Terminal Island Page 15

  Henry comes to the end of the building and a second flight of stairs going up the hill. There is no vehicle ramp here, but he has no choice—he has to get off the exposed deck. Shifting down to first gear, slowing to a crawl, he turns sharply and takes the stairs.

  For a second Henry thinks he has made a horrible mistake. The fat-wheeled buggy rears up so steeply on the first few steps that it seems to be on the verge of tipping backward—he remembers such a thing happening to him years ago on the dunes of Pismo Beach, spilling him into the sand—and he leans forward across the handlebars to lower his center of gravity. It works, barely.

  As he settles into a lurching rhythm, Henry realizes it won’t get any steeper; he can make it…unless he does something stupid, like adding more speed. Which is exactly what he must do if he wants to get away.

  The men are coming up fast, blazing on foot while he’s putt-putting along like somebody’s wheelchair-bound granny. Concentrating furiously, he tries accelerating, lifting his butt in the air as the saddle jounces and bounces beneath him.

  Faster…faster…come on, baby…

  Now he is getting the hang of it, the bone-jarring separate bumps are blending together, exactly the rugged terrain this vehicle is designed to handle. Soon he is moving upstairs as fast as a man can run, and as he reaches the first landing he can see that the two men are not behind him at all, but on the parallel set of stairs across the way. They are trying to beat him to the gates of the complex—to cut off his exit.

  Easing onto the next flight up, Henry piles on more speed, wrists aching from the vibration, encouraged by how the ride seems to flatten out the faster he goes, sprinting up the flights one after the other, his vision and consciousness rattling to a blur: Budabudabudabudabudabudabuda….

  When he reaches the top and there is nothing left but the silky level blacktop of the driveway, Henry almost can’t believe the sudden, blissful relief, like catapulting out of violent rapids into calm water.

  Now it is easy. The men are still only halfway up the stairs, running their hearts out. They’ll never make it, not in time to stop him from getting to the top platform, ditching the ATV (but keeping its starter key), then slipping out that hole in the fence. Before they can figure out where he went, he’ll be back in town and on the phone to the mainland. Henry accelerates, now really feeling the vehicle’s power, thrusting forward so fast his eyes water from the wind.

  His escape is blocked.

  There is a pickup truck parked across the upper ramp. A burly, white-haired man with a Kenny Rogers beard is standing at the inner fence, lazily holding the gate closed with one hand. Behind him are the muted guard dogs—the war dogs—bouncing against the wire like crazed pinballs.

  The old man is looking right at him, in no particular hurry to move, and Henry can hear the other two calling from below, “That’s him! That’s him!” They sound calmer now, irate but businesslike, knowing he is trapped. Everyone is converging at the gate—how convenient for them. “You might as well give up, asshole,” one of them shouts up.

  Nearing the mouth of the blocked driveway, Henry skids to a halt. He looks downstairs at the two men, who are bounding up the last flight toward him. They are staring back as they climb, exhausted but smirking at his plight, making sure he knows that they intend to make him pay in spades for every step.

  “Where you gonna go, dude?” the lead one says breathlessly. “Give it up. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

  “The police know I’m here,” Henry says. “People know where I am.”

  “Sure they do. Just be cool.”

  At this moment, the man at the truck opens the gate and the dogs come exploding out. They are so close that Henry can hear their nails skittering on the asphalt.

  Okay, don’t panic…

  The dogs are already halfway to him, barreling down the driveway. It’s clear from their ravening faces that they are dead serious—this is no game, no fetch-the-stick. Henry is prey, and in two seconds they will be all over him like hounds on a rabbit. What he does in the next split second may very well determine if he lives or dies. Dies horribly.

  Trancelike, Henry kicks the ATV into gear, darting forward as if to meet the dogs…but then at the last second sharply cuts left, shooting down the steep service road, the dogs flying after like a furry avalanche.

  Whoa! Now they are coming up on either side of him, their slavering jaws lunging for his legs. Hating to do it, Henry wildly swings the vehicle from side to side, smashing the lead dogs against the guardrails and catching them under the rear wheels—he feels the grisly thumps. The dogs can’t even yelp in pain, writhing quietly in his wake.

