Pacific storm gathering its forces. Kate shivered and turned up the heater. Maybe she'd be lucky and it would come in slowly.
Traffic was light going over the hill into the Bay Area, and an impatient Audi rode her back bumper for half a mile before passing on a blind corner. She stifled the urge to violence and glanced at the time. Had traffic been this light on Monday? Once she'd successfully negotiated the downhill curves and entered the freeway in the direction of Palo Alto, she reached for her car phone and identified herself to the familiar voice of the dispatcher, a tough, middle-aged Japanese woman whom everyone called Marge, for reasons long forgotten, though her name was Yuki.
"Marge, can you ask around concerning traffic conditions over the pass on 92, Monday afternoon? I'm most interested in twelve-thirty to three eastbound, and, say, three to four westbound."
"I can give you instant service on part of that," her voice crackled over the receiver. "There was a spill there just after two-thirty on the downhill side. A lumber truck went over and blocked both lanes. My brother-in-law got caught behind it, for nearly an hour. Do you want me to check further?"
"Very interesting. Yes, I'll check with the highway patrol later, but keep your ears open."
"I always do." Her voice was prim behind the static.
Two-thirty. A very close thing, but if she'd left immediately after Amy, if she'd run fairly fast, if she'd driven just marginally above the speed limit, she could have slipped over the hill before the Road was buried in two-by-fours.
Kate pulled off the freeway toward the Donaldson's exclusive neighborhood and wound up the smooth, narrow road through fragrant bay and live oaks and madronas, and from a rise she saw the garden where Samantha had been playing seventy-two hours before. The area was immediately visible, just for an instant, but quite clearly, before the trees closed in again. The Road dipped back down among oaks and high walls before rising to curve around the Donaldson property and continue on into ever higher reaches of elevation and income. Kate pulled over on the far side of the Donaldson hedge and put her chin on the wheel. Ahead of her lay the heavily treed drive to the neighboring house, where faint marks in the grassy shoulder had been found Tuesday morning, nothing more definite than the hint of a hidden car.
"Why the hell can't we be having a drought this winter?" she said sourly into the silent car. She sat for several minutes, thinking thoughts that were not pleasant about a woman she wanted very much to be innocent. Finally she twisted the key, slammed the car into gear, and headed back to Tyler's Barn.
----
9
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The rain began again an hour later, with that slow steadiness and determination that makes the natives of the Pacific coast check their supplies of candles and firewood. A good night to be in bed, thought Kate. I wonder if I'm forever doomed to drive into rain as I approach this place.
There were no cars at the creekside park, and the group of vehicles perched near Tyler's Barn had thinned considerably. Two more cars skulked away as she drove up and pulled into the fenced compound. Trujillo's men were busy with the Jaguar and a couple of others, and the corrugated metal roof of the great shed rang with the heavy drops. Trujillo looked up at her approaching headlights, waved in recognition, and then put his head back inside the car. Even in the dim afternoon light his gray suit no longer seemed fresh. She laced on the old running shoes she always carried in the car, zipped on a hooded rain parka, and set off down the main road, ignoring the amazed looks of the two uniforms, and dodging the unenthusiastic reporters with ease.
The man keeping guard beneath the Tyler's Road sign rolled down the window of his marked cruiser.
"Inspector Hawkin was just asking if you'd shown up yet. He's still up there." He looked across the metal gate at the gradually
Traffic was light going over the hill into the Bay Area, and an impatient Audi rode her back bumper for half a mile before passing on a blind corner. She stifled the urge to violence and glanced at the time. Had traffic been this light on Monday? Once she'd successfully negotiated the downhill curves and entered the freeway in the direction of Palo Alto, she reached for her car phone and identified herself to the familiar voice of the dispatcher, a tough, middle-aged Japanese woman whom everyone called Marge, for reasons long forgotten, though her name was Yuki.
"Marge, can you ask around concerning traffic conditions over the pass on 92, Monday afternoon? I'm most interested in twelve-thirty to three eastbound, and, say, three to four westbound."
"I can give you instant service on part of that," her voice crackled over the receiver. "There was a spill there just after two-thirty on the downhill side. A lumber truck went over and blocked both lanes. My brother-in-law got caught behind it, for nearly an hour. Do you want me to check further?"
"Very interesting. Yes, I'll check with the highway patrol later, but keep your ears open."
"I always do." Her voice was prim behind the static.
Two-thirty. A very close thing, but if she'd left immediately after Amy, if she'd run fairly fast, if she'd driven just marginally above the speed limit, she could have slipped over the hill before the Road was buried in two-by-fours.
Kate pulled off the freeway toward the Donaldson's exclusive neighborhood and wound up the smooth, narrow road through fragrant bay and live oaks and madronas, and from a rise she saw the garden where Samantha had been playing seventy-two hours before. The area was immediately visible, just for an instant, but quite clearly, before the trees closed in again. The Road dipped back down among oaks and high walls before rising to curve around the Donaldson property and continue on into ever higher reaches of elevation and income. Kate pulled over on the far side of the Donaldson hedge and put her chin on the wheel. Ahead of her lay the heavily treed drive to the neighboring house, where faint marks in the grassy shoulder had been found Tuesday morning, nothing more definite than the hint of a hidden car.
"Why the hell can't we be having a drought this winter?" she said sourly into the silent car. She sat for several minutes, thinking thoughts that were not pleasant about a woman she wanted very much to be innocent. Finally she twisted the key, slammed the car into gear, and headed back to Tyler's Barn.
----
9
Contents - Prev / Next
The rain began again an hour later, with that slow steadiness and determination that makes the natives of the Pacific coast check their supplies of candles and firewood. A good night to be in bed, thought Kate. I wonder if I'm forever doomed to drive into rain as I approach this place.
There were no cars at the creekside park, and the group of vehicles perched near Tyler's Barn had thinned considerably. Two more cars skulked away as she drove up and pulled into the fenced compound. Trujillo's men were busy with the Jaguar and a couple of others, and the corrugated metal roof of the great shed rang with the heavy drops. Trujillo looked up at her approaching headlights, waved in recognition, and then put his head back inside the car. Even in the dim afternoon light his gray suit no longer seemed fresh. She laced on the old running shoes she always carried in the car, zipped on a hooded rain parka, and set off down the main road, ignoring the amazed looks of the two uniforms, and dodging the unenthusiastic reporters with ease.
The man keeping guard beneath the Tyler's Road sign rolled down the window of his marked cruiser.
"Inspector Hawkin was just asking if you'd shown up yet. He's still up there." He looked across the metal gate at the gradually
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