Solitude Creek (34 page)

‘’Cause you’ll get the crap beat out of you.’

Wes had just repeated, ‘Explode.’

They hung out some more and finally Donnie let him into the Defend and Respond Expedition Service game. He needed a partner because Lann, fuck him, had moved.

Donnie, who spent hours a day at video games, had made up the game himself. Defend and Respond Expedition Service. But they thought of it as what it really was: DARES. Well,
dares
.

Donnie and now Wes were on one side, Vincent and Nathan on the second. One team
dared
the other to do something totally fucked up: steal something, shoot pictures up a girl’s skirt, piss on a teacher’s lesson plan. You got a point if you met the challenge – and came back with proof. At the end of the month, whoever had the most points won. They wrote it up like a board game with fake countries and codes and names – Darth and Wolverine – so that any parents looking the game over would just think it was like
Lord of the Rings
or
Harry Potter
or whatever.

Wes hadn’t been sure about joining at first. Donnie’s crew wasn’t Wes’s flavor. But Donnie could see he was interested and, after the first couple dares, even though he only watched Donnie’s back, it was way clear that he got a high out of it. Like he’d almost smiled in Asilomar that time, watching Donnie and Nathan beat the crap out of the whiny little Lat.

But would he really come around? Donnie Verso wondered again.

He walked into Starbucks, got a coffee and sat down next to Wes, who was texting. He glanced up, nodded and put his phone away.

‘Hey.’

They bumped fists.

For the next ten minutes they talked, in whispers, about how best to get into Goldshit’s garage and steal their bikes back. Wes thought it was smart not to do it just the two of them but get Nathan and Vincent too.

Donnie thought that wasn’t a bad idea.

After a few minutes, Wes said, ‘I heard Kerry and Gayle’ll be at Foster’s. Want to go up there?’

‘Is Tiff with them?’

‘I don’t know. I just heard Kerry and Gayle.’

‘K. Let’s go.’

They headed out and turned north, making for the old department store, now a restaurant – at least on the first floor.

They got about one block and Donnie laughed and slapped Wes’s arm. ‘Look who it is.’

It was that prick Rashiv. Mrs Dance had mentioned him the other night. Donnie and his DARES crew had wailed on him about six weeks or so ago. Donnie didn’t quite know why, maybe because Rashiv wasn’t even a democratic US citizen and he should go back to where he came from, Syria or India or wherever. But mostly they’d pounded on him and pulled his pants down and launched his book bag into the water off Lovers’ Point because it was something to do.

And here he was now.

Rashiv glanced up and, terror in his eyes, saw Donnie and Wes walking right toward him. They were on Lighthouse, the main commercial street in Pacific Grove, and plenty of people were around so the kid didn’t think he was going to get lashed but he still looked plenty scared.

‘Yo, bitch,’ Donnie said.

Rashiv nodded. He was a way skinny little guy.

‘Whatchu up to, bitch?’

A shrug. ‘Nothing.’ Looking for a place to run, just in case Donnie decided to lash on him even with people around.

Wes just looking at him with this blank expression.

‘Hey, Wes.’

No response from Wolverine.

Rashiv said, ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. I called.’

‘Busy.’

Donnie said, ‘
You
been busy too, Rashit?’ It was funny how a question could be both friendly and threatening.

‘Sorta. Yeah. You know, school.’

Wes said, ‘What’s that?’ Squinting at a book the boy was carrying.

‘Just some manga.’

‘Let me see.’

‘I don’t—’

Wes lifted it away. He laughed in shock. ‘Japanese edition of
Death Note
– it’s signed by Ohba.’

Shit, Donnie thought. Holy shit. One of the best, kick-ass manga comics of all time. And signed by the author? Donnie said, ‘I figured you’d beat off to
Sailor Moon
.’

Death Note
was about a high-school student who has a secret notebook that gives him the power to kill anyone just by knowing their name and face. Fuck, this was pure solid, the most righteous of any manga or anime in the world.

Wes flipped through it. ‘I’m going to borrow it.’

‘Wait!’ Rashiv said, eyes wide.

‘I’m just going to read it.’

‘No, you’re not! You’re never going to give it back. My parents brought it to me from Japan!’ Rashiv reached forward and gripped Wes’s arm. ‘No! Please!’