  The men on the adjacent stairs curse him as he passes, but Henry barely hears their threats above the blood rushing in his ears. He can’t even think, flying on pure motorized instinct. As he nears the bottom, he applies even more speed, accelerating beyond safety toward the parking barrier at the end, its heavy steel railing overlooking nothing but thin air.

  Oh God, oh God…

  Now Henry is hurtling downhill at top speed, out of control. As the railing rushes up, he does something he could never have made himself do by thinking about it:

  He jumps off.

  Jumping like he has never jumped before, Henry springs as high as he can off the seat, and is in midair as the all-terrain vehicle hits stout iron posts sunk in concrete. It stops short with a resounding CLANG! while Henry himself sails past over the cliff.

  Holy shiiiiiii—

  Hard metal bits pepper his legs, and suddenly Henry is falling, plummeting downward. In a second he will know if he cleared the beach or not. Heart in his mouth, he has a strangely serene moment of seeing a tire flying along with him, spinning and wobbling in space like a flying saucer, and wanting to put his foot on its rubber treads to steady it.

  Then he hits. Like a ton of bricks.

  The water is shallow, just four or five feet deep, and Henry makes a glassy crater to the bottom, smashing flat in the gravel. For a moment he lies there, stunned, encased in salty cold wetness though and through. He opens his eyes to a gritty orange blur—the water’s surface burning above him.

  Ugh, he thinks. That wasn’t good.

  Needing to breathe, he crawls out from under the flames and comes up draped in seaweed, feeling like his nuts have been slammed in a drawer. There is a strong smell of gasoline and a rainbow sheen on the water. Streamers of fire dribble down from above.

  Ouch. Fuck.

  His whole body a nest of aches, ears clogged with water and sand, Henry limps ashore as fast as he can. He has to get out of here, get back to town and call the police, the FBI, somebody—everybody.

  Most of all he must find his wife and daughter.

  Chapter Twenty

  CUCKOO CLOCK

  As Henry walks, most of the pain dissipates and he gradually realizes he is all right, though he will doubtless be a basket case by morning. He marvels at the insanity of it all, not sure if he is laughing or crying.

  Charmed life, buddy, charmed life…

  The euphoria doesn’t last long. Out of nowhere he has to stop and retch—there’s blood in it. The fear that had lain dormant throughout that whole experience now rises to the forefront: He could have been killed! Not just once, but several times! He should be dead now, dogmeat, a mangled corpse! And it’s not over—those people are not just going to let him go! And what of his family?

  I gotta get back, he thinks, muttering aloud, “Gotta get back, gotta get back…”

  Picking up the pace, he trots past the Casino and back into town. Hyperalert to any sign of pursuit, he is reassured to see no one, to hear no alarms being raised. The streets are peaceful and deserted. He debates screaming for help and decides to hold off creating any kind of spectacle until after he gets where he is going—he doesn’t want the delay of having to explain things to strangers, not yet.

  As he mounts the Formosa Hotel’s front steps, Henry realizes he has been weeping about his mother, and tries to pull
himself together. Sorry, Mom—I’m sorry. There is no one at the front desk, and he walks down the dim corridor to the back playroom.

  “Hello?” he says anxiously. “Hello?” The door is locked and there is no sound from inside. He knocks, calling, “Moxie? Anybody home?” Ruby must have come and picked her up; Moxie would never be so quiet. When no one appears after a minute, Henry impatiently returns to the front counter and grabs the phone, punching 911.

  “Police or fire department?” asks the male operator.

  “Police.”

  The line is switched. A new voice, husky and female: “Avalon Sheriff’s Department.”

  It is the voice of that woman deputy—Deputy Myrtessa. Henry wavers. Even after all he’s been through, could they somehow pin this whole thing on him? Looking at the whole nightmare through her skeptical cop’s eyes, he realizes it could all be twisted to make him look like a crazy trespassing vandal. Especially if she’s in on it. Yes, don’t forget that.

