Secrets To The Grave Part 30

Vince let himself out and followed the trail up a hill where it connected to a fire road. Fire roads were cut all through the California hills as access for firefighting equipment when brush fires ran rampant in the summer and fall. He followed the road up to the crest of a bigger hill.

The country that rolled out below him was gorgeous: the golden hills rising and falling as far as the eye could see, liberally dotted with the dark green canopies of oak trees. He had lived in Virginia for many years, where the fields were lush and green and tough to beat for the t.i.tle of beautiful, but this landscape had its own appeal.

To the south he could see Marissa Fordham's place, looking like an Andrew Wyeth painting-white and gray against the wheat color of the land surrounding it. A hundred yards to the west he could see what must have been a ranch at some time prior to wreck and ruin. The place looked like it had burned. Only charred matchsticks were standing here and there where buildings had once been. A desolate, lonely place.

After a while he turned and went back down the hill to Zahn's, where he locked the side gate, then manually tripped the entrance gate and let himself out.

Drained to the bone, he got in his car and drove back to town, never knowing that he had been just out of shouting distance of Gina Kemmer.

46.

The scream that tore up out of Gina was primal. The rat was unimpressed. It moved toward her, fearless, nose twitching, eyes beady and intent.

"OhmyG.o.d, ohmyG.o.d, ohmyG.o.d, ohmyG.o.d!"

With her right hand, Gina groped for something, anything, grabbing hold of a milk carton. She flung it at the rat, missing it, but getting her point across.

The rat scurried away and disappeared down into the layers of garbage.

Who knew how many years people had been throwing trash down this hole? Who knew what was living in it? Bugs. Worms. Mice. Rats. In Southern California, where there were rats and mice, there were snakes-rattlesnakes.

The idea that snakes might be slithering beneath her body nearly made her vomit again. Her fear was like a fist in her throat. What was she going to do?

With every shallow breath pain burned through her shoulder where she had been shot. Every time she tried to move she could feel her right foot and the lower part of her ankle pull away from the end of her shinbone. The pain was excruciating.

Panic overwhelmed her for a few moments, but quickly wore her out. She lay still on the stinking garbage, trying to think.

She had never been a brave person. She had never had a sense of adventure. She had never had the nerve to live life on the edge of disaster. Marissa had been the owner of those qualities, but Marissa was dead. Marissa couldn't coax her through this, goad her into action, dare her to go beyond her limits. Yet that was what she needed if she wanted to have any hope of living through this.

The first thing she needed to do was sit up so she could better view her surroundings.

On the count of three ... ...

With her right hand behind her head, she blew out a breath and tried a sit-up.

It felt like someone was trying to ram a hot iron rod through her left shoulder. Gina cried out, fell back the few inches she had managed to raise her shoulders. This was what she got for ignoring her gym membership.

Do it again. On the count of three ... On the count of three ...

Like a weightlifter straining to push the barbell over his head, she shouted as she fought for it. Her head was pounding with the physical struggle, her blood pressure spiking.

Fight for it! Fight for it!

The voice urging her on was Marissa's.

Gina screamed out. Colors exploded behind her eyelids, squeezed shut against the strain. And then she was sitting up-dizzy, sweating, nauseous, weak, but she was sitting. She pulled up her good left leg, wrapped her good arm around it and pressed her cheek against her knee. She was shaking from the effort.

d.a.m.n you, Marissa. This is all your fault This is all your fault.

You went along with it, G.

No one was supposed to get hurt.

It didn't matter now.

Gina took another look around her prison. She had never been in a well before. She was a city girl. She wouldn't have even known what a well was if not for television and the movies.

There were serious cracks in the walls, and places where the concrete had fallen away completely. To her right was a series of iron rungs leading up to the top. It would have been an easy way out if she had two arms and two legs. To climb that high in the state she was in ... How could she? She had almost pa.s.sed out just trying to sit up.

