expelled a laugh that sounded crazy, even to him. He slipped his gun back into his coat pocket.

He was going to shake to pieces. He was a test plane at the edge of the sound barrier, the bolts of his wings starting to rattle loose.

Oh, God, Norma. What had he been thinking?

He shouldn't have seen her tonight. He'd told himself he needed to check her computer one more time, just for insurance. He needed to make sure the passwords hadn't changed.

But that wasn't why he'd waited for her, why he'd picked up dinner and lit candles and put on her favorite music.

He'd been hoping for the courage to tell her the truth. He thought if he looked straight into her eyes, he could confess what he had been sucked into, how hopelessly entangled he'd become. He would explain that his motive had been pure—he just wanted to save his daughter.

Norma would understand instantly. She'd grip his hands across the table, her face beautiful and compassionate in the candlelight. She wouldn't condemn him, wouldn't call him a monster. She'd talk the problem through with him until he figured out another way to save Mallory, and himself.

It would be so different than it had been with Ann—that last horrible argument of their marriage, when he'd tried to tell her about the letters from Samuel, only to have the conversation deteriorate into one more shouting match about why Ann should quit her job, why they should put Mallory in another school, get her away from Race. Finally, his patience had snapped—his years of frustration and rage discharged in a single brutal slap across his wife's jaw.

There could be no forgiveness for that. No second chance.

Once you lose control, women never trust you again. Norma had made that clear tonight, with the fear in her eyes.

He stared at the computer screen, the wireless connection accessing a bank account halfway around the world.

Bitterness tasted like cheap whiskey on his tongue.

Why the fuck not?

The calls had all been made. The setup was perfect. All it took now was a single e-mail.

“He ain't going away,” Pérez had warned him that afternoon. “You throw more money at this Samuel, play his easy fuck—you think he'll ever leave you alone?”

Pérez had been loading his gun at the kitchen table, pushing nine-millimeter cartridges into the magazine with the care of a pharmacist counting pills. “All I need is two plane tickets, Boss. I got a friend can help. We get the girl back, teach this Chadwick a lesson. Then you call this son-of-a-bitch Samuel's bluff. He shows his face, I blow him the fuck away.”

Pérez's plan had appeal.

But it wasn't the real reason John was hesitating.

He hated to admit it, but he had begun to see the wisdom in what Ann had done, calling Chadwick. At least Mallory was out of danger. At least she was far away from the Montroses. And after all these years, dreaming of destroying Ann, now that it was within his reach, he found it hard to do.

John could close the laptop, drive home.

The police he could handle. He had started pulling strings already on the Talia Montrose problem, letting a few well-placed friends in Oakland know that a certain homicide sergeant needed help distinguishing a concerned citizen from a suspect. The only person to fear was Samuel. And what could Samuel do to him—expose his past sins? That meant nothing to him anymore, as long as his daughter was safe.

The screen asked for a prompt.

How long would it take—ten minutes? Less. He had planned so well.

Across the Bay, the Sausalito ferry was coming back from its final evening run. He imagined his father at the Embarcadero docks, forty years ago, sitting on his toolbox, wiping the grease off his forehead with the back of his hand while he waited for the boat. He would be bone-tired, having worked repairs since six in the morning, but he'd still have energy to sit with John, tell him stories about the Pacific War. When the ferry docked, he would have exactly ten minutes, from 7:50 to 8:00, to do a final check on the engine before sending it back across the Bay, where it would dock in Sausalito for the night.

“That boat is no fool,” his father would tell him, tousling John's hair so he would smell like engine grease for a week. “Works here, but sleeps up north with the rich folk.”

He would flash his crooked teeth, the front two broken in a bar fight years ago, but John would see the sadness in his eyes, the spirit that had been broken when John's mother left.

John had promised himself he would never turn into his father.

He would be one of those rich folk across the Bay. He would keep his family together. As a boy, he assumed that if he just managed the first part, the second part would take care of itself.

He took out his cell phone, stared at the number that had been sent with the last letter.

Call when it's done,
the letter said.
The number will only work one time. Punch in 12 23. Then hang up. I will call you back.

