Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

“What for?”

“The trial,” she said with a hint of impatience, as though it were self-evident. “When somebody dies of gunshot wounds, there will be a trial. I’m fairly sure we can get you off-either self-defense or, at worst, manslaughter-but you’ll have to be very helpful and very forthcoming. We’ll need to prove they were after you. Did you ever see either of them before?”

He answered all her questions. He marveled at the effect. As she talked, he could see her getting stronger and more confident that she had the right strategy. She was trying to make him weak and indecisive and, ultimately, passive, so that she would be in control. He felt a growing warmth in his chest and a tightness in his throat, but he did not let the feeling ignite into rage.

He said, “I’m really exhausted, Diane. In the past couple of days, people have tried to kill me on the beach, at a hotel, and now here. I think all we can do at the moment is get ourselves to a place where we’ll be safe for a while.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Good. Turn right up here at Malibu Canyon, and we can go through the hills to the freeway, and then east, out of state, as we had planned.”

“That’s not a good idea anymore, Robert,” she said. “I can’t let you do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you kill some people-in self-defense or not-then fleeing the state has a bad effect on police, district attorneys, judges, juries. In a capital case, it could be a fatal mistake.”

He studied her face for a moment. Her confidence was as high as he had ever seen it. “Then what is a good idea?”

“I think we should find a place close by, then try to get in touch with people who can help us. We should get some real protection for you while I try to make a deal with the police.”

“All right,” he said. “Drive up the coast as far as Ventura. I know a good place.”

It was a house beside the ocean just north of Ventura, and he knew it because he had once owned it. He had bought it shortly after he had come to Santa Barbara, with the notion that he would remodel it and resell it. But before he had gotten around to drawing any plans, he had received an unsolicited offer and sold it for a profit to a couple from Los Angeles. He had driven by not long ago and seen that the house had been sold again. Then, a couple of weeks ago, he had read in the Santa Barbara News-Press that a Ventura investment partnership was planning to tear it and several others down to build enormous beach palaces for people who had the ante and wanted to be part of the final California land rush.

He did not need to direct her there, only to wait awhile and say, “It’s up ahead on the left,” then say, “Here’s the one. Pull into the driveway.”

The house was dark and the garage had a padlock on it, but the windows had not been boarded and there was no contractor’s chain-link fence to interfere. He had known from experience that announcing a plan was one thing, but getting the building permits and the approvals from the Coastal Commission for a big project on the oceanfront was another. It often took years.

Diane said irritably, “What is this place?”

Mallon did not answer. He was out of the car and walking around to the side of the house to look in the kitchen window. The sound of the waves coming in on the beach was steady and regular, just loud enough to make her unsure whether he had answered her or not. He could see the small green numbers on the oven control panel, which meant the power was on. He looked through the doorway at the front entry, then at the back of the house, but there were no lights on the alarm keypads.

He remembered that the back door had been small and solid with heavy dead bolts, and the windows had been big, with double panes for strength. As he stepped around the back, he could see that some remodeling had been done since he had last seen the house. The back entrance was now through a pair of French doors with a simple bolt that turned by hand. He approved of the concrete patio that had been added and, even more, the low reinforced-concrete wall with an irregular row of boulders in front of it to break up any big waves that might come all the way up here in an extremely high tide.

He looked around the patio for a few seconds, but found that the owners had not left anything he could use, so he kept walking to the place where he remembered the gas meter was. There he found a wrench that was designed for turning off the gas in an emergency. He took it to the French door and swung it once into the small pane of glass nearest to the bolt. He reached in and opened the door, stepped inside, then crossed the living room to the front door, undid the bolt, opened it, and beckoned to Diane.

She was still sitting in the driver’s seat looking uncomfortable. She shook her head and stayed there. Mallon left the front door open and walked to her side of the car. “Come on in,” he said. “We’ll be safe and comfortable here until we can get things straightened out.”

She glared at him. “What are you talking about? You just broke a window to get in. I heard you.”

He shrugged. “The house belongs to a friend of mine. He won’t mind. I sold it to him.” She stared straight ahead, the same resentful expression on her face. “Diane, get out of the damned car.” He pulled her door open and waited.

She was looking up at him now, and he could see she was still reluctant, but she slowly and deliberately swung her legs out, leaned forward, and stood up. She had her arms wrapped around herself with her purse dangling from one hand and her keys in the other as she walked to the front door and into the house.

She turned on the switch by the door so the overhead light went on, stepped to the center of the living room, and looked around her. There were a few movers’ cardboard boxes collapsed on one side of the expanse of wall-to-wall carpet, and a few partial rolls of packing tape beside them. “There’s no furniture. Is your friend Japanese?”

“He’s not living here, he’s putting the house up for sale again. That’s why I know he wouldn’t care about the glass.”

She set her purse on the floor, tossed her keys into it, and looked around. “If you owned the place once, you must remember where the bathrooms are. Which way?” She watched Mallon point, then walked to the door, pushed it open, switched on the light, and closed the door.

Mallon immediately knelt to reach into her purse. He found her cell phone, but his hand had brushed a second object that interested him. He reached inside again, grasped it, and brought it out.

The gun was surprisingly small. It barely filled his hand. He slipped the gun and the telephone into the two inner pockets of his jacket, stood, and looked around him, trying to think clearly. He heard the toilet flush. He switched off the overhead light, stepped silently into the dining area, opened the back door, went outside, and watched through the windows.

She came out and looked around her. “Robert?” She stepped toward the kitchen and then to the hallway and looked around some more, then quickly snatched up her purse and slipped into the bathroom again. After a few seconds, she emerged and set her purse exactly where it had been. She stepped back and looked at it, adjusted its tilt a bit, and sat down a few feet from it, her back against the wall.

Mallon returned and shut the door, then went to the pile of movers’ boxes and tape. He used his pocketknife to cut a square of cardboard off one of the boxes and then taped it over the broken glass.

“Robert,” said Diane. “Why are we here?”

He turned and looked at her in the dim light from the bathroom. “I’m not entirely certain,” he answered. “We need to talk a bit before either of us does anything.”