Walker pushed his cuff back discreetly and checked the time. He’d stopped wearing the sling and he was happy to have his right arm free. Seven minutes to go in yet another interminable AA meeting, this one sparsely attended, which made his unwillingness to share all the more conspicuous. Some of the regulars were there: an old geezer named Fritz, who was missing half his teeth; a woman who called herself Phoebe though he could have sworn he’d been introduced to her at the club by another name. The only person in the room under forty was a young dark-haired girl, thin as a snake, her eyes lined in kohl. Her nails were clipped short and painted dark red. She smoked and said nothing, which he personally applauded as he intended to do the same. She looked like she was barely old enough to drink and he wondered what had brought her to this sorry place. No sign of Avis Jent, which was a relief. He was nine days sober, a miracle in itself. In the past, when he’d claimed he’d quit drinking, he’d never actually gone more than two days without alcohol of some kind.
When the meeting ended he bypassed the bad coffee and headed for the side door, trying not to appear too thrilled to escape. The girl was a few steps in front of him and he flirted with the idea of making an offhand comment, something tongue-in-cheek to establish rapport. It would be nice to compare notes with someone in the same boat. He was beginning to understand why nondrinkers hung out together-misery loves company.
Outside the afternoon sun was brighter than he expected and he raised a hand to shade his eyes. It was close to three, coming up on the treacherous five-hour stretch between happy hour and lights out. This was the period in which his desire for a drink chafed and his resolve wore thin. He could live without mimosas and Bloody Marys, though he remembered with fondness the many mornings when he was on vacation or invited to a brunch or out on someone’s boat. On those occasions drinking before noon was not only acceptable, but gleefully encouraged. He didn’t mind doing without beer or wine with lunch. Those were pleasures he’d sacrifice in a heartbeat if he could just have a cocktail or two in the late afternoon. Every day he played the same little game. Technically… in truth… and if you wanted to get right down to it… he was free to drink if he wanted. He hadn’t signed an oath. He wasn’t under doctor’s orders, forbidden to imbibe because of some dire medical condition. He hadn’t been admonished by the court, though he knew if he were picked up for any reason while inebriated, things would go badly. Still, he had a choice. He could choose. He could drink if he wanted to, especially if no one found out. For nine days in a row, he’d behaved himself, and he felt good about that. Now the next cocktail hour glimmered on the horizon, and with it came the debate. Should he or shouldn’t he? Would he or wouldn’t he?
He scanned the parking lot for Brent, who preferred picking him up there instead of out on the street. He’d taken to running errands while Walker was tied up, timing his return so he could swing through just as Walker came out. The girl had paused, apparently waiting for a lift. A turquoise MG pulled to a stop and she got in on the passenger side, where an enormous golden retriever had taken up residence. He watched her wrestle with the dog, which had a prior claim on the seat. The dog rearranged itself, settling in the girl’s lap with an attitude of entitlement.
Walker watched idly, smiling to himself. The car didn’t move and he realized the driver, a kid, was staring at him through the windshield. He caught only a quick glimpse, but in that instant, he knew who it was: Michael Sutton, whose face was indelibly imprinted on his mind’s eye. Incredible that all these years later, something as ephemeral as the slant of his cheek, the shape of his chin, could spark such a recollection. He’d last seen Michael when he was six and then only briefly. Walker had expected to run into him long before now, but it still came as a jolt.
He redirected his gaze and walked through the parking lot, feigning a casualness he didn’t feel. He knew he had to put distance between himself and the kid. He glanced back and saw that Michael had turned his head, his gaze still fixed on him. The girl had turned to stare at him as well, probably wondering what Michael found so fascinating. Looking to his left, Walker saw Brent pull into the lot. Relieved, he moved forward as the car slowed. He opened the left rear door and slid into the backseat. “Hey, how’s it going,” he said to Brent as he closed the door.
Brent made eye contact by way of the rearview mirror. “Fine. How are things with you?”
“Good.” Walker kept his face averted as Brent turned into the next aisle, passing Michael’s MG. He pictured Michael’s head doing a slow swivel as Brent’s Toyota made the right onto Santa Teresa Street. Walker half turned in his seat and watched the exit. The turquoise MG nosed into view at an unhurried pace and fell into line behind them. Shit.
Walker put a hand on the seat back in front of him. “I’m late for a meeting, so let’s get a move on. Take a right on Court and go the back way.”
“The freeway’s quicker.”
“The back way’s fine. Let’s just do it, okay?”
Walker saw the shift in Brent’s expression, one of those “You’re the boss” looks. He turned the corner as instructed. Two blocks farther on, Walker took another quick look to see if the MG was still there. No sign of it. Walker wondered if he’d been mistaken. Maybe the kid hadn’t recognized him after all. Maybe it was a situation where someone looks familiar and you can’t quite place them. Thus the long stare. As Brent slowed for a four-way stop, Walker spotted the MG approaching from the right.