12/23. John wasn't blind to the meaning of that. It had been Katherine Chadwick's birthday.

He dialed as he'd been told, then hung up.

Even though he was expecting it, the sound of the return call made him jump.

“Hello, John.” The voice was distorted. It could've been a man or a woman or a child.

Still, John was finally talking to the ghost—the one who had turned his life into hell all these years.

“I'm not going through with it,” John said. “Do what you want. You won't get a dime.”

There was a rushing, distorted sound in the background—maybe a highway, or a river. John wasn't sure.

The ghost said, “You think you're safe from me, John? You think I've forgiven you?”

“I don't care anymore.”

“That's brave. You know what your daughter did today?”

“She's out of your reach, you bastard.”

“She ate one slice of bread,” the ghost said. “Drank some river water. She screamed at her instructors in the obstacle course, got put in a sack, John. A big burlap thing with a chain through it. Duct tape on her mouth. They locked her in a small room with no windows for two hours.”

John sank to his knees, the phone pressed against his ear, his forehead bowing toward the pavement that smelled of pigeon crap and rain.

“I can get to her anytime, John. Do anything I want.”

All his confidence drained away. Mallory was a little girl again, shivering in a huge black recliner, waiting for him to rescue her, her eyes accusing him for being gone so long.

“Please,” he said. “Leave her alone.”

“You have your instructions, John. You're going to cooperate. You know it's for the best. That is what we all want, isn't it? We all want a happy ending. Don't we?”

“My daughter—”

“She's asleep now. In a little cinder block cabin. She's shivering. No heat. She's hungry. They yell at her every morning, noon, and night. If you had custody, you could sign your name to some papers and have her home. Or do you want me to take care of her for you?”

“I'm online now.”

“That's good. The problem is, you used up your one call. Do what I told you. I'll be in touch. And John—you don't have any leeway left. Understand me?”

The line went dead.

John looked up at the screen of his laptop—the screensaver etching orange curlicues in the darkness.

He thought of his father's eyes, as bright as shattered glass, staring out at the lights of Sausalito as if they were patches of ship wreckage, burning on the Okinawan Sea.

Then John began to type.

10

“Kindra Jones—Chadwick,” Hunter said. “Mix it up.”

They shook hands, Chadwick trying to hold down his feeling of wariness, thinking about how many times he had replayed this scene with different women.

Kindra Jones was lithe, athletic, her hair in cornrows. She had perfect Nefertiti features, her long neck inclined slightly forward. Black horn-rimmed glasses, gold stud in her nose and clothes that seemed randomly chosen from dryers at the laundromat—camouflage and corduroy; olive, brown, muddy blue.

She had a firm handshake and a cocky smile that Chadwick immediately liked—and then, just as immediately, dreaded, thinking that she was destined to be another coin lost in the wishing well.

“Jones is from California,” Hunter put in. “You'll get along fine.”

As if all Californians were one happy family. But Chadwick nodded politely. “Where from?” he asked her.

“Alameda,” Jones told him. “And Sacramento. And a few other places. Papa was a rolling stone.”

She wasn't old enough to know that song, and the fact she did, almost made Chadwick smile.

Hunter gave them a quick briefing—the dozen clients he needed to schedule for pickup, twice that many gray and tan levels to process out to the other facilities. Business was good. The escort service couldn't afford downtime.

“And now, Ms. Jones,” Hunter said, handing her a stack of files to read, “if you would excuse me, I have a few things to go over with Chadwick.”

“See you,” Jones said, and her smile suggested she was really looking forward to starting work.

When she was gone, Chadwick said, “Promising.”

“Yeah,” Hunter said absently. “BA in education. Good recs. I'm sure you'll drive her away.”

“Cynic.”

Hunter pushed aside a paper plate of half-eaten cafeteria food—turkey, cranberry sauce, pumpkin bread. He switched on his main monitor, began rewinding a green-tinted surveillance tape.

Chadwick said, “You left the staff party pretty early.”

Hunter waved the comment aside. “Come here. I want you to see this.”

