The Zen Man (18 page)

“What?”

“He had a stash of darts, tried to stab me with them.”

I immediately wished I hadn’t shared that. Laura started talking fast, her words clipped, worrying I’d never get out of this alive, how we should call the sheriffs about Santa
and
Justin. Then she started crying. I tried to reassure her, joked how Sam would no doubt lecture me how those darts, now in the glove compartment, could revoke my bail. But gut-deep, I knew she was right. Not about calling law enforcement, but that I might not get out of this alive.

Eventually she calmed down, told me that Garrett had moved in today.

“He brought two bags and several skate and snow boards, stashed a few boxes in the storage room upstairs. I put him in cabin six.”

“The one Sam and Wicked were supposed to stay in.”

“I thought about that, but figured it didn’t matter as the crime techs have already scoured it, removed whatever they wanted.”

“True.”

“Talked to him about drugs today,” she continued, “told him a toke or two is fine over the next few weeks, but nothing stronger,
please
. That you, he, myself, even Zig have to stay strong, mentally and physically, to get through…”

I didn’t want her to cry again. Yeah, and I wanted to turn back time and erase all this mess, too. Had to man-up, accept I’d handed her this botched life of sadness and regrets.

I felt overwhelmed, suffocated by the enormity of what was happening, exhausted with pretending my investigative efforts would lead to the real killer. I was going down, and the sooner I realized it, the better off everyone would be.

“Rick?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything’s going to work out.”

Man, she could even read my silences. “Maybe I was better off listening to The Wolf.”

She laughed softly, a low, throaty sound that pierced my misery. Spying exit 259 to Morrison, I glided toward it. In the side mirror, saw a silver Toyota van slow to let me in.

I flipped on the headlights, turned onto the two-lane, winding road I’d driven dozens of times over the years, mostly to concerts at Red Rocks Amphitheater. Allman Brothers, Springsteen, the Grateful Dead. Sublime, happy moments, as best I can recall. I talked about the stacks of dusty discovery Sam and I had waded through. Didn’t mention Brianna’s call. Told myself it was because I needed to better decipher what she was up to.

“By the way,” continued Laura, “I ran Hughes’ Social Security number through the Social Security Death Index. Guy’s full name was Denny Reginald Hughes, died three years ago of natural causes in Long Beach, California.”

“How old was Hughes when he died?” I braked as I eased around a curve, mentally cursing the guy behind me who seemed intent to ride my ass.

“Seventy-two.”

“Our bogus Mr. Hughes did his homework. Probably bought an ID that fits his age range and gender. When means he knows his way around the criminal elements.” I straightened the wheels, squinted at the blast of headlights boring down on me in the rear-view mirror. “Told Sam I’d overheard somebody at the cocktail party mention Hughes, so stick with that story.”

“Didn’t confess to our breaking and entering?”

“Not unless you want Sam to have a conniption—fuck.” I jerked the wheel hard, the tires squealed around a turn.

“What?”

“Some jerk’s on my ass.”

“I hate that road at night. Too narrow, too curvy. I’ll hang up, talk to you when you get home.”

I tossed the cell onto the passenger seat, gripped the wheel with both hands. The road was like an undulating snake in the dark, slippery and writhing, which might have been manageable if the state had seen fit to repaint the yellow lines down the middle. I pumped the brake, trying to signal Dale Earnhardt to slow down. No such luck. Pumping again, I pulled toward the right, an invitation for the Toyota van to pass.

A sickening crush of metal. My body jerked forward.

The Pontiac spun off onto the rocky shoulder. I grappled with the wheel, gunned the gas. Dirt spewed, blurring my vision as the wheels spun, then gained traction. The Pontiac careened back onto the road.

“You fucking nutzoid!” I screamed as I sped down the highway, riding the faded center line.

Clenching the wheel with my left hand, I patted the passenger seat for the tossed cell phone, flipped it open with one hand, managed to punch 9 and 1 when there was a second crash. The car lurched, the cell flying from my grip. Cursing, yelling, I jammed on the gas, skidding into the next turn. Thoughts zigzagged through my head.

