Bernhardt's Edge, page 22
part #1 of Alan Bernhardt Series
If she drove south, or north, the same plan would work: follow her for a few miles, then move in. But if she went west, toward the nearby mountains, he’d have to do it quicker, just a few miles out of town, while the highway was still straight.
A quarter mile north of the Ram’s Head sign, he switched off his headlights, pulled to the side of the road, put the Camaro in park. He unbuckled his safety belt, turned in his seat, lifted the saddle-leather suitcase from the backseat to the front seat, opened it, took out the UZI.
With the sawed-off rolled again in the sweatshirt, Bernhardt stood in the shadow of his cabin, holding the gun with both hands. To the casual observer, he could be carrying a bundle of anything: old clothing, perhaps, or something fragile, wrapped for protection—a computer component, or a surveyor’s transit, or a camera.
If the police found him with a sawed-off shotgun, loaded, he could be arrested and charged with a felony, never mind that he had a permit to carry the revolver, holstered at his belt. So, to improve the odds, he should lock the shotgun in the trunk of his rental car, where the police couldn’t look without probable cause.
But if he needed the gun, needed it in extremis, the time it took him to unlock the trunk could be a deadly eternity.
Still standing in the shadows, he heard the sound of a door opening. Fifty feet away, Betty was emerging from her cabin, carrying two suitcases. He watched her turn out the cabin lights, and close the door. She was walking to her Nissan, parked in its allotted parking space, the space outlined in whitewashed rocks. As they agreed, she was putting the suitcases in the car, in the trunk. Now she was slamming the lid of the trunk and walking to the driver’s door. He stood motionless, watching as she got into the car, started it, switched on the headlights, began backing slowly out of the parking space. Once on the one-way driveway, she would pass among most of the other cabins before she arrived at the motel entrance. She would turn right on Borrego Springs Road, toward town. She would drive slowly, as if she were letting the Nissan’s engine warm up before bringing it up to highway speed.
Once she’d cleared the motel entrance and her headlights were no longer visible through the screen of cacti and cottonwood that marked the northern property line of the Ram’s Head, he would get in his own car. He would edge out of the motel grounds and follow her, leaving a mile, at least, between their cars. Reaching “the circle” she would turn east, toward the airport. Slowing his car, he would plan to leave the circle about the time she reached the airport, three miles to the east.
Still holding the shotgun with both hands, standing in deep shadow, he watched her as she drove around the meandering driveway, then drove past the pool to the motel’s entrance. He saw her stoplights wink on, then off. Now, slowly, she was turning north, as they’d planned.
With his eyes on the entrance, now empty, he waited while he counted to a hundred. During that time, nothing passed on Borrego Springs Road except for the Nissan. He’d been breathing very shallowly, he realized, as he’d been counting, so that now it was necessary to take a deep, fateful breath before, moving quickly, he stepped to his car, unlocked the trunk, put the shotgun in, nestled in its sweatshirt wrapping against the spare tire. He slammed down the trunk lid, tested the catch, then moved to the driver’s door. He opened the door, started the engine, and backed carefully out of his rock-bordered parking place.
Ahead, her blue car was entering the circle. In seconds, he would know: east, toward the open desert, north toward a mountain road that led up to a high plateau, or west, into the foothills and low mountains that separated the desert from the Los Angeles basin. He glanced in the mirror. Behind him, Borrego Springs Road was still deserted. Ahead, he saw the Nissan, turning out of the circle to the east. She was taking the two-lane highway that led past the airport and out across the desert toward the Salton Sea, and Indio, and finally north to Palm Springs. Of her three choices, this was the best for him, the easiest. It was good that he’d bought the maps and atlases, and taken the time to study them. Because planning—calm, careful planning—made the difference, all the difference. In a city, it was important to know every street, every alley, every doorway. In a city, two men carrying a mattress down a flight a stairs could make the difference, all the difference—life or death, in seconds. It had happened to him, in New York—two men and a mattress, blocking his escape from a third-floor walkup. Later, he’d laughed about it. Much later.
Slightly reducing his speed, he eased the Camaro into the right lane as he glanced again into the mirror. Now he saw headlights. In the last thirty seconds, someone had turned into Borrego Springs Road, and was following him toward town.
Following him?
Or just driving in the same direction?
Which?
Asking the question of himself, he felt his jaw tighten, the first sign of tension, of possible trouble. Because thoughts must be controlled, tightly controlled. Starting now, right now, thoughts must be controlled. So he must rethink it, switch it around, right now, before the rat’s nibble of panic could begin. Change it around, Willis, get it right: No one was following him. Someone was behind him, yes. But not following him, not really following, not the law, not anyone who mattered. Two headlights in the mirror, that’s all that had happened, all that had changed.
He was in the circle now, driving slowly. Already, the Nissan was almost a mile to the east: two taillights, pinpoints of red, alone in the blackness of the desert night. As he turned right, out of the circle, he glanced again in the mirror. Of course, the other car was following him into the circle. But the odds were only one in three that the other car would turn to the east.