Chadwick pulled a chair around the side of the desk. He watched the tape rewind—ghostly figures moving backwards, bars of silver static.

Truth was, he'd been glad to leave the party himself. It had been the first time he'd seen his ex-partner Olsen since she'd quit escorting. He wasn't good at avoiding people, even when it was clear that was what Olsen wanted. She'd stood chatting with a group of other counselors, wearing her new white uniform, trying not to make eye contact with him, which wasn't easy. Given her basketball player's stature, the two of them had easily been the tallest people at the party.

“There,” Hunter said, stopping the tape and letting it run forward.

The camera angle was Black Level Clearing Three—looking down from a tree branch just outside the barracks. It was a night-vision shot, so everything in the picture glowed. Black Level students were being mustered in for dawn exercises. The instructor was Frank Leyland. Counselors shouldn't have been on duty yet—they usually didn't join the fun until after morning drills—but Chadwick recognized Olsen. She stood with her back to a mesquite tree, her blond hair and white fatigues blurred in the film like a bleach stain.

Mallory Zedman stumbled out of the barracks.

An assistant instructor was right behind her—yelling, though there was no sound. Mallory kept turning away from him, refusing to get in line. Then Olsen came up, put her hand on Mallory's shoulder, said something. Mallory reluctantly got into formation.

Leyland paced back and forth, issuing orders, lecturing—like any morning inspection. Then Mallory detached herself from the line. She stepped toward Olsen with something in her fist, something that glinted.

Olsen didn't see her coming until Mallory was on top of her. Then it was too late. Mallory's arm flashed and then she ran.

Chaos in the line. The kids broke in every direction. Olsen staggered, clutching her shoulder. The assistant instructor ran to Olsen's aid. Leyland started after Mallory.

Hunter hit the pause button, froze Leyland mid-stride, canted forward like an Olympian statue.

“Kitchen knife,” he said. “She had it in the sleeve of her sweatshirt.”

“Black levels eat in camp. They don't go anywhere near the cafeteria. Where'd she get it?”

“A staff member must've gotten careless, left it somewhere. I find out who, I'm going to grind them into rebarb. The point is, the Zedman girl is resourceful. And determined.”

“I just saw Olsen at the party. She said nothing about this.”

“She insisted we not make a big deal about it. Got three stitches and a tetanus shot and she wants to keep working with Zedman. The girl has spirit, amigo. I can see why you wanted to keep her.”

Hunter hit another button on his surveillance console, brought up a live shot.

It was like looking into a well—just a shaft of gray brick. Mallory was sitting with her back against the door, as if to keep anyone else from coming in. She was mumbling something. It could've been a lullaby, judging from her expression.

As if she knew they were watching, she stopped singing and looked straight up at the camera. Her eyes were like a marathon runner's in the middle of a course, just when the real pain was setting in.

“Has she eaten?” Chadwick asked.

“Been two days. We'll have to force-feed soon.” Hunter's tone was dry. Force-feeding was one of the extreme measures even he disliked. “I'm not saying we haven't dealt with worse . . .”

“Let me talk to her,” Chadwick said.

Hunter sat back in his huge leather chair. He stared at the only photo on his desk—his father, the Reverend Asa Hunter, Sr.

Hunter often professed dislike for his father, had run away when he was fifteen, joined the Air Force when he was seventeen. And yet there was the Reverend's picture—the implacable African Methodist Episcopal who had turned his son into the most biblically well-versed atheist in the world.

“I spoke with your friend at Oakland Homicide,” Hunter told Chadwick. “Sergeant Damarodas.”

“Since when is he my friend?”

“They identified two people's blood at the scene. Talia Montrose's. The other—smaller amount. They're assuming the attacker. DNA says chances are a billion to one the attacker was related to the victim.”

“Samuel Montrose?”

“Police are still looking for the younger brother, Race. They still want to talk to Mallory. Damarodas thinks she may have seen the murder.”

“You reconsidering giving him access?”

Anyone besides Chadwick probably wouldn't have sensed Hunter's uneasiness, it was so slight—as hard to see, as insubstantial as a tripwire.

