Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

Ned rolled onto his back, curled up against the car door. Louie placed his paw on his pal’s haunch. They both slipped into sleep, snoring in tandem, a comical waltz-like cadence.

We got out of the car and Milo locked up and turned back to the field of weeds. Homing in on the spot, invisible once more, where the tunnel mouth sat.

“Only one set of shoe prints,” he said. “Assuming that’s Harrie, what’re the odds on Huggler still being down there?”

I said, “Good to excellent. He’s getting anxious that Harrie hasn’t returned with the groceries but has nowhere to go.”

“So we’ll assume he’s down there. Problem is there’s no way to know where the tunnel leads. What if Borchard’s wrong and not all of SeaBird’s tunnels are sealed and Huggler’s able to get in there?”

“Trust me, I’m head of security and it couldn’t happen.”

He laughed. Turned serious. “You were right. It’s all about synchrony.” He looked back at the snoozing dogs. “Maybe they’ve got the right idea. Follow your ignorance, reach your bliss.”

We returned to the car and pushed it nose-first into the grass. If Grant Huggler headed for the road he’d eventually spot us. But if he remained near his hideaway, the same geography that blocked the tunnel from view would work in our favor.

If I’d guessed wrong and he’d already wandered away and chose to return from any direction, we’d be a clear target.

We stood next to the car. Milo said, “Once we get going, mind looking back every so often so I can concentrate on what’s ahead?”

“No prob.”

“Lots of probs, but we’re solvers.” A bird flew. Seagull soaring westward before passing out of view.

Then nothing.

Milo said, “Damn oil painting.”

I said, “The tunnel is where Specialized Care used to stand.”

“Home sweet home.” He gazed through the window crack. “These two geezers are gonna need medical care.”

A long, sonorous tone issued from the car. Louie farting in B minor.

“Couldn’t agree more, pal,” said Milo. “Unfortunately, Animal Control will have to wait its turn.”

I said, “Time to call in the human cops?”

“That would be proper procedure, wouldn’t it?” He bared his gums. “The question is what constitutes optimal backup in a situation like this? If I call Camarillo PD and explain the situation, they might be cooperative. Or they might figure since it’s their jurisdiction they don’t need to listen and end up doing something heavy-handed.”

“Like bringing in SWAT?”

“And/or one of those hostage negotiators who reads from a script, half the time it turns out bad, because let’s face it you can’t stop someone if they’re intent on checking out. And with a loon like Huggler-if he’s even in there, God I hope he is-no crash-course in sweet-talk’s gonna help, right?”

“Right.”

“They wanna go all military, I can’t stop them and then we’re stuck with one of those long-term standoffs and Huggler ends up biting it just like Harrie did. Maybe a bunch of cops, too, if he’s got firepower down there. With only one way into the tunnel, it’s a nightmare. Tear gas could help if it’s a short passage but if he’s got lots of room to back into, it could get complicated.”

He rubbed his face. “I couldn’t give an iota of rat-shit about Huggler personally but I need to talk to him, find out what Harrie needed a rape kit for, how many DBs haven’t we found. Who belonged to those damn eyeballs.”

He phoned Petra again, updated her on the tunnel, told her to clue the other detectives in then make the hour drive to Camarillo with Reed or Binchy or Biro, whoever was closest.

“But don’t come out here, stay in town, I’ll let you know if I need you.”

“Where exactly are you?” she said.

He told her.

“I know a place not far,” she said. “Decent pizza, Eric and I go there when we shop the outlets.”

“Eric shops?”

“I shop, he pretends not to hate it. Okay, I’ll get there soon as I can, good luck.”

Just as he clicked off, Louie broke wind again.

“What the hell was in that sandwich?”

“Looked like some variant of baloney,” I said.

“We’re stuck here long enough, I’m gonna regret sharing.”

The first hour slogged by. The second sloth-crawled.

The dogs alternated among sleep, flatulence, and a mellow, glassy-eyed torpor that evoked a weed-fragrant college dorm room.

Milo said, “Someone’s thinking right,” and closed his eyes.

I was wide awake and I was the one who saw.

Same place, different shape.

Taller than the dogs. Upright. Wearing something brown with a pale collar.

Moving forward. Stopping. Moving again. Stopping.

Facing away from us. So far, so good.

I nudged.

Milo roused, stared. Took hold of his gun, got out of the car, shut the driver’s door just shy of latching. Walked forward silently.

He stood, mostly concealed by weeds, as the man in the brown jacket trudged through the field. The man’s head stayed canted toward the ground. His pace was deliberate but jerky, broken by frequent stops that seemed to serve no function.

Like a poorly oiled machine.

Milo kept the Glock in his right hand and used his left to part the grass, crouched until he was as high as an average man, and stepped in.

I waited before lowering the car windows a bit more. Not enough for the dogs to get their heads stuck, but sufficient for good ventilation.

They remained drowsy.

I got out.

Backtracking, I mapped out a trajectory that would keep me perpendicular to Milo’s hunter’s prowl, aiming to cross the field in a way that kept me to the rear of the man in the brown coat, placing him at the apex of a human triangle.

As we converged on the target, Milo pushed forward, unaware of my presence. Then he saw me and froze. Shot me a long stare but made no attempt to wave me back.

Knowing it wouldn’t work.

The two of us maintained the same pace. The man in the brown coat kept trudging without an apparent goal. Head down, weaving, lost in some private world. His head was bare, pale, shiny. Shaved recently.

Milo and I got thirty yards behind him, then twenty. I stopped parting the grass and muting the scratchy sound. Making no attempt at quiet.

The man in brown kept pausing, searching the horizon to the north. Maybe because he was looking for the dogs and that’s where they usually headed.

Or he had his own incomprehensible navigational logic.

I picked up my speed, outpaced Milo. Milo saw it and stiffened and that gave me another few seconds of advantage.

I used them to rush behind the man in brown.

He continued to plod, thick shoulders rounded, hands jammed in his coat pockets. I kept coming, trotting now.

He stopped, raised the back of the coat, and scratched his rear.

Still not hearing me.

Then a patch of particularly brittle grass caught on my pant leg and when I pulled away the zzzip was audible.

The man in the brown coat turned.

Saw me.

He didn’t move.

I waved flamboyantly, as if meeting an old friend by chance.

The man in brown gaped. His flabby face quivered like uncooked haggis.

I moved in on him, waving, grinning. “Hey, Grant! Long time!”

His jowls tightened. Widening his stance, he planted his legs, flailed the air randomly.

Pudding-faced, snub-featured, unlined by contemplation, problematic abstraction, or any of the mean little demands imposed by sanity.

Terrified.

This was the bogeyman, the nightmare apparition, the cruel messenger in the dark who’d wreaked so much chaos and misery.

Now he was too scared to budge, remained frozen in his too-heavy shearling, fleece collar unraveling, brown suede greasy, mangy as the dogs, a misshapen tent of a garment that drooped over a white shirt and filthy jeans.