Meg Gardiner - The Liar’s Lullaby

Chennault and the property manager looked up, startled, and rushed toward her.

Jo found her phone. Fingers shaking, she punched 911. She pointed at the back of the house. “Man in a balaclava. Ran out and into the trees.”

The property manager gaped at her, and at the open patio door, with seeming confusion. Chennault took the same long second, then put a hand on Jo’s shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” he said.

She had the phone to her ear. Her ribs were killing her. Her face had rug burns. She couldn’t swallow because her throat was bone-dry.

“I’m okay.”

Through the patio door, she saw movement. The bottlebrush trees were heavy with red blooms, and they swung as the man in the balaclava ran past. Chennault saw it too. He hesitated only a second before running out the patio door.

“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“An intruder just assaulted me.”

Jo ran after Chennault. He was already across the yard and running for the trees. Up the steep hillside, the rhododendrons rustled like a black bear was tearing through them.

She gave the 911 dispatcher the address. “I’m in pursuit on foot, with another civilian.”

Part of her thinking, what the hell was she doing? Another part thinking, Look around. Make sure there’s not another one. And what the hell am I doing?

“Stay on the line, Dr. Beckett,” the dispatcher said. “A unit is on the way.”

“Wouldn’t hang up for a million bucks,” Jo said.

She aimed for the trees.

JO RAN UP THE HILL BEHIND TASIA’S HOUSE, PHONE PRESSED TO HER ear. Her heart beat like a snare drum. Branches swung past her face. The hillside smelled of damp earth and the musk of the attacker’s clothing. Above her, the bushes swayed violently as the attacker bowled through them.

“He’s a hundred yards ahead of me, heading for the top of Twin Peaks,” she told the emergency dispatcher. “The other civilian is closer to him.”

Rhododendrons were dense on the hillside. Sunlight gashed through the leaves, looking unnaturally bright. Damn it. How had the guy gotten into the house?

Ahead, Ace Chennault muscled through the brush. Ungainly but purposeful, he closed the distance on the attacker.

“Chennault,” she hollered, “watch out for weapons.”

She put the phone back to her ear. “We’re heading toward Sutro Tower. How long for the unit to respond?”

“They’re on the way,” the dispatcher said.

The damp ground gave way beneath her feet. She pitched forward and her hand hit the slope. The attacker disappeared from sight, followed by Chennault. She heard them threshing the bushes. She put her arm up to shield herself from branches and plowed after them.

The hillside flattened and she came out onto a dusty field. Ahead lay eucalyptus groves, then a chain-link fence. Sutro Tower stood beyond it, a fulsome red and white in the sunshine, rising mightily three hundred yards overhead.

The attacker was following the fence line into the distance. He had a smooth stride and was surprisingly light on his feet, motoring toward freedom. Chennault sprinted raggedly behind him.

“He’s headed west. If he gets past Sutro Tower…” She tried to picture what lay beyond the antenna. Glades, more eucalyptus, steep ravines. “…he could lose us.”

She ran, beginning to blow hard. On the far side of the hilltop the attacker darted into a eucalyptus grove and dropped from sight over the lip of the hill. Five seconds later so did Chennault.

Jo passed Sutro Tower. “They’re in heavy woods, heading downhill.”

At the lip of the hill she slowed. The ground pitched harshly into trees and tangled undergrowth. The vine-covered ground was a morass of eroded gullies. A fallen eucalyptus, at least a hundred feet tall, spanned a ravine like a bridge.

Chennault was eighty yards ahead, pummeling downhill like he couldn’t stop. She didn’t see the attacker. In Chennault’s wake branches snapped and leaves crunched, but nowhere else. A black wire of warning spun around her chest.

She scanned the terrain. She had a rule: Listen to the whisper on the wind. Hear the still small voice that says, Watch out .

She cupped her hands in front of her mouth. “Chennault, be careful.”

He barreled onward, seemingly certain that he was still on the attacker’s trail—or maybe just out of control. He put a hand against a tree trunk to slow himself.

Behind him the attacker rose from a thicket. In his hand he had a rock the size of a softball. He whipped his arm overhead and smashed it against Chennault’s head.

Chennault staggered, crashed into another tree trunk, and toppled like an upended floor lamp into the ravine.

The wind snapped through Jo’s hair. She clutched the phone, horrified. “He attacked the man who was chasing him. Get the cops here. Hurry.”

“They’re coming, Doctor.”

The attacker stared into the blank space where Chennault had fallen. His shoulders heaved. The rock looked sharp and bloody.

“Get them to come faster.”

The attacker continued to stare into the ravine. Shit. How far had Chennault fallen? The attacker weighed the rock in his hand. Eyes downslope, he inched over the edge of the ravine. Dammit. Damn.

“A man’s down and the attacker’s moving on him again,” she said. “And I don’t have a weapon.”

Deep in the distance, a siren cried. Jo cupped her hands in front of her mouth and yelled down the ravine. “That’s the cops.”

The attacker turned. His dark eyes peered at her from beneath the balaclava.

Her voice sounded dry. She told the dispatcher, “He’s watching me.”

Fear whispered, Run. But if she fled, the attacker would have free range to finish off Chennault. She forced her legs not to bolt. The siren grew louder.

She gritted her teeth and shouted, “Hear that?”

For another moment the attacker stared at her. Then, without a sound, he turned and disappeared into the trees.

The siren grew shrill. A police cruiser heaved into view. Jo pointed at the trees and yelled, “Assailant ran that way.” Then she scurried down the slope to the edge of the ravine. A trail of broken vegetation delineated Chennault’s fall line.

She couldn’t see him. “Chennault?”

From the depths of the ravine, beneath moss and fallen logs, came moaning. She sidestepped down the slope, hanging onto branches and crawling green vines. The shadows deepened. Above, the siren cut off and car doors slammed.

An officer called, “Are you all right?”

“Man’s hurt. He needs rescue.”

The moan came again, like the lowing of an animal. She followed the sound and found him half-buried in creepers and mucky earth.

God, scalp wounds were bloody. If she hadn’t seen the rock smash against Chennault’s head, Jo would have thought he’d been shot.

She crouched at his side. “Hold still. The police are calling the paramedics.”

“Damn,” he moaned. “Bastard brained me, didn’t he?”

Wild vines had wrapped around him. Beneath the copious blood his face was white. He tried to sit up, and screamed. His left arm was fractured and his elbow dislocated.

Jo gently held him down. “Stay still.”

“Make a great postscript for the book,” he said, and passed out.

WHEN JO GOT HOME THE SUN WAS HIGH IN THE SKY. SHE PARKED the Tacoma beyond the park and hiked toward her house, feeling spooked.

Chennault had been evacuated by the paramedics to UCSF Medical Center. He couldn’t give the police much information about the attacker. Neither could she.

When her phone rang she grabbed it and peered at the display. A pang went through her, disappointment covering worry.