Kane (40 page)

No lights.  Good.

Driving cautiously, he proceeded four blocks west, then turned up a side street he had chosen on his first visit.  Two hundred feet farther on, the street dead ended in a circle not visible from the main road.  After cutting his lights, Carns coasted to a stop under a large jacaranda tree.

Silence.

Carns picked up a pair of leather driving gloves and pulled them on.  But instead of exiting, he rolled down his window and for the next five minutes, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he remained completely motionless.  Cool air seeped into the car, laden with a scent of sage.  A dog barked somewhere, answered by a series of distant yaps.  Traffic noise drifted up from Ventura Boulevard, adding to the drone of the freeway a half mile north.  A small plane crossed overhead, heading toward Santa Monica.  Otherwise, nothing.

Satisfied, Carns ran through his mental checklist one last time:  knapsack, gloves, gun and silencer, extra ammo clip, flashlight, ties, scissors, rope, rubbers, tape, Ace bandages, camera, galvanized pipe, recorder, opener.  The knife and plastic trash bag he would obtain at the house.  Everything was ready.  With a shiver of excitement, he stepped from the car.

“Sarge, I think we may have something here.”  Whiteman sounded excited, running his words together as though he couldn’t get the syllables out fast enough.

“Slow down,” said Kinoshita.  “What’d you turn up?”

“The Toyota’s plates are registered to a Mrs. Muriel Levinson in Arcadia.  But according to DMV, those plates belong on a Buick.”

“The guy turned left two blocks past me,” interjected Bottrell.  “I’ll head up and see what …  Hold on.  Somebody’s coming down the street on foot.  Never seen him before.  Sonofabitch, this could be it.  White male wearing a backpack, black pants and jacket, baseball cap, tennis shoes.”

“Got him,” said Kinoshita, his pulse quickening.  “Don’t spook him.  When he gets to the house, we’ll pinch him between us.”

“Right.”

“Patterson, once he’s past your position I want you on the ground,” Kinoshita continued.  “But don’t get too close.  Bottrell, stay in the car and be ready to move.  Don’t anybody screw this up.  I want to take him on the street nice and clean.”

“Right,” said Bottrell, his voice filled with tension.  “The guy’s really moving.  He’s up to something.”  A pause.  “Patterson’s behind him now, staying back in the bushes.  Damn, the guy will be there in no time.  Get ready.”

Matthews had his service weapon out.  “I’m going down,” he said, heading for the stairs.

Kinoshita spoke softly into the radio.  “Whiteman, you and Madison move on my command.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The guy’s slowing up, looking at the house,” said Bottrell.  “Now he’s crossing the street.  He’s coming fast.  Let’s do him now.”

“Ten seconds.  Wait till he gets to us.  Everybody ready?”  Suddenly Kinoshita noticed a shaft of light spilling from beneath the Bakers’ garage door.  As he watched, the rectangular yellow tongue of light grew larger, licking its way down the pavement.  “What the—?”

“Somebody’s coming out the garage,” Kinoshita shouted into the radio.  “Everybody move in.  Take him now!”

Carns walked briskly, his perceptions honed with the anticipation that always came before entry.  He could feel a trickle of sweat gathering in his armpits, the comforting weight of the throwaway .25-caliber automatic digging into his waist.  His right hand swung easily at his side; his left was tucked in his jacket pocket, thumb on the opener button.

Almost time.

He had increased the small transmitter’s power, extending its range to over a hundred yards.  Waiting for the right moment, he resisted the impulse to activate it.  Timing was everything.

A little closer …

He glanced neither right nor left, concentrating on his objective, yet at the same time he remained finely attuned to the sounds of the sleeping neighborhood.  A quarter mile east, a late night traveler downshifted into a turn on Beverly Glen.  Another plane passed overhead.  A car engine coughed to life several blocks down.

