The watch. If the boy had fought instead of hiding on the yacht, he would have been dead long before he heard the watch. If he had not recognized the sound of the watch yesterday afternoon, he would have been allowed to live. And Lefebvre! Such a brilliant career, and it would end in shame. Because of a watch.
He shook his head and sighed deeply, genuinely sad about Lefebvre.
To console himself, he carefully turned to the first page of the notebook and began reading.
As always, it cheered him.
10
Friday, June 22, 9:36 P.M.
Above the San Bernardino Mountains
Lefebvre flew above the dense fog that blanketed the mountains on that moonless summer night. Solo in the Cessna, with a cloud carpet below, a canopy of starlight above — on another night he would have been calmed by the view, lulled by the droning of the engine. Not tonight.
Tonight he was distracted from the night sky by memories of Seth, lying cold and still in the hospital bed. He had thought himself accustomed to seeing the dead, until he had seen the body of the young man.
Not a young man, really. Not yet. Not ever.
The boy, he amended. The boy who had trusted him.
Against such thoughts, the drone of the plane’s engine became a drill, burrowing into his mind, looking for secrets. He needed to get away from talk and noise and pursuers.
The engine coughed and caught, coughed and caught — once, twice, three times. And then, with a horrifying suddenness, the drone was gone.
Without another cough or sputter or miss, the Cessna’s engine died.
At first, he was disbelieving. He was an experienced pilot. This couldn’t be happening to him. Not tonight. Not tonight of all nights.
He feathered the propeller to reduce drag on the plane, tried to restart the engine. Nothing. Tried switching fuel tanks. Nothing.
What was wrong?
Had he missed some problem in preflight? Tonight he had found some comfort in the rituals of preflight, rituals he performed religiously. But he could not deny that he had been upset, distracted. He kept seeing the boy, dead — kept wondering if the others had found the body yet and how much lead time he would have before they came looking for him. Wondering if Elena would be safe, would be wise enough to keep her distance from him.
Even in that anxious state, though, he had made sure he had enough fuel to reach his destination. He had topped off the Cessna’s tanks himself.
He checked the gauges — he still had plenty of fuel. Then what the hell was wrong?
He went through the Cessna’s checklist, item by item, fighting the urge to panic. Nothing worked.
He tried to restart again. No response.
Nothing made sense! Helplessly, he watched the altimeter fall.
No, he pleaded. No! Please, God, not now! Not now!
The plane was losing altitude, dropping into the clouds, the darkness below. He did not need lights to know what lay waiting for him.
Trees. Tall pines and unforgiving rocky canyons — mountain slopes.
Don’t come in fast, he told himself. He slowed the plane to a stall. The fog beaded into water on the windows, enveloped him in white silent darkness.
His mouth went dry. He knew a moment of nearly unbearable loneliness, then calm, as his thoughts returned to Elena and the boy.
The young man, he amended.
The left wing went first — wrenched off by a pine tree. Once again — though briefly — Lefebvre’s world filled with noise.
Two
Ten Years Later
1
Saturday, July 8, 2:15 P.M.
San Bernardino Mountains
“It’s in our jurisdiction,” the sheriff’s deputy said as he led the way to the wreckage. “I guess we had to give it to you because the deceased is a Las Piernas police officer.”
Frank Harriman didn’t respond. Nor did Ben Sheridan. However excited this green kid was to be associated with a crash investigation, they both knew that the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department homicide detective who had brought them here was more than happy to have this case off his hands. Cliff Garrett was currently waiting in his air-conditioned car at the top of the steep incline they had just hiked down.
As they made their way in the sticky afternoon heat, the young deputy had taken one horrified look at the prosthesis on the lower half of Ben’s left leg and started up to meet them. He had reached for Ben’s elbow, and Ben had told him in no uncertain terms that if he touched him, he’d find out just how well a one-legged man could do in an ass-kicking contest.
Frank had thought Ben was a little hard on the kid. Fifteen minutes later, he wished he had volunteered to referee.
“Jesus, what is that thing?” the deputy had asked, staring at the prosthesis. “It looks like a shock absorber getting it on with the end of a ski or something.”
“Does it?” Ben asked.
“Yes, sir, it sure does.”
Ben turned to Frank and said, “Garrett gave you a radio?”
Frank nodded.
“Call him and tell him there was no one here to lead us to the Cessna.”
“Oh, no!” the kid said. “That’s why I’m here. That’s my job.”
“Then do it,” Ben snapped.
The deputy didn’t seemed fazed by this; he shrugged and started down an uneven path. Two seconds later, he turned and said, “You going to be able to—”
“Don’t ask him that,” Frank warned.
“I used to go surfing in Las Piernas,” he said as they finally reached the shade.
When Frank said nothing, he added, “You probably don’t think a guy from the Inland Empire would know much about surfing, but I haven’t lived here all my life.”
“A rambling man,” Ben muttered.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’ve lived all over Southern California. Even San Diego.” He turned to Frank and asked, “You’re a homicide detective in Las Piernas?”
“Yes,” Frank answered, slapping at a mosquito, wondering why the shade wasn’t offering more relief from the heat.
“Really? You’re a detective?”
“Really. You want to call Detective Garrett from your department and verify it?”
“No, sir, it’s just—” Their guide stopped, taking a moment to look him up and down. “They let you — you know, wear hiking clothes on the job down there?”
“No.”
“But you can wear them when you’re not in your own jurisdiction?”
“No. Are you with the reserves?”
“Yes, sir, how’d you know?”
“In Las Piernas, that’s on the test for detectives. Identification of Reserve Officers.”
Deputy Whatever continued on as he mulled this over, giving them a little peace. A few minutes later, though, he let loose with a loud and pungent fart.
“For Christ’s sakes!” Ben said angrily.
“Sorry.” The kid grinned. “No charge for the bug repellent.”
Eventually, they could hear other voices up ahead.
“Deputy,” Frank said then, “I just realized that I am without one of the authorization forms I’ll need for this investigation to be taken over by Las Piernas. It’s vital that I have it. We can find the site from here — but would you please return to Detective Garrett and tell him that I need a Universal Transfer of Responsibility Form Eighty-five-dash-seven?”
“I don’t know if I should—”
“Maybe I should go,” said Ben. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it back here on my bad leg, but—”
“Don’t even think of it!” The deputy repeated the form number and took off.
“Universal Transfer of Responsibility Form?” Ben asked as soon as the deputy was out of earshot.
“I thought the ‘Eighty-five-dash-seven’ was a nice touch, myself. Which one is your bad leg?”