Solitude Creek (25 page)

Wait here.
Her lips tightened.

‘No warrants. He had a drunk and disorderly a few years ago, assault too, and he owns weapons, so we’ll handle it cautiously.’

The two men headed up the sidewalk, past a row of dying bushes and healthy succulents, another testament to the water problems suffered by the Golden State.

O’Neil waited near Prescott’s door, out of sight of the peephole and side window, which was curtained. Martinez, bulky and imposing, continued around the side of the complex to the rear.

O’Neil gave it three or four minutes, then knocked. ‘Stanley Prescott? Sheriff’s deputy. Please open the door.’

Once more.

He tried the door. It was unlocked. He glanced back at Dance. Held her eye for a moment. Then pushed inside.

No more than a minute later she heard two stunning gunshots, followed by one more.

Antioch March was running.

Full out, a sprint. He realized he was still holding his Glock and slipped it into his pocket. He pulled his gym bag higher on his shoulder and kept going.

Ski mask? he wondered. No, that would definitely draw attention. Glancing back, he noticed that no one was in pursuit. Wouldn’t last long. People would be calling in the incident all over the neighborhood. Tustin wasn’t the sort of place where gunshots would be ignored.

And he knew one person who definitely was calling for backup at this moment: the woman he’d spotted outside the apartment, Kathryn Dance. She was here! She hadn’t seen him, as she sprinted fast to the front door of Prescott’s apartment, cell phone in hand. He might’ve gotten closer to her, tried for a shot. But she was, of course, armed and, he imagined, good with a gun.

Huntress …

And there were probably other deputies nearby. Maybe dozens. And, now, more on the way.

Running faster. Gasping.

For a moment he’d been mystified as to how they’d learned about pathetic Stanley Prescott. Then, of course: just like him, they had an autobot scanning the Internet for any references to the Solitude Creek or Bay View incidents, blog posts or clips on YouTube or Vidster or the other services. She’d received the same sort of alert he had and had sped there too. He wondered if she’d driven. Maybe they’d driven in tandem down from Monterey.

Sucking air into his lungs. March was in good shape, yes, but he’d never run this fast in his life.

The Chevy was a block away.

Go, go. Move!

He was upset that he hadn’t had time to grab Prescott’s computer. But his only thoughts were escape. It had been chaos in the apartment.

Two shots to forestall any pursuit. As the large man went down, clutching the wound, March began his sprint.

Now he saw the car. The Chevy.

Another look back. No one yet.

His feet slapping, the heavy gym bag bouncing on his back. There’d be bruises tomorrow.

If he lived till tomorrow.

His heart labored and the pain crept into his chest and jaw. I’m too young for a fucking heart attack. His mouth filled with saliva and he spat.

Finally he slowed and, chest heaving, walked casually to the stolen car. He gripped the door handle and pulled it open, looking around again. He fell into the driver’s seat and pressed back against the headrest, catching his breath. A few people were nearby but no one apparently had seen the sprint. They didn’t look his way. The strollers and dog walkers and joggers continued what they were doing.

Then he was tricking the ignition wires to start the vehicle. It chugged to life.

March signaled and looked over his shoulder. He pulled carefully into the street, no hurry, and started west, then turned south along surface streets.

He’d be back in Monterey in five hours. On the whole—

A flash caught his eye. He glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw two police cars, blue lights flaring, beginning to speed his way.

Maybe a coincidence.

No … They were after him. One of the goddamn stroller pushers or dog walkers
had
reported him.

March made a skidding turn, pressed the accelerator to the floor and pulled his Glock from his jacket pocket.

Dance ran into the shaded area behind Stan Prescott’s apartment and dropped to her knees beside the two men.

Michael O’Neil knelt over Deputy Martinez, who lay on his back, conscious but bewildered, fearful.

Martinez gasped, ‘I didn’t see him. Where’d he come from?’

O’Neil said, ‘Climbed out through the bathroom window.’

‘It doesn’t hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt? Am I dying? I heard that if you don’t hurt you might be dying. Am I?’

‘You’ll be fine,’ O’Neil said, though he clearly wasn’t sure.

