Interface (Crime Masterworks) (21 page)

Docker stood on the brakes. Docker put her into a skid, spinning the wheel hard.

But not going right. Going left. The nose tore through dirt, a rear fender wiped out a signpost bearing the words:

But he was into narrow Armistead Road, behind him the jeep went by like a hog on ice, all wheels locked uselessly as the MPs within raked the darkness into which Docker had disappeared with equally useless carbine fire.

Ahead, Y-junction. Left, Hoffman Street, dipping seductively downhill. No hesitation. Docker stayed on Armistead, accelerated as the street climbed between enlisted men’s housing, past parked cars and the litter of the complex kids’ toys only an affluent technological society can create. Up, all four wheels momentarily off the ground.

Crash! the car struck the blacktop, rocked. Barrier ahead. Flimsy wood, another crash, boards flew. Roaring down a steep grade, following the twisting street unerringly, braking, braking …

T-junction just below. Docker came to a full stop, lights out, just as an olive green MP sedan whipped by unseeing on Lincoln. Intentionally or not, Docker had come in a circle. Lights still out, he wrenched the wheel over, shot into line behind the MP vehicle, using their lights. Crissi angled in again like a bad summer rerun.

‘This is Control. Where is subject vehicle?’

‘Unit Four. Vehicle left Lincoln at Hoffman Street.’

‘Hoffman Street has a temporary wooden barricade across it. Block access …’

‘What the hell!’

‘Receiving your transmission poorly, Unit Four. 10–9 your message.’

‘Subject vehicle riding your lights, Unit One.’

The olive green sedan with Docker tight behind had swung around Lincoln and back toward the view area access again. The sedan began bucking and sliding as it tried to stop where it could block the bridge access road. Instead, it slid right by and into the side of Unit Four, which was backing out of Hoffman Road like a frustrated foxhound from a blocked lair. No way by for Docker now, on Lincoln, to get out to Twenty-Fifth Avenue.

Hard right, his lights transfixing gaping neckers, fish-mouthed in the glare as he slewed by them. Across the access to the northbound bridge lanes was parked a CHP black-and-white, meticulously observing the Military Police’s jurisdictional sway.

Docker didn’t even try. Instead, he whipped a vicious left between concrete traffic islands, stuffed her straight into the underpass which led beneath the toll plaza’s multilanes.

Beyond the open square of tunnel, T-junction. Left again.

This put the fleeing Montego on a sunken access road that rose quickly up to highway level. Left again would put him on the return lanes to the city, inbound on US 101.

But right …

Gunning forty, forty-five, fifty, right through the Bridge Employees Only parking lot. This was enclosed by a ten-foot high hurricane fence but at the far end was a wide double gate with a green sign reading ‘25th Ave Exit.’

Twenty-Fifth Avenue was where Sea Cliff began – Sea Cliff, where Walter Hariss lived.

A jeep was beside the gate, two uniformed MPs were in the act of running the two sides shut.

‘
Hai!
’ yelled Docker as if he were delivering a karate blow.

His lights pinned them to the mesh. They leaped, for the instant movie stuntmen caught up with by real life, then they were tumbling away, skun-up but unhurt, as with a terrible spronging impact Docker’s car hit the place where the two gates met.

Through, gates wide and drunkenly bent behind him, instantly gone in the fog. Lights probing great shadowy cypresses bent back away from the road, from the sea, by the incessant ocean winds.

By breasting the hill, Docker would find an intersection with Lincoln Boulevard which still might be able to carry him out of the Presidio at Twenty-Fifth Avenue.

But the big yellow car just kept going straight after it had gone through the gate. Off the reddish shoulder of the road, crash, thump, metal dragging the ground but still moving. Docker not decelerating, roaring along a narrow, rutted gravel and dirt road full of potholes that struck the springs like cannon fire. High beams here, where the fog was made patchy by crumbling concrete gun emplacements from World War II on the right, the backs of weathered clerical buildings of the same vintage with old-fashioned screen windows on the left.

For the moment Docker was totally lost to the pursuers behind. Fog like smoke, close-set cypresses, the gravel road suddenly three gravel roads, each of them also branching …

Hard shuddering turn to the right, gravel thundering on the car’s underbody. Toward the ocean, losing options, trapped in a narrow strip of wild wasteland between sea-cliffs and Lincoln Boulevard. Scrub brush. Gnarled, wind-tortured cypresses. Somewhere behind, faint as baying hounds, the lights and sirens of pursuit.

