He started down the stairs, his hands gripping the overhead rails.
“Terry.”
He stopped and turned to look back at her.
“I’m taking a big chance. My neck’s a mile out there.”
“I know that, Jaye. Thanks.”
With that he disappeared into the darkness below.
It was half past nine by the time he reached the shore and was skirting along the black water intermittently broken by the froth of crashing waves. The night fog was coming in heavy and pushing across the highway, butting into the sheer bluffs that guarded the Palisades. It carried with the strong scent and feel of the sea and it reminded McCaleb of night fishing with his father when he was a boy. It always scared him when his father throttled down and killed the engines so they could drift in the dark. His breath held tight at the end of the night when the old man turned the key to restart. He had nightmares as a boy about drifting alone in the dark in a dead boat. He never told his father about those dreams. He never told him he didn’t want to go night fishing. He always held his fears to himself.
McCaleb looked out to his left to try to find the line where ocean met sky but he couldn’t see it. Two shades of darkness blending somewhere out there, the moon hidden in cloud cover. It seemed to fit his mood. He turned on the radio and fished around for some blues but gave up and turned it off. He remembered Buddy’s collection of harmonicas and reached into the door pocket for one. He flipped on the overhead light and checked the etching on the top plate. It was a Tombo in the key of C. He wiped it off on his shirt and as he drove, he played with the instrument, mostly producing a cacophony that at times made him laugh out loud at how ugly it was. But every now and then he put together a couple of notes. Buddy had tried to teach him once and he’d gotten to the point where he could play the opening riffs of “Midnight Rambler.” He tried for that now but couldn’t find the chord and what he produced sounded more like a wheezing old man.
When he turned into Topanga Canyon, he put the harmonica down. The road through the canyon was a snake and he’d need both hands on the wheel. Fresh out of distractions, he finally began considering his situation. He first brooded about Winston and how much he could count on her. He knew she was capable and ambitious. What he didn’t know was how well she would stand up to the pressure she would certainly encounter by going against the bureau and the LAPD. He concluded that he was lucky to have her on his side but that he couldn’t sit back and wait for her to show up with the case wrapped up in a box. He could only count on himself.
He figured that if Winston did not convince the others, then at best he had two days before they had an indictment from a grand jury and would go to the media with their prize. After that, his chances of working the case would diminish rapidly. He’d be the lead on the six and eleven o’clock news. He’d have no choice but to give up the investigation, get a lawyer and surrender. The priority would then be clearing his game in the courtroom, never mind catching the real shooter and whoever it was who had hired him.
There was a gravel turnout on the road and McCaleb pulled over, put the ear in park and looked out at the blackness of the drop-off to his right. Far off he saw the square lights of a house deep in the canyon and he wondered what it would be like to be there. He reached over to the seat next to him for the harmonica but it was gone, slipped over the side during one of the turns of the snaking road.
Three minutes went by and no car passed him. He dropped the car back into drive and continued on his way. Once he crested the mountain, the road straightened out some and dropped down into Woodland Hills. He stayed on Topanga Canyon Boulevard until he reached Sherman Way and then he cut east into Canoga Park. Five minutes later he stopped in front of Graciela’s home and watched the windows for a few minutes. He thought about what he would say to her. He wasn’t sure what he had started with her but it felt strong and right to him. Before he even opened the door to the car, he was mourning the possibility that it might already be over.
She opened the front door before he reached it and he wondered if she had been watching him sitting in the car.
“Terry? Is everything all right? Why are you driving?”
“I had to.”
“Come in, come in.”
She stepped back and allowed him in. They went to the living room and took the same seats on the sectional sofa that they had taken before. A small color television on a wooden stand played softly in the corner. The ten o’clock news on Channel 5 was just starting. Graciela used a remote to turn it off. McCaleb put his heavy bag down between his feet. He had left the duffel in the car, unwilling to presume that he would be asked to stay.
“Tell me,” she said. “What is happening?”
“They think it was me. The FBI, LAPD, all of them but one sheriff’s detective. They think I killed your sister for her heart.”
McCaleb looked at her face and then glanced away like a guilty man. He winced at the thought of what this must show to her but he knew down deep that he was guilty. He was the beneficiary, even if he had nothing to do with the actual crime. He was alive now because Glory was dead. A question echoed through his mind like the slamming of a dozen doors down a dark hallway. How can I live with this?
“That’s ridiculous,” Graciela said angrily. “How can they think that you-”
“Wait,” he said, cutting her off. “I have to tell you some things, Graciela. Then you decide what and who to believe.”
“I don’t have to hear-”
He held his hand up cutting her off again.
“Just listen to me, okay? Where’s Raymond?”
“He’s asleep. It’s a school night.”
He nodded and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.
“They searched my boat. While I was with you, they were searching my boat. They had made the same connection we made. The blood work. But they’re looking at me for it. They found things on my boat. I wanted to tell you before you heard it from them or saw it on TV or the paper.”
“What things, Terry?”
“Hidden under a drawer. They found your sister’s earring. The cross the shooter took.”
He watched her a moment before continuing. Her eyes dropped from his to the glass-topped coffee table as she thought about his words.
“They also found the photo from Cordell’s car. And they found a cuff link that was taken from Donald Kenyon. They found all the icons the killer took, Graciela. My source, the sheriff’s detective, she tells me they are going to go to a grand jury and indict me. I can’t go back to my boat now.”
She glanced at him and then away. She stood up and walked to the window, even though the curtain was closed. She shook her head.
“You want me to leave?” he said to her back.
“No, I don’t want you to leave. This makes no sense. How can they-did you tell the detective about the intruder? He’s the one who must have done this, who put those things in the drawer. He’s the killer. Oh my God! We were that close to my sister’s…”
She didn’t finish. McCaleb got up and went to her, relief coursing through him. She didn’t believe it. None of it. He put his arms around her from behind and pushed his face into her hair.
“I’m so glad you believe me,” he whispered.
She turned around in his arms and they kissed for a long moment.
“What can I do to help?” she whispered.
