“Kyle did this?” Jo said.
Gabe glanced at Jo. His eyes told her:
Too late.
Peyton’s screams had alerted the bad guys. She was both a message and a beacon.
“They’re going to be coming,” he said. “Soon.”
“No,” Peyton said. “They’re already gone. Kyle took the others.”
On the slope, several hundred feet uphill from the ragged panic in the blond slattern’s screams, Kyle crouched on top of a boulder, waiting.
The sack was tied securely. The snake was back inside it. He had slipped it inside his coat, to keep the snake warm. He liked the feeling of such power coiled against his body.
Down the slope through the forest below him, the blonde continued sobbing and screaming. The wind rushed through the pines. It carried the girl’s wails up the slope. He glanced toward the logging road.
Haugen would hear her. He’d pinpoint the noise. He’d come.
Kyle smiled. He had three kids and a horse—and a twelve-gauge shotgun, aimed straight at them. They wouldn’t run. They wouldn’t utter a peep. Noah couldn’t. Lark wouldn’t run because she knew if she tried, he’d shoot Noah. Love—what a neat little knot it tied in people’s lives.
And Autumn, his prize-above-all-prizes—she was too damned loyal to her friends. She just couldn’t stand what would happen to them if she ran.
Sucker.
He gave her the stare. The good old evil eye. She shrank from him, but she couldn’t look away. The white snake didn’t have to touch people to poison them.
He waited while Peyton quieted down. Either she was passed out, or the helpful doctor and her beau had found her. Either way, they’d be tied up for a bit.
“Let’s go.” He nudged the group forward with the barrel of the shotgun.
He would have loved to linger and watch Peyton die. But he heard more sounds in the forest nearby. Haugen and his band of merry men. He got a move on.
He had the walkie-talkie. He had hostages. Haugen would come to him.
Peyton thrashed. “It hurts. Oh God, it burns.”
Jo held the girl’s arm to keep her from raising it. “You need to keep the site of the bite below the level of your heart. That helps limit the venom from pumping through your body.”
It was standard advice, but probably too late. Peyton had run across the mountainside, her heart thundering. She was likely to be well envenomated.
Her eyes were still wild. “Suck the venom out. Cut an X on my arm and suck the venom out.”
Gabe shook his head. “That’s the wrong advice.”
“You’ve got that knife.” She grabbed his shirt. “Come on, do it.”
He took her hands. “They used to do that. Not anymore.”
“You scared you’ll swallow the venom? Give me the knife. I’ll do it.”
How he maintained his composure, Jo didn’t know. He held tight to her hands. “Sucking the venom
doesn’t work
. Staying calm does.”
But it would only work for the time being. Peyton needed to get to an ER and be evaluated to see if she needed antivenom.
“First-aid kit?” Jo said.
Gabe shrugged the sports bag off his shoulders. Jo rummaged inside for the kit and got out gauze and antiseptic. Cleaning the bite might be little more than a calming gesture, but calm was what Peyton needed.
Tears welled in the girl’s eyes. “What about a tourniquet?”
Gabe spoke in measured tones. “No. That could cause more harm than good. What will help is to stay calm. Because there’s good news. Most rattlesnake bites are not fatal.”
Tears spilled down Peyton’s face. Her eyes were puffy. “He said it was a green.”
Jo felt a jolt, a trace of electricity down her arms. “The snake?”
Gabe said, “A Mojave green?”
Peyton nodded. “He talked on the walkie-talkie. Said I had no chance.”
“Peyton,” Jo said, “listen to me. He’s a liar. A psychopath.”
“What did the snake look like?” Gabe said.
“Like a goddamned rattlesnake. With fangs. He said it was a Mojave green.”
Jo and Gabe exchanged a glance. Jo’s heart sank.
Haugen put down the window of the deputy’s car. He heard the wind, a cold moan. The girl’s screaming had finally stopped. The walkie-talkie had gone silent.
He flashed the lights at Sabine, up the road in the Volvo. She flashed back. She’d heard Ruby Kyle Ratner’s little broadcast too.
He opened the door. He had to move on Ratner before the psycho killed Autumn. But as he did, the police radio crackled to life.
“Unit Four, come in, over.”
