Private Screening (50 page)

Lord fought to put distance between them, running where the surf erased his footprints. Surf swept to his knees, sucking him sideways.

An enormous wave crashed ahead, twice Lord's height. He stumbled forward through its undertow.

From his left, a log was rushing toward him, too fast to escape. He tried to jump.

The log struck his calves.

He fell sideways, tumbling on the sand, and then the following wave came down on him.

Cold blackness, swirling, caught in a vortex filling his lungs and sweeping him out to sea. Flailing, drowning, trying to get his head above water.

Something struck his ribs, knocking him sideways. Blindly he wrapped one arm around it.

The log swept him back to shore.

He fell off it to his hands and knees, ribs aching, coughing in the surf. Another wave broke behind him.

He staggered up as it struck his back.

It catapulted him forward, struggling for balance, falling in the last tame spill.

He lay there, gasping, lungs raw.

In the moonlight, Phoenix was a wraith emerging from the ocean with a bundle clutched above his head. Perhaps two hundred feet away.

Righting himself, Lord ran. Waves plummeted next to him; his footsteps were leaden; he shivered from cold and exposure.

A giant wave broke in front of him.

Lord zigged to avoid it. There were sudden slapping sounds, and then a straight line of jets split the path he had been running.

Bullets from a semiautomatic rifle aimed at knee level. Meant to wound, not kill.

Over his shoulder he saw Phoenix coming after him, closer.

Lord kicked off his shoes and veered across the beach, seeking the cover of darkness.

Ahead, a sheer cliffside merged with the sand; dead trunks lay across his path at every angle, silver and black. He careened among them, half-falling, steeling himself for bullets. The beach was cold and without color, a moonscape.

He heard no gunshots.

Forty feet in front of him was a pile of logs.

Turning as he ran, Lord saw nothing but dark; perhaps Phoenix had vanished with the money and Alexis. Perhaps he had failed.

Stay alive, Moore had said.

Lord lowered his head and ran for the pile.

His bare feet flung sand, calves so stiff they did not feel part of him. The logs grew nearer.

With a last effort, he lengthened his stride and hurtled in a headlong dive.

His head and chest cleared the pile, then he landed on his face, feet caught in the logs, wrenching them out. Feeling like an animal.

Sliding back, he peered over the log. Wondering if Alexis were close by. Looking for Phoenix.

Nothing.

Maybe Moore could find them, Lord prayed, and then his stomach wrenched.

If Phoenix still hunted him, the transmitter was his enemy.

Teeth chattering, he stripped off his shirt and shorts and wadded them beneath the logs.

Naked, Lord scrambled away from the transmitter. Half-crawling among more logs, looking back, then forward for cover.

There were no other piles. Only a thick trunk, straight ahead. Changing direction to avoid it, he saw nothing better.

Hurriedly, he crab-walked to the trunk, falling over and behind it, on his side.

Arms clasped for warmth, Lord looked at where he'd been.

The moon glinted on the surf and whitecaps. The trunks were half-lit wreckage, scattered across the darkness between Lord and the sea.

A black form moved among them.

He was framed by moonlight, against the ocean. His head turned from side to side.

The way Phoenix moved and held his weapon reminded Lord of Carson.

On the wind, beneath the pounding of the surf, he heard a faint beeping sound. The scanner.

Stopping, Phoenix stared at the pile where Lord had hidden.

He took a few steps toward it. As the beeping grew louder, he seemed to gaze beyond.

Lord pressed his face to the sand, body curled on itself.

Phoenix watched the pile, waiting for some sound or movement.

There was only beeping. He adjusted something on his rifle; Lord waited for him to shoot the quarry he thought hidden there.

There was no shot. The beeping seemed shriller than before.

Phoenix stood over the pile.

He bent to it, and then held the scrap of Lord's running shorts to the moonlight.

He began tearing them apart.

Finding something, he placed it on top of the log, just beneath his rifle barrel. Lord quivered at the gunshot. The scanner stopped beeping.

Lord's face was wet. Maybe Phoenix would turn, he thought, and leave. Perhaps he only wished to stop the signal; Lord had not seen his face, could not identify him.