Road too long, take an exit
. And go where? All these fucking roads led to Red Rocks Amphitheatre, an isolated, outdoor arena. The last place I need to be with a road-rage nutcase.

Gun it, try to make it to into Morrison.
And die in a fiery crash when this asshole hits me again?

Distant headlights floated onto the horizon. A car approaching.

I laid on the car horn, the blast curdling the night as I spun down the road. Maybe the driver would see I was in trouble, call 911. Oh yeah…like someone would notice all that in the blink of a fucking eye.

Car approaching. Passing soon. No time…no…fucking…time…

I yanked the wheel, cut the Pontiac diagonally across the road in front of the oncoming car…a blast of horn, brakes squealing…the Pontiac bouncing along the far shoulder. I slammed on the brakes, saw the silver Toyota van zip past me in the far lane, its red lights streaking to black.

• • •

I sat on the side of the road, listening to someone shrieking, becoming aware my fingers ached from squeezing the steering wheel. It was all I could do to stare through the windshield at the side of a mountain I’d barely missed becoming one with.

I could’ve died.

The shrieking intensified, jarring me out of my stupor. Fuck. The other car. Was somebody hurt?

I squinted out the driver’s window at a pair of headlights pointed right at me. A slim form broke the light, arms gesturing madly, a woman squawking obscenities.

I forced my trembling hands to roll down the window. “You okay?” I rasped. I sucked in cold air, tried again. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”

She stomped toward me, making odd grunting noises with every step, and shoved her face at me, the tips of her blond hair on fire in the light.

“Am I okay? No, I’m fine. Yeah, absolutely fine! I’m here,
fine
, because I
always
swerve off the goddam road to avoid getting killed by scum like you!”

I looked her up and down, couldn’t make out much in the hazy light. Long skirt, jacket, boots, no blood. None that I could see, anyway. “Are you hurt?”

She paused, then laughed. A maniacal sound straight out of
Frankenstein Island
. I glanced past her at the car, its motor chugging, the driver’s door ajar. The dome light was on, but with the headlights aimed at my eyes, difficult to see if there were passengers.

“Anybody with you?”

She paused, leaned forward to the open window. Her perfume—too flowery, too much—mixed with trails of exhaust and dirt. “I’m alone,” she said tightly.

“Any damage to your car?”

“I…don’t…have…any…insurance…you…prick.”

Shaking her head, she stumbled back a few steps, muttering something about Jerry deserving to die and why didn’t I join him, stomped to her car, got inside, and slammed shut the door.

As she drove the car back onto the asphalt and gunned it down the road, I wondered how she knew I was a Deadhead—unless of course Jerry referred to somebody else—then remembered I was wearing my Grateful Dead ‘95 Summer Tour T-shirt.

Shit, I’d almost died wearing memorabilia of Jerry’s last concert tour.

Now
I
laughed. Couldn’t stop. Just sat there and laughed like a crazy man, sitting by myself in the dark.

Eventually, I calmed myself enough to try turning the ignition key. Engine growled to life. I glanced out at the night, wondering if the Toyota van was waiting for me down the road. Wished I’d gotten the license plate, but no way I could’ve seen it in this gloom.

A cold, rustling breeze rushed through the open window. As I reached for the window crank, something smashed into the side of my face.

I mean, whatever kills you kills you, and your death is authentic no matter how you die.
—Jerry Garcia

P
ain exploded across my face, blinding me in a throbbing swirl of reds, oranges, and blacks. I blinked, stunned, tried to clear my sight as the heavy driver’s door creaked open. Hands grabbed me, yanked me onto the cold, rocky ground.

In the ambient haze from the headlights, I made out a pair of men’s cowboy boots. As one of the boots raised, I rolled out of the way, scrambled groggily to my feet.

A crunching pain to my gut.

I doubled over, wheezing air. The boots crunched closer…stopped in front of me…coughing, I stayed bent over, fisted my hands into hard rocks, then like a swimmer bursting through to the water surface, I propelled my fists upward, slammed the guy under his chin.

He reeled back a couple of steps, wavered, then stood there, staring at me. In my side vision, I saw the Pontiac door open, the dome light highlighting the interior, its motor chugging. Thought about the stun gun under the seat.