He paused. This car—he knew from the dispatcher’s pathetic attempts to raise the dead deputy, D. V. Gilbert—was Unit Two. The dispatcher was now calling somebody else.
Backup.
The dispatcher: “The state logging road north of mile marker ninety-two.”
A distant, staticky voice replied: “Roger. I am on my way. I’m forty miles from there. Where’s the CHP?”
“The nearest highway patrol unit is in Oakdale, but proceeding to the location.”
“Should we set up a roadblock?” said Unit Four.
Haugen held still. A roadblock would be fatal to his plans. A roadblock would catch him with his playthings, here in the wilderness. There was no other way out of this desolate forest besides downhill on this road.
He smashed his palm into the steering wheel.
Dammit.
This
should not
be happening.
But the Tuolumne County deputies were forty miles away. The highway patrol was even more distant. He had time.
And if he didn’t?
The walkie-talkie cackled. “Dane. Oh, Dane …”
Whispery, singsong, Ratner continued taunting him. “You best hurry, partner. My piece of the pie can only get bigger.”
Ratner giggled again. It was a high, slippery sound. It made Haugen’s throat contract. He climbed out of the car.
“I suggest you get on the highway and start walking,” Haugen said. “Because you’re getting nothing. And if you stick around, you’ll die.”
“That’s an awful rude thing to say to me.”
“You can’t extort me on this.”
“Course I can. I’m an expert at it.”
You’re an imbecile,
Haugen thought. “No, you simply have no limits.”
“Bingo.” Ratner laughed again.
Haugen walked up the road. Ruben Kyle Ratner was nothing but an impediment. He could not be allowed to derail this finely calibrated plan.
“Okay,” Haugen said. “I’ll deal.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I know when it’s best to divide up the market. But I’m doing this in the expectation that there will be reciprocity down the line.”
“I was in the Hummer when your morons drove it into a ravine. Reciprocity starts with you paying me for pain and suffering. Ouch. Think I have a touch of whiplash.” That whinnying laugh again.
Haugen paced along, gravel squelching beneath his boots. He listened. The wind was gusting, but he knew Ratner was close. He had to be—otherwise these short-range walkie-talkies wouldn’t be working. He slowed and listened for Ratner’s voice to emanate from his hiding place.
He approached the tree from which hung Von’s body. The wind moaned and beat against Von’s flapping coat. Haugen held quiet. The moan changed pitch.
Haugen turned sharply and stared at Von.
Von stared back. “Boss. Help.”
Jo stroked Peyton’s back, trying to calm her.
“I don’t want to die,” the girl rasped.
“You’re not going to. Got that? You’re going to survive—like almost everybody else. The most important thing to do is to lower your heart rate.”
But hearing that the snake was a Mojave green had alarmed Jo. Mojave greens were more aggressive than any other rattlesnake. Their venom was a neurotoxin. A high-enough dose could stop a person’s breathing. They had a fearsome—and justified—reputation as the deadliest variety of rattlesnake.
“Do
something,
” Peyton said. “Ice it—pour cold water on it.”
Gabe said, “Afraid not. Cold keeps the venom concentrated at the site of the bite.”
“That’s not a good thing?” she wheezed.
“No. The concentration can cause extreme tissue damage.”
Necrosis. Tissue death. Muscle and bone could literally dissolve. Jo had seen it in the ER. And Peyton’s condition was already perilous. The bite wound was bruised red and blue and was swelling markedly. And her breathing sounded forced.
“It burns so bad,” she said thickly. She scratched at her stomach and legs. “And itches all over.”
She gulped for air. Under the glare of the flashlight, Jo saw that she was flushed.
“Got to …” Her voice was a bare whisper. “… Stand up.”
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth and gasped for breath. All Jo heard was a rasp. And that instant was all the time it took. She clawed at her throat. Her eyes rolled back and she slumped to the ground.
“She’s not breathing,” Jo said.
“Lay her flat,” Gabe said. “Airway.”
They straightened her out on the ground, and he lifted her chin and tilted her head back and put his face near her lips to check for breath. Jo felt an overwhelming rush of panic. This shouldn’t be happening.
She had told Peyton she was going to survive. Almost everybody does. But Peyton lay motionless on the dirt, limp, sightless, her chest still.