The figure began moving again, slowly and carefully, a little to his left. Perhaps twenty feet.

Phoenix was still hunting him.

The trunk was angled between them. Lord slithered toward its far end, trying to hide.

One step at a time, Phoenix drew even with him, looking from side to side. Staring in Lord's direction.

Lord lay like a second log.

One more step, then another, and Phoenix was a few feet past.

He stopped, raising his left wrist to his face, to read his watch.

A hunter with a deadline.

Lord got to his knees.

Phoenix's stare swung to the ocean. Head cocked toward him, Lord began to circle. Cramps made him limp.

When Phoenix's gaze swung back, Lord was just beyond it, moving softly.

Phoenix's head kept swinging; Lord kept circling, at his back. Stopping straight behind him.

Between them was a log shaped like a club.

Lord hobbled forward, grasping it. The wind and ocean howling covered his steps.

Clamping his teeth, Lord rose again.

Phoenix stepped forward, broad-shouldered, graceful. Lord's legs were so stiff that the distance narrowed too slowly.

Eight feet more.

Lord started moving in a crouch. Soon Phoenix must look back.

Six feet.

Raising the club, Lord's eyes sought the back of his neck.

Four feet.

Phoenix's shoulders tensed. As he stopped, Lord drew back the club.

Phoenix spun on him.

In the split second he could not decide to kill him on the beach, Lord swung at his skull.

There was a thud, shock running through Lord's arm, the rifle firing. Then Phoenix was toppling in its echo, dropping his weapon.

Lord lunged at him.

His head cracked against the terrorist's rib cage, changing the direction of his fall. Backward, Lord on top of him, screaming, unable to see his face.

Phoenix chopped at his windpipe.

The scream became gagging. As Lord's throat constricted, an elbow smashed into his jaw, knocking him to the sand. Feeling ripped tissue in his mouth, tasting blood.

Phoenix crawled toward the rifle.

Pushing to his knees, Lord dove to grab the terrorist's feet, then pull himself up over his back as Phoenix grasped the rifle.

Lord clutched his throat with both hands.

Muscles straining, Phoenix twisted under him, trying to turn and fire. Lord pushed for the back of his throat.

With primal strength, Phoenix turned beneath him, grasping the rifle in one hand, finger reaching the trigger, as his other hand flailed at Lord. The only sound was the wind and roar of the ocean.

Lord's fingers dug for his larynx.

The rifle stopped moving. Then, slowly, it slid from Phoenix's hand.

In a final spasm, his fingernails scraped the back of Lord's wrists. A gurgling sound came from the darkness.

Choking with his last ounce of force, Lord bent his face to the terrorist's.

His eyes were John Damone's.

They were stretched open, like the mouth gaping for air. As Damone gazed up at him, Lord could feel the pulse in his throat, his own convulsive swallowing. Damone could no longer breathe.

Grasping the rifle, Lord held its barrel to his temple.

Damone shuddered beneath him as air rushed to his lungs. It came back as ragged panting in Lord's face, two inches away.

“
Where is she?
” Lord whispered.

Damone's eyes shut.

In the silent seconds while Lord waited for his answer, he felt their heartbeats link them like two animals.

Slowly, Damone's head moved from side to side, once.

For an instant, Lord was only aware of the trigger he still touched, his free hand clutching Damone's throat.

“
Why
…”

Damone opened his eyes to stare back at him. In a voice so low it became a curse, he answered, “Because she saw my face.”

Parnell put down the telephone.

His father's standing clock showed five minutes until nine. Somehow, it was important that he remember the time.

Through their curtains he saw police holding back onlookers, TV lights, the black-haired woman who had badgered him for interviews, facing a camera. She spoke behind him from the television: “Within minutes, we should know the fate of John Damone and Alexis Parnell.…”

Turning off her voice, he heard instead what Moore had told him.

They had found Lord on a deserted beach, naked, a rifle jammed to the back of Damone's throat. Damone, the enemy he did not know.

His footsteps had come from a rope ladder on the sheer cliff beyond the beach. At its top, hidden by a stand of pines, was a cabin.