Here, dripping fog. Brush. Then an opening out, a sense of breadth and distance. On his right, the immense grey bulk of an abandoned gun emplacement and bunkers pitted by the shell-fire of time.

Swirling fog sent his lights reflecting whitely back, but Docker could see he was on a huge flat gravel area nearly as large as a football field. He drove on, slowly now as if feeling his way.

The breadth narrowed. Great flat brow of bunker on the right, unbroken as a prison wall, pinching him left, left. Until ahead the wall ended in densely tangled brush no car could get through.

Wall on the right, impenetrable brush ahead, pursuit somewhere behind. And to the left, the gravel expanse just … ended.

Dead ended. The only way out was the way by which he had come in.

Docker backed the sleek, battered car away from the brush fifteen, twenty feet, paused, then turned left and drove very slowly forward toward the abrupt lip his lights showed him despite the great ropes of fog flowing up over the cliff face. He stopped a dozen feet from the edge of oblivion.

Docker left the lights on, the motor running, got out almost leisurely. He seemed to have all the time there was. Behind, somewhere, the ineluctable keen of sirens, but it was as if these had lost all meaning and importance now.

He walked out beyond his headlights, stood with his feet on the crumbly edge of California. From directly in front and far below, three hundred feet below, came the startling blunt thud of breakers on jagged rock and hard wet sand. Thud, thunder of withdrawal, like distant, outmoded trains, thud again. Since the million years of rain which had cooled a spinning mass to make it the planet earth, it had been like that. And would be till the planet ceased to turn.

Darkness, death and thunder down below, pursuit and capture and another sort of death behind.

Docker walked almost idly back to the car, sat behind the wheel, leaving his door open for the moment. It could have been that the sirens were fractionally closer through the muffling fog. But sound plays tricks on dripping, misted nights.

Docker picked up the attaché case from the seat, got out, limped over to the brush with it. He opened it by the glow of his parking lights stuffed into it his few small personal things; he would never need them again. Then he set the case in behind the twisted bushes where only someone with an idea of where to look would be likely to find it.

He went back to the car, got into it again. The sirens were definitely louder. There might have been a vague ghost of light cast momentarily up against the bottom of the fog somewhere behind him.

‘Docker, baby, you’ve run out of time,’ he said aloud.

He picked up the lug wrench he had placed on the seat earlier, hefted it in his still-gloved hands as if momentarily considering it as a weapon.

But the lug wrench was not a weapon. The time for weapons was past. Docker snorted through his nose as if at his own hesitation.

He looked back once again. Aura of light, definite now. The sirens moaning closer, perhaps only seconds away. He turned and looked to his front, through the windshield that could show him only pouring fog. Docker’s hands convulsed around the wheel.

Docker shifted his weight, and the accelerator was depressed, stayed down, the motor rose to a whine, a roar like a jet’s run-up. Finally his hand hovered over the gear shift. The fingers flexed. The hand, with a convulsive movement, rammed it into low.

The Montego shot forward, Docker’s final shout lost in the rattling spray of gravel against the undersides of the fenders as the rear wheels spun for traction. Slightly fishtailing, the car shot out into the void. Its lights glared for a moment at the lip of gravel, then looked at only vertical fog as it dropped into space.

The first pursuing jeep, whippet-aerial slashing like a rider’s crop, burst out onto the gravel field just as the Montego, somersaulting lazily in mid-air, struck the sharp granite shoulder which thrust far out into the sea three hundred feet below. The jeep slowed to a stop with its lights on the drag-strip wheel marks leading to infinity.

‘What the hell …’ the shocked driver had begun, when the car, far below, exploded.

The four men were out and running for the edge with the thump hitting their ears after the light of the blast had already dazzled their eyes. They stood in a clump, staring down at the fiercely burning wreckage. Despite the fog, it lit up the brown sand and the ugly black teeth around which the sea boiled in oddly delicate traceries of foam.

‘Do you think he—’

‘Yeah. He ran out of room,’ said the driver.

