Hocus (28 page)

“Take me there.”

She looked at me for what seemed like a good forty-eight hours before saying, “Oh, what the hell. But let’s get going — I’ve got other things to do with my time.”

She got up and left me to pay the bill. Well, it was my invitation, and the bill wasn’t steep — but a person with manners would have waited before walking outside. As I went back to leave a tip on the table, she honked the horn of her car in impatience. Several times.

Frank, I thought, if we both survive this ordeal, I’ve got some tough questions for you.

She was driving a dark blue T-bird. The sunglasses were back on. She drove with the expertise of a person who lives behind the wheel. It was a warm morning, and we rolled the windows down.

We traveled the first few miles in complete silence, driving north to Highway 178 and then heading east. As we went past the Ant Hill Oil Field, I asked, “Was this your regular patrol area?”

“This highway? One seventy-eight?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t the first time I drove it.”

“But it wasn’t your regular assignment?”

She checked the rearview mirror, adjusted it a little, and said, “No, but I offered to take it that day.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I had my reasons.”

If we hadn’t passed a big citrus grove just then, I might have started to lose my temper. Cassidy’s trick worked like a charm, though, and I stayed silent, if not calm. I looked out the window and saw the Greenhorn Ranger Station, which marked this entrance to the Sequoia National Forest.

“Bakersfield CHP office patrols this highway all the way to the lake?” I asked.

“Bakersfield CHP only has the lower portion of this highway. The upper portion is patrolled by the Kernville office. Ours goes up to where it becomes a divided highway.”

“So you found him on the lower portion, where it’s two-lane?”

“Yes.”

Soon we came to the signs saying “Route 178 to Lake Isabella Open,” “Falling Rock — Road Not Maintained at Night,” and the big death toll sign. The Kern River flows with often brutal force along a rocky canyon; while there are relatively safe places to raft or stick your toes in the water, close to two hundred people had drowned in the Kern since they started the tally in 1968.

We could see and hear it now, its white rapids pounding between steep, boulder-strewn banks. The narrow road climbed in sharp curves, between the river on the left and a steep, sheer cliff to the right. We passed an old Edison plant with a corrugated tin roof and continued to climb.

Cecilia’s continued silence and the barren landscape gradually unraveled any remnants of my good mood.

You’re wasting your time,
an inner voice accused.
You’re on the wrong track. Frank could be dying while you screw around up here.

“You don’t get carsick, do you?” Cecilia asked.

It snapped me out of thoughts that were as dangerous as the rapids below us.

“If I do,” I said, “it will be a first.” And it will be my pleasure to barf all over your fancy upholstery.

“You don’t look so good,” she said nervously, as if hearing my unspoken thought. “I’ll pull over if you’re going to puke.”

“It’s not car sickness,” I said.

“Pregnant?”

“No,” I said, unable to conceal my irritation. “I’m not sick, I’m not pregnant, and I’m not going to puke!”

Smirking. She was smirking.

I knew damned well we were miles away from any orange blossoms. I took deep breaths anyway. If I so much as clenched my fists, she would notice, and I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of seeing that she had angered me — not a second time. I looked away from her, pretending fascination with the less scenic side of the road.

To my surprise, she didn’t try to goad me. I did calm down. The road was a little wider, and there was more chaparral. We passed Live Oak Picnic Ground and Upper and Lower Richbar. There were signs warning of cattle crossings, reminding me that there were ranches in the hills to the right. We began to see trees, and the canyon grew deeper and broader.

“Look,” Cecilia said, breaking the silence. She pointed out a pair of eagles circling above the river, looking for breakfast. “Nothing like this in Las Piernas,” she said.

“No, there’s not,” I said, not wanting to quibble so soon after regaining my temper. Besides, she was right. Las Piernas had its own attractions, but no eagles or fifty miles of rapids or other Kern River wonders.

“I didn’t fit in down there,” she said.

When I didn’t comment she added, “People seemed so phony to me down there. I guess I belong out here with roughnecks, rednecks, and the
raza.
You probably didn’t like it out here.”