  Conflicted, cursing his own stupidity, Henry hangs up the phone and dials zero.

  “City please?”

  “Avalon, California.”

  “How may I direct your call?”

  “Please connect me to the Sand Crab Inn.”

  “Yes, sir.” There is a switching sound and then a new, silky voice: “Sand Crab Inn.”

  “I’m trying to reach one of your guests, a Mr. Carol Arbuthnot, but I don’t know his room number. It’s an emergency.”

  “Arbuthnot…” The clerk checks. “Did you want me to ring his room?”

  Henry feels a thrill of hope. “Yes, please.”

  The phone rings and rings—no answer. Damn. Henry would have really liked to talk to that guy. He calls the operator back.

  “City please?”

  “Avalon. I need to reach the nearest FBI office. It’s an emergency.”

  “Would that be the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir?”

  “The Federal Bureau of Investigation, yes.”

  “Thank you.” There is the clicking of a keyboard. “There is no office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation listed for Avalon, but I can connect you with the FBI field offices on the mainland.”

  “Please do that.”

  “Which branch? There’s Woodland Hills, Fullerton, Azusa—”

  “I don’t care. Whichever comes first.”

  “Connecting…”

  There is a click, then it rings. On the second ring an answering machine picks up and says, “In order to serve you better, your call is being recorded.” Then a perky girl’s voice comes on the line: “FBI,” she says. “Special Agent Shelly speaking.”

  “Hello, yes, my name is Henry Cadmus, and I’d like to report an attempted murder on Catalina Island.”

  “Ooh—murder. That’s a biggie. Have you reported this to the local authorities?”

  Feeling a twinge of concern, Henry says, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they may be…implicated, I guess.”

  “In what way?”

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry, but can I speak to someone in authority? Your supervisor? I have reason to believe that my family and I may be in serious danger, and we need help out here now.”

  “What sort of danger?”

  Reining himself in, Henry says evenly, “There is…a major crime ring out here.” He doesn’t quite know how to put it. “Or a cult—some kind of criminal conspiracy to kill people and steal their identities. I have evidence that they may have already killed many people, including my own mother. They’re using their identities as fronts for all kinds of financial fraud.”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh. How did you come to learn about this?”

  “I lost contact with my mother, and came to the island looking for her. My wife and I just stumbled across this whole thing. But now they know I know, and I’m very concerned about our safety. Us and our daughter.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “A lot of people, starting with the condo company, Shady Isle. But at least some of the local authorities must know about it, too.”

  “Gotcha.” Agent Shelly seems to yawn and stretch. “Well, Mr. Cadmus, we’ll get right on it.”

  Sensing that something is terribly wrong, Henry says, “You’re not the FBI.”

  “What would lead to think that, sir?”

  “Because this is bullshit! This is not a joke, God damn it! Who are you people?”

  Henry realizes the line has gone dead. “Hello?” he says, jiggling it. He furiously debates trying again, then shakes his head and starts to go upstairs. It’ll have to wait. The phone rings behind him and he lunges for it: “Yes? Hello?”

  There is an earsplitting voice, causing Henry to jerk his head away from the receiver—a deep, hideous gargle:

  “ZAAAGRAAAYYYUUUS! EEEEAAAAAAKUUUUUUUS! EXTAAAASSSIIIIS!” It is so loud that it buzzes the speaker.

  Henry claps down the phone, every nerve frayed. “What the fuck,” he says. Heart pounding, he hurries up the stairs and pauses at the door of his room. There is a bright thread of sunlight spilling from the crack underneath, and as he unlocks the door and pushes through into the light, Henry says, “Honey? Ruby?”

  They are gone. The room is empty, blinds rustling in the breeze of the open window.

  Panicking, Henry checks the balcony, shouting, “Ruby! Moxie!” He shouts their names across the rooftops, his pulse hammering in the drowsy silence. He ducks back inside and goes out into the dark hallway, determined to find someone who can tell him something.

