Something troublesome was stirring around in his head. Something about jade…
He tried the door, but the car was locked. He hesitated, trying to think of a way to get in, but Marguerite was getting farther away every second. He started running to catch her.
Visibility was down to less than a hundred yards. He wasn’t sure which way she had gone, and there were no clear footprints in the loose sand near the highway. But when he got to the water’s edge, he found a fresh trail heading north. The surf was high, crashing into shore in seething gray-green waves and spraying his face. His loafers filled with sand and slipped on slimy bunches of kelp, quickly tiring his legs.
Then, in the gloom ahead, he got a glimpse of a hurrying figure.
He cut inland to stay close to the cover of the dunes, watching her shape vanish and appear again through the gray clouds. He had the sudden eerie sense that he was following a specter through a dream. But to where? There was nothing ahead-only the bluffs at the beach’s end.
She kept on going when she reached them, quickly climbing a tight switchback trail up the cliff face. She was over the top and out of sight by the time he got to the base. He followed, slipping and sliding on the hard, pebbly soil, forcing his aching legs and lungs as hard as he could up the steep trail. Clutching at bunches of sea oats, he pulled himself up the last few feet-
Just in time to see her jump into a pickup truck that was waiting on the deserted headlands.
Monks ran forward, pulling out his pistol, but the truck was already moving away. Within a few seconds, it had faded from sight.
He strode on to where it had been parked, in the faint hope that some clue might remain. There was nothing, not even tire tracks. The spot was desolate, cut off from the highway by dunes, with only the ocean to the west, pounding against the huge ocher rocks, and more headlands to the fog-shrouded north. There was no road in, but the ground was flat, easy for a four-wheeler to manage. No doubt the locals knew how to get on and off the highway. He thought the truck was a Chevy or GMC, but it could have been a Ford or Dodge, or even one of the bigger Toyotas. It was relatively new, light gray or off white. There were thousands like it around.
The wind was much harsher up here than on the beach, rising from moan to howl as it tore at his clothes and hair. The fog had obscured the process of dusk, and now, suddenly, it was almost dark. He did not think that he had ever felt so alone.
Hands shoved into his pockets, bracing himself against the blasts of wind, he turned around and started trudging back.
Then he stopped.
Jade. Antique Chinese jewelry. Stolen from the victims of one of the Calamity Jane killings.
He searched his memory for details. He recalled clearly the uproar when the Calamity Jane golf clubs had been discovered, and he knew that the killers had tossed other valuable or personal items into Dumpsters. Like the Chicago woman’s lingerie-that seemed to be their signature. But he was less clear on the jewelry incident. He remembered that he’d been caught up in his own obsession with Freeboot at the time-that he hadn’t even heard about that particular murder until days after it had happened, and that he’d still been too concerned with the aftermath of the fire to worry about the rest of the world.
That placed it during the time when he had been Freeboot’s prisoner-just when he had seen Hammerhead give the pendant to Marguerite. The victims had lived in Atherton, south of San Francisco, a drive of several hours from the camp.
His gut took that queasy twist that it did when something in him started to grasp that an already bad situation was much worse than it seemed.
He started trotting again. He’d have to smash the Altima’s window-the Bronco’s jack would do it. He needed to get hold of that pendant.
But when he got to the parking lot, the car was gone.
29
Monks approached the Bronco warily, fearful of men lying in wait, or even a planted bomb. If it had been Freeboot or his people in the pickup truck, then they had been right here in this area-no telling for how long or how many times. While he’d been following Marguerite, they could have been following him.
The Beretta was back in his hand, held close to his thigh, a round chambered and ready. His gut and brain both told him that if Freeboot had wanted him taken or killed, it would have happened by now. Back there on the headlands would have been an ideal setup.
But when it came to Freeboot, Monks would never assume anything ever again.
Nothing moved except the brush, branch tips and leaves rippling in the wind. The Bronco looked untouched, but he hesitated, fearful of going up in an explosive swirl of flame and jagged metal. Then he clenched his teeth, yanked open the door, and swung himself in. The engine caught instantly and settled into its deep, comforting rumble. He turned up the fan and held his chilly hands over the warm air flooding up through the dash vents.
Seeing the angry homeless man on TV a couple of weeks ago, spouting rhetoric that sounded like Freeboot’s, had forced Monks to the uneasy conclusion that Freeboot’s plans to incite violence might be more than just talk.
But Freeboot’s possible involvement in the Calamity Jane murders was a different order of business.
They think they can hide in their gated communities and nobody can touch them. They’re gonna get spanked hard.
Marguerite knew that Monks had seen Hammerhead give her the pendant. Monks remembered her reluctant, even frightened response. Did she know where it had come from? Had she accidentally-on-purpose left it in the car for Monks to see? Subconsciously hoping that he would make the connection, and save her again from her helpless submission to Freeboot?
The police had to be contacted immediately. But something deep within Monks resisted, warning him to stay silent-
Because now he was slammed by the fear that Glenn might be involved in the murders.
The hypocrisy was terrible. If it had been someone else’s son, Monks would have blown the whistle without hesitation.
But it was not someone else’s son.
Whom did he owe more to-CEOs who reaped huge profits by gutting domestic industries, exploiting subsistence labor in Third World countries, even ripping off their own employees and investors, selling out the very real lives of working people-or his own flesh and blood?
He knuckled his eyes, trying to shake off this insane calculation. Maybe Freeboot was getting into his head.
A sudden chirping sounded nearby. He tensed, glancing around in bewilderment, thinking a tree frog or locust must have gotten into the vehicle. Then he recognized the coy summons of his cell phone. He kept it in the Bronco when he was traveling, in case of vehicle trouble or other emergencies, but he almost never got called except during investigations.
Certainly not at a time and place like this.
He reached into the glove box and got the phone.
“This is Monks,” he said.
“Marguerite told you we’d get in touch, man. What part of that don’t you understand?”
Monks closed his eyes at the sound of Freeboot’s sardonic voice.
“I wanted to find out what she knows,” Monks said. “For Christ’s sake, we’re talking about my son.”
“You want your son? You got him. Hey, Coil, it’s your old man.” The last words were a sharp summons, spoken away from the mouthpiece. There came a few seconds’ pause, and a fumbling sound as the phone changed hands.
“How’s it going, Rasp?” The voice was young, insolent-unquestionably Glenn’s.
Monks swallowed drily. “Glenn, are you all right?”
“Number nine,” Glenn crooned mockingly. “Number nine, Number nine-”
“Okay, get out of here,” Freeboot told Glenn, cutting back in. “Me and your dad got to talk in private.”