Out of the circle, on Palm Canyon Road, he pressed the accelerator as he glanced at the speedometer. The town limit was still a mile ahead: maximum speed, thirty-five, until he reached the limits. She was more than a mile ahead of him, driving steadily. Beyond the airport, he would begin to close the distance between them.
But behind him, the headlights were still in his mirror.
There were three of them now: the Nissan, the Camaro, and the unknown car, all of them going east, about a mile apart.
There was a restaurant at the airport, one of the two restaurants that were open, not counting the French restaurant, north of town. The restaurant at the airport was called The Crosswinds, and so was the bar beside it, in the same building. Two hours ago, making his last tour before he’d settled down to watch the Ram’s Head, he’d looked in through the window of the bar, and seen three people, two men and a woman. Townsfolk, obviously, not vacationers.
So the car behind him could be going to The Crosswinds. Or the car could be filled with teenagers, driving out in the desert to do a little drinking, a little screwing under the stars.
Or it could be the sheriff, on patrol.
Or a house painter, visiting a friend.
Or a Mexican family, going to—
Ahead, the Nissan’s left turn indicator was flashing. She was slowing, beginning a turn across the highway and into the parking lot of The Crosswinds.
When he’d seen the driver of the parked car switch on his lights and begin following the Nissan, Bernhardt had instinctively lifted his foot from the accelerator, dropped back.
Was the car between him and Betty a Camaro? In the darkness, at this distance, he couldn’t be sure. And to, draw closer could risk everything.
Risk the plan…
Risk their lives.
She slowed, checked the mirrors, signaled for a left turn into the small parking lot that served both the airport and the restaurant.
Soon—in minutes—they would know.
Seeing her turn into the parking lot, Bernhardt was conscious of a small, secret surge of primal excitement, an elemental rush. The first time he’d felt it, this primitive quickening, he’d been shaken. Had he spent a lifetime in conscious pursuit of the aesthetic while, in his unconscious, the beast within was straining at its chains?
The first time he’d felt it, this exhilaration, he’d recognized the sensation for what it was: the simple pleasure of the chase, whether or not the prey was brought to ground. Only later did he realize that the beast craved more than mere titillation.
The town’s last intersection lay just ahead, a four-way stop midway between the circle and the airport. Beyond the intersection, on the right, were the school grounds: three buildings surrounded by playing fields, with a parking lot large enough to accommodate a half-dozen school buses. He stopped for the intersection. Then, under way again, he quickly switched off his lights, turned into the school’s parking lot, stopped the car close beside a line of cedar trees that would conceal his car from anyone coming from the east. Leaving the engine running, he inched the car forward to the edge of the tree-line’s protecting shadow. A car was approaching from the east, from his right, coming fast. Was it Betty, so soon? They’d agreed that she should remain at The Crosswinds for two minutes, lights out, before she drove back into town. He watched the headlights, saw the car begin to sharply slow for the four-way stop, only fifty yards to his left as he faced the road. The car was a large, dark sedan, not the Nissan. And now headlights were coming from his left, from town. It was a pickup truck that only slowed for the intersection, quickly accelerating now, eastbound. From inside the truck, through open windows, came the blare of rock music.
Drawing abreast of The Crosswinds, he slowed to twenty-five, as slow as he dared. His peripheral vision was good, something he’d used to his advantage, one reason he was the best, the most expensive. So he could pretend to look at the road ahead while he watched the Nissan as it pulled to a stop in the restaurant’s parking lot, headlights switched off. The parking lot was dimly lit, but he could see her sitting behind the steering wheel. Was she combing her hair, collecting her purse before she went inside? If he was parked beside her now, in the empty space beside her, to her left, he could simply slip over to the passenger seat, lower the window, raise the Woodsman with its silencer, do the job, pop pop pop. But the seconds were passing—and the Woodsman was still in the suitcase, no clip in the handle, nothing. So, the prisoner of his own plan, he must continue driving straight ahead, at least for a mile or two, still driving slowly. Then he would make a U-turn, drive to The Crosswinds, make sure her car was empty, make sure she was inside the bar. He’d park the Camaro in the parking lot beside the restaurant, where three or four cars were already parked. He would park—and he would plan, make another plan, one more plan—one last plan.
As he drove, he kept his eyes on the outside mirror until the restaurant building cut off his view of the parking lot. Then, quickly, he shifted his attention to the rearview mirror. The mirror was black. Whoever had been following him had turned off, probably at the four-way stop near the city limits.
She looked both ways, backed out of the parking space, turned onto the highway as she switched on her headlights. In both directions, ahead and behind, the highway was deserted.
Ostensibly deserted. Not actually deserted.
Because, back at the four-way stop, Alan Bernhardt was waiting, lights out, hidden.
And in the other direction, somewhere to the east, lights out, the murderer could be waiting, too—waiting for her next move.
Bernhardt hadn’t told her his whole plan, his strategy, not really. But his reasoning was transparently simple. First, he wanted to determine whether, in fact, the anonymous murderer had found her, tracked her down. If that had happened, then Bernhardt might try to help her.
If it hadn’t happened—if she was safe—then she would do as he’d told her. She would write it all out, tell her mother what she’d done, put the envelope in her safe deposit box, sealed and dated, to be opened in the event of her death.
