in it. Killer winds, he’d told me. I knew it wasn’t by chance that he’d called me earlier. He had known my three attackers were dead. Later, when I was in the right frame of mind, I’d play back his message. I wasn’t sure whether Haines had called me directly or made a tape and managed to get it smuggled out of prison. If he’d made a tape, that meant in his own way Haines had managed to escape his cell, and that on his orders his confederate or confederates had obtained my unlisted number. It was possible they had my address and were monitoring me. At his trial and afterward, I had seen Haines’s freak show followers. The master was creepy enough; his disciples were almost as scary.
It was more likely, though, that Haines had called me directly. Cell phones are contraband in prisons, but they can be had for a price even if you’re housed in San Quentin’s Adjustment Center. The FBI would be able to tell me if that was the case. Thinking about his call made me remember a line from an old AT amp;T ad campaign: “Reach out, reach out and touch someone.” That’s what Haines had done. He had reached out with his toxic touch. But now of all times I couldn’t let Haines get into my head. That was exactly what he wanted, of course, but I couldn’t waste any more psychic energy on a bogeyman.
Aloud, I said, “I thought I saw a puddy cat.”
Sirius’s ears popped up at the c-word.
“But I didn’t, I didn’t,” I added.
Sirius settled down. I tried calling Martinez and then Gump but still had no luck reaching them. I was drawing ever closer to Miller’s home. My cop training told me to not proceed; my cop instinct said to keep going. Since being burned, I had come to rely more and more on that instinct. Something was about to happen, I knew, and I felt this need to get to Miller’s place without any delays. My fire walk had apparently burned away my common sense.
The signs told me I was nearing the city of Temecula. The location of Temecula-roughly equidistant from LA, San Diego, and Orange County-had made it a popular bedroom community for all three when land and gas were cheap. There were still some references in the signage and billboards to the city’s not-too-distant ranching past, but nowadays the cowboys have forsaken the area. Not so the Indians, who according to several billboards were running a large casino in town.
I exited the interstate and turned west on Rancho California Road. De Luz was above Temecula. I drove slowly, not because I wanted to but because conditions demanded that. My window was down and my head was out. Visibility was bad. It appeared as if the area was having a partial blackout, but it was hard to tell because the houses were spread out, with most of them sitting on so-called gentleman ranches, groves with acreage of avocado and citrus. Some of the area was undeveloped, and I passed by stretches of chaparral, coastal sage brush, and one of California’s big imports-eucalyptus trees.
The ubiquitous eucs are an Australian import that date back to the nineteenth century. Gold rush settlers to California hadn’t liked the treeless nature of the land and had started planting seedlings of this “wonder tree” over 150 years ago. The Central Pacific Railroad had also gotten into the act, planting a million seedlings. Like so many other immigrants, eucalyptuses flourished in the Golden State.
I am not a fan of eucalyptus, a prejudice borne from my fire walk. Many of my facial burns had come from flaming eucs. There’s a reason the trees are nicknamed nuke-alyptus. Few trees have as much oil in them as eucalyptuses. They’re highly flammable, so much so that during fires they sometimes explode. In every big Southern California fire, news crews invariably film dramatic footage of stands of eucalyptus trees torching upward like giant flamethrowers.
The trees don’t do well in windstorms. Evidence of that could be seen in the leaves, bark, and branches that littered the road. As the wind pushed at a stand of eucalyptus, the susurration of dry branches sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. Then a gust came up, and the sound changed to that of bones rattling.
The wind brought with it a scent I didn’t like, and I felt my chest tighten: there was smoke in the air. I looked around for any sign of fire, but it wasn’t showing itself, at least not yet. The area was probably a firefighter’s nightmare. Many of the estates were situated between the canyon hills. The wind was already whipping through those canyons. The wrong spark could mean a conflagration. According to my nose, that conflagration might already have started.