One round had slammed into Martinez’s chest, stopped by his body armor. The second had caught him high in the arm. The wound was a bleeder, brachial artery. O’Neil was applying direct pressure. Dance pulled a locking-blade knife from a holster on the deputy’s belt, flicked it open and cut Martinez’s sleeve off. This she tied around his shoulder. Using a small branch she’d found in the yard nearby, she tightened the cloth ring until the bleeding slowed.

The wounded deputy gasped, ‘Got off one round. I missed. Shit.’

‘I called it in,’ O’Neil said, nodding toward Martinez’s Motorola.

Backup would arrive soon enough. Dance supposed everybody on the block had told 911 about the gunfire, too. She could hear sirens, coming from several directions.

‘Where is he?’ O’Neil said.

‘Didn’t see him,’ Dance replied. ‘Prescott?’

‘Dead. Hang in there, Martinez. You’re doing fine. You a lefty?’

‘No.’

‘Good. You’ll be pitching a softball with the kids in a few weeks.’

‘I can lose the arm.’

Dance blinked.

‘All we play is soccer.’ He smiled.

‘You’ll be fine,’ O’Neil repeated.

Sirens now in front of the apartment complex. Dance rose – O’Neil manned the tourniquet – and jogged to the front. She returned a moment later, with two officers and two medical techs with a gurney.

The latter two took over the treatment, and Dance and O’Neil stepped aside to let them work. They explained to the Orange County deputies what had happened.

One took a call on his mobile. He said a few words and disconnected. ‘We have a lead. Man lives about three blocks from here saw a white male, tall, blond. He was running fast down the street. Got into a car and took off. The guy said it was suspicious. Got the tag. Black Chevy. Monterey, registered to a man his wife tells us is out of town for a week. Left it at Monterey Airport two days ago.’

‘That’s our unsub.’

‘Cars in pursuit now. Headed north on Cumberland.’

‘We’ll want to go,’ Dance said, glancing at O’Neil who had already called up a map on his phone.

Whatever the protocols of lending vehicles to out-of-county law, the deputy didn’t hesitate. ‘Take Martinez’s cruiser. You’ll need the sound and lights.’

Antioch March was sure he couldn’t beat the officers at the freeway game.

He knew this not from any research but from
COPS
, the TV show, and other programs about high-speed pursuits in the LA area. Nail strips, the PIT maneuver and a thousand troopers with nothing better to do than catch you. Escaping by car was the fantasy of bad movies and contrived thrillers.

The Chevy was fast, the suspension okay. And this time of mid-morning, the traffic was light. But he wasn’t going to get much farther. And bailing out and running wasn’t an option either.

Stay calm. Think.

What were his options?

The part of suburban Orange County he sped through now was residential. He could ’jack another car, he supposed, but that would buy time only.

He needed population. People, and a lot of them.

And then he saw it.

Ahead of him, less than a mile, March estimated. Perfect!

A glance in the mirror. The cars were in pursuit, sirens and lights. But they were holding back. As long as they could see him, there was no need to try anything dramatic and endanger lives.

March sped up and covered the distance in less than a minute. Then he executed a fast turn to the right, through a wooden gate and began easing through a crowd of people.

Glorious … Lots and lots of people.

He began to honk and flash his lights. The crowd moved out of the way, most of them frowning, though some probably suspecting a medical emergency or another legitimate reason for the car’s frantic approach.

Then, the way clear, he aimed the Chevy toward a gate in a six-foot-high metal fence. He floored the accelerator.

With smoking tires the vehicle slammed into the mesh, airbag deploying and then shrinking fast. The impact swung the gate wide open. It also sent two people sprawling to the pavement. One was a man on stilts, dressed like a cowboy, and the other, gender indeterminate, wore a purple cat costume and held a matching parasol that read, ‘Welcome, Guests!’

Dance had brought the children there a few years ago.

Global Adventure World was a theme park in Orange County, a smaller-size version of nearby Universal and Disney. Filled with typical rides, animatronics, holographic wonders, theaters featuring live and filmed shows, costumed characters from the parent company’s films and TV programs. Also concession stands galore, ready to help you gain back in one day those three pounds you struggled to lose before your vacation.

As they sped to the front gate, where a dozen police cars were parked, Dance said, ‘Odd choice for a getaway.’

