Point Deception Read online

  POINT DECEPTION

  MARCIA MULLER

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  For Bill Pronzini,

  who aids and abets me every page of the way.

  A number of persons, knowingly or otherwise, have provided inspiration for or assistance with this novel. I’d like to thank:

  Sharon DeLano, for not allowing my imagination get the best of me while we were stranded by the side of California Highway 1.

  Bette and Jim Lamb and Peggy and Charlie Lucke, for setting the scary ideas to brewing on our first trip to “Cascada Canyon.”

  Robin Reese, for Chrystal.

  Detective Lieutenant Bruce Rochester of the Sonoma County, California, Sheriff’s Department, for technical assistance.

  Melissa Ward, again, for her research talents.

  Soledad County, California, is a fictional creation, sandwiched between Mendocino and Humboldt Counties. I apologize to my neighbors on the coast for so drastically altering its configuration. Sometimes we writers can’t resist playing God.

  Chrystal

  Friday, October 6

  4:00 P.M.

  Things look different when you’re scared. And I’m scared now. Little Chryssie’s scareder than she’s been her whole life. Jude told me I’d never get away with it, but I thought I had, and then somebody saw me up there in all those trees, and now this damn Mercedes is dead on the coast highway where my cell phone won’t work. God, I’m in trouble. Making Jude right. Again. Always.

  Yeah, things look different. On the drive up from where I stayed outside San Francisco last night—not a lot of miles, but over four hours on these twisty roads—the sea was pretty, sparkly, deep blue. Made me feel good. Still is pretty, but now I don’t want to look at it. All I can think is that people drown in there. And the pines in the canyon—walking through them, I felt like a little girl in church. Then the memories came back, and I felt like a little girl, all right. But not in church. No way.

  Jesus, this is an awful place to break down. Turnout, but it’s on a blind curve, and I could just barely get the car off the road before it conked out for good. Middle of nowhere, nothing on the bluff but pampas grass and burned tress from when they must’ve had a forest fire. Nothing but more trees on the other side of the highway. Dead-looking truck over by the fence.

  Lots of traffic, but nobody’ll stop to help me. Hood’s up, they can see I’m broke down, but does anybody give a shit? No. They just keep zooming by in their sports cars and campers and SUVs, having a good time. Acting like I don’t exist.

  4:35 P.M.

  Sheriff’s car. Woman driving. For sure she’ll stop.

  Nope. She’s around the curve already. Gone. Our tax dollars at work, like Leo used to say. Well, not my tax bucks. Little Chryssie don’t pay no taxes in California.

  So what do I do now? I’m a great big target sitting here by the highway. Whoever saw me in the canyon knows what I look like, maybe what the car looks like, but I didn’t see them. They could drive right up and I wouldn’t know who they were or what hit me. I could be dead before—

  Damn this car! Damn it!

  Okay, come on, calm down, think now. You’re not playing this smart.

  Maybe they didn’t see me clear up there. Or see what I was doing. And even if they did, it might not’ve meant anything to them. Just because somebody hollers at you…

  Two choices. Stay by the car and take my chances. Walk away and maybe take a bigger chance. Two choices, but either way the first thing to do is lose the evidence. Lose it good like it was before.

  4:49 P.M.

  So what’ve we got here? Pampas grass, big clump of it. Stuff just takes over, specially along this part of the coast. What did Jude always say about that? Something to do with the plants being scouts for an alien life-form, staking out the edge of the continent for the arrival of the mother ship. God, she could be weird sometimes! She said she did it on purpose to drive us crazy, but I think it might’ve been the dope talking.

  Well, aliens got no use for what I’m gonna hide here. This pampas grass is fine for what I got in mind.

  4:55 P.M.

  Somebody coming! Cover it fast. There, that’s good, real good.

  Where the hell are they? Oh, over there by the cliff. Oriental guy and a white girl, climbing up the slope with a big cooler between them. They’re fighting. Wind’s blowing this way, I can hear every word. She says he’s paranoid about Fish and Game. He tells her to shut up. She says she used to think things weren’t working out between them because of their cultural differences, but now she knows it’s because he’s an asshole. Jesus, they sound like Jude and Leo.

  I could hide here till they’re gone, but maybe they’ll call a tow truck for me. Leave a message for Jude that I got in and out okay, too. That way I wouldn’t have to take my chances hitching on the highway.

  If they ask, I’ll tell them I came down here to take a pee.

  5:43 P.M.

  It’s getting cold, even inside the car with the windows rolled up. Better dig that sweater outta the trunk. Jesus, I wish the tow truck would come.

  Keep on wishin’. Pretty woman with the weird Oriental guy said it might take two hours. Don’t they have Triple A garages up here in the boonies? Don’t their cars ever break down? That old pickup of theirs looked like it was ready to.

  Oriental guy sure acted spooky. Wonder if he saw what I was really doing in that clump of pampas grass. Nah, they were too far away, dragging that big cooler. Bet they had something illegal in there. Drugs off some boat outta Mexico? Nah, nobody’d make a drop while it’s still light. Didn’t the girl say something about Fish and Game? I read someplace there’s a lot of abalone poaching going on up here. Bet that’s what they were doing. Take more than the limit, sell it to some restaurant, make big bucks.

