Jericho Point (37 page)

I was a hundred yards behind the Suzuki. Jesse was another hundred behind me. I pinged him on the phone. ‘‘It’s starting to feel naked out here.’’

‘‘Only a few places he can turn off between here and the point. Drop back if you’re nervous.’’

‘‘We can’t lose him.’’

We headed into open countryside. To my right the mountains blocked the sky. To my left the ocean spread in a satin void across the horizon. Only the occasional wink of light from an offshore oil platform broke the blackness. We passed El Capitán Beach, and Refugio. Passed dirt roads that turned off toward coves and cliffs. Passed a half-hidden road leading through trees to an oil refinery. We crossed the Tajiguas Canyon bridge.

Jesse said, ‘‘I think I know where he’s headed.’’

‘‘Where?’’

‘‘The Cojo Oil pier, out past Gaviota Beach. Moor a sailboat there in the dark, and it would be impossible to spot from the road. And a coast guard search boat would have to come way around the point to spot it.’’

‘‘Then I’ll call Lily Rodriguez.’’

Over the phone, I heard him talking to Marc. ‘‘No, we have a decision to make. There are two roads to the pier. The first is the one everybody knows about, but it’s slower, with cattle guards, a creek, and gates. The second one’s farther up the freeway, but if we push it we can beat Shaun by miles.’’

‘‘So take the second road.’’

‘‘Here’s the problem. The first road also leads to Aubrey’s Cove. You could anchor a boat there and row a rubber raft to the beach. If that’s where Shaun’s going, we’d lose him. And we wouldn’t get back for half an hour. Way too late.’’

‘‘Your call,’’ I said.

The engine droned. ‘‘Okay, stick with me.’’

‘‘What are you going to do?’’

‘‘Improvise.’’

The truck swallowed the road. The white line blurred past. ‘‘I’m giving Lily the heads up. We’re way the hell out here. It’s going to take deputies God knows how long to catch up. But they can send a car to the cove as well as the pier.’’

‘‘Do it.’’

But Lily’s phone was switched off. I got Gary Zelinski, who sounded irked in the extreme. ‘‘Following Shaun Kutner? Do you know there’s a warrant out for his arrest? He’s a wanted murderer. You should have phoned in this information when you first found it.’’

‘‘You can scold me, or you can send the deputies to this pier.’’

‘‘I’ll send them. You just sit tight. All of you.’’

Hanging up, I strained to see Shaun ahead. We crested a rise, and his brake lights came on. He pulled off the highway, turning toward the beach. I backed off the gas.

The Mustang came screaming past me, blowing right by the turnoff. I punched Jesse’s phone number.

‘‘Blackburn. You’re improvising at a hundred miles an hour.’’

‘‘We’re taking the chance. Come on.’’

His taillights were diminishing. I passed the first turnoff, seeing a sign that read COJO OIL. Sitting tight wasn’t an option. I followed him.

Dust thickening in the moonlight. With the headlights off, that was the only sign I had that the Mustang was still on the road ahead. We were curving downhill along a gully toward the beach, and the asphalt had run out half a mile back.

Jesse’s brake lights came on. I stopped behind him, and through the swarm of dust saw Marc jump from the Mustang and run ahead. He pushed open the gate to a cyclone fence. We drove through. Posted on the gate was PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING. COJO OIL.

Trickling water lit up the ground to our left. The road paralleled a stream. Ahead, moonlight tickled the ocean’s surface. We drove across the stream and Jesse stopped. I got out and my breath frosted the air. The salt bite was sharp on the night. Jesse put down his window.

‘‘I don’t want to drive any closer. But if you go up to that rise, you’ll be able to see the beach and the pier.’’

Marc got out of the Mustang. We jogged up the rise. In the brush uphill from us, oil pumps rocked up and down. They looked like giant grasshoppers seesawing in the night. As soon as we topped the hill, the wind caught us. It was bitter. The surf was angry, spraying white mist in the moonlight. The pier stretched ahead of us, running half a mile into the water. On it were more oil pumps, a couple of derricks, and stacks of drilling equipment. The cyclone gate onto the pier was chained shut in the middle. The surf roared through the pilings.

Marc crouched down and pointed at the far end of the pier. ‘‘Boat landing.’’

I squinted at the darkness. I could barely make out a wooden staircase leading down from the top of the pier to the water.

His voice rumbled. ‘‘And Toby’s boat’s moored alongside.’’