Wes turned to him with a look that sent some ice even down Donnie’s back. ‘Get your hand off me. Or you know what?’ He nodded toward Donnie. ‘We’ll totally fuck you up.’

The boy dropped his hand and stared in pure misery as Donnie and Wes walked leisurely away, sipping their coffee.

And with that –
totally fuck you up
– Donnie knew that, at last, Wes was one of them.

Dance’s Pathfinder careened along the hilly stretch of Highway 68.

Not a good vehicle to be executing these maneuvers.

And not a good driver to be attempting them. Kathryn Dance had her talents but motoring wasn’t one of them.

‘Where are you, Michael?’

‘Twenty minutes. There’s a cruiser there now. CHP happened to be nearby.’

‘I’ll be there in three.’

Whoa, a faint skid and a blare of horn. You’re allowed to honk angrily at a large Nissan SUV straying over the centerline toward you, even if there
is
a flashing blue light on the dashboard.

She tossed the phone onto the seat next to her. Get serious here.

Bounding into the lower lot at the inn, the Pathfinder sped up to the Highway Patrol trooper, dressed crisp, as they always looked, standing next to the Pacific Grove cop, whom she knew.

‘Charlie.’

‘Kathryn.’

‘Agent Dance,’ the CHP trooper said. ‘I got the call. This is the Solitude Creek suspect?’

‘We think so. Where is he?’

Charlie offered, ‘Headed inside just after he parked. He didn’t spot me, I’m sure.’

‘Where’s the car?’

‘Follow me.’

They eased along the path, through gardens of pine and succulents. They paused behind a large bush.

The silver Honda was parked near the loading dock of the large hotel, a stone-and-glass structure that featured about two hundred rooms. The dining room was top notch and on Sunday it did a huge brunch business. Dance and her late husband, Bill, had come here several times for romantic busman-holiday weekends, while Stuart and Edie kept the kids.

Two more patrol cars pulled up quietly, filled with three MCSO deputies. Dance waved them over. Another car arrived. O’Neil. He climbed out and hurried along the path, joining his fellow officers.

‘There’s the car.’ Dance pointed.

O’Neil glanced at her, then said to the others: ‘What he’s going to rig, incendiaries, flash bangs, whatever it is, probably isn’t life-threatening in itself. That’s not what turns him on. He wants to kill with the panic, people trampling each other – because they can’t get out. You have to tell people that there’s no real danger. They might not listen. They won’t want to. But you have to try.

‘But, remember, at Bay View he was armed. Nine mil. Plenty of ammo.’

They started to leave and go inside.

Which was when, with a
whump
, rather quiet actually, the Honda began to burn. In seconds the fire was raging. The device, whatever it might be, was in the trunk. Just above the gas tank. Dance imagined the unsub had drilled or punched a hole into it, to accelerate the blaze.

She then noticed smoke being drawn into the HVAC system, just like at Solitude Creek.

‘The exit doors – he’s probably wired them shut. Get ’em open, now! All of them.’

Always happened, the orderly reflected.

The two elevators in this part of Monterey Bay Hospital were pretty dependable. But what happens, a woman comes in, contractions counting down, and car number one is out of commission.

‘You’ll be fine,’ the thirty-five-year-old career medical worker told her. He turned his kindly face, under a fringe of curly hair, toward her.

‘Ah, ah, ah. Thanks. My husband’s on his way.’
Gasp.
‘Oh, my.’

The orderly had been on duty since five a.m. He was beat. Sundays were the days of rest for almost everybody – but not hospital workers. He eased the wheelchair a bit closer to the door, through the group of eight or nine visitors and medicos waiting for the car. He didn’t think there’d be any problem with getting on the next ride.
They
weren’t about to deliver.

The blonde, in her late twenties, was sweating fiercely. The orderly was happy to see a wedding ring on her finger. He was old-fashioned.

She grimaced in pain.

Come on, he thought to the car. A glance at the indicator. Second floor.

Come on.

‘Where is he? Your husband?’ Making conversation, putting her at ease.

‘Fishing.’

‘What’s he fish for?’

‘Ah, ah, ah … Salmon.’

So he was on a party boat. Four hours minimum. Was he out of his mind? She looked like she was ready to pop at any minute.