For now, all she wanted to do was get her back against the wall behind her so she could rest. This would involve pushing off with her good leg and scooting backward on her b.u.t.t. An easy mission on the face of it, but the reality was she was on a heap of garbage, not a solid floor. Could she get enough leverage to push? And when she pushed she would then drag the right leg with its hideously broken ankle, and the pain would be blinding.

Stop whining, Gina. Just do it.

Shut up, Marissa.

She couldn't have said how long it took her to work up the strength and the nerve to try. She looked around for something to help her effort, something to use like a crutch or a lever.

Discarded lumber was strewn amid the garbage, odd sc.r.a.p pieces from someone's home project. Within reach were several short stubs, b.u.t.t ends of two-by-fours. Not helpful. To her left and away from her was a longer piece-narrower, thinner, but about three feet long.

She couldn't reach it with her right hand. She might have reached it with her left, but her left arm hung limp. Gina flexed the fingers of her left hand, but she couldn't lift the arm.

Slowly she stretched her leg back down and tried to get the toe of her shoe under the piece of wood and move it closer, but managed only to push it farther out of reach.

Exhausted, she brought her knee back up and rested her head.

She had no idea how long she had been in this hole. She hadn't worn a watch. It might have been hours. It might have been days. She hadn't eaten since hearing the news of Marissa's murder. She hadn't been able to keep anything down. She hadn't had anything to drink since just after the detectives had left her house-after the older one had put that photograph in her hand.

The smell of the place kept her stomach turning over and over, but thirst was parching her throat. She looked at the garbage around her. Beer cans. Lots of them-most of them crushed. Soda cans. Empty liquor bottles. She was in the dumping ground of a party spot. Teenagers probably came out on the fire road for a secluded place to drink and smoke dope and do whatever teenagers did now.

Gina remembered a place like that when she and Marissa had been in school-a place out in the hills above Malibu. Her memory drifted back to an illegal campfire, cheap beer, and Boone's Farm wine; "Smoke on the Water" and "Horse With No Name."

They had thrown all their garbage into a cave. It had never occurred to her to imagine there might be somebody trapped in that cave, dying while they partied.

She picked up a half-crushed Pepsi can. The opening was crawling with ants. She shook the can and listened to maybe half an inch of liquid slosh in the bottom. Dreading the idea, she tried to sc.r.a.pe the ants away then closed her eyes and held her nose and raised the can to her lips.

It tasted terrible, but wet. She took one sip, then a second, then spat it out when a cigarette b.u.t.t slipped between her lips and touched her tongue.

Gina let herself cry for few minutes. She was so tired. She hurt so bad. She knew no one would come here looking for her.

As her gaze settled on what looked like a pile of b.l.o.o.d.y clothing across from her, she had no way of knowing that above this h.e.l.lhole and a hundred yards away stood Vince Leone.

47.

Anne got out of her car in the parking lot of the mental health facility and took a deep breath-both to enjoy the fresh air and to clear her head before going in to deal with Dennis.

Clouds were gathering, gray and swollen and promising rain. She had always welcomed this time of year when the rains came. After months of baking heat and relentless sun, it was nice to curl up at home with a blanket and a good book and listen to the rain come down.

That sounded like a good plan for the evening. Vince had come home to rest and watch Haley for her while she came to see Dennis. Maybe she would get lucky and have her husband home for the evening, and the three of them could snuggle up on the couch and they could read a book to Haley, or watch a video.

She tried to check herself at the thought. They hadn't had Haley in their home for a day yet, and she was already getting too comfortable with the idea of her being there. Not smart, Anne Not smart, Anne.

She was in Haley Fordham's life for a specific reason. She needed to remember that. At the end of this investigation into Marissa Fordham's death, Haley would go elsewhere, hopefully to a relative who would take her in and love her. Although, from what Anne had gathered, Marissa Fordham had been estranged from her family. So far, no one had even been able to find out where they were.

If no relatives could be located, Milo Bordain would try to get custody. It wasn't that Anne had no sympathy for the woman. If Marissa had been like a daughter to Bordain, then Haley was like a granddaughter. Milo Bordain probably loved the little girl in whatever way she was capable of loving her, but that didn't necessarily make her a good candidate to raise a small child.