‘‘You can see that?’’ All I could make out was a bobbing blob. ‘‘Are those the lights in the cabin?’’

‘‘Can’t distinguish any movement. The curtains must be closed.’’ He continued staring. ‘‘How much time do we have?’’

‘‘Sheriffs might take twenty minutes. Shaun, ten minutes max.’’

He glanced at his luminous blue watch. ‘‘It’s five till ten. Whoever’s downtown hoping to collect the fifty thou off the bus, in five minutes they’re going to know it’s blown.’’

‘‘We can’t wait. We have to go.’’ I turned.

He took my arm, stopping me. ‘‘Jesse won’t be able to get down the stairs to that boat. What’s he going to do?’’

‘‘Whatever it takes, Marc. He’ll go all the way, and beyond.’’

Marc’s eyes were black under the moonlight. The wind kicked up, raking my face. The surf slammed through the workings of the pier. Marc turned and ran back to the Mustang.

He clasped the windowsill. ‘‘We only have a few minutes. I say we screw stealth.’’

Jesse nodded. ‘‘Absolutely. You have the tonnage. I’ll run interference.’’

Marc pounded his hand on the roof of the car and sprinted for the pickup.

‘‘Wait.’’ Jesse held out the Glock. ‘‘Take it.’’

Marc jammed it in the small of his back. ‘‘When I get your brother and the girl, I’m going to rip straight out of here and keep going until I reach safe ground. Make sure I have a clear path out.’’

He ran to the truck. Jesse called to me, pointing at the hillside and telling me to get down behind the rise, out of sight. Marc slammed the pickup door and started the engine. His headlights flipped on, high beam. Jesse started the Mustang.

Marc was going to get P.J., and Jesse was going to throw himself in front of anybody who tried to stop that. He wanted me out of harm’s way. And I knew what counted, and what he needed.

I ran to the pickup and climbed in. Marc gave me a critical eye, but didn’t stop me.

‘‘Buckle up and cinch it down.’’

He jammed it in gear. The engine groaned, the truck gaining speed over the rise. I buckled my seat belt, feeling the truck gather itself and power down the hill toward the pier.

Marc upshifted. ‘‘Hang on.’’

I braced myself. This wasn’t a movie, and that was no breakaway prop straight ahead, and hell, here it came, a big metal gate chained shut in the middle, shining silver in the headlights. We crashed straight into it.

Sparks jumped. The truck shuddered. I swung against the seat belt and felt a stabbing pain in my ribs. The gate ripped from its hinges and flipped onto the hood, shrieking. Marc kept his foot down. The gate screeched across the windshield, flew aside, and we careered out onto the pier, climbing the incline, hearing the wooden rattle of the planks beneath us.

Marc’s voice was calm. ‘‘I’ll go down the stairs to the boat. You take the wheel. Turn the truck around so that when I come back we’re ready to roll.’’

We raced out onto the pier, passing oil pumps and equipment sheds, a derrick spiking into the sky, a flatbed truck stacked with drill casings. There was no guardrail, just railroad ties spiked along the edges of the pier like curbs. The ocean spread on either side of us far below, a maw. Straight ahead, where the pier ended, were a crane and hoists and then darkness. Marc steered, eyes straight ahead.

I looked back through the rear window of the cab. The beach was a thin strip, immensely distant. The Mustang was parked at the foot of the pier, blocking it.

‘‘Get ready,’’ Marc said.

I braced. My ribs were aching. He braked sharply and we screeched to a stop next to the staircase, ten feet from the end of the pier.

‘‘Take it.’’

He leaped from the cab. I clambered over the gearshift into the driver’s seat. He had the gun in his hand. He racked the slide and charged down the stairs out of sight.

I put the truck in gear. My legs felt like water. Spinning the wheel, I began turning around. The pier was narrow, and when I got the truck angled sideways all I could see, fore and aft, was night. I turned by feel, knowing that the truck’s big tires could easily run over the eight-inch curbs and swan-dive straight down to the water. Inching, forward and reverse, teasing the clutch, I got the pickup aimed back toward shore. I put down the windows, hoping to hear something. Anything. The wind howled. I pulled forward of the staircase so that when Marc returned he could jump straight in. P.J. and Devi could climb in the cargo bed.

I heard the screech of the wind, and the slur of the ocean rushing through the pilings. The clang of metal from the crane at the end of the pier.

