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?”