Brent said, “What’s the deal? Do you know that guy?”
“He threatened me once.”
“What was that about?”
“Too complicated to go into. The guy’s a nut.”
“You want me to lose him?”
“If you can, but keep it low-key. I don’t want him to think I give a shit.”
Brent pushed the accelerator, increasing his speed by degrees, four miles an hour, then five. Unfortunately the surface streets presented a constant run of stoplights and stop signs, which allowed the MG to stay close.
Brent said, “The guy’s climbing up my tailpipe. If I spot a black-and-white, you want me to flag him down?”
“No, don’t do that. We get to the bank, drive on past and drop me around the corner on Center Road. I’ll walk back from there and maybe shake him that way.”
“Does he know where you work?”
“I doubt it, but I’d just as soon not tip him off.”
Brent cruised into Montebello and turned onto the main street. The MG was hung up briefly. Traffic at the intersection was regulated by a four-way stop sign and cars obligingly took turns. Brent sped up for the next three blocks and made a left turn onto Center, then pulled into the driveway of a small gym. Hastily Walker got out and waved Brent on. The Pelican was right there on the corner, one driveway down. He started to cross the motel parking lot, thinking to skirt the rear of the building, which at least shielded him from view. At the last minute, however, he changed his mind and took Redbird Road, an ancillary road that ran for one long block parallel to Old Coast.
Walker put his hands in his pockets and covered the distance as quickly as he could. The kid had nothing on him. A chance encounter twenty-one years before and what would that prove? Walker couldn’t imagine why the police had been digging in the woods. Kinsey Millhone had somehow drawn a bead on his dad, using god knows what reasoning, but there was no real link between Walker and the dead dog. Maybe she’d talked to a number of veterinarians who’d been in practice at the time, and his dad was simply one.
He turned left on Monarch Lane, the side street that intersected Old Coast Road. The bank was on the corner and his office was located at the far end of the building. He traversed the parking lot, making a covert visual sweep as he pushed through the glass door into the reception area. When he paused to look back, he spotted the MG passing on the street. The girl was staring in his direction and he saw her reach over and grab Michael Sutton’s arm to get his attention. The MG slowed and Michael peered past her at the front of the bank. Walker stepped away from the glass and then pivoted and took the side corridor to his office, where he closed the door.
At 6:00 he left the bank and walked the two blocks to his motel. He’d intended to eat dinner at the bar and grill off the Pelican parking lot, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk in. He’d halted at the door, struck by the smell of whiskey and beer. The cigarette smoke didn’t bother him as much as the clatter of flatware, diners bending over their plates, sawing away at steaks and pork chops. Nine days sober and he felt the old quickening, the automatic spark of excitement when he knew a drink was in the offing. Not tonight. Rather than order a meal, steeling himself against the old associations of red meat and red wine, he turned on his heel and returned to his room. He watched TV for a while, flipping from channel to channel.
At 9:15 he left his room again, crossed the street to the twenty-four-hour gas station, and shut himself into a public phone booth with a bifold door. He put a couple of coins in the slot and dialed Jon Corso’s number. On the street a car slowed, turned in, and stopped in front of the pumps. Walker lowered his head, obscuring his face. He was behaving like a fugitive.
After four rings Jon picked up, sounding brusque. He was probably working on a new book, irritated at the interruption. “Hello?”
“We need to talk.”
There was a pause of four seconds. “About what?”
“I’d rather not say on the phone.”
“And why is that?”
“Shit, Jon. You’re the one who’s paranoid. I’m taking my cue from you.”
“Where are you?”
“At the gas station across the street from the bank. I’m using a pay phone.”
“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” Jon said, and hung up.
Walker checked his watch, unsure what to do with himself until Jon arrived. He went into the minimart adjacent to the service bays, which were dark now. The place was empty except for a clerk who sat at the register reading a comic book. Walker ambled up and down the aisles, looking at the gaudy array of potato chips, Fritos, Cheetos, tortilla chips, sun-baked chips, and pretzels, along with nasty-looking jars of salsa and a cheese product as viscous as glue. Crackers, cookies, candy bars, Twinkies, packaged cupcakes covered in coconut. The refrigerated coolers were stocked with cheap beer, canned and bottled sodas, and a row of jug wines. He came to an ordered row of sandwiches and read the labels. Tuna salad, ham and cheese, a bologna with mayonnaise on wheat bread. He selected a bologna sandwich, which he hadn’t eaten in years. At the counter he added four candy bars and paid for the lot. The clerk put everything in a bag for him, which he tucked under his arm. He went outside again and crossed to the half-wall at the far end of the paved area. He sat down, wishing he’d bought a soft drink, but too lazy to go back.
