A moment later she saw the Newport map vanish, replaced by a new one.
"University of California, San Diego," he called back. "The School of Medicine."
Merci thought about those three specific geographical points, came up with nothing whatsoever. "That gadget will give you address, won't it?"
"Yeah, sure," said Leitzel. "That's how you cue up the map in first place."
Leitzel gave Ike his hand and Ike gave Merci his other and Lei leaned in again. She heard the click of the controls, could see changing lights on the LCD screen.
"Here's the UCSD address."
He started to read it to her, but she stopped him and called Zamorra over. He looked at them with some amusement as Merci told him get the blue notebook and pen from her windbreaker pocket, take do some addresses and wipe the smirk off his face.
Merci could find no useful tracks left by a pickup vehicle. Tracks, yes, but too many of them. And too faint, also, with the gravel content high and the summer too dry to let the shoulder pack down hard enough hold a pattern. Dust to dust. She had to figure that Ike's foot casts would also be too vague to help.
Still, she had Leitzel photograph what looked like two distinct set of tire tracks.
Then, with her flashlight quartering the darkness in front of her, she walked to the culvert that ran along the road between the dirt and the strawberry fields. The ditch was wide and steep and she could see a trickle of liquid down at the bottom. The moon was behind the hill now. The smell of the fruit hit her again. Funny how it comes and goes, she thought-not like the oranges.
She took two long steps down the bank and stopped again, surrounded by the dank rounded smell of old water. Quiet here. Brush and weeds to her left and right, cattails down near the stream. She could hear the frogs and crickets now, with the noise of the blast generator trapped above her. Something rustled in the grass, then splashed.
She took four more long sideways strides, which brought her the bed. The scar on her side felt tight and irritating. She thought being surprised from behind, remembered the awful realization that she was about to get shot and how long it took to go down.
The culvert was lined with concrete. Her light picked up the dark shimmer of water and the black shine of mud. She slowly turned a circle with the flashlight beam leading the way. A soft drink can, smashed. A foam fast-food container, partial. One tire, automobile. One refrigerator, doorless. One garden hose, cracked and faded.
On her way back up the side, Merci kept moving her flashlight beam left to right, then back again, hoping to find a little swatch of red in the darkness and the brush.
Near the top of the embankment, she did. She climbed her way through the brush, then settled on her knees for a better look. It was a red shop rag. Half wadded, half loose. When she lifted it with a stick the wadded part stayed together, like it was held with glue. Or God knew what, thought Merci.
She slipped a new paper lunch bag from one of her hip pocketsalways carried three on a crime scene investigation-and popped it open with one hand. It took five tries. Then she teased the shop rag inside with the stick. Dropped in the stick for good measure.
Too bad you can't get fingerprints off a rag used to wipe fingerprints, she thought. But there was plenty else Size Sixteen might not have thought of when he tossed the rag: skin particles, hair, fiber from clothing or furniture or carpet or cars, dandruff, sweat. And what's holding the wadded-up cloth together, Size Sixteen? Did you blow your fat murderous nose before you chucked the rag into the bushes? Maybe I can send you to death row on snot evidence.
She stood on top of the embankment, a few yards back from the edge, looking again for footprints. None. Too much brush, too many weeds. And the generator noise again, rattling her nerves.
Suddenly a shadow rose behind her, clear in the floodlights. Her heart jumped and she wheeled. Her hand found the nine but she caught herself.
"Oh, Paul!"
He stopped dead, hands up. "You okay?"
"Perfect."
He looked at her but she saw he understood. Understood that a memory can be heavy as an engine block and sharp as a razor. Through the thumping in her chest and the ringing in her ears she see could again what she'd loved first and best about Zamorra: all the thing didn't need to be told, all the things he just got.
"The deputies interviewed George Massati," he said. "George was angry because he'd been sleeping. George claimed his car wasn't stolen, that it was in the garage. Guess what? It was. But the plates were different. So our friends were thorough enough to steal one car, then slap on plates stolen from another one, figuring it might take the owner a while to notice his plates had changed."
"Cute," she said. Her heart was still racing and part of her felt like a hysterical dope. The other part of her felt like a ghost had just his fingers up her thigh. She took a good deep breath of air into lungs.
"What's in the bag?" Zamorra asked.
"A red shop rag. I think it was thrown into the culvert so wouldn't find it."
He nodded, smiled slightly. "You're better than perfect. You're good."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Early the next morning Archie opened his eyes. In the half-light of the ICU he saw the silhouettes of the monitor and drip trolley, the crimson swoosh of someone leaving the room. He lifted his head, rising just slightly on his elbows, and backed up onto his pillow.
Gwen is dead, he thought. The huge black nothing that was now Gwen opened up to him and he felt his heart falling down into the center of it. It was still beating as it fell, but it felt reluctant. He thought it might stop. He waited for it to stop. He saw that bright flash of light in his eyes, the one that had greeted him on his walkway under the trees.
And he heard the voice again, the one that had been telling him what to do for these last forty-eight hours, now saying:
Your heart is strong. I'm above you in the sky. You will find me if you look.
Archie realized it was Gwen's voice, even though he still couldn't picture her face.
Another red rush of movement outside the door, then it came straight at him: "Oh, Mr. Wyocraff! Mr. Wyocraff! It's so good! You be careful, you be careful with a IV." Warm hands on his shoulder then and a dull pain that registered as a flash of lime green. "You take it easy, Mr. Wyocraff. You our miracle. You take it easy."
"Sure," he heard himself say. The voice was sandy and tan and seemed to come from far away.
Four more people suddenly crowded into the room. He felt the energy they brought with them, as if their bodies contained fires. Hands on his shoulder again, and another throb of pain.
Another nurse, then: "Archie, we're going to move you back down in the bed, then raise the head, okay? You just relax now…"
They pulled him down by his ankles. A nurse steadied his head and it felt like she wore oven mitts, and he wondered if his head was wrapped. A motor ground and the bed rose slightly, bending him the waist. His head hurt only a little. But a burning match touched the tip of his penis and he very slowly tilted down his head for a look. Catheter, he thought, and tried to say the word but it wasn't worth the syllables.
He strained his neck for a look down at his shoulder. Through the hospital smock he could see the plastic gadget with an intravenous line hooked into it. He ran his right hand across his cheek: hard stubb. He raised the hand slightly and felt the soft turban of gauze that came down to his ears. When he slipped the finger under it he realized they'd shaved his head.
He remembered that Gwen was dead and he waited for his heart to stop.
The four bodies parted. A man in a suit stopped beside the bed, looked at Archie and said, "I'm John Stebbins. How are you feeling?"
Archie managed a nod.
Dr. Stebbins stared into his eyes like he was looking for a treasure.