Don't Leave Me (19 page)

And sometimes, Chuck thought, you just have to get mad.

He remembered in seminary, what they called the imprecatory psalms. The ones where David raged against his enemies, calling down wrath on them. And he was a king. He had it pretty good. He had an army, too. I’m a guy in bare feet in the wild at night and hands tied in front of him.

But rage is going to keep me going.

Serbian mobsters. On our shores. Cockroaches. Step on them.

How’s that for an imprecatory psalm?

Chuck laughed, and was glad he still had that capacity. He was moving like a blindfolded man across a mine field. Each clump in front of him had to be felt with either hand or foot, the way a blind person would use a cane. But up top he did not see the lights of a car, waiting. He was a good distance from the point where he’d gone over the edge. Maybe they were gone now.

Maybe they’d be back.

Chuck stepped on something hard and sharp. He pulled his foot back before putting full weight on it. He bent over and felt around. His hands found the rock. It was about the size of a baseball, but flatter. One side of it came to a dull point.

Chuck picked it up and parked his butt. He set the rock point side up on the ground, between his knees. Using his knees like a crude vice, he held the rock in place and started working the duct tape against the point. All he needed was a tear, and he could do the rest with his teeth. But the tape had several layers of thickness to it.

He counted ten passes over the rock before he felt a rip. He tried rolling his wrists to get more play. The tape held firm.

This was going to take some time. But it wasn’t like he was late for a train. Nah, I got nothing to do, boys, how about we play the tie up and try to escape game? Let’s do it at night in the middle of nowhere, too.

He rubbed the tape on his crude cutting rock, the caveman discovering tools. Give me a flint and I’ll make fire. Ugh.

Stay mad, Chuck. Stay mad.

Stationary, he was aware now of only the sound of the occasional car passing on the street above, and the
phtt
of tape against stone. The whole thing was rhythmic now. Maybe he’d invented a new sound. Duct tape jazz.

He felt a significant tear in the tape. This time his wrists
could
move. He got about a half inch more of play.

Then heard something moving in the brush. Something very close.

.

Sandy Epperson said, “Mark.”

“What the hell time is it?”

“Time to talk. I found something.”

“It better be Jimmy Hoffa.” Mark’s voice sounded thick and slurry on the phone. Sandy couldn’t blame him for being mad. But if you want to be a homicide detective, you have to learn that sleep is a luxury. What better time to give it to him than now?

“Better,” she said. “I found a connection.”

“This can’t wait?”

“It’s hot on my mind.” She knew Mark was well aware of that phrase. It was one of the first things she taught him—to talk to the partner when something is hot on your mind. In the initial phase of forming a case theory, it was the synergy of front burner thoughts and the partner’s fresh input that could make all the difference.

“I got another word for what’s on your mind,” Mark said. “But go ahead.”

“How about the Raymond Hunt Academy?”

Pause. “What, Samson’s school?”

“Yes. From Ed Hillary to Ray Hunt, to—”

“Wait. Ed who?”

“Hillary, the guy who ran down Samson’s wife.”

“You still on that thing in Beaman?”

“There’s a through-line there.” The most important aspect of detective work for Sandy was the through-line. Even in the most complex cases you could always find a main thread, something that ran through the entire series of events. Almost always it was related to motive.

“What does this have to do with Nunn?” Mark said.

“Nunn connects up to Samson.”

“You playing with Legos? Thanks. Now I’m up.”

“Run through this with me,” she said. “You want to make some coffee?”

“Nah, I’ll just tape my eyelids open. Go on.”

“A little over seven months ago, Charles Samson’s wife is killed in a little town outside of Los Angeles County. It happens. But then it turns out that the guy who hit her, Ed Hillary, was not some random drunk driver. He was, in fact, a major donor to the Hunt Academy in Calabasas. He gave money to the school where Samson worked.”

Pause. “Okay, you have my attention.”

At least his voice sounded alert now. “Scenario one. What if Hillary was trying to kill Samson’s wife? What if it wasn’t an accident?”

“Motive?”

“Samson’s wife was a reporter of some kind. She told Samson she was doing a story on alligator farms. Turns out to be bogus. So instead, she’s digging into something involving Hillary or the Hunt Academy, or both. And Hillary doesn’t want her digging any further.”

“Might be something there. You have another theory?”

“Scenario two. What if somebody wanted Hillary dead too? And set the whole thing up to look like a drunk hit-and-run? The thing that troubles me about Hillary is that he had so much alcohol in him at the time. When you look at what he had at the bar that night, he was nowhere near what his BAC was at the time of the accident.”

“What are you saying then?”

“That somebody may have poured booze down his throat and set the thing up.”

“And who would that somebody be?”

“That’s a question for Ray Hunt, don’t you think?”

“Sandy, I think you and your famous gut instincts need to get some sleep, like me.”

“Wait––”

“Good night.”

The call cut out.

And Sandy Epperson cursed at her phone.