Inside was a single chair, spotlit by photographer's lights, waiting in front of a camera. But Alexis lay in a shallow grave, overlooking the water.

They would bring her body, and Damone, to San Francisco.

Parnell was still, imagining her final moments.

For once, he did not cry.

His hand was steady as he dialed. He felt disembodied, more mind than heart.

“Hello?” Danziger said.

“This is Colby,” he began, then realized how foolish this was. “She's dead, John.”

His voice surprised him with its flatness. Only Danziger's silence made him feel pain.

“Colby, I'll be right there.…”

“Just keep them away. Please.” Pausing, a vision of the night to come formed in Parnell's mind. “I'm leaving the telephone off the hook. To have some privacy with this.”

Danziger paused. With a quiet that underscored his meaning, he asked, “Will you be all right, alone?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Then I understand,” Danziger murmured. “I'm so very sorry—”

“I know you are,” Parnell answered softly, and pressed the receiver down.

He placed the telephone on the blotter, next to his revolver.

Picking it up, his eyes closed.

He had loaded it this morning, he remembered, after calling Danziger. To protect her once Lord returned.

She would be changed, of course. But he had asked Danziger to find psychiatrists who specialized in such cases, rather than wait here with him. Tomorrow had not seemed too soon to start.

His grip tightened on the revolver.

Alexis had died before him, in agony and fear. This was the first hour of knowing that for as long as he lived.

With the same clarity, he knew he could not bear it.

He placed the revolver to his temple.

It remained there, until Parnell was satisfied.

When he stood again, two hours had passed.

Walking to his window, he saw more police, the crowd of press growing, the dark-haired woman still talking to a camera. On the screen, her lips moved silently; Parnell could sense her confusion. It made him feel more certain.

There were precautions to be taken first, he thought. Ways he must prepare.

He went back to his desk.

From the telephone directory, he wrote down the address for the Hall of Justice, then dialed a second number.

“Thank you for calling MUNI,” the tape began. “If you are requesting route information, please tell the operator where you are located, and where you wish to go.…”

The tape reminded him of Phoenix.

“MUNI information,” a man's voice broke in.

“Pardon me,” Parnell answered politely. “I wonder if you might tell me the route from Broderick, near Broadway, to 850 Bryant Street.”

“At what time, sir?”

“Night.” Parnell glanced at the clock. “After midnight.”

Hesitance. “Will this be daily?”

“No. Just this once.”

“Weekdays, or weekend?”

“Weekend.”

Hearing pages flip, Parnell tensed.

“Yeah, okay … you'll walk to Jackson at Divisadero. Take the three Jackson to Van Ness, and then transfer to the forty-two bus going south. It'll take you right along Bryant.…”

Parnell wrote this down. “Three Jackson,” he repeated. “Forty-two south on Van Ness.…”

“That's right,” the man said, and hung up.

Parnell stuffed the paper in his shirt pocket, and unhooked the telephone again.

Climbing the stairs to their room, he selected a tie and his oldest sportcoat, found a hat he seldom wore. Then he opened their coat closet.

Her furs and wool coats stopped him.

Sudden tears began welling. He pulled out his raincoat and closed the door.

When he hurried downstairs, the crowd outside had swollen. The woman was still waiting there.

Opening his desk, Parnell took the press pass his staff had given him at the annual party, and put it in one pocket of his coat. The other sagged with the weight of his revolver.

Pausing, he saw the woman on his screen, and turned up her voice.

It sounded strained. “We are still waiting for the final broadcast, or some word about the hostages. All we can promise is to maintain live coverage until this terrible drama comes to an end.…”

He slipped out their pantry, entering the rear grounds.

The wind was cool on his face. There were stars above the bay, and the lights of boats were like more stars. But the home separating theirs and Broderick was not lit. Only a stucco wall between them, with the cherry tree she'd planted next to it.

Grasping its branches, he put one foot in the crotch of the tree and pulled himself up. The street shoe nearly slipped; Parnell's arms shook as the tree buckled beneath his weight. Pushing with one leg, he hooked the other over the wall, pulling his body up. Lying on top now, already panting.