Tonight will be my finest, he thought, a delicious awakening spreading through his body.  The first two had been interesting, the third satisfying, but all had been somehow lacking.  He had rushed, losing control when things got wet.  Tonight he would take his time and make it last … at least till morning.  This one would put him in the record books.

Close enough?  Two more steps.

Now.

Depressing the button on the door-opener remote, Carns transmitted a modulated 370 megahertz signal that lasted exactly nine-tenths of a second, repeating its superimposed digital code once during that interval.  As if by magic the garage door began rolling up on its tracks.  A crack of light spilled onto the driveway, brightening as the opening grew larger.  Carns smiled.  Although disabling the opener light was a detail that circumstance had forced him to forego, a little welcoming illumination was
nice.  Hi, honey—I’m home!

Another car engine started somewhere behind him.

Time slowed to a crawl.  With heart-stopping clarity, everything became keenly outlined in Carns’s mind, every detail delineated with an adrenaline plunge of terror.  Headlights flicking on down the street.  A car moving toward him, engine roaring, coming in fast.  Another one’s tires churning in the gravel behind.  Movement in the bushes.  A door opening in a house nearby.

At that moment, Victor Carns knew.  With a knowledge as certain as death, he knew.

He’d been tricked.

Keith Patterson had been on the Force six years.  During that time he had drawn his service revolver only once in the line of duty, and even then he hadn’t fired.  But he had his weapon out now.  Tonight could be a first.  He was ready.

The guy was fast.  Keeping up with him and staying out of sight was proving tougher than expected.  Patterson was still four houses back when Whiteman’s lights came on down at the intersection.  Seconds later, Patterson heard Bottrell hitting the street.

Show time.  Wait for the cars?

No.  Do it.

“Freeze, asshole,” Patterson yelled, stepping around the hedge, his weapon in both hands.  The man stopped in the middle of the street.  Patterson started moving in, sights centered on the middle of the suspect’s back.

Gotta get closer.  What the hell … the garage opening?

Quick as a weasel, the man bolted.  Patterson tried to hold him in his sight plane, arms swinging in a smooth arc, leading him a hair, finger tightening on the trigger …

House.

Cursing, Patterson lowered his pistol and started running
.

The man crossed the sidewalk at a full sprint, streaking for the garage.  A motion detector tripped somewhere and a pair of house spotlights came on, flooding the driveway.  Patterson saw Matthews racing across the lawn next door, not close enough to stop him.  They were forty feet away when the man rolled under the garage door, which inexplicably had ceased its rise and was now descending.  An instant later it thudded shut, leaving a thread of light seeping under the base.

Madison and Whiteman’s Ford squealed to a stop.  Bottrell arrived a split second later, angling up the driveway just as Kinoshita joined the stunned group.

“Where is he?” shouted Bottrell.

“Inside,” yelled Patterson, starting around the side of the house.  “Shit, I had him.”

“Where’d he go?” Bottrell demanded again.

“The bastard’s in the house,” answered Kinoshita.  “Damn, he’s fast.  He got in through the garage.”

“What do we do now, Sarge?”

Kinoshita considered long and hard.  Everything had gone wrong.  They were supposed to have taken the guy on the street.  The guy getting past them and into the locked house was something they hadn’t considered.  It was never even on the table.  Now what?

Kinoshita knew he couldn’t afford to make another mistake.  “Too risky to go in after him,” he said finally.  “Bottrell, help Patterson cover the back.  Whiteman and Matthews, take positions along either side of the house.  Madison, get on the radio and call for backup.  And tell them to send a hostage negotiator,” he added, withdrawing a cellular phone from his jacket pocket.

Seconds earlier, Carns had sprinted for the garage, seemingly the one place not crawling with cops.  Still gripping the remote opener as he charged up the drive, he had then pushed the button to stop the door.  He almost snagged his knapsack as he rolled under. Heart pounding, he hit the button again to cycle the garage door closed.

Once inside he took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting a wave of panic.

