Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Nothing.

Time to have a look.

The interior was spotless but the glove compartment gave up a fat wallet and a folded, legal-sized manila envelope secured by an eyelet and a string. In the trunk, she found three weapons in black nylon cases: a shotgun, a rifle, and a gray-metal handgun, larger and heavier than her Glock.

He’d come with a personal armory but had left all his firepower in the car.

Take a knife to a gunfight...

Overconfidence or wanting to avoid undue noise?

Either way, Grace knew she’d been lucky. It took her two trips to get the weapons and the other contents of the car back to her garden, another while to wipe the car down.

Now, seeing the body, she felt nothing but serenity. One day she might wonder what that said about her. Right now, introspection was an enemy; she had three hours until sunrise, needed to use the time wisely.

Yet another silent walk up the street led her to her rented Jeep. Keeping the headlights off, she rolled slowly to her garage. Remote-controlling the door open, she backed into the space vacated by the Aston, sealed herself from view with another click.

A second inspection of the body revealed no additional seepage but when she lifted it at the shoulders, she spied a ten-inch patch of grass where the chest had made contact that was tamped and moist and dark. Above that, a smaller blotch where the cheek wounds had leaked.

Red dew.

Returning to the cottage, she brought back several of the heavy-duty black garbage bags Smeralda favored and a roll of duct tape she’d used years ago, improvising a quick fix of a kitchen sink leak as she waited for the plumber.

Double-bagging Knife’s face, she created a makeshift hood that she taped tight. The bags were too small to contain the rest of the body so she cut one into three rectangles and created a triple-ply postmortem plastic bandage that she taped snugly over the chest wound. Two more bags, each lashed tightly at wrist and biceps, served to cover his hands and arms.

She stood and inspected her handiwork. The thing on the ground resembled something out of a horror movie. Snip a couple of eyeholes in the hood and he’d be the crazed killer. As it was, he was the hapless victim, and Grace was fine with that.

Now the hard part. She was strong for her size but his deadweight was substantial. Cutting up another bag, she worked for a long time easing it under the body. Additional tape, quadruple layered, created two loops across his chest and over his knees: handles for gripping the harness she’d fashioned.

As she’d hoped, the plastic served as a lubricant when she began the twenty-foot drag to the garage. But there was slippage as well and the trip was an ordeal. Once she reached the Jeep’s rear hatch, she went back and retrieved the weapons and everything else she’d gotten from the Chrysler and placed them on the floor behind the front seat. Lowering the rear seat performed double duty, creating a long bed for storage and concealing the stash from casual inspection.

Getting the body up and in left her panting.

Recovering her breath, she regarded the mummy she’d created with sour pride, checked the rear-deck carpeting for evidence of seepage, found none. But she didn’t delude herself that some high-tech DNA swab wouldn’t pick up a trace of something.

Returning to the garden, she hosed down the wet spots in the grass, keeping the hose at low pressure to avoid making noise. Finally, the bloodstains had run off completely into the flower beds edging the east wall of the cottage. Using a spade from the garage, she gently tilled the dirt until she was satisfied everything looked normal. A reexamination of the lawn on all fours revealed a few stray specks of dried blood stiffening a few grass tips. Using her Maglite, nail scissors, and a sandwich bag, she snipped and barbered, deposited the trimmings into the bag, which she encased in two other bags, everything sealed. The feather-light package was secreted in her pant pocket. Same for the knife that had nearly killed her, now compressed to a stubby black oblong.

She gave the backyard several more minutes of serious scrutiny, could see no sign of disruption.

The entire encounter with Knife had taken seconds not minutes.

The two of them dancing smoothly, each thinking they were leading.

Back in the garage, she closed the Jeep’s hatch, got in the driver’s seat, was gone.

Returning to the Valley, this time on Benedict Canyon, she got back on the 101 but exited well short of the Hilton on Calabasas, gliding onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard. To the north was suburbia. South shot straight into a tortuous canyon and that’s where she needed to be.

The road that snaked past the junction of Old Topanga and New Topanga was treacherous if you didn’t know where you were going. Grace had driven it hundreds of times at night, for recreation, working the Aston at high speed around S-curves that gave the engine a chance to breathe.

To her left were uninterrupted banks of hillside. The right was the same except when limestone and dirt broke unpredictably, creating thousand-foot dead-drops.

Miscalculate a turn and you were toast.

More than once, Grace, trusting her gut and her memory, had shut her eyes as she raced along the borders of oblivion.

Now she kept them wide open.

During the entire ride, she didn’t spot another vehicle but she did notice a few deer standing stock-still, including an elaborately pointed buck who seemed to sneer at her. And as she neared her first destination a smallish canine thing that was either a baby coyote or a fox scampered over the precipice.

Lowering her speed, she searched for a turnoff, found one but bypassed it for another and pulled to the side and U-turned with barely enough room for the maneuver. Doubling back a mile, she parked the Jeep in the narrow strip of dirt running parallel to the blacktop.

That placed her inches from a yawning abyss. Keeping the motor running but the lights doused, she got out, unlatched the Jeep, and eased the plastic-shrouded body down to the dirt. Breathing deeply, she used her sneakered toes and her gloved hands to nudge it closer to the edge.

She’d chosen well; visibility was generous in both directions and the acute slope maximized the chance of a long, unimpeded drop.

She waited to make sure no headlights approached, steeled herself, and pushed the body over. It thumped and rustled, faster and faster, an accelerating drumbeat.

Finally: silence.

If she was lucky her package would remain there a long time. Or forever. If not, she couldn’t see how it could ever be linked to her.

Driving several yards north and reparking, she walked back and flashlit the spot where she’d dumped the body. She hadn’t left footprints, the ground was too firm, but faint tire tracks rutted and swelled the dirt and she smoothed them.

Returning to the Jeep she U-turned again, drove south for several miles, stopped and flung the rifle over the side.

Ten minutes later, same treatment for the handgun.

Another five minutes and the blood-tipped grass clippings were history.

Continuing south she came to Topanga’s terminus on PCH.

Apparently, her karmic destination.

Maybe at heart, she was just another California beach girl.

She drove fifty miles north to Oxnard, gliding along the blackened agricultural fringes of the gritty harbor town. The knife was flung over chain link onto a strawberry field. Maybe some lucky stoop-laborer would score personal protection.

One of six dumpsters fronting an electronics importer in an industrial park just off Sturgis Road served as the shotgun’s new home. The park was deserted and Grace managed to hoist herself high enough to rearrange the container’s contents. Tossing cardboard and paper and packing materials like some celluloid salad, she shielded the weapon from easy discovery.