O’Neil nodded. Security in these parks was the best in the nation. Tall fences. High-quality CCTV cameras were disguised as rocks or branches or hidden in light poles and rides, and undercover guards, unarmed but equipped with high-tech com equipment, roamed the grounds, resembling typical tourists. And it wasn’t as if the unsub had tried to slip inside subtly to get lost in the crowd. No, he’d made as explosive an entrance as possible, crashing into a front gate, injuring two costumed employees then leaping through the breach and sprinting inside.

A hundred park visitors were standing in a loose crowd, some distance from the car. Looking over the crumpled vehicle, faint smoke wafting above. Easily half were taking pictures and videos.

Dance and O’Neil met with the incident supervisor from the Orange County Sheriff’s Office, Sergeant George Ralston, a tall, round African American.

O’Neil asked, ‘Any sightings?’

Ralston replied, ‘None. Hey, Herb. Whatta you know?’

Another man joined them. He was tall and solid and, Dance thought, a former cop. Introductions were made. He was the head of security for the park, Herbert Southern.

‘No sign yet.’

Dance asked, ‘Are you following him on security cameras?’

Southern said, ‘We were – sent our people after him. But he disappeared. Got lost in a crowd waiting for the Tornado Alley ride. Named after the cartoon? One of the most popular here. Hundred people were queued up. Security went through the crowd but they couldn’t find him.’

Dance supposed they weren’t particularly aggressive. Didn’t want to spook the patrons. She imagined the key word had been
subtle.
Make sure the customers feel safe.

‘Description?’ Dance asked.

Ralston offered, ‘White male, over six feet. Longish blond hair, green baseball cap, unknown logo. Sunglasses. Dark pants, light shirt, beige jacket. Wool or cotton. Gym bag. White.’

Blond hair. Of course he’d dyed it after Foster’s leak to the press.

‘Your security get a close-up of his face?’ O’Neil asked.

‘No. Kept his head down.’

Dance said, ‘Well, he’s not wearing any of those clothes any more. If he didn’t have a change of clothes with him in the bag, and I’ll bet he did, he’s bought a souvenir jacket and shorts and running shoes. And the gym bag is in a Global shopping bag right now. He can’t change his hair color so he’ll have a different sort of hat. Cowboy maybe.’

One of the big hits from the studio last year, a Wild West animation had won Oscars for something.

‘And some people thought he was wearing gloves. Light-colored ones.’

‘He was,’ O’Neil said. ‘For the fingerprints.’

‘What’s this about?’ Southern asked.

‘He’s wanted in connection with a homicide in Monterey,’ Dance explained.

‘The roadhouse thing?’ Ralston asked. ‘And the other one, right? On the wire. Last night.’

‘That’s right,’ O’Neil confirmed.

Dance added, ‘We came down here to look for a possible witness. The unsub beat us to it. He was at the apartment in Tustin – he killed the wit just before we got there.’

O’Neil’s face grew still. ‘Your deputy was wounded. Martinez. He’ll be okay, I heard, but he took a round in the arm.’

‘Ricky.’ Ralston nodded. ‘Sure. I know him.’

The security man took a call, listened. ‘Thanks.’ He disconnected and said, ‘Nothing. Well, we’ve got all the exits covered. This is the only park exit but there are service entrances with gates.’

Ralston said, ‘I’ve got officers headed there now. He’s armed. I don’t want your boys and girls approaching,’ he said to the security head.

‘No. We’ll work with your folks. Call ’em if they see anything. I’ve told ’em.’

Ralston added to Dance and O’Neil: ‘I’ve got teams circling the outer perimeter. There’s no way he’ll get out unseen.’

Southern shook his head, looking over the growing crowd of park-goers. These were
his
people, those he was in charge of protecting. Dismayed, he said, ‘Hostages?’

But, to Dance, a taking seemed unlikely. The strategy was that you negotiated only to buy time to talk reason into the hostage-taker or to get a sniper into position for a kill shot. You never gave him his freedom. This unsub was smart – no, brilliant. He’d guess that grabbing a hostage was a futile proposition.

She explained this, glancing at O’Neil, who agreed.

Then she said, ‘Here’s a thought. We don’t have a solid facial ID but he doesn’t know that. Can we—’ Dance looked around and saw a business office nearby. ‘Can we get a hundred printouts?’