He lifted a shadowy object. A shell racked in a shot gun.

I dropped to the ground and rolled toward the car as the world exploded in a carnival of light. The sound ricocheted in waves off the mountains as I hurled myself into the front seat, shoved my hand underneath it and tugged loose the stun gun.

Another ratcheting sound cracked the air.

Keeping my head low, I shoved the gear into drive while slamming my foot on the gas. The car bucked, lurched forward, the driver’s door flapping and creaking like a metal wing. Had to close it. Clutching the steering wheel with my right hand, I tossed the stungun with my left and reached for the door handle…

His shadowy form ran at me, the shotgun raised. I jerked the wheel, headed toward him, the lights bearing down on a small male, swarthy skin, dark moustache.

“Mierda
!” He dove into the darkness.

Shit.

Santa was back.

Dust kicked up, blurred my vision. I eased my foot off the gas. Didn’t need to smash into the side of a mountain—or careen across the road and hit another car. As the car rolled to a stop, I leaned out and grabbed the door handle…

Crash!

The explosion shattered the front windshield, spraying glass. I felt nothing, just cold adrenalin spiking through me. My foot on the gas, I reached again for the door handle…

His body slammed against mine. The car kicked and pitched like an iron beast while we wrestled and punched in the front seat, my foot jamming and releasing the gas pedal. I grabbed a mass of his hair, rammed his face against the radio buttons. Once. Twice. He shrieked, dropped the gun, held his hands up in a surrender pose, babbling incoherently.

Some hit man.

I grabbed the gun, tossed it into the back seat. Still holding his head against the radio, I punched the glove compartment button with the other.

Just as I grabbed the barrel of a dart, the vehicle jerked and I fell back, lost my grip on Santa. I grappled with the dart, held it up just as my head was slammed back against the headrest. Santa was on top of me, spitting and cursing in Spanish, his fingers tightening around my throat.

I gripped the dart, raised it, and with all the energy I could muster, slammed it into his body.

Nothing. Had I missed?

Suddenly, he released an ear-shattering scream.

As his hands fell from my neck, I shoved and kicked him, hard, out the open door. He fell into the darkness, whimpering and crying. I slammed shut the door, grabbed the wheel, stomped on the gas. Through the jagged windshield, headlights bounced off rocks, shrubs. The strip of asphalt materialized.

Straightening the wheel, I gunned it down the road.

To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.
—Chinese Proverb

M
y jaw throbbed. My gut ached. I drove as best I could, kept it at a turtle’s pace as I squinted into the blasts of frigid air rushing through the broken windshield. My hands were like frozen claws, latched numbly onto the steering wheel. Was fairly certain I wasn’t bleeding, but I’d read plenty about people bleeding to death yet they still walked or drove for minutes before crashing, dead.

I pulled off onto a dirt road, killed the engine, flipped off the lights. Unzipped my jacket. Shivering, snapped on the overhead, checked myself for blood. A few streaks of red on my hand, the one that had held the dart, nowhere else.

Turned off the light, zipped up the jacket, and stared out at the inky black night. Began shaking like a strung-out junkie. Where had I stabbed the man? In his side? Could’ve punctured a lung. His neck? Could’ve hit his carotid, but doubted it. There’d have been more blood. Maybe he pulled it out, walked back to wherever he’d parked that silver van.

I closed my eyes, my teeth chattering. I’d never physically hurt another human being. Shoved a man once after serving him divorce papers, but only after he’d followed me, pounding his fists on my back. What if the stabbed dude was lying back there, slowly bleeding to death? Couldn’t go back. Motherfucker might have another gun…or knife…

But if he died…and my prints were taken off that dart…

Cell phone rang. I fumbled for it, found it wedged underneath the passenger seat.

“Levine,” I croaked.

“You sound terrible.” The word
terrible
drawn out into a molasses-thick taarrraaable.

“Brianna…” I swallowed hard. “I’ve…had an accident.”

“What happened? Where are you? Are you all right?”

I looked around, saw a solid black square next to the road. Parking sign—I’d passed it many times, could almost see its words in my mind. “I’m off exit 259, near the second Red Rocks entrance.” I dragged a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “I’ll wait a bit, then drive home—”