  That’s okay, though. None of my business. What matters is they said they’d make my calls. Meantime the evidence is gone till I can come back for it. And little Chryssie’s just a dumb tourist with car trouble.

  Dumb, anyway. Real dumb.

  5:47 P.M.

  A pickup, and it’s slowing down. Old man driving. Slowing down some more… yeah, to stare at my ass while I’m leaning into the trunk. I don’t believe it! See anything you like, buddy? Now he’s speeding up. Old fool doesn’t know I’d be happy to give him a piece if he’d help me.

  Wish I’d packed warmer clothes, but how could I know it’d be so fuckin’ cold on the coast? Was even warm in San Francisco. Lucky I dragged this old sweater of Leo’s along.

  There, that’s better. I love this sweater. Hangs all the way down to my knees. I’ll crawl in the car, lock the door, wait.

  6:29 P.M.

  Weird how the fog blows south, curls around the point, heads back north at me. Ugly, dirty-looking stuff. Makes me feel lonesome.

  Well, what’s new about that, Chryssie? When haven’t you felt lonesome.

  At least I’m warm now, even though I’m scareder than ever. It’s the dark coming on that’s spooking me. The dark and the fog and every set of headlights that flashes round the bend. There’s no radio reception and I forgot to bring any tapes along and
I sure as hell don’t want to think about the stuff I remembered in the canyon.

  An unexamined life is not worth living, Chrystal.

  Jude’s voice. It’s like she came along inside my head. She was always nagging at me with lines like that, but I never noticed her doing any deep thinking of her own. And besides the canyon, what is there to think about? Leo, long dead and all I’ve got of him is this ratty sweater? Jude, sick and needing me like I never needed her? Dave, who’s into bondage, or John, who talks about killing his parents, or Timothy, who always cries? Sean, who seriously likes to hurt women? The other pathetic middle-of-the-night voices?

  No, thanks. I’d rather count cars on the highway.

  Camper, going north. SUV tailgating it. Sports car hugging the southbound curve and disappearing in the fog. Big white pickup, jacked up on oversized tires, a bar of lights on top of the cab. Got a lotta those here in redneck country. I’ve seen at least ten just like it. Another camper. Another. Got a lotta them to.…

  6:59 P.M.

  Fifty cars later, and I can’t keep from thinking. About that last night in the canyon. About Jude and Leo, too. Him I miss in a weird way, but her—God, she’s been a pain in the ass. Some people die graceful, but not Jude, oh no. Bitch, whine, erase the few good memories I had of her.

  And that canyon… What was it Jude said? Oh yeah: “We all have a place that our minds return to long after it’s been altered by time and its inhabitants are gone. The canyon is mine.”

  I oughta remember, she said it three times Saturday night. Real proud of herself for thinking of it, even if she was in a bad way. Still claims she’s a poet. Poet, my ass!

  It’s been almost two hours now, and no tow truck. He’s gotta be coming soon. I can’t stay in the car much longer. I’m so scared my skin feels tight, and it’s hard to breathe. I’ll stand outside for a while, duck down if anybody but the tow truck stops.

  Funny, now I’m more scared of what’s inside of me than what might be outside in the dark.

  7:10 P.M.

  Pickup, turn signal on, slowing down. Help, or—?

  No help. No nothing. It’s speeding up and the signal’s off. Man and a woman inside, heading south. They saw me, I didn’t duck in time.

  Jesus, do I look that scary? I mean, I’d never pass for no Girl Scout, but I don’t look like an escaped con either. And this Mercedes sports car is about as respectable as cars get.

  I’m starting to hate this place. Really hate it. What’s wrong with the people here?

  7:45 P.M.

  God, it’s dark, except when a car comes along. I hate the dark, always sleep with a light on—

  Something coming. Get ready to duck. But wait a minute—

  It’s the tow truck! About time, dammit.

  Lights shining in my eyes. Come to Chryssie. And don’t make no excuses about how long it took. Just get me outta this miserable hole.

  He’s climbing down, walking over here. Big and slow and probably stupid. He’s not saying anything and he’s not looking under the hood. He’s—

  Oh no! No!

  Oh my God not this!

  SOLEDAD COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT CENTRAL DISPATCH

  Date: October 6,2000 Shift: 3 Beat: 2

  Deputy: Swift, R.A.

  Car: 460

  Time out: 16:00 Time in: 24:17

  Mi out: 54,021 Mi in: 54,179

  Condition out: good Condition in: slow leak, right front tire

  Shotgun out: 4 rounds Shotgun in: 4 rounds

  Time: 16:03

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Disp:911 disconnect, 1371 Ridge Rd., County

  Activity: Misdial

  Time: 16:36

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Disp: shots fired, vicinity Mar Vista & Sheep Ranch Rd., County

  Activity: Adolescents, transferred to parents’ custody

  Time: 17:55

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Obs: traffic accident, Hwy 1, SP

  Activity: Transferred to CHP

  Time: 18:22

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Disp: trespassing, 4221 Hwy 1, DH

  Activity: Subject had left the area

  Time: 19:49

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Disp: unwanted individual, CL Pier

  Activity: Subject believed he was Jesus. Transferred by ambulance to County Hospital.