Low sounds. Hard, popping sounds swallowed by the wind. My airway constricted. God, tell me those weren’t gunshots. In the rearview mirror I peered at the top of the staircase.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. I saw someone. Wild curls, skirt swirling around her legs. It was Devi Goldman, running toward me.

She jumped in. ‘‘Drive!’’

‘‘Where’s Marc?’’

‘‘They’re shooting. Fuck, fuck, drive!’’

I looked at the stairway. ‘‘Does Marc have P.J.?’’

She stared at me, wild-eyed. ‘‘P.J.’s dead.’’

It felt as if an archer had loosed an arrow deep into my forehead. Shock, pain, electricity running down my chest and through my limbs. A high-frequency ringing in my ears.

‘‘Go, crap, go.’’ She looked back at the staircase. And screamed.

A new figure was climbing the stairs. The moon shone off a white T-shirt and a gleaming skull. It was Murphy.

He had a gun in his hand. He raised it and fired. The back window of the cab shattered. Devi and I jumped, and she screamed again. I slammed the truck into gear.

And reversed straight into him.

I hit him, heard a thud, and braked, because the crane was right behind me, and the crane was at the end of the pier. Devi kept screaming. I put it in first and drove forward. I couldn’t see Murphy behind me anymore.

‘‘You ran him over. You ran him fucking over.’’ Devi’s mouth was wide.

I certainly fucking did. I put it in reverse and backed up again. And forward. And back again. I felt like I was in a trance. Up and down the pier, swerving, stomping on the gas and the brake, hearing the tires spin, smelling rubber, trying to cover every inch of wood. Flatten you like a tick, Murphy. But I heard no more thuds. Felt no bumps.

‘‘Where’d he go?’’ I said. ‘‘Where the hell is he?’’

‘‘Who cares? Get out of here.’’

Murphy had to be down. Dead or unconscious, or gone over the edge. Otherwise he’d be shooting at us.

Devi slapped my arm. ‘‘Why are you sitting here? Go. Go, go, go.’’

I grabbed her by the hair. ‘‘Stop it. Who’s still down on the boat?’’

Her mouth yawned into an oval. ‘‘What is wrong with you?’’

‘‘Toby Price?’’

‘‘No, he left.’’

‘‘When?’’ I pulled harder on her hair.

She tried to claw my hands loose. ‘‘Forty-five minutes ago, to get the money.’’

‘‘So tell me. Who. Is. On. The. Boat.’’

‘‘The black man who came charging down.’’

‘‘Where’s P.J.?’’

‘‘Murphy took him off. Toby told him he didn’t want any mess on the boat.’’

‘‘Mess? You mean killing?’’

‘‘Yeah. Right before he left,’’ she said.

‘‘So when Marc came down—’’

‘‘It was just me and Murphy on the boat. Let go of my hair.’’

So where had Murphy taken P.J.? The arrow of pain dug into my skull. He had dumped him. My stomach was churning. I looked at the staircase. No sign of Marc.

I looked toward shore. Jesse was waiting there for his brother. No, don’t think about it. Think and I would lose it, uncontrollably. I’d be useless. And I had to hold on.

I opened the door. ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’

‘‘What?’’

I stepped carefully out onto the pier. The wind keened around me. My foot touched the wood. Nothing grabbed my ankle. Murphy wasn’t under the truck, pulling a
Cape Fear
. I reached into the bed for Marc’s golf bag and pulled out the driver.

‘‘Marc’s down there on the boat. Is he hurt?’’ I said.

Her face was disbelieving. ‘‘You’re leaving me here?’’

‘‘I’ll be right back. Was he hurt?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘Right back. You’re okay. Sit tight.’’

And holding the golf club like a mace, I charged down the stairs toward the boat landing. The wind needled my hands and face. The water roared below me. After five steps, my courage started flaking off like old paint. I wanted help, but I’d never get Devi back down here. I kept going. Halfway down, the stairs hinged—from fixed to floating, so that along with the landing platform they could rise and fall with the tide. I stepped onto them and felt as if I’d mounted a bareback horse at a gallop.

I took my eyes off my descent and saw a bad sight: The sailboat had come unmoored from the landing. It was wallowing loose, starting a slow spin. The ocean shrugged and slammed the boat against the landing. Fiberglass shrieked.

I cupped a hand to my mouth. ‘‘Marc.’’

The hinged stairs bucked with the rise and fall of the water. The boat slammed against the landing. It jolted me. I grabbed for the railing, slipped, and fell back on the stairs. The golf club twirled loose and fell. I heard my cell phone crack.