  As he is heading for the stairs, eyes still dazzled by the sunlight, a pale figure looms out of the darkness, silently rushing down the carpet toward him, arms outstretched like a ghost. Henry almost jumps out of his skin.

  “Henry? What’s wrong?”

  It’s Ruby. She is wearing a terrycloth robe and holding her shower bag, wet hair twisted up in a towel on her head.

  “Oh my God, honey,” Henry says, clutching her to him and burying his face in her damp, herbal-fragrant shoulder. “Oh thank God, thank God...”

  “I was beginning to worry about you,” she says. “What happened? I almost called the police!”

  They clasp for some time, Henry shuddering against her and finally catching his breath. “Where’s Moxie?” he gasps.

  “She’s still with Janet. Jesus, you stink of gasoline.”

  Half crazed, Henry explodes, “No, I was just down there! They’re gone!”

  “Honey, shhh.” She gently covers his mouth, her eyes wide with concern. “Let me finish, okay? Like I was about to say, Janet asked me if she could take Moxie and the other kids for a spin around town in one of those electric trams—her family owns one. She had to take her mother home, and thought it would be a fun outing for them. It has a safety seat, so I figured why not? Moxie was begging to go. Is that a problem?” Ruby stares at him, freaked out by the state he’s in. “Oh my God, I knew it. What happened?”

  “Get dressed. We have to get Moxie and get out of here.”

  “Right now? You mean right this second?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But honey, why?”

  “I’ll explain on the way. Hurry up and get ready, please.”

  Ruby takes him in the room and shuts the door. “Hold on a sec,” she whispers fiercely. “We can’t go anywhere until Janet brings Moxie back. She said her mother lives somewhere on the other side of town—I’m not going on some wild goose chase looking for them. What if they come back and we’re not here? Take it easy, baby—Moxie’s all right, I promise; they’re super nice people. Tell me what this is all about.”

  “But we don’t have time…”

  Ruby scoffs, “I’m not leaving this hotel without my daughter.”

  Henry very reluctantly lets her sit him on the edge of the bed. Giving in, he tries to steady himself, to relate to his wife what happened as clearly and succinctly as he can. The problem is, as he talks he can feel the inertia of Ruby’s matter-of-fact normalcy dragging like an anchor
against his story, undermining the whole mass-murder conspiracy concept and making it seem like the ravings of a lunatic. It doesn’t help that he’s gibbering like one.

  Maybe it’s shock, or that he hardly can believe the whole insane business himself, but as he comes to the climax Henry finds himself losing steam, letting the words just peter out:

  “—so those two sleazebags we saw at the Casino showed up and…and I stole their ATV, and this other guy was siccing all these dogs on me so I had to get out of there. They had me boxed in—the only way out was to crash the ATV against the railing and kind of…catapult myself out over the water, like this. And that’s when I came back here.”

  “You wrecked their ATV?”

  “Goddamn it, didn’t you hear what I said? They were trying to kill me!”

  “But honey…I mean, first of all you’re in there illegally, then you trash the place? It’s no wonder they were mad, but that doesn’t mean they were trying to kill you—”

  “Oh my God. Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “Yes,” she says firmly, putting her hand on his arm and fixing her big, sincere eyes on his. “I have. And I believe you’ve obviously had a real scare—it was a close call, okay? I’m here for you one-hundred percent, baby. It’s just hard for me to believe there isn’t a more…reasonable explanation for all of this.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Henry. Is it so impossible that in the heat of the moment you let your imagination run a little wild? Hear me out—you know you have major issues with this place; I’ve been listening to you for days. You’re a little paranoid, okay? Maybe it’s a post-traumatic stress thing, like you had before. I don’t blame you for it, but can’t you see how easily that can put a sinister spin on stuff that is just ordinary bureaucratic bullshit?”

  “This was more than that. Those files—”

  “Yeah, so they were keeping their tenant records locked up in an unfinished building. So what? Maybe they’re working on their filing system.”

  “Those were more than just tenant records. And the whole place is empty, didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, it’s all fake!”