Can’t stay here.

Think.

Crabbing past the nearest car, Carns hurried to a door at the far end.  It was unlocked.  He paused at the adjacent electrical panel to flip off the breakers, tripping the dual banks with a double sweep of his hand.  After pulling the pistol from his belt, he opened the door and slipped inside.

Upstairs?

No.  He would be trapped there.

Hostages?

No good.
 
They would eventually get him, hostages or not.

Out the back.

Carns rushed through the family room to the kitchen, where he recalled that a sliding glass door led to a patio behind the house.

Hurry.

Reaching the glass door, he peeked outside.

Nobody.

He released the catch and opened the door.  Quickly, he eased through and shut the slider behind him, stopping short of closing it completely so it wouldn’t thump.

Maybe there’s still a chance.

Carns raced across the yard, skirting a kidney-shaped swimming pool and a barbecue pit.  In one quick motion he vaulted a six-foot-high wooden fence at the back of the lot.  He landed awkwardly in a neighboring yard, coming down hard on a redwood lawn chair.  A sickening pop sounded as his ankle twisted beneath him.

Grimacing, Carns rose in a low crouch, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Ignoring searing bolts of pain shooting up his ankle, he dashed down a bricked walkway and past a gate to the next street up.  Expecting with every step to feel the stab of a police bullet, Victor Carns ran as he’d never run before.

He was still a block from his car when he heard the sound of gunfire.

Maureen Baker rolled over in bed, wondering who could be calling at that hour of night.  She flipped the switch on her bedside lamp.  The light didn’t come on.  Groaning, she fumbled on the nightstand for the phone.

Normally a heavy sleeper, John was awake now, too.  “This had better be news we just won the lottery,” he warned, propping himself up on an elbow.  He heard Maureen say “Hello,” then nothing.  “Who was it?” he asked as she replaced the receiver.

“The police,” she whispered.  “Someone broke into our garage.”

After inching his way down the side of the residence, Patterson hesitated at the northeast corner.  Easing his head around the stucco wall, he looked into the back yard.

Someone moving?

Quietly, he worked his way farther around, staying clear of the windows.

There.  Again.

As he watched, a dim shape emerged stealthily from the shadows.  “Police.  Don’t move,” Patterson ordered, gun locked on the figure.  “Don’t even breathe.”

“It’s me,” Bottrell hissed.

“Damn.”  Patterson lowered his weapon and crept over to Bottrell.  Along the way he noticed that a patio sliding glass door was open a crack.  The house was supposed to be locked.

“Sarge is calling for backup,” Bottrell informed Patterson when he arrived.  “We’re supposed to watch the rear.”

“And what?  Sit around till the guy decides to come out?  There’re people in there.”

“So?”

“So the patio door’s open.  It only takes one of us to watch the back.  I’m goin’ in.”

“Sarge said to wait.”

“I didn’t hear him.”

“I’m telling you, Sarge said to wait.”

“And I’m telling you I had that guy.  Now he’s inside.  I’m goin’ in.”

John Baker liked guns.  He had grown up hunting with his father in Iowa, and during a four year stint in the Marines John had shot at the top of his unit.  In addition to a variety of rifles and shotguns, he owned a 9 mm Glock auto pistol with a seventeen-shot magazine.  After purchasing the weapon three years back, he had taken it to the desert and run four boxes of shells through it, punching holes in assorted beer cans, cardboard targets, and unwary cacti.  Though he hadn’t fired it since, he’d kept it handy, wrapped in a chamois on the top shelf of his closet.

John went to the closet now and got the gun.  Unwrapping it, he moved to the dresser and groped in the top drawer for a clip of Winchester Super-X Silvertip cartridges he kept rolled in a pair of socks.  Like most boys, their seven-year-old son Kyle was curious about guns, and John Baker adhered to the rule of keeping guns and ammunition separated at all times.  Except times like now.