  Time: 20:59

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Disp: disturbing the peace, 120 Lafferty Rd., DH

  Activity: Partygoers warned

  Time: 23:17

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Disp: citizen report of DUI, Hwy 1, DH

  Activity: BOLO issued

  Time: 23:28

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Obs: disturbing the peace, SP Hotel parking lot

  Activity: Subjects warned to disperse

  Time: 23:47

  Description/Location of Observation/Dispatch: Obs: abandoned vehicle, Point Deception Turnout

  Activity: Tagged

  Saturday, October 7

  “Well, aren’t you a lovely sight.”

  Sheriff’s Deputy Rhoda Swift leaned closer to her bathroom mirror, not liking what she saw. Puffy skin, reddened eyes, dark circles—the evidence was all there.

  “Tied one on, didn’t you, lady?”

  Seven years ago after Zach finally moved out, she’d been shocked when she realized she’d started talking to herself. Now she accepted these conversations as routine, even enjoyed them. But not on mornings like this.

  Granted, her bad mornings were seldom due to excessive drinking. Zach’s leaving had forced her to take a good hard look at her use of both booze and pills, and for two years after that she’d touched neither. She still shunned the pills, and her alcohol intake was normally limited to the occasional glass of beer or wine, but certain events on last night’s patrol had tipped her carefully balanced scales, and this morning she’d have to confront an empty bottle beside the kitchen sink.

  Worse than the evidence of her self-indulgent behavior was the image that had filled her dreams: that of a slender young woman in cutoff jeans and a blue tube top standing beside a disabled sports car, her long blonde hair blowing in the breeze.

  Rho had spotted the car at the Point Deception turnout at 4:35 P.M. yesterday while returning north along Highway 1 from a routine call. Old black Mercedes, two-seater, vintage early eighties, body in good condition, but problems under the raised hood. Driver, she thought, must be off getting a tow truck. She’d note it in her log so the morning shift officer would know to tag it if it hadn’t been removed by then.

  She’d driven past, looking for the mileage marker, when she saw the woman leaning against the Mercedes’ rear bumper, arms folded against the chill on the air, dressed all wrong for this changeable climate. Probably had more money than good sense. Bought a nice classic car, then didn’t maintain it. Even if she had a cell phone, it wouldn’t work on this remote stretch, so now she was stranded, undoubtedly without food or water, and too lazy to hike to one of the houses scattered over this sparsely populated area. Rich people!

  Rho noted the marker’s number and pulled over on the shoulder to let a logging truck pass before making a U-turn toward the disabled vehicle, but the radio interrupted her.

  “Unit four-five-zero.”

  She keyed the mike. “Four-five-zero.”

  “What’s your location?”

  “One-half mile north of Point Deception turnout.”

  “Proceed to intersection of Mar Vista and Sheep Ranch Road. Ten-five-seven, Code Two.”

  Ten-five-seven: firearms discharged. Code Two: urgent.

  The twisting in her stomach was no longer knife sharp, as it had been for years after she responded to her first call of that type. But the tingle in her throat and quick choking sensation—she shouldn’t have that reaction.

  After all, a tragedy like that couldn’t happen again.

 
; And of course it couldn’t, she thought now in morning’s sensible light. Last night’s 10-57 had borne no resemblance to the one which triggered the six-year binge of drinking and pill taking that culminated in her losing her husband. Just a couple of teenagers taking out mailboxes with their father’s Model 12. She’d lectured them and hauled them home for another lecture that began before she was out the door. Still, she’d allowed her preoccupation with that call and the others that followed to prevent her from checking on the woman at Point Deception until her shift was nearly over, and when she’d arrived there the Mercedes was still in the turnout, its hood raised, but its driver was gone.

  A routine stop, nothing irregular about the situation, so why had she yielded to the compulsion to drink when she got home? And why had the woman’s image been superimposed upon the landscape of her already troubled dreams?

  Of course Rho knew the answer: It was the time of year when, for her, everything took on a disturbing and distorted shape. Five days from now—October 12—marked the thirteenth anniversary of that first 10-57, and the mass murder in Cascada Canyon.

  Guy Newberry leaned toward the motel room mirror to inspect the nick he’d just made on his chin and realized his hands were shaking. He hadn’t slept well the night before, owing to the strange bed, the unaccustomed sound of the sea, and too much fried food and beer for dinner. And each time he’d awakened, it was with the nagging sense of something left undone, with potential serious consequences.

  He gave up on a smooth shave, pressed a wad of toilet paper to his chin, and went to stand on the room’s small balcony. Nine thirty in the morning, and the fog was lifting. It looked as though it would be another beautiful day. So why the unsettled feeling—?

  That was it: the girl with the broken-down car he’d spotted by the roadside some fifteen miles south of town.

  It had been around four forty-five when he saw her leaning against her black Mercedes. He eased up on the accelerator of his rental car and assessed the situation as he cruised past—a game he had often played on long driving trips, and one that kept his journalistic skills honed to their customary fine edge.