They could get through this night together, she and Alan Bernhardt—the actor who eschewed the dramatic, the quiet, thoughtful man, so gentle, so self-effacing, and yet so resolute, so solid, so determined. Somehow, they would get through. Then, tomorrow, she would begin the process of reassembling the shattered fragments of her life. The days, the weeks, the years, would pass, all the empty years, the years of longing, of loneliness. She knew this present ache would subside. She knew that eventually Nick’s image would fade from her thoughts. But she also knew that as his image faded, she would be diminished.
Quickly, Bernhardt switched off the engine, took the keys from the ignition, swung open the door. Careful to keep his eyes on the highway, he unlocked the trunk, took out the sweatshirt-wrapped shotgun. He closed the lid of the trunk, slipped behind the wheel, closed the driver’s door. As he was bending across the seat to put the bundle on the floor, he heard the sound of an approaching car, saw the intermittent flash of headlights through the screen of cedar trees, coming from the east. The car was slowing for the intersection as it cleared the line of trees, came into full view on the road before him.
It was the blue Nissan.
He thrust a key into the ignition switch, twisted, brought his engine to life. Gently, he touched the accelerator, revving the engine to guard against loading up, flooding.
As the Nissan accelerated out of the stop, Bernhardt began slowly counting. At the count of one hundred, if the Camaro hadn’t appeared, he would switch on his headlights, venture out onto the highway, drive to the circle, finally to the motel, following Betty Giles at a distance. Then he would knock on Betty’s door and invite himself in for a drink.
There were two possibilities. Only two. Either she’d done it on purpose, planned it—or else she hadn’t planned it, hadn’t done it on purpose.
She’d put her suitcases in the car, two suitcases. Meaning that she was leaving town. Why?
Why?
Was she scared, and running? Or was she just moving on, leaving this town for another town? Earlier in the day, he’d seen her in the phone booth. Could she have been warned?
She’d driven to the airport, parked, waited until he’d come to a stop beside the highway, more than a mile east, out in the desert, out of sight behind a low rise. Then she’d started the car, gone back the way she’d come. Why?
Why?
Had she simply changed her mind—decided to leave, then decided not to leave, decided to go back to the motel, wait until morning? Was it as simple as that?
Ahead, the Nissan’s taillights were winking as she slowed for the four-way stop. Only a half-mile separated their cars. The mile-long stretch of road from the four-way west to the circle was deserted. The UZI was on the seat beside him, cocked, with the safety off, a cartridge in the chamber, ready. One burst—two seconds—and it would be over. Everything.
As if the thought had turned to action, his foot was pressing harder on the accelerator. The engine surged, the car leaped forward—
—just as, from the circle, a headlight beam was curving, steadying, coming directly toward him, a mile ahead. Meaning that he couldn’t do it, not now, not with a car coming toward him on a two-lane road.
Still automatically, his engine came back to idle; the Camaro was slowing for the four-way stop. Once more, one more time, his body had taken over from his mind, made the right decision. It was like an override, everything automatic: a machine, making the-decisions. Or an animal, going on instinct.
“You’ve got reflexes like a cat,” Venezzio had said once. “Just like a big cat. A tiger.” He could still remember the pride he’d felt, hearing Venezzio say it.
Even before the Camaro actually appeared, Bernhardt’s heart had begun to race as the headlights had shown up, a half mile behind the Nissan. And now, incredibly, the Camaro was less than a hundred feet ahead of his car, the manifestation of a fear that had miraculously materialized, the thought that had become reality, a clear and present danger. It was as if Bernhardt had designed a fictional computer image and pressed the computer’s button and watched as the car and the driver had come to life in the empty screen, a perfect match. Surreal green letters might appear on a black screen: This is your killer’s car. This is your killer, the black man behind the wheel. Soon, he will attack.
Because in minutes—moments—as soon as Betty turned the Nissan into the city center circle and then turned out of the circle toward the south, returning to the motel, the killer would suspect that he’d been tricked, that he was under suspicion.
And Bernhardt’s car, also turning into the Ram’s Head driveway, would confirm it.
The Camaro was accelerating now; in another few seconds it would disappear, cut off by an angle of the school building on Bernhardt’s left.
So, on cue, a reluctant actor trapped by his own script, he must now enter the action, begin playing his part.
He took his foot from the brake pedal and placed it gently on the accelerator. As the car began moving slowly forward, he put his left hand on the switch that controlled the headlights. His hand was trembling.
Ahead, the Nissan was turning into the Ram’s Head entrance. Behind him, headlights were curving out of the circle, following him.
Was it the sheriff’s car, behind him?
Could they have gotten to Carter, whoever he was, and arrested him for the Santa Rosa murder? Could Carter have turned him, to get a deal?
Had the Los Angeles police called the sheriff? Could the sheriff have contacted the woman, told her to put her suitcases in the Nissan, drive out to the airport, suck him in, then drive back to the motel, still with him following, exposing him?
If it had happened, if Carter had turned him, then there would be more than one car, more than just one car. There would be five cars filled with police: deputy sheriffs and state police. They’d be hiding in the motel grounds, cowboys and Indians, the fucking wild west.
