Impressive enough to kill? Few people could do it. Few people had the resolve when it came right down to it. But he had felt it when he slapped the tag on. It had resonated like a tuning fork—the power in this man. He knew about powerful people. He was a powerful person. He’d loved and hated power all this life.
Did Sheppard have it in him to kill Chad? Did he have the ability, the knowledge, to kill him with a chokehold?
Michael didn’t know for sure, but he thought that it was entirely possible that Sheppard had come here to even the score.
He made it to the top, winded but happy. Shaved off ten seconds—a new personal best. He liked it up here.
Today, though, there were a lot of tourists milling around the gift shop and walking on the winding road that went up to the telescopes. They’d come off a tour bus.
Usually, the place was almost spooky in a quaint way. Michael had always loved the reruns of the scary movies of the fifties. His father kept a video library of them, and later, upgraded to DVDs. This place was right out of
It was a nice spot on top of a mountain.
He found a place under an oak tree and ate his lunch.
The tour bus engine started up. People funneled through the gates in the bus’s direction. People were mostly herd animals. Michael respected the cyclists who came up here, but tourists rubbed him the wrong way.
He ate slowly, soaking in the sunshine. He wanted to give the bus some time to clear before he headed down. A couple of vehicles came by. A truck and a Jeep Cherokee, both white. He balled up the sandwich paper and found a garbage can. The bus lumbered out. Time to ride down.
The guy was in his head.
He knew it was most likely he was imagining things. Sheppard had sold a thriving business. He had started another one and it was doing well—Michael had read up him. Sheppard might have come down here to see Barkman, but what did he know, really?
Maybe someone had just rolled Chad and killed him in doing so.
But Michael knew that Chad hadn’t been rolled. He didn’t carry money when he surfed. No one had taken his board.
He got on the bike and started down.
Behind him he heard the start of an engine—probably a truck. Glad at least he’d gotten in front of him so he didn’t have to follow him all the way down the mountain.
CHAPTER 41
Tess was working at her desk when Jill, the operator, put a call through. Tess identified herself. “Who may I ask is calling?”
She heard only a rushing sound. Or a cross between a rushing and a whizzing sound. Traffic, going fast. A freeway.
“Hello? Can you hear me? This is Tess McCrae of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office.”
Disconnect.
She stared at the phone. Maybe it was a wrong number, or maybe it was an informant who realized he couldn’t talk then. She had been given one other outstanding case, one of Danny’s—a drug deal that had ended in a shooting, and before the Hanley case she had been trying to round up witnesses.
She went back to compiling what she had on the Hanley case. The phone rang again. Again, she heard traffic whizzing by on the Interstate.
But this time, a voice said, “Sheriff Tess?”
It was the squatter out near Credo—the old hippie—Peter Deuteronomy. “Is this phone bugged?”
Tess said, “No. It’s clean.”
“I don’t trust it. I think I’m being watched. Law enforcement is on my tail. They want to trump up charges that I stole stuff, and I never did. I gotta get off.”
“Why did you call?”
“I really need to get off. I know you guys have satellites.”
“How about I meet you somewhere and we talk? You called me for something.”
“I don’t know…”
“You called for some reason,” Tess said. “I’m guessing it’s important, or you wouldn’t have.”
A pause, and then: “Right. Okay, meet me up at my camp. I got something for you. Come alone.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“And park a mile down and walk, all right? So no one sees us together.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want you messing things up.”
“What things?”
A pause. “You know.”
He acted as if she did know.
“A man’s got to live his life. God says we have a right to the pursuit of happiness.”
He got things mixed up, but he might be of help. “Okay, I’ll be there within the hour.”
He hung up.
Tess knew what Peter Deuteronomy was thinking about. He probably had some kind of deal with one of the drug runners—one of them could be his pot connection. As she drove out on Ruby Road, Tess decided she didn’t give a damn.
About a half mile past the road to Peter Deuteronomy’s trailer, Tess pulled off the road and parked. She walked back to the turnoff, rounded the short curve in the lane, and there was his camp. The mint-green former Game & Fish truck. The old camper shell on top. The ancient trailer. And this time, a chained-up dog. The dog threw itself at its collar, barking. But his tail was wagging and there was something in his eyes, a kind of embarrassment, like he knew he was all hat and no cattle.
She heard the door squeak open, and there was Peter D., looking like a string of beef jerky, naked except for a pair of running shorts—the tiny ones.
And his huaraches.
And he had the rifle.
When he saw it was her, he lowered it. “You didn’t park a mile down the road. I looked for you.”
“I parked a half mile up the road.”
He looked confused. She pointed in the direction of her Tahoe, which was way around the bend in the road. “I drove past and parked a mile up that way.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m sorry, but you weren’t clear.”
“You had to know what I meant. I have half a mind not to give you what George gave me. I don’t even know why I called you.”
“Maybe because you know I’m trying to find out who killed him?”
He said nothing, just stared at her. His eyes were a bright, mad blue.
Suddenly, Tess felt uneasiness. It crept up her back. It jelled in her belly. Was this a trap? Deuteronomy lived near where Hanley had been shot. He might have done it himself.