It shouldn’t be happening, but it was. Peyton was gone.
47
T
ang swung her Hot Wheels racer into the parking garage at the Hall of Justice. Evan followed in the Mustang. The hulking building took up an entire city block. It was the size of a beached ocean liner. It looked flour white in the early morning air.
The homicide detail was deserted, a skeleton staff on duty overnight. Fluorescent lights gave the office a cold sheen. Tang picked up her desk phone and dialed the Tuolumne County Sheriff’s Office.
Through the speaker, the sheriff sounded strained. “Lieutenant, yes, we sent a deputy to investigate. He found the pickup truck.”
Evan moved closer to the desk.
Tang said, “And Dr. Beckett? Mr. Quintana?”
“No sign of them.”
Tang’s face tightened. She stared at the phone and straight on through. After a moment, she gathered herself. “Can you connect me to Deputy Gilbert?”
The sheriff hesitated. “He’s not responding on the radio. I can’t raise him.”
Tang sat down. “You’ve lost contact?”
“Another patrol unit is on its way to Ron’s last-known location, but they’re forty miles away and the weather’s deteriorated.”
Tang absorbed it. “How did Deputy Gilbert describe the scene where he found the pickup?”
“Truck was parked in the clearing at the trailhead leading to the mine. Driver’s door open, engine running.”
Evan rubbed her forehead. Nothing good could possibly be spun from the news.
She leaned in. “Evan Delaney here. I’m the one who contacted Deputy Gilbert with information about that location. Did he explore the scene? Did he go up the trail?”
Tang’s cell phone rang. She stepped away from the desk and answered it.
The sheriff said, “If Ron went up the trail he didn’t tell me. And I don’t think he had time.”
Evan felt another prickle of worry. “Time?”
“A vehicle came up the logging road. He flagged it down to find out if the driver had seen anything. He radioed that it was a latemodel Volvo SUV.”
Tang ended her call and immediately her phone rang again. She answered, spoke briefly, hung up. When she spoke again to the sheriff, her voice took on a new urgency. “Did your deputy get the Volvo’s tag number?”
“His dashboard camera captured it and sent it through.” The sheriff read it off. “It came back registered to a corporation. Ragnarok.”
Evan wanted to grab the phone and pull the sheriff through the line onto Tang’s desk and kiss him.
Tang leaned over. “Listen. I just got off the phone with our Bayview station. They got a call this afternoon from a citizen who was out for a walk at Candlestick Point. She wanted to report ‘shady business’ on the beach.”
Evan turned. “Meaning?”
“She described it as
Beverly Hills, 90210
meets
Miami Vice
. Bunch of shiny-looking young people pull up in a limousine, drinking champagne. A few minutes later, a speedboat drives up and gunmen in ski masks chase them down.”
The sheriff said, “What?”
“However, one of the kids told the citizen it was all make-believe. It was a party. And one of the supposed gunmen—a woman—gave her a business card.”
“Let me guess,” Evan said. “Edge Adventures.”
Tang pointed a finger at her, like a pistol. “Bull’s-eye.”
“So what gives?”
“The female ‘gunman’ didn’t completely mollify the citizen. After the kids splashed away in the speedboat, the citizen took down the license numbers of two vehicles—the limousine and a black Volvo SUV. She phoned the police to report the incident. She said something didn’t smell right.”
The sheriff said, “Was it the same Volvo SUV?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.”
Evan held her counsel. Tang looked both energized and pale with worry.
“Here’s the thing,” Tang said. “The Bayview station reassured the caller that everything was fine. Edge Adventures phoned two days ago to inform them they’d be running an ‘urban reality game’ at Candlestick Point today.”
Evan said, “Are you saying that everything’s copacetic? The SUV, the scenario—it’s all aboveboard?”
“No. Edge Adventures doesn’t own an SUV.” She paused a beat. “And the second call I just got was from Terry Coates’s girlfriend. She gave me the list of game runners for this weekend’s reality scenario. Not one of them is a woman.”
All wrong
blared in Evan’s head. Way, far wrong. “There’s something else, Sheriff. Ragnarok—the company that owns the Volvo SUV—its number was in the cell phone Jo found near the abandoned mine.”