J AMES KUDA THOUGHT again about the moves he had made, about the car and the body. Not likely they’d be found for a while-not until he was long gone, had put the West Coast behind him.
Having left the garage of the empty house, driving at a normal rate through the dark village streets, he’d headed south down Highway One, the waves thundering high and violent below the dropping cliffs-big, hungry waves. To his left, though he hadn’t been able to see much in the dark, were the rolling hills dotted with small, scattered ranches; he’d glimpsed only a couple of lights up there, at that predawn hour. With his window open he’d enjoyed the cold wind and the roar of the crashing sea, the smell of salt and iodine-had relished the sound of the extra-high tide. He always read the tide schedules, as well as the society page that offered up a nice working bible, a regular menu of lucrative possibilities, more than one man could ever make use of. Driving slowly, he’d watched the cliff carefully for the turnoff, which was nearly invisible in the dark.
He supposed he could have dumped the body somewhere up there beyond those ranches where the land turned wild, dumped and buried it. Days before, he’d driven all around up there, and looked. Had spotted that cop’s ranch, too-saw the chief’s truck and a couple of squad cars parked there, saw lights blazing in the house and heard music and laughter. Wouldn’t that be a joke, if he buried it on that police chief’s land?
Yeah, it would. Tantamount to teasing a maddened rattlesnake. And what was the point? No, that Max Harper would come after him with a vengeance.
He’d left no ID on the body or in the car, no prints but the victim’s own and the kid’s. Anyway, his own prints weren’t on record; he’d always been careful about that.
Making his turn in the pitch-dark, and dimming his lights to park, he’d eased along the edge of the cliff, pulled up where it dropped smoothly down. Setting the hand brake, he’d sat there a moment thinking, then swung out of the car, on the highway side. Found a long heavy rock just the right shape, careful to walk only on the bare stone outcroppings where the cliff had been cut to build the highway.
Pulling the body over into the driver’s seat, he’d retrieved the bike from the trunk and set it upright on the asphalt. Then, returning to the car, he’d set the rock ready, reached in and started the engine again, and in one practiced motion had shoved the rock in place against the gas pedal, slammed it in gear, released the brake and dove away fast, clearing the door as the car shot over the side.
He’d stood listening to tons of metal thudding and dropping against the rocks, the scrape of metal on rock, the sudden explosive crash into the sea-listening to the altered rhythm of the breakers suddenly as the vehicle sank, the sucking sound, and then the rising waves returning again to their own cadence, breaking only against the cliff.
Still stepping carefully only on the stone outcroppings, he’d returned to the highway, swung onto the bike, and headed back toward the village, the sky still dark, heavy with cloud. He’d almost cheered aloud when he felt a few drops of water on his face, and heard the rain start to pelt behind him-a good rain to wash away the tire marks. The way the weather had been, nothing was sure, but he’d lucked out, this time. Nothing in life was sure, he thought, smiling. You took it the best way you could.
18
H AVING FINISHED HER stable work, Charlie loaded the big portfolio of her newest etchings and drawings into her Blazer, changed her muddy boots for cleaner ones, hastily brushed her hair and clipped the red mass back out the way. Making sure the house was locked, she headed down the hills to deliver the last pieces of work to the framer, driving slowly, drinking in the morning, enjoying the emerald-bright pastures dropping ahead of her. The sky was a clear azure above the dark blue sea, the tide high and wild. Where the hills rose darker with scattered pines and brush, a long white streak of fog trailed across their brightening crests, a veil as thin and delicate as a chiffon scarf. It was on such a dawn as this that she imagined flying in that clear air, that she wished she could see all the earth at once reeling below her, the next emerald hill and the next, on forever. No wonder some wild souls couldn’t stay out of the sky, sacrificing all luxuries and many necessities for a way of life that counted for far more. But, horse-poor or airplane-poor, such folks were content and happy.
She arrived at the framer’s so filled with the morning’s beauty that she didn’t want to make small talk; she was glad Jim Barker wasn’t a big talker, that this slight, graying man understood silence. He spoke only to promise he’d have the eight pieces of work ready by Friday, when the gallery would be hanging her show. “With Sicily Aronson,” the thin, balding man said gently, “one has no choice but to be on time.”
Driving the few blocks from Barker’s to the gallery, enjoying the festive shop windows with their holly and wreaths and beautiful wares, she parked two car lengths behind her own blue Chevy cleaning van. She guessed the girls were cleaning up the gallery after the last of the remodeling. Hurrying in, she stopped to talk with Mavity Flowers, who was mopping the Mexican tile floor. She could hear the water running in the powder room, where one of the girls would be cleaning the fixtures and tile. Little wrinkled Mavity Flowers was sixty-some but she liked to work, and she liked the work she did, liked making things bright and clean; and she was certainly healthy and strong. As one of Cora Lee’s housemates, she did much of the cleaning at home, too, while Cora Lee and Susan took care of the shopping and garden.
But this morning, Mavity seemed distracted. Setting aside her mop, she looked up at Charlie. “You’re not going to sell the van?”
“Of course not. What made you think that? Not after Clyde rebuilt the engine and we fitted it all out for the cleaning and repairs. Why…What did you hear?”
“Susan said that was silly. I was going to tell you about it, but then decided it was nothing. I was leaving the Johnson house, Monday a week ago. There was a man looking at the van, walking round and round it. I stepped back inside, I don’t think he saw me. He looked and looked, wrote down something on a pad of paper, and then he left. He was walking, he had no car that I saw. I wish I’d asked him what he was doing.”
“It’s all right. What did he look like?”
“Thin face, short haircut that made his big ears look even bigger. A real narrow face, and black, bushy eyebrows.”
“Maybe a tourist,” Charlie said. “If you see him around the van again, let me know. Or call Mabel, have her send a patrol car around. Whatever he wants, that should put a stop to it. Where’s Sicily?”
Mavity nodded in the direction of the new archway that had been cut into the adjoining café. “This is real nice, the way she cut through.”
Charlie smiled. “I like it, too.” She gave Mavity a little hug, and went on through to the restaurant to join Sicily. The gallery owner sat at a back table where a wall of windows looked out on the patio, each window decorated now with a border of holly. Though the gallery had been left plain and stark, to show off Charlie’s work, the restaurant was all done up for Christmas, red swags from the rafters, a decorated tree in the far corner, and, of course, the scent of Christmas baking. Sicily, at her table, looked sleek and elegant, as usual, in black tights, a camel tunic, and half a dozen handmade necklaces-making Charlie wish, as she clumped on back in her jeans and boots, that she’d taken time to change her clothes.