At a quarter to 9, he pulled back up to the turnaround near the entrance to the shooting range. In the canyon below, the Pageant was underway. The production shops next to the Irvine Bowl blocked his view of the theater, but Robbie could hear the orchestra and the audience applauding the tableaux vivants onstage.
The curtain fell on Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper, the traditional Pageant finale, just before 10:30. Time to go. Grabbing the soap bag, he loped across the turnaround, stepped over the chain across the entrance to the access road, and disappeared. He crossed the dark, empty shooting range five minutes later, reached the bottom of the ravine five minutes after that, and began the slippery ascent up the shadowy hillside. Footing was surprisingly treacherous, but twenty minutes later, he stepped out onto the fire road. Accustomed to the darkness by now, he located the viewpoint and crouched nearby behind a large chaparral.
As he sat there, he went over in his mind the notes he’d been studying: Madison’s family and the little, intimate details that would let the jerk know just how vulnerable he was. Robbie’s adrenaline was pumping. He was out of practice. By now, Laguna Canyon Road was full of cars heading home. The festival was shutting down for the night, and the maintenance crew in the Irvine Bowl was almost through cleaning up after the Pageant.
Suddenly, Robbie tensed. He’d heard something. But what? He listened again, then laughed to himself at his nervousness. He checked his watch. Three minutes to midnight. He closed his eyes and strained to hear any activity below.
Five minutes later, he heard footsteps coming up the rutted dirt road. It had to be Madison... But wait. Something was wrong. He could make out more than one voice. Madison wasn’t alone. Michele hadn’t said anything about this. The voices were getting closer. In another minute, two shadowy figures came over the crest and meandered toward the overlook. Robbie adjusted his position to get a better view. They were walking arm in arm, whispering to one another. It was a man and a woman! The man seemed to have a parcel under one arm. As Robbie watched, the man shook the bag and flipped it out. It was a blanket. Spreading it in the darkened clearing, he turned to embrace the woman. Robbie strained to make out their hushed whispers. Could this just be a coincidence? A couple looking for a place to make out at the exact wrong place and time? Robbie cursed his luck. Obviously, they’d scare off Madison. But there was nothing he could do except wait them out.
As Robbie crouched there, helpless, he heard the couple start to undress one another. In the dark, they giggled at their clumsiness. No foreplay, no chit-chat. In another minute, they were groping each other while trying to find a comfortable position on the hard earth. Soon enough, however, discomfort gave way to passion. Amid sighs and gasps, he heard the woman emit a muted squeal.
Robbie sat up and peered down at the shadowy figures. Even in the dark, he was sure he recognized the guy. There was no mistaking his clumsy movements and his labored, rheumy breathing. Jeff.
In that same instant, he felt a cold, metallic object press into the back of his neck. He froze as he realized what it was. The barrel of a handgun. Jeff had always carried one, but Robbie refused to have anything to do with them. He wasn’t afraid of them. He just knew there was no hope for a successful negotiation once the guns come out.
Robbie tried ever so gingerly to turn his head in hopes of glimpsing who was behind him. He winced as the barrel jabbed into the base of his skull. The couple, now fully engaged, were oblivious.
Responding to the prodding of the barrel, Robbie slowly got to his feet. He felt the figure moving around to stand beside him. Then, in a single motion, the person lifted another pistol in his other hand. Robbie could make out the silhouette of an imposing silencer attached to the barrel of the other weapon. Before Robbie could react, the pistol emitted four dull bursts, and, after two labored gasps, the couple fell silent.
What the fuck was going on?! Robbie turned to look at the assassin, who now leveled the other pistol directly against his forehead. It was too dark to make out a face.
“Nice shooting,” said a strangely familiar voice. After a second, Robbie realized where he’d heard it before.
“Terry?” Silence. “What the—?”
His voice was flat and calm. “You shouldn’t have tried to blackmail Jeff about his thing with that cute little jewelry maker. You thought if you caught them in the act, they’d pay up. Too bad Jeff never goes anywhere without his piece.” Terry flicked the barrel of the smaller pistol as he centered it on Robbie’s chest. “And he managed to shoot you before you finished them off... Poor Michele.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Robbie could barely hear his voice over the pounding in his chest.
“I’m the new you, motherfucker...”
Robbie started to lean back, then swung the bag of soap bars with all his might toward Terry’s gun hand. In the blackness, the tinny explosions, like leftover fireworks — two quick bursts followed after about ten seconds by a third — echoed weakly across the canyon.
Michele opened the front door for Terry. She was barefoot, wearing a sheer silk nightshirt. In the hallway behind her, the removable cast was leaned up against the wheelchair. “Don’t tell me you forgot your key again,” she said as the door swung inward. In the next instant, she did her best to mask her surprise.
Robbie reached out an arm and leaned heavily against the door frame. In his other hand, he held Jeff’s pistol. “Terry’s not coming home.”
Michele’s mind was racing and all she could think to say was, “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll live.” Robbie pointed the gun at her. As she backed away, he stepped through the door, gritting his teeth, willing himself through the pain. Backing her down the hall, Robbie glanced at the boot cast and wheelchair. “Your knee’s better.”
“Robbie—”
“Just shut up, Michele... I might have expected something like this from Jeff. But I always thought you—”
“You don’t know what it’s been like.”
“I guess not.”
“Look, Robbie, we can get through this. We can make this work for both of us. But we’ve got to get you to—”
“No, we don’t.”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.” They were in the living room now. Low lights. Through the panoramic windows, the faint glow of the town below. She tried to scan the room for possible weapons as Robbie moved closer, the gun still leveled at her.
“You had it all figured out. Get rid of Jeff and me... clean slate.”
“Robbie, it’s just you and me now. We could be in Mexico before dawn.”
“Right.” His attempt at sarcasm hurt like hell.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Wouldn’t want bloodstains on your furniture.”
“Robbie.”
“You taught me that it’s never personal. Well... let me tell you...” He lifted his blood-soaked hand from his abdomen and held it out toward her. “This feels personal.”
“Let me get something.”
“No. It ends here. But first I’m gonna need every cent you’ve got.”
“Of course. It’s in the safe.” She turned and pointed toward the bedroom hall. When he nodded, she moved in that direction.
“It’s in here,” Michele said, indicating a walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Pushing back clothes hanging on a rack, she revealed a wall safe. She flicked on an overhead light and punched at the safe’s keypad. “We’re going to get through this.” She looked back at Robbie, who watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, then opened the safe and reached in. “You won’t be sorry.”
Turning, she pulled out a .22 handgun and swung it toward Robbie. But he was ready, firing three quick bursts at pointblank range, hitting Michele twice in the chest and once in the neck. Her pistol fired wildly, the bullet lodging in a chest of drawers to Robbie’s right. She fell to the carpet in front of him. Robbie looked down at her for a moment, closed his eyes, and let out a deep sigh. He noticed blood from his abdomen was now staining his pants leg and overflowing from his sock down his shoe and onto the carpet. Turning, he walked slowly from the room.