“Because he has plans for Soames? Nice little screen test?”
“That, too. Tomorrow morning. But there’d be no reason to entrust him with the car.”
“Why’d he kill Heidi?”
“Because he had no more use for her,” I said. “And because he could.”
He chewed his lip, squinted, lowered his speed to ten miles per. The map had indicated a service road that hugged the southern end of the White Oak golf course and led to the rear of the development. The streetlamps were less frequent now, visibility reduced to maddeningly subtle shades of gray.
Milo missed the road, and we found ourselves at the sign marking the entrance to
Jersey. Lights out in all the mobile homes. I remembered the street bisecting the subdivision as freshly asphalted. In the darkness, it stretched empty and smooth, so perfectly drafted it appeared computer generated. Resumption of the tangerine light.
Deep orange on black; every night was Halloween.
“This is where Haas lives?” he said.
“First street to the right. I can show you the trailer.”
He cruised past the trailers.
“Up there is parking for visitors,” I said. “No visitors tonight… There’s Charing
Cross. Haas’s place is four units in. Look for a cement porch, a Buick Skylark, and a Datsun truck.”
He stopped two houses away. Only the truck was parked in front, backed by Mike
Whitworth’s Harley.
Lights out. No sign of Whitworth, and I saw Milo’s face tighten up. Then the Highway
Patrol man came out from behind the trailer and headed for the bike.
Milo stage-whispered, “Mike? It’s Milo.”
Whitworth stopped. Turned toward us, focused, came over.
“In the neighborhood,” said Milo, “so we dropped by.”
If Whitworth was offended by being second-guessed he didn’t show it. “No one home, nothing funny. I spotted some unopened mail on the table-a day’s worth, maybe two.”
“One of their cars is gone,” I said. “They have family in Bakersfield. Probably traveling.”
“You see any justification for breaking in?” said Whitworth.
Milo shook his head.
“I’m not comfortable with it either. Okay, let me go see if any of my guys hit a hole in one. You ready for the mountains yet?”
“On our way,” said Milo.
Whitworth looked out at the black peaks, barely discernible against the onyx sky.
Country skies were supposed to be crammed with stars. Why not tonight?
“Must be pretty during the day,” said Whitworth, kick-starting the Harley. “Sure you want to go it alone?”
“I’d better,” said Milo. “Gonna be hard enough to avoid being spotted with one vehicle.” He brandished his cell phone. “I’ll keep in touch.”
Whitworth nodded, took another glance at the Tehachapis. Keeping his engine low, he rolled away.
Turning the Samurai around, Milo drove back through Jersey. Lights went on in one of the mobiles as we passed, but so far we’d avoided attracting undue attention. Milo coasted without gas, looking for the service strip. Almost missing it again.
Unmarked, just a car-wide break in the peppers, topped by arcing branches.
Letting the Samurai idle, Milo got out and shined his light on the ground. “Hardpack
… maybe degraded granite… tire tracks. Someone’s been here.” “Recently?”
“Hell if I know. Jeb the Tracker I ain’t.”
He got back in and turned onto the road. The passage was unlit and lined on the north side by more chain link, on the south by a high berm planted with what looked and smelled like oleander. The Samurai traveled well below the berm level, as if we were tunneling.
The four-by-four rode rough, every irregularity in the road vibrating through the stiff frame, Milo’s head bouncing perilously close to the roll bar. Nothing changed for the next half-mile: more chain link and shrubbery. Then the road ended without warning and we were faced with the sudden shock of open space, as if tumbling out of a chute.
No more gray, just black. I saw nothing through the windshield, wondered how Milo could navigate. He began wrestling with the wheel. Pebble spray snare-drummed against the undercarriage, followed by deeper sounds, hollow, like hoof-beats.
Larger rocks. The Samurai began swaying from side to side, seeking purchase on the
grit. Beneath the floorboard, the chassis twanged.