Mission Canyon

Table of Contents

 

 

‘‘Do me a favor, okay? Lay your hands on . . .
China Lake
. [It] had me at page one. Miss Gardiner makes it all work. . . . Amazingly entertaining.’’ —Stephen King

‘‘[An] exciting mix. Great stuff.’’ —
Independent on Sunday

‘‘With a colorful cast of richly delineated characters, a protagonist with whom the readers will easily identify—all big hearted, quick tongued, and hair-trigger tempered . . . a fast-paced ride through some of the more dubious nooks and crannies of the American dream.’’ —
The Guardian
(UK)

‘‘Fast and hard-edged. Buy it, read it.’’ —
Hull Daily Mail

‘‘A cracker, with memorable characters, memorable lines, and a plot that races along to an explosive ending. A great summer read.’’ —
Huddersfield Daily Examiner

‘‘Very well written, racy, and witty.’’ —Tangled Web

‘‘From beginning to end,
China Lake
is a book no reader of thrillers will be able to put down. Great characters, dynamic plot, nail-biting action—Meg Gardiner gives us everything.’’

—Elizabeth George

‘‘Evan Delaney is a paragon for our times: tough, funny, clever, brave, tireless, and compassionate. The pace and inventiveness never flag, and the climax . . . is both nail-biting and moving. But the brilliant writing is what puts this thriller way ahead of the competition. Intelligent escapism at its best.’’ —
The Guardian
(UK)

‘‘I loved every minute of it. A breathtaking thriller, gripping and relentless.’’

—Caroline Carver, CWA Dagger-winning author
of
Blood Junction

"A rattling good read.’’ —
News of the World

"Brilliant." —
The Evening Telegraph
(Peterborough, UK)

‘‘The action is high octane from the first page. Once you pick it up, it’s a very hard book to put down.’’

—
My Weekly

‘‘Fast and furious.’’ —
The Literary Review

‘‘Full of classic Gardiner one-liners . . . but mostly there’s a serious freezerload of scare-you-silly chills." —Stephen King

‘‘A tense and exciting thriller where almost anything seems possible. A conspiracy theorist’s must-have.’’

—
Independent on Sunday

‘‘Easily one of the best thrillers I’ve read this year. I could barely wait to get to the next page. If you start this book, be prepared to be unable to put it down. Meg Gardiner has written a cracker.’’ —Caroline Carver

‘‘This book rips. It makes
Silence of the Lambs
look like Mary had a little one—it never lets up.’’

—Adrienne Dines, author of
The Jigsaw Maker

‘‘Meg Gardiner dishes out the gripping plot in tense helpings. Short, punchy chapters keep the pace flowing, and you’ll find it impossible to find a resting point.’’

—
Evening Times
(Glasgow)

‘‘[Gardiner’s] depictions of the criminal elements of the Hollywood fringe and the local drugs culture is a tightly observed slice of realism. This is a relentless, claustrophobic examination of mistaken identity and the terror of being accused of a crime for which you are not responsible.’’ —
Sherlock

‘‘Fast-paced, witty, and brutal.’’

—
The Independent
(London)

‘‘If you read Sue Grafton, Lee Child, Janet Evanovich, Michael Connelly, or Nelson DeMille, you’re going to think Meg Gardiner is a gift from heaven for thriller/mystery readers.
"
—Stephen King

"Meg Gardiner is a welcome addition to the ranks of American thriller writers.’’ —
The Daily Telegraph
(UK)

‘‘Meg Gardiner has rekindled my interest in thrillers.’’

—
The Independent
(London)

‘‘Meg Gardiner is a class act at the top of her game.’’

—
My Weekly

‘‘Meg Gardiner has a powerful style—fast-paced, immediate, and imaginative.’’ —
Sherlock

‘‘Meg Gardiner goes from strength to strength.’’

—OneWord Radio

‘‘Meg Gardiner is brilliant at making the over-the-top seem utterly convincing.’’ —
The Guardian
(UK)

‘‘Meg Gardiner hard-boils her American crime with the best of them. . . . If you like Sue Grafton and Janet Evanovich, you ought to have discovered Gardiner by now.’’

—
The Evening Telegraph
(Peterborough, UK)

‘‘Meg Gardiner takes us to places we hope we’ll never have to go in reality.’’ —Caroline Carver

OBSIDIAN
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Published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. This is an authorized reprint of an edition published by Hodder & Stoughton. For information address: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd, 338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH

First Obsidian Printing, July 2008

Copyright © Meg Gardiner, 2003

All rights reserved

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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

For their help with this novel I thank Paul Shreve, Sara Gardiner, MD, Bill Gardiner, and Suzanne Davidovac; and for service beyond the call of duty, Mary Albanese, Adrienne Dines, and Nancy Fraser.

People ask me whose fault it was. Who caused the accident? Where did the blame lie—on reckless driving, blinding sunlight, a sharp curve in the road? Hidden in their questions is a deeper query. Did Jesse bring it on himself? Was he careless? Perhaps he rode his bike into the middle of the road. Perhaps he insulted God. Maybe that’s why he won’t be walking me down the aisle, they imply.

What people want to hear, I think, is that the accident was fate, or foolishness. The hit-and-run killed Isaac Sandoval outright. It left Jesse Blackburn broken on the hillside, struggling to reach his friend’s body. And people want me to tell them yes, it was the victims’ fault. Jesse should have done something different, should have looked over his shoulder or flossed his teeth every day. What they want me to say is no, of course it could never happen to them. They want reassurance, and I can’t give it to them.

When they ask me whose fault it was, I’ve always said: the driver’s. It was the fault of the man who sat behind the wheel of a satin-gray BMW, arcing up a narrow road into the foothills of Santa Barbara, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other caressing the hair of the woman whose head bobbed above his lap. It was the fault of the man getting the blow job. It was the fault of the guy who got away.

That’s what I always told people. Until now.

‘‘There’s going to be security,’’ Jesse said.

‘‘Don’t worry; I can handle it.’’

Jesse stared out the window of the car at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art across the street. Sunset was painting the white building orange. Guests were arriving, and their costumes glittered as they climbed the steps to the entrance. Jesse drummed his hands on the steering wheel.

‘‘You can’t hesitate,’’ he said. ‘‘Straight in, do it, get out. If there’s any trouble—’’

I put my hand on his. ‘‘I know how to crash a party.’’

He gave me a glance—blue eyes cool, mouth askew, the patented Blackburn Wry Look. ‘‘Evan, this isn’t a Brownie sing-along.’’

‘‘Trust me. It’s an art museum. The guards care about keeping the paintings inside, not about keeping people out.’’

‘‘Don’t count on that,’’ he said. ‘‘And your wig’s crooked.’’

I straightened it. ‘‘You just want to do this yourself. You’d love to stick it to Cal Diamond with all his colleagues looking on.’’

‘‘Absolutely.’’

But we both knew that Diamond would spot Jesse coming a mile away, even though he had on faded jeans and an old USA Swimming T-shirt, and didn’t look like a lawyer. With Jesse’s youth and good looks, the brown hair he hadn’t cut in months, and his hardware, Diamond couldn’t miss him. So the job was mine.

I struck a pose. ‘‘How do I look?’’

He gazed at my costume: frosted white lipstick, hoop earrings as big as grapefruit, the black wig rising on my head like a hair volcano. The sequined pink minidress came from a vintage clothing store, the white vinyl boots from my closet, relics of a year misspent on the high school drill team.