“You know a guy named David Kraft?” Hunter asked him.

“A friend of my daughter's. Works at Laurel Heights now.”

“Damarodas talked to him—wanted to get some background on you, Katherine, that necklace they found. David Kraft said he used to date your daughter. He admitted that once, to score some pot, he took her to this place he knew—the Montrose house. He's the one introduced them.”

Chadwick flexed his fingers, which suddenly felt stiff and swollen. “There's no point bringing all that up now.”

“So I told Damarodas. Except, according to Kraft, your daughter took an instant liking to the dealer, Samuel. She dumped David Kraft pretty quick after that, but he claims Katherine and Samuel got involved—heavily involved. Romantically.”

On the surveillance screen, Mallory was serenading her knee, prodding it with her finger as if there were a tiny bug there.

“The night I told you about,” Chadwick said, “the one time I saw Samuel. I was taking Katherine home from the Oakland police station and she told me about him. She said she was in love. She was going to run away with him.”

“That's why you came to see me,” Hunter guessed. “You needed to get her out of there, bring her to Texas. And then, before you could, she committed suicide. That's why you're afraid of Samuel. You think he holds you responsible for her death.”

Chadwick said nothing.

Hunter leaned forward. “I don't like this, amigo. I don't like finding things out about you from a homicide cop.”

“Asa, I didn't tell anyone about Katherine and Samuel. Not even Norma.”

“And now the police are going after a student of mine to frame some poor black kid.”

“Frame?”

“The cops aren't buying the Samuel Montrose angle. They're not going to expend any effort to find the guy. Easy money is on Race.”

“Damarodas said that?”

“He didn't have to. Maybe I'm reading between the lines here, giving Damarodas too much credit, but the man sounded like he was warning me. Said he was coming down here—even gave me a date, a week from Monday.”

“You going to let him in?”

“Not if I can help it. Thing is, Damarodas hinted that John Zedman was throwing his weight around, having lunch with the chief of police, shit like that. I got the impression they're trying to cut a deal—drop accessory charges against Mallory if she provides testimony against Race Montrose. Damarodas told me Talia Montrose sold her house for twice what it was worth just before she died. Damarodas is pretty certain John Zedman worked that deal—paying her off for some reason. That's all being overlooked by Damarodas' superiors. I don't think the sergeant was completely happy with that.”

“We're agreed on that point.”

“So I'm asking you again—is there leverage the Montroses might've had on John Zedman? Anything he had to hide?”

“I don't know.” Chadwick held his eyes. “But Damarodas didn't have to wait so long to visit. He didn't have to warn you, either. It's almost like he's giving us time to find out.”

Hunter's gaze shifted to the monitor. He tapped his knuckle on Mallory Zedman's forehead. “I don't like this, Chadwick. This kid would sell us south in a minute. When you talk to her, you tell her I'm going to save her sorry butt anyway. She's going to go through the program. She's got no choice about that.”

Chadwick managed a smile. “Thank you, Asa.”

“She wants to tell you something, fine. But don't make it into a deal. This is about compliance to authority, not co-opting.”

Chadwick studied the unrelenting face of Reverend Asa, Sr., and wondered if that were a quote from him. He said nothing.

“Keep to the weekly schedule. I gave you a pickup in Menlo Park Thursday. Kindra Jones goes along with you—we'll treat it as standard time on the job. But you'll have the day in the Bay Area, just in case you wanted to do anything. Understood?”

“You're the best, Asa.”

“I'm flying down to the Playa Verde campus for a couple of days,” Hunter said, “but you've got my number. You find out something, I'm the first one to know. Are we clear on that?”

His tone was even, but the set of his jaw, the veins standing out like a root system on his bald scalp, made Chadwick think of the afternoon, long ago, when Hunter had thrown his knife at a live oak tree, over and over, until his hand blistered and the bark of the tree erupted in wet white splinters.

“We're clear,” Chadwick promised.

As he left, three people were staring at him—Hunter, the Reverend and the glowing apparition of Mallory Zedman, singing him a soundless lullaby.