He looked back over his shoulder. The lieutenant was getting out of the sedan which had pulled up, slowly, as befits an officer. He had all the time he needed, neither car nor driver was going anywhere again. The lieutenant’s watch didn’t end until morning, he had nowhere else to go either. He was a young tight-ass black man.

With infinite leisure, the lieutenant sauntered over and looked down at the glowing mess on the rocks below, now scattered and burning through the mist in a dozen different places.

‘Always some goddam thing,’ he said. He motioned to his driver. ‘Better call the fire department.’

The man went away to work the radio.

‘Alert the Coast Guard, too,’ the lieutenant called after him. ‘They’ll want to send a patrol boat in from the ocean side.’

After that, all they could do was watch it burn, and take turns wondering whether they really could smell the roasting flesh.

T
he weathered whitewashed building and miniature triangle of sand which comprise Phalen State Beach are open to the public, hence are unwelcome to the residents of the exclusive Sea Cliff area. But Phalen State Park has been there longer than many of them, and will probably outlast the rest of them. It is new money in Sea Cliff these days,
nouveau riche
money that thinks it has Arrived, but that is laughed at behind the discreet hands of Presidio Terrace money. San Francisco is an old and a cruel city, and one of the few that honors its bawdy past more than its supposedly progressive present.

At night, the gate which closes the winding walkway down to the public beach is closed and padlocked and the tatty little parking lot is indifferently lighted. Neil Fargo was just a dark, bulky shape crossing the lot. He shivered in the wet chill of the fog. His shoes scraped muffled shards of sound from the wet concrete. Somewhere below him in the mist, surf growled like a baffled tiger.

He had taken only about fifteen minutes longer than the hour he had estimated while talking with Hariss on the phone.

‘Hold it right there, mister.’

Neil Fargo stopped dead in his tracks. The flashlight struck him in the chest, stayed there while he very slowly brought his empty hands out of his topcoat pockets and spread his arms wide.

The light moved up to his face to identify him, blind him for a few moments. and kill his night vision for twenty minutes. It dropped again. Nicely done. He could not see the figure behind the light, but it was probably Blaney. If it was, Blaney was probably holding the light at arm’s length so a shot at the light would miss him. Just a strongarm, perhaps, but Blaney had managed to stay around for quite a few years. He was the only one of Kolinski’s people that Fargo had ever even met. All the others were new, untried.

‘Neil Fargo,’ said Neil Fargo.

‘So it is.’

Still the detective did not move. He was a dozen yards from the gate, electrically controlled, which was set flush on impenetrable hedges of Italian buckthorn.

‘My piece is on the belt on the right-hand side.’

Brisk, impersonal hands removed the weight from his hip, briefly patted him down for other armament.

‘He sounded goddam jumpy on the phone,’ said Neil Fargo while the frisk was going on.

The big indistinct shape stepped back. Neil Fargo’s .38 was in its left paw. ‘I’m goddam jumpy myself, out here in the fog.’

‘Only a few minutes more,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Docker’s dead.’

‘Not such a fucking hotshot after all, huh? Well, it don’t break my heart. I’ve earned my fucking fifty bucks. I’ll let you through the gate.’

He waited while Blaney found the concealed switch among the green waxy leaves of the buckthorn and activated it with a key. The white picket fence – backed with a ten-foot height of pipe-framed hurricane mesh – swung wide. This automatically lit up the driveway like a Cecil B. De Mille production. The drive was blacktop, flanked with more white rail fence right out of the Kentucky bluegrass country. The head-high, formally clipped hedges were privet here.

‘Better not step off the drive, Mr Fargo,’ said Blaney’s apologetic voice behind him. ‘The alarms are set.’

‘Jesus Christ, when does World War III start?’

‘I guess when you got it, you’re scared shitless somebody’s gonna take it away from you.’

The house was a good sixty yards back from Sea Cliff Avenue, sixteen rooms with a gently-peaked and slate-shingled roof, set above the drive and garages on an artificial plateau which had been gouged from the rounded forehead of the bluff. Three-storied, immense living room windows on the ground floor which would look out across the neck of the Golden Gate at the incredible rocky sweep of Marin headlands when there was no concealing fog. A house from the twenties, when San Francisco land had not been valued by the square inch.