Bernhardt's Edge (28 page)

But how?

How
?

D
URING THE LAST TWO
hours and twenty minutes the sheriff's car had driven past the Ram's Head twice—once before dark, when he'd been parked on a side road, and once after dark, when he'd been parked where he was parked now, about a hundred yards south of the motel, on Borrego Springs Road. The second time, pointedly, the deputy had slowed, looked him over, nodded politely, and continued on his way, patrolling.

On the next round, if he hadn't moved, the deputy would stop, check him out. Meaning that, if he hadn't already done it, the deputy would fix the face and the car firmly in his mind, along with whatever story he'd told.

Meaning that it was time to move, time to drive ahead, turn right, make a U-turn, park on another secondary road, facing Borrego Springs Road, close enough to let him see the motel driveway. He would stay there, in the car, for the next two hours. Then he would park the car on the road that ran behind the motel. He would park in the place he'd already picked. He'd picked the place when it was still light, in the late afternoon. It was near a dry wash, where trees grew twenty feet high, so the Camaro couldn't be seen unless the sheriff passed within a few yards of it. He would take everything with him—the Woodsman, and the .357 and the UZI, even the ice pick. On foot, he'd find a place to hide, a place that would let him see two sides of her cabin, the front door and the south side, with the window. And then he would wait.

He turned the ignition key, brought the powerful engine to life, switched on his headlights. Putting the gear selector in drive, he let the car move slowly forward, idling. The motel driveway was just ahead, with its blue neon sign and the lighted phone booth close-by. If anyone was watching, they would think he was driving at this speed so that he could check out the motel, see if there was a vacancy, without actually stopping. Now he could see the lanai—the illuminated swimming pool—the graveled track that led back among the trees and the cacti to her cabin. Low pathway lights illuminated the track, and her car. From this angle, briefly, he could see her cabin. He could—

Her cabin door was swinging open. She was standing in the lighted doorway.

Smoothly, he brought the Camaro to a stop. He must do it, must risk it, must stop here blocking the entrance, long enough to see what she would do next.

Because she carried two suitcases, one in each hand.

Now she was lowering the suitcases to the ground, turning, reaching inside the open doorway of the cabin as the lights inside the cabin went out.

He moved his right foot from the brake to the accelerator, pressed gently, sent the Camaro slowly forward—the tourist, still shopping, deciding to look over another motel before making his decision. Because it was important, very important, to keep playing the part, keep acting, keep thinking like someone else.

William Fisher, successful black real estate man
—

—on vacation in his Camaro, celebrating a big deal he'd just made in Los Angeles, the biggest deal he'd ever made.

For William Fisher, black was beautiful, success was everywhere, all around him, living with him, breathing with him,
being
with him.

Behind him, out of sight, she was probably stowing her suitcases, getting in her car, settling herself behind the wheel. Checkout time was noon. So she was leaving money behind, starting out at night, at ten-thirty, driving off into the desert darkness.

Was it a problem?

Or a plus?

A big, fat plus?

Whichever direction she took out of town, she'd be driving on a two-lane highway. A dark, empty two-lane desert highway. If she went east, across the desert floor toward Palm Springs, she'd be driving alone on a straight, level road. He would follow her for a few miles, keeping well back. Then he'd roll the window down. He'd pick his spot and begin accelerating, as if he intended to pass her. He'd make sure the UZI was loaded, with a cartridge in the chamber, cocked, with the safety off. The gun would be lying beside him on the seat. He'd draw even with her, lift the UZI one-handed, give her a burst. If he could, he'd stop, back up to the crash site, get out of the Camaro, give her another burst, for insurance. Then he'd continue east. He'd leave his clothes and one suitcase—William Fisher's clothes and suitcase—in his motel room, unclaimed. He hated to do it, hated to lose his things, hated the idea of giving the police William Fisher, after all these years. But he didn't have a choice. For him, the next five minutes could mean everything.

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.