I could turn around and in twenty minutes be in Temecula. From there I could get a squad car or two, and maybe even a fire engine, to accompany me to Miller’s avocado grove.
There was no time, my little voice told me. I wanted to tell my little voice to shut up and that haste makes waste. I kept driving. It was my nose and not my little voice that told me I was driving toward a fire.
I turned onto a cul-de-sac. Miller’s spread was supposed to be at the end of the street. The darkness and the smoke grew worse as I drove forward; the reason for the darkness quickly became apparent. A power line was down. It was acting like a snake with its head cut off but unaware that it was dead. The line arced and moved, and I had to carefully inch my car by it.
Wetting my lips, I started whistling an off-key rendition of “Wichita Lineman.” I
Sirius whined. He always senses when my moods turn dark. Or maybe he didn’t like the plaintive tune I was whistling. I was no Glen Campbell, but the wire he sang of was out there. I could hear its rattled threats.
We reached the end of the cul-de-sac. There was a gated entry to Miller’s driveway and house. From what I could see, a chain-link fence stretched along the perimeter of the property.
“End of the road,” I said to Sirius.
My partner’s ears went up and he eagerly made circles in the backseat. He was ready to get moving. I didn’t quite share his enthusiasm. All around us was the beginning of a bad horror story: it was a dark and stormy night, or at least a blustery night. The gusts were hitting my parked car with such force it felt as if I had a case of delirium tremens.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” I told Sirius. “It’s a good thing you’re a dog.”
We got out of the car. As we started our walk toward the fence I was greeted by the smell and sight of smoke. I still couldn’t see or hear the fire, but its presence couldn’t be ignored, and I had to fight the instinct to flee. The entry to the house was set back about seventy-five yards from a wrought-iron fence. From inside the house I could just make out a tiny, flickering orange glow.
It was possible the house was on fire, but it was more likely that I was seeing the reflection of a candle. Still, I took the light as an invitation to proceed. If questioned, I would say it was probable cause for me to enter Miller’s property. Someone had to play the role of Smokey the Bear.
I eyed the wrought-iron fence, and the best point of entry, and thought about leaving Sirius behind. He must have read my mind, because he started pacing and whining.
“It’s better if you stay,” I said. “You smell what’s in the air? There’s a fire and I think it’s getting closer.”
Sirius positioned himself between me and the fence. He was determined not to be left behind.
“Anyone ever tell you how stubborn you are?” I muttered.
My partner knew I was posing. I was glad he was with me, and the two of us went in search of a way to get him inside. The wrought-iron fence extended all along the front of the house, but the rest of the property line was set off by chain-link fencing. We looked for a chink in the chain link, and along the south side of the house found some give in a section passing over a small gully. I lifted up the fence from the bottom, clearing enough space for Sirius to shimmy under. He took the low road and I took the high, climbing up the six-foot fence and then hoisting myself over. The wind was blowing from the north to the east and played havoc with my dismount, dropping me to the ground like a winged bird. Luckily, I didn’t hit one of the many landmines-cacti that made up most of the front landscaping. With the flashlight and moonlight, I avoided the cacti. Sirius used his dog radar, moving in and out of the needled obstacles. We made it to the pathway and walked toward the house. I still wasn’t sure how to best approach Miller. My little voice was no longer talking to me.
At the front of the house was the window where I’d seen the glowing reflection from inside. I put my hands up to the window and looked in. A single candle was lit at the dining room table. Sitting at that table in a low chair was Dave Miller. I wasn’t sure if he could see me in the shadows, but he seemed to be looking my way. Because I saw no point in hiding, I raised my hand and rapped on the window. Miller didn’t respond. It was possible he thought the sound was only the wind, so I tapped the pane even harder. Still he didn’t rise or motion but just continued to sit.
Drawing my gun, I walked to the front door and knocked hard enough to be heard even over the noise of the wind. I took cover at the side of the house, waiting to see if Miller responded to my knocks. Paul Klein had died from