Ignoring the implication that I was phony, I said, “It was a big change at first, but I was looking for a change. I didn’t leave Bakersfield because I disliked it. I liked the people and the place just fine.”

“Why, then?”

“My father was ill. I didn’t want to be away from him.”

She focused her attention back on the road. “Not far from here,” she said as we passed a sign for Democrat Hot Springs. The canyon was steep, the river far below. She slowed cautiously, then pulled into a turnout on the right side. She watched for traffic, then made a sharp U-turn, doubling back and pulling into another unpaved turnout, this one on the opposite side of the road.

“This is it,” she said. “Right here between the Democrat Hot Springs and China Garden.”

“This exact turnout? Are you certain?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry as I looked not at the river or cliffs or trees, but at the object that held her gaze.

“Yes. It’s because of that rock. Every time I drive past it, I think of Powell.”

It wouldn’t be difficult to remember the spot. The large, mushroom-shaped rock was quite distinctive.

One Father’s Day weekend a policeman had asked Gene Ryan about that same rock, not realizing that Christopher Powell would remember that part of their conversation or that two young boys would remember it still. No, at that moment he was probably more concerned that Gene Ryan was lying to him.

Ryan hadn’t lied.

I had the feeling that every time a certain Bakersfield cop drove past it, he remembered Christopher Powell, too.

I
GOT OUT OF THE CAR
and walked to the edge of the turnout. Although there was a slope beyond it, the ground was not especially steep for the first few yards. It was flat and fairly open, only a few low shrubs nearby. But beyond that first thirty feet, the earth fell away sharply. If you wandered beyond the first slope, especially in darkness, you could easily take a fast and bumpy fall. Because of trees and boulders and chaparral, your body might not reach the river — far below — but you’d travel quite a ways before the landscape slowed you down.

Off to the right, upriver some distance but in plain view, I saw a footbridge and what seemed to be trails. I could also see a campsite.

Cecilia was leaning against the T-bird, arms folded, watching me.

I turned to her and said, “Tell me what you saw that day.”

“Just the van. I didn’t see the body until later.”

“Any sign of other cars?”

“Of course. It’s a turnout.”

“Goddammit, Cecilia, you know what I meant.”

She smiled. “No, there were no other vehicles parked in the area. It was June. No rain. Very dry conditions. No fresh tire marks in the mud or anything like that. Nothing more stupendous than that brown van, leaking oil.”

I looked up the road again.

“Doesn’t make sense for him to have pulled in here, does it?” I said.

“Why not?”

“He lived in Lake Isabella. Northeast of here, up the road. First, why is he going home? He’s fleeing a double homicide where he’s left two living witnesses. Why head for a known address?”

“The guy was a druggie, and never famous for being brilliant — never.”

“Maybe that’s it. But let’s say he does have a reason to go home. He’s covered with blood — he wants to clean up, change clothes, grab some provisions, and take off again.”

“Sure, why not?” she said impatiently.

“So what the hell is he doing on this side of the road? Why stop at a turnout on the downhill side?”

“Maybe he was headed back to Bakersfield,” she said, standing up straight now, starting to pace.

I shook my head. “When you found him, he still had the bloody clothes on. He hadn’t been home yet.”

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “So he stopped to take a leak! Big deal!”

“Why change directions? Why not relieve himself on the other side of the road?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” she said, half shouting. “You had me drive all the way up here to talk about why Powell crossed the road?”

“No, I already know why.”

She pulled the sunglasses off and gave me a look so fierce, I thought she might hit me. My own anger was all that kept me from cowering.

“You know, too, don’t you?” I said.

“I sure as hell do not,” she said, stepping closer.

“I thought it was a little strange — the woman who happened to find Powell’s body is the girlfriend of the cop who discovered the Ryan-Neukirk murders. That could have been coincidence, but it bothered me.”

She made a sound of derision. “You’re way off base.”

“Then this morning,” I went on, “you tell me that you handpicked this route that day. I’ve got to ask myself what led you to change your routine, to do something different on that day of all days.”