He opened the sandwich and took a bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the mild flavor of bologna, the sweet tang of mayonnaise. Montebello Bank and Trust was just across the street. He could see a light on, a low-tech burglar deterrent. Traffic was scanty, though he was certain that farther up the block, where bars and restaurants were clustered, the valet car parkers would be hustling back and forth.
Jon’s black Jaguar finally tooled into sight at a leisurely speed. Walker was guessing he’d bypassed the freeway, opting to drive along the beach. It would be like him to take his time, leaving Walker to loiter on the corner like a bum. Jon pulled over and Walker opened the door on the passenger side, sliding into the seat.
Walker said, “Shit, this feels like we’re having an affair.”
“I didn’t think you did things like that.”
“Once for two months. Miserable experience. I swore off.”
“Carolyn catch you at it?”
“She knew something was going on, but she never figured it out.”
“Good for you. So where to?”
“You pick. I’m sick of being cooped up.”
Jon made a leisurely U-turn and headed for the entrance to the northbound 101. The car was silent and the ride was smooth. There was no conversation. Walker slouched in his seat and closed his eyes, so relaxed he nearly fell asleep. Nights at the Pelican were a bad mix-headlights turning into the parking lot at odd hours, pipes thumping. Walker would wake to the tap and scratch of footsteps passing along the walkway outside his door. The place wasn’t cheap, located as it was in the heart of Montebello, but the builder had cut corners. The shower was fiberglass and the bathroom vanity looked like something purchased from a cut-rate catalog. The kitchenette consisted of a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a tiny under-the-counter refrigerator too small to hold a pizza box.
Jon took an off-ramp and Walker raised an eyelid long enough to see that they were on Little Pony Road. Moments later Walker felt the car slow, turn left, and stop. Jon got out of the car, leaving the engine running. Walker roused himself from his reverie and looked out. He knew the place well, a pocket park once known as Passion Peak. Jon removed a chain stretched between two posts, barring vehicles. He returned to the car and took the road up and around two big bends until he reached the parking lot, where he pulled in, nose against the retaining wall. He shut down the engine. The two got out and began climbing the hill. They were well above the town, and once they reached the crest, the town would lie beneath them like a jewel. Walker carried his paper bag as they ascended from the parking lot to the small grassy meadow at the top, where six picnic tables were laid out.
Jon sat on a bench. Walker perched on the table, his legs dangling. A mist hovered at ground level, airy drifts of white. Trees sheltered the spot on three sides and the fourth was open to the view. The blackened remains of the bandstand hunkered in the dark behind them. In high school, this was the spot where the two of them had brought girls, more times than he cared to remember. He usually got the pretty one while Jon got stuck with the homely best friend. Walker opened his bag and removed the four candy bars. He offered Jon a Three Musketeers bar and kept the other three for himself.
Jon said, “I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth.”
“It’s weird. Now that I’m off alcohol, I crave sugar.”
Jon pulled the paper off his candy bar and bit in. “So what’s the big emergency?”
“I saw Michael Sutton this afternoon and he saw me. I came out of an AA meeting and he was there in the parking lot, picking up a girl. When Brent drove me back to the office, he followed.”
“So?”
“So why’s he tailing me? What if he goes to the police?”
“And says what? Two decades ago, we dug a hole. Big deal.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Oh, for god’s sake. You haul me out in the dead of night for this? You could have told me on the phone. The kid’s a punk. Nobody’s going to take him seriously. Besides, I can get to him anytime I want. He’s not a problem.”
“Get to him? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know where he lives. I’ve kept an eye on him for years, following his illustrious career path. He’s not a threat. He’s a loser and a wimp. He’s what we call ‘malleable.’ You can talk him into or out of anything. Everyone knows that.”
“There’s something else,” Walker said. He was silent for a moment. “I think I might turn myself in.”
The sentence hung in the air between them.
Walker couldn’t believe he’d said it, but once the words were out of his mouth, he knew the idea had been hovering at the back of his mind for weeks.
Jon’s expression was neutral. “What brought this on?”
Walker shook his head. “I’ve been having panic attacks and they’re wearing me down. I’m tired of feeling tired. The damn anxiety’s tearing me apart. It didn’t bother me so much when I was drinking, but now…”
“So talk to your doctor about a sedative. Better living through chemistry.”
“Wouldn’t help. I mean, look at me. My life’s in the toilet. Carolyn’s kicked me out. I hardly see my kids. I killed a girl, for Christ’s sake. I can’t live this way.”
Bemused, Jon said, “Which step is this?”
“What?”
