No, thanks. I’d rather count cars on the highway.
Camper, going north. SUV tailgating it. Sports car hugging the southbound curve and disappearing in the fog. Big white pickup, jacked up on oversized tires, a bar of lights on top of the cab. Got a lotta those here in redneck country. I’ve seen at least ten just like it. Another camper. Another. Got a lotta them to...
6:59 P.M.
Fifty cars later, and I can’t keep from thinking. About that last night in the canyon. About Jude and Leo, too. Him I miss in a weird way, but her — God, she’s been a pain in the ass. Some people die graceful, but not Jude, oh no. Bitch, whine, erase the few good memories I had of her.
And that canyon... What was it Jude said? Oh yeah: “We all have a place that our minds return to long after it’s been altered by time and its inhabitants are gone. The canyon is mine.”
I oughta remember, she said it three times Saturday night. Real proud of herself for thinking of it, even if she was in a bad way. Still claims she’s a poet. Poet, my ass!
It’s been almost two hours now, and no tow truck. He’s gotta be coming soon. I can’t stay in the car much longer. I’m so scared my skin feels tight, and it’s hard to breathe. I’ll stand outside for a while, duck down if anybody but the tow truck stops.
Funny, now I’m more scared of what’s inside of me than what might be outside in the dark.
7:10 P.M.
Pickup, turn signal on, slowing down. Help, or—?
No help. No nothing. It’s speeding up and the signal’s off. Man and a woman inside, heading south. They saw me, I didn’t duck in time.
Jesus, do I look that scary? I mean, I’d never pass for no Girl Scout, but I don’t look like an escaped con either. And this Mercedes sports car is about as respectable as cars get.
I’m starting to hate this place. Really hate it. What’s wrong with the people here?
7:45 P.M.
God, it’s dark, except when a car comes along. I hate the dark, always sleep with a light on—
Something coming. Get ready to duck. But wait a minute—
It’s the tow truck! About time, dammit.
Lights shining in my eyes. Come to Chryssie. And don’t make no excuses about how long it took. Just get me outta this miserable hole.
He’s climbing down, walking over here. Big and slow and probably stupid. He’s not saying anything and he’s not looking under the hood. He’s—
Oh no! No!
Oh my God not this!
Saturday, October 7
“Well, aren’t you a lovely sight.”
Sheriff’s Deputy Rhoda Swift leaned closer to her bathroom mirror, not liking what she saw. Puffy skin, reddened eyes, dark circles — the evidence was all there.
“Tied one on, didn’t you, lady?”
Seven years ago after Zach finally moved out, she’d been shocked when she realized she’d started talking to herself. Now she accepted these conversations as routine, even enjoyed them. But not on mornings like this.
Granted, her bad mornings were seldom due to excessive drinking. Zach’s leaving had forced her to take a good hard look at her use of both booze and pills, and for two years after that she’d touched neither. She still shunned the pills, and her alcohol intake was normally limited to the occasional glass of beer or wine, but certain events on last night’s patrol had tipped her carefully balanced scales, and this morning she’d have to confront an empty bottle beside the kitchen sink.
Worse than the evidence of her self-indulgent behavior was the image that had filled her dreams: that of a slender young woman in cutoff jeans and a blue tube top standing beside a disabled sports car, her long blonde hair blowing in the breeze.
Rho had spotted the car at the Point Deception turnout at 4:35 P.M. yesterday while returning north along Highway 1 from a routine call. Old black Mercedes, two-seater, vintage early eighties, body in good condition, but problems under the raised hood. Driver, she thought, must be off getting a tow truck. She’d note it in her log so the morning shift officer would know to tag it if it hadn’t been removed by then.
She’d driven past, looking for the mileage marker, when she saw the woman leaning against the Mercedes’ rear bumper, arms folded against the chill on the air, dressed all wrong for this changeable climate. Probably had more money than good sense. Bought a nice classic car, then didn’t maintain it. Even if she had a cell phone, it wouldn’t work on this remote stretch, so now she was stranded, undoubtedly without food or water, and too lazy to hike to one of the houses scattered over this sparsely populated area. Rich people!
Rho noted the marker’s number and pulled over on the shoulder to let a logging truck pass before making a U-turn toward the disabled vehicle, but the radio interrupted her.
“Unit four-five-zero.”
She keyed the mike. “Four-five-zero.”
“What’s your location?”
“One-half mile north of Point Deception turnout.”
“Proceed to intersection of Mar Vista and Sheep Ranch Road. Ten-five-seven, Code Two.”
Ten-five-seven: firearms discharged. Code Two: urgent.
The twisting in her stomach was no longer knife sharp, as it had been for years after she responded to her first call of that type. But the tingle in her throat and quick choking sensation — she shouldn’t have that reaction.
After all, a tragedy like that couldn’t happen again.
And of course it couldn’t, she thought now in morning’s sensible light. Last night’s 10–57 had borne no resemblance to the one which triggered the six-year binge of drinking and pill taking that culminated in her losing her husband. Just a couple of teenagers taking out mailboxes with their father’s Model 12. She’d lectured them and hauled them home for another lecture that began before she was out the door. Still, she’d allowed her preoccupation with that call and the others that followed to prevent her from checking on the woman at Point Deception until her shift was nearly over, and when she’d arrived there the Mercedes was still in the turnout, its hood raised, but its driver was gone.
A routine stop, nothing irregular about the situation, so why had she yielded to the compulsion to drink when she got home? And why had the woman’s image been superimposed upon the landscape of her already troubled dreams?
Of course Rho knew the answer: It was the time of year when, for her, everything took on a disturbing and distorted shape. Five days from now — October 12 — marked the thirteenth anniversary of that first 10–57, and the mass murder in Cascada Canyon.
Guy Newberry leaned toward the motel room mirror to inspect the nick he’d just made on his chin and realized his hands were shaking. He hadn’t slept well the night before, owing to the strange bed, the unaccustomed sound of the sea, and too much fried food and beer for dinner. And each time he’d awakened, it was with the nagging sense of something left undone, with potential serious consequences.
He gave up on a smooth shave, pressed a wad of toilet paper to his chin, and went to stand on the room’s small balcony. Nine thirty in the morning, and the fog was lifting. It looked as though it would be another beautiful day. So why the unsettled feeling—?