Bordain was in her fifties, very staid and proper. Anne didn't have to visit the woman's home to know there would be a long list of rules and things not to be touched by a four-year-old. She could imagine little Haley dressed up in Burberry and Hermes, accessorized like a fashion doll.

Haley had grown up in the home of an artist, an environment full of inspiration and imagination, and probably few boundaries. In going through the clothes Vince had picked up for her, Anne found tie-dyed T-shirts and a pink tutu, a tiny denim jacket hand-painted with baby jungle animals and a fairy costume complete with wings.

Anne set the subject to a back burner as she went into the hospital and signed in at the desk, exchanging pleasantries with the staff. She had to focus now on Dennis Farman.

He was jumping around the room practicing karate moves when Anne walked in. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but pretended not to know she was there, continuing to leap and shout and kick and chop.

Anne took her seat at the table and set her tote bag and purse on the floor.

"That's pretty impressive Dennis," she said. "Did you take lessons?"

"I'm a black belt," he said, crouching and chopping with his arms as he moved around the table.

That was almost certainly a lie, Anne thought, though she had to admit she knew nothing about martial arts. On the other hand, she supposed if Frank Farman had thought to sign his son up for something it would be something macho like karate. The violent aspect would have appealed to him.

"Good for you," she said. "But that's enough for today. Have a seat."

"I don't have to," he said belligerently.

"You do if you want me to stay," Anne said calmly. "If you're just going to goof off and be obnoxious to me, I'll leave."

He jumped up in the air, shouted, and kicked out with one foot. Anne pushed her chair back from the table, gathered her things, and stood up.

"See ya," she said, turning for the door.

Dennis's angry expression fell away. He didn't ask her not to go, but he sat down at the table.

Anne waited for a moment, letting him think she was still considering walking out. He had to realize there were consequences to his behavior-consequences that didn't involve him getting a beating. He needed to learn to take the feelings of others into consideration when he acted out.

He was pouting now as she returned to her seat, staring down with his nose inches from the tabletop.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come yesterday, Dennis," Anne said. "I was tied up in an important meeting."

"More important than me," Dennis said.

She didn't take the bait. "Meetings have to happen when they have to happen. Judges have very busy schedules."

At the mention of a judge, he looked up at her. "Was it about me?"

"No."

"Then why the f.u.c.k should I care?"

"No reason," she said, ignoring his language. "What did you do yesterday?"

"Nothing. There's nothing to do here but watch the crazy people. That one weird guy with the dreadlocks pulled his pants down and s.h.i.t on the floor in the activities room," he said, laughing. "That was pretty funny!"

Oh my G.o.d, I have to get him out of here, she thought. She would look into group homes herself. There had to be one somewhere that would be appropriate for him.

"Did you do your reading a.s.signment?" she asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"You didn't come."

"You should have read it Tuesday. You didn't know I wouldn't come yesterday."

"But you didn't," he argued. "How was I to know if you'd ever come back again? You could have been dead for all I knew. You could have been murdered and stabbed a hundred times and your head cut off."

"I could have flown to the moon," Anne said. "But that wasn't likely. And it wasn't likely that I had been murdered either. That's no excuse not to do your homework, anyway."

"Dr. Crane tried to murder you," he pointed out. "Why wouldn't somebody else?"

"Let's talk about you," Anne said pointedly. "I know you had a session with Dr. Falk yesterday. How did that go?"

"Somebody killed that other lady," Dennis said. His small eyes gleamed with excitement. "They stabbed her a million times and cut her head off."

"How do you know about that?"

"I know stuff," he said evasively.

"Did you see it on television?"

"No." She could see him contemplating whether or not to tell her the truth. Finally he said, "I read it in the newspaper."

"Really?" Anne said, brows lifting in surprise. At least he was reading something. She would have preferred the subject matter wasn't murder, but she wasn't going to be choosy at this point. "I'm impressed. Do you enjoy reading the newspaper?"

"No," he said, frowning, knowing he had gotten himself caught in something now. "Just about murders and rapes and stuff like that."