“AA’s famous twelve steps. Which one is this? Your ‘fearless moral inventory,’ am I right?”
“You know what, Jon? I don’t need your snide fucking comments. I’m serious about this.”
“I have no doubt. And what do you propose?”
“I don’t know yet. You should have seen me today, skulking around on side streets so Michael Sutton wouldn’t spot me and figure out where I work. It’s all catching up with us. And here’s the irony: for years, I drank to wipe out the guilt and all I managed to do was turn around and kill someone else.”
Jon shook his head. “Jesus, Walker. You’re deluding yourself. You don’t drink because you feel guilty. You drink because you’re a drunk. Get a clue. Confessing won’t change anything.”
“You’re wrong. I know I’m a drunk and I’ll deal with it. This is something else. I want to be square with life. I want to make amends. You’ve found a way to live with what we did. I can’t. I want it off my chest.”
“Good for you. Perfect. But your so-called amends will put my ass in a sling.”
“That doesn’t necessarily follow,” Walker said.
“You’re full of shit. How can you admit what you did without implicating me?”
“I’ll handle it. This is not about you.”
Jon seemed amused. “What are you picturing? You go to the cops and turn yourself in. You tell ’em what you did; you’re now so very sorry and you want to make it right?” He stopped and studied Walker, waiting for a response. “You’re never going to make it right. There’s no way. We fucked up big time. That little girl is dead.”
Walker said, “It would have helped if you’d read the label.”
“Would you get off that shit? I did. I told you a thousand times. Everybody takes Valium. Ten-milligram tabs are no big deal.”
“Guess again.”
“Fine. You can make that part of your pitch.”
“I will.”
“So what exactly do you hope to accomplish in your feverish eagerness to unburden your soul?”
“I need to find a way to live with myself. That’s all I’m saying. I want to clean up the mess we made.”
“Live with yourself? Well, that won’t last long. You’re talking about felony murder, for which you’ll get the death penalty. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not. If there were any other way out, don’t you think I’d jump at it?”
“How the fuck do you expect to go up against the cops? They’ll grill your sorry ass from here to next Tuesday until you tell ’em what went down. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you didn’t act alone. They’ll want you to name names, and mine’s the only one on the list.”
“I already told you this isn’t about you.”
“Yes, it is, you asshole. It’s about me the minute you open your damn mouth, which I’m telling you not to do.”
“Maybe I can make a deal. I tell ’ em what I know as long as I don’t have to talk about anyone else. Just my part.”
“Great. That’s swell. I can see it now. ‘Gosh, Mr. FBI Agent, I’m willing to incriminate myself, but I want to be fair to the other guy.’ That’s not how it happens. Not with those guys. You’ve got no leverage. I’m the only thing you have to trade. Once you give yourself up, you’ll turn around and give me up, too.”
Walker ’s tone shifted. “You’re forgetting it was your idea.”
“My idea? Bullshit. It was Destiny’s dumb-ass plan.”
“But she didn’t act on it and neither did Creed. You were the one who figured all the angles-”
“While you were doing what?”
“I did what you told me. You were always the man in charge. It was your show from the get-go. Now there’s a price to pay. This isn’t easy for me, you know? I have a wife and kids. What do you think is going to happen to them if I come forward?”
“Correction. You had a wife and kids. Now you got shit. You’re living in a crappy motel, dining on candy bars. Carolyn tossed you out on your ass.” He gestured impatiently. “Oh, skip that. Who cares? How much does she know, or do I dare inquire?”
“Nothing. I’ve never breathed a word to her.”
“Well, that’s a comfort. Walker, listen to me. I’m begging you to think about this and think hard. You’re in a righteous lather because you want to cleanse your own soul, but the first time you speak up, you’ll fall into a pile of shit from which you’ll never extract yourself. You can’t put me in the line of fire in the name of conscience.”
“It’s going to look better if I own up to my part before Michael Sutton rats us out. I’ve got that private eye breathing down my neck. She’s already put part of it together, the business about the dead dog. I didn’t think she could make the connection, but now it seems pretty fuckin’ obvious that I’m it.”
“So you’re linked to a dead dog? Why would that inspire your running to the cops? It’s not like that shit our parents laid on us when we were kids. ‘All you have to do, son, is tell the truth. As long as you’re honest, there won’t be any punishment.’ ”
Walker shook his head. “It’s only a matter of time before this whole thing blows. I can feel it in my bones.”
“If you quit worrying and keep your mouth shut, we’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Maybe I haven’t made myself clear. I love the life I lead. I’m fond of my own ass. I don’t want to die. I’m a respectable member of the community and I won’t go down without a fight.”
“Then you better come up with an alternative. I’m giving you fair warning. That’s the best I can do.”