She glanced up. ‘I’m two weeks early.’

The orderly smiled. ‘My son was two weeks late. Still’s never on time.’

‘Daughter.’ A nod toward the impressive belly. She gave another assortment of gasps.

Then, the car. The doors opened and people streamed out.

‘Like one of those funny cars at a circus, all the clowns.’

The woman in labor didn’t laugh. Okay. But he got a smile from a nurse and an elderly couple, carrying a balloon reading, ‘
IT’S A BOY!!!
’

After the car had emptied one person pushed on first – a doctor, natch. Then the orderly wheeled his passenger – well, technically,
two
passengers – on and turned her, facing out. The others walked in as well, jockeying for space. As in all hospitals, the elevators were large – to accommodate gurneys – but with the other car out, this one filled up fast. Several said they’d wait. A dozen, fourteen people climbed on. The orderly looked at the maximum weight. How the hell helpful was that? He supposed the buzzer would sound if it was too heavy; it had a safety system like that, of course.

He hoped.

It was really packed, stifling. Hot too.

‘Ah, ah, ah …’

‘You’ll be fine. We’re three minutes away and the staff’s all ready for you.’

‘Thank y-aaaah.’

The door closed. She was in the far right-hand corner of the car, the orderly behind her, his back to the wall. He was extremely claustrophobic but, for some reason, being in this position, having no one behind him, kept the discomfort at bay.

A businessman looked around. Frowned. ‘Shit, it’s hot in here. Oh, sorry.’

Maybe directed to the pregnant woman, as if the fetus might be shocked. But, the orderly thought, shit, it
is
hot. Prodding the claustrophobia to squirm.

The elderly couple was discussing their granddaughter’s choice of a name for the boy who’d just been born. The orderly heard the beep of phone keys. The doctor, natch again, had pulled out his mobile.

‘I’m confirming a reservation …’

Blah, blah, blah.

The restaurant apparently didn’t have a particular table he’d requested earlier. And he wasn’t happy.

The car stopped at the second floor.

Three people got off. Five got on. Net gain. Ugh. And one was a biker. The Harley-Davidson variety. Black leather jacket, boots, stocking cap. And chains. Why did anybody need to wear chains? There was protest in the form of sighs and a glare or two (he could’ve waited) and the doors closed and the car rose slowly, bobbing under the weight. Not because he looked dangerous, which he did, but at his size. They were completely packed in now, belly to back. Man could’ve waited for the next trip.

This is hell.

Shit.

‘Ah, ah, ah …’ the woman gasped.

‘Almost there,’ the orderly said, reassuring himself as much as the pregnant woman.

Not that it worked.

As the car climbed toward floor three, conversation slowed, except for the complaining doctor, who was abrasively asking to talk to somebody in charge. ‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe the restaurant manager? Is that so very hard to figure out?’

Almost there …

Seconds unreeled like hours.

Jesus Christ. Get to the floor. Open the fucking door!

But the door didn’t open. In fact, the elevator didn’t even make it to the third floor. It bounced to a stop somewhere between two and three.

No, no, please. He believed he thought this. But the prayer or plea might have been uttered aloud. Several people looked his way. That might, however, have been from the look of encroaching panic on his sweaty face.

‘It’s all right. I’m sure it’ll get moving soon.’ It was the doctor, slipping his phone away, who’d offered this reassurance to the orderly.

And the pregnant woman in the wheelchair wiped abundant sweat from her forehead, tucked stringy hair behind her ears and tried to steady her breathing.

‘Ah, ah, ah. I think it’s coming. I think the baby’s coming …’

In surgical scrubs, cap and booties, Antioch March left the engineering room on the top floor of Monterey Bay Hospital, where he’d just cut the power to east wing elevator car number two. Twenty minutes earlier he’d done the same to car one, when it was empty. That drove the passengers to the second car, which guaranteed it would be packed when disaster struck.

Which it was. He was watching the video image of the interior from the camera inside. Of particular interest was the pregnant woman, whose head was tilted back and who was gasping. Her face wincing in pain. Even better was the expression of the orderly accompanying her. Panic starting to form. Exquisite.

March imagined what it was like in there. A dozen – no, more – belly to back, side to side, the air becoming denser and more useless. Hotter too. The power loss had taken out the air-conditioning unit as well.