She was silent, still glaring at me, her fists clenched.

“I think someone made a suggestion to you,” I said.

“I don’t have to listen to this,” she said, breaking off her stare.

“I think someone told you to come up here.”

She turned on her heel, started walking toward the car.

“I think that someone was a Bakersfield cop.”

She stopped. She murmured something I couldn’t make out.

“What did you say?”

She turned back to me. The anger was gone; she looked shaken. “I said, ‘Frank will never forgive me.’ ”

“Forgive you for what? Not telling me the name of that cop? Believe me, he’ll thank you. His
life,
Cecilia. For God’s sake, what do I have to say to convince you that Hocus follows through on its threats?”

As she had from the moment she met me, she studied me. This time with much less hostility than before. “You’re a member of the family now. Is that important to you?”

“Of course—”

“You know how much Frank loved his dad?”

“Yes. Loved and admired him.”

To my complete surprise, she started crying. Not with loud sobs, just with big, silent tears. She looked away from me, down toward the river.

“Cecilia? What has this got to do with—” But at that moment I understood what she was saying. “Oh, no. I don’t believe that for a minute.”

She wiped the heel of her hand against her eyes. “Believe it. It was Brian.”

“I don’t. I don’t believe it.”

“Well, too damn bad! It’s the truth.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, my mind reeling. “Brian Harriman?”

She wiped at the tears again. I rummaged through my purse and found a packet of tissues. “Here,” I said, offering them to her.

She took them, said, “Thanks,” and walked away from me. Toward the river.

Frightened that she might be more despondent than I had guessed, I followed her, but she merely sat on a rock. “If one of the guys in my office sees my car — I don’t want them to see me like this,” she explained, crying harder now.

I sat next to her. “Cecilia, tell me the whole story.”

“I got a call from Bea on Father’s Day — Sunday morning. I hadn’t been seeing Frank for very long.”

She stopped for a moment and said, “Look, I want to get something straight with you. Bea and my mom are friends, and I think half the reason Frank and I started seeing each other was because of them. We were always — on again, off again, you know?”

“Cecilia—”

“I know Bea calls me Frank’s ex-fiancée, but technically that’s not really true. We were never formally engaged. When one of us wanted to get married, the other didn’t. We moved down to Las Piernas to get out from under the pressure our families and friends were putting on us, see if the relationship could stand on its own. We didn’t last long.”

“Look, you don’t have to talk to me about this.”

“Yeah, I do. Frank is — Frank is — just one of the best friends I’ve ever had, that’s all. I — I just can’t talk to anyone else the way I can with Frank. Not anybody. He’s never been anything but good to me. And I know that even if he’s released unharmed, this is going to hurt him… it’s going to hurt him so bad….” She couldn’t talk for a while.

She blew her nose and said, “Shit, I never cry.”

She drew a deep breath and went on. “Father’s Day. It was Father’s Day. Bea called, saying that she was worried about Frank, because she had word from one of Brian’s friends — I don’t remember who — telling her that Frank had found these kids in the basement and all. Brian’s not back from a fishing trip, and she’s worried about Frank, ’cause whoever called her said he was a mess.”

She paused, took another tissue out of the pack. “Well, I go down to the hospital where they’ve got these kids, because everybody at the scene tells me that Frank went with them to the ER. He went with them all right. He didn’t leave those kids for a minute. Unless Frank was with them, they were freaked out. They were giving the doctors fits. The docs wanted to sedate them, but naturally, Bakersfield PD was trying to get some kind of description of the killer out of them before the docs knocked them out.”

“You were there when they were questioning the boys?”

She shook her head. “No, I had to stay in the waiting room. I heard about it from Frank, later. But while I’m sitting there, Brian gets there, and he has to wait in the waiting room, too. We’ve met, but this is the first time we have a chance to talk, to get to know each other. Frank finally comes out, and apologizes to us for the wait. He’s a wreck, but he’s also excited, because the kids have drawn pictures of the killer. Pretty good ones, too, considering their age. Between that and a lot of gesturing and nodding by the boys, they’ve got something to go on.