“Where’d Lee Bob go?” I asked.
“Took off running up that side street back there,” Lester said. “Looks like designer houses and a cul-de-sac. Ends up by the foothills.”
He had the pedal down and the engine roared as the big SUV screamed across San Fernando Boulevard and made a right. We headed toward the foothills about a mile and a half away.
“Oh, shit,” Marcia muttered, ducked her head down, and threw up in the backseat.
Lester glanced back angrily at her. “You gonna puke, lady, do you mind doing it in your fucking purse?”
We flew up a residential street toward the hills beyond.
“There’s a backup piece in the glove box,” he said.
I fumbled with the latch, but I couldn’t get it open. My coordination was still shot.
Lester reached over and opened the glove box, then pulled out a.38 and dropped it on my lap.
“Try not to shoot me with it,” he growled.
We reached the cul-de-sac at the end of the road and Lester smoked the Navigator to a stop. I looked past the new designer houses and caught a glimpse of what looked like a man running in the moonlight through the brush up into the hills beyond.
Lester got out, then turned to Marcia. “Can you drive?”
“I think so,” she said. Her hair was in tangles. She had vomit stains on the front of her once-stylish gray designer pantsuit.
“Take this car back down the hill. On the way, call nine-one-one and give them this location. There’s a police station a mile away on San Fernando. Get help up here.”
Then, as Marcia pulled out, Lester led the way up toward the hillside. I stumbled along behind him clutching his.38 in my still-numb hand.
CHAPTER 49
Lester was limping without his cane but making damn good time. I was struggling to keep pace.
We made our way between two houses and exited a back gate to a wilderness area behind the designer development. I saw Lee Bob loping across a large field of dry, brown grass cover. He was almost a quarter mile away, heading toward a three-hundred-foot rock cliff. If he got over the top, he could disappear into the mountains. He was barely lit by moonlight as he got to the rocks and began climbing the craggy surface, using his ropy build to pull himself effortlessly up.
Lester Madrid knelt in the dirt at the edge of the brown grassy meadow and watched Lee Bob scale the cliff.
“Fucking little spider monkey, ain’t he?” Lester said.
“I don’t think I can make that climb,” I said, as I dropped in beside him. “I don’t know what drug that nut-job gave me, but my coordination is shot.”
“With this leg I sure as shit ain’t gonna climb no rock wall,” Lester said. “Come on.”
We moved out into the field, breaking through tinder-dry brush, and hurried to close the distance to the cliff face.
Lee Bob was now almost halfway up, moving faster all the time as the degree of ascent lessened near the top. He must have heard us crashing through the brush below, because he paused and then turned to look down. He studied us for a minute, hanging from the rock face, then resumed his climb.
“If he gets over that ridge, he’ll be gone,” I said hotly. “We gotta do something.”
“Fuckin’ calm down. He ain’t getting over no ridge,” Lester replied. Then he licked his fingertips and moistened his gun sight.
“You can’t just shoot him in the back,” I said.
“Suggestion box is open, Dudley Do Right, but you better make it fast.” I couldn’t come up with anything. The Cajun was almost at the top of the cliff as Lester carefully sighted down the barrel and slowly began to squeeze the trigger. It was a tough shot. Problem was I needed Lee Bob alive to make my case against Nash. I certainly didn’t want this retired SIS gunfighter dropping him.
Without thinking, I lunged at Lester’s gun hand, trying to throw off his aim. My speed and coordination were still way off. Lester saw my move coming and swung the Glock at me, slamming the barrel into my head. I fell sideways.
As I struggled to get up Lester barked, “Stay down,” then retrained the 9mm on Lee Bob.
Batiste had just arrived at the top of the cliff face. He turned for a minute to look back at us. I could see him pointing a gun. A plume of dust kicked up a foot to the right of where we were. The sound was a bit slower and a second later we heard his distant gunshot.
“Adios, motherfucker,” Lester said, and triggered off one shot.
Lee Bob was almost five hundred yards away and a hundred feet above us. Under optimum conditions it would have been a tricky shot. Out here, under moonlight, it was pretty much impossible.
As soon as the retort on the Glock sounded, Batiste straightened up from the impact. The bullet must have gone through him without hitting bone, because instead of blowing him backward, the recoil from the through-and- through shot tumbled him forward.
He took one hesitant step toward the ledge, as if to look down and check the height. Then he continued awkwardly forward, finally taking a swan dive off the top, waving his arms and yelling as he fell. His high-pitched scream cut the still night like a predator’s cry. It was cut off abruptly as he thudded into the dirt.
“Not bad for a lousy three-inch barrel,” Lester said.
When he looked over at me I saw the moonlight glint in gray eyes. No emotion, no feeling. Like Lee Bob’s they displayed a remorseless soul. Shark eyes prowling in shallow water.
“Let’s go spit on the carcass,” Lester said.
He moved off, heading toward the place where Lee Bob fell. I got to my feet and followed.
Batiste’s body was sprawled at an unnatural angle. His neck was broken, skull crushed. His orange hair was beginning to darken, turning red with matted blood.
He lay there in the dark, waiting for the loup-garou.
CHAPTER 50
“The friends of this charity deserve a huge standing ovation, so give it up for yourselves. Let’s hear it!”
Nix Nash was onstage at a podium with signage that read FRIENDS OF THE CHILDREN’S CANCER FUND in the grand ballroom of the Beverly Hills Hotel. His eyes were shining happily as he stood in the spotlight gazing out at an audience of well-turned-out people and Hollywood celebrities who were now on their feet, applauding their own charity.
“You know, there’s an important difference between love and friendship,” Nash continued. “While the former delights in extreme opposites, the latter demands a high degree of quality. The Friends of the CCF display that quality daily as they give care and devotion to the children who desperately need this help.”
I was standing in the wings at the edge of the stage in the large ballroom with two uniformed cops beside me. We had units from the Hollywood Division and the Beverly Hills PD deployed. I watched Nash from the side of the stage as he continued his pitch to raise money for children with cancer. Something must have alerted him to my presence. Some vibe-some predatory sense of danger. Maybe it was just the powerful hatred I was focusing at him.
He turned suddenly and saw me, then stopped mid-sentence and stared. I gave him an innocent little hand wave and then beckoned him toward me with one index finger.
He froze for a moment, the silk lapels of his beautifully tailored tux shining in a bright follow spot. Then he began to back away from the podium, still holding the hand mike. The audience sensed something was wrong and the room full of people at this five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner began to murmur. Nix turned quickly and bolted
