Chapter 38

The spot where Heidi Ott had been executed wasn't hard to find.

The rosy incandescence of Highway Patrol flares was visible half a mile away, starbursts fallen to the horizon.

As we got closer, a tapering row of red cones cordoned off the right-hand lane. Milo drove between them, showed his badge to a uniformed officer, received a wary appraisal. Two CHP cruisers, a CHP bike, and a sleek, nonregulation Harley-Davidson were parked on the turnoff.

The officer said, "Okay."

"Mike Whitworth?"

"There." A thumb indicated a huge man in his thirties standing near an embankment. Several arc lights cast focused glare on a taped-off area. The white body outline was at the far edge of the turnoff, inches from the merging of asphalt and dirt embankment. Full-scale version of the morgue gift-shop logo; life imitates art.

Whitworth stood just outside the cones. Young and in good shape, but he looked tired. His ruddy baby-face was centered by a small, blond mustache. His hair was buzzed so short the color was hard to determine. He wore a peanut-butter-colored leather jacket, white shirt, dark tie, gray slacks, and black boots, and he carried a motorcycle helmet.

Milo introduced himself.

Whitworth shook his hand, then mine. He pointed at the ground. Several ruby blotches, the largest over a foot wide. "We found some bone bits and cartilage, too. Probably part of her nose bone. We get gore all the time, plenty of bad stuff in garbage bags, but this kind of damage…" He shook his head.

Milo said, "I think the guys who did her are about to do another one." He gave Whitworth a breakneck account of Derek Crimmins's history, Peake's escape, Heidi's possible involvement, ended with Christopher Soames's account. The recruitment of Suzy Galvez.

"Out in the Tehachapis?" said Whitworth.

"Best guess. The Tehachapis behind his hometown. It's a place called Fairway Ranch, now. Know it?"

"Never heard of it," said Whitworth. "I live in Altadena, do most of my work closer to the city. Before Grapevine or past?"

"Right there," I said.

"Crimmins probably has some climbing experience," said Milo, "but Peake doesn't, and if they've got the girl with them, it's not gonna be any Everest thing. They could even be right on the development-commandeering someone's house. The private cops who patrol Fairway say no, but that doesn't convince me. If they are in the mountains, I'm figuring right at the base, maybe some kind of sheltered spot-a cave, an outcropping. Either way, we've got to take a look."

"Who're the private cops and what's their problem?" said Whitworth.

"Bunker Protection, out of Chicago. Every time I try to convince them there's something to worry about, they don't wanna know. Keep handing me this public relations crap- 'Nothing ever goes wrong here.' "

"Till it does," said Whitworth, massaging his belt buckle. "Okay, let's get going. I don't know about the jurisdictional aspect, but to hell with all that." He glanced back at the body outline. "We're just about wrapped up, so I can get you these four troopers right now, call for more with ETA's of less than half an hour. I'm on my bike-I was going off duty when the call came in; I'll ride solo, meet you there. If the Bunker yahoos give you a hard time, we'll bulk-intimidate them. What about choppers?"

Milo turned to me. "What do you think? Would noise and lights stop him or egg him on?"

"Depends what's in the script," I said.

"The script?" said Whitworth.

"He's following some sort of story line. In terms of how he'll react to a direct threat, the problem is we don't know enough about his arousal level to predict safely."

"Arousal? This is a sex thing?"

"His general physiological state," I said. "Psychopaths tend to function at a quieter level than the rest of us-low pulse rates and skin conductance, high pain thresholds- except when tension builds up. Then they can be extremely explosive. If we confront Crimmins when he's still relatively calm-scheming, planning, taking control-it's possible he'll fold his tents and run, or just give up. But if we catch him at a peak moment, he might just go for the big ending."

"Pull a Koresh," said Whitworth. "How old's that girl?"

"Fourteen."

"Course, there's nothing to say he hasn't already done her."

Milo said, "Put the choppers on standby. Get me two, three more cars. Along the same lines, we drive into Fairway quietly, no lights, no sirens." To me: "Where do the Bunker people hang out?"

"There's a guardhouse right past the entrance."

"Okay," he said to Whitworth. "Meet you at the main entrance. Alex, give him directions. You're the only one who's actually been there."

Chapter 39

The men in the powder-blue shirts weren't happy.

Three guards, surprised as they sat in the mock-Spanish guardhouse. Soft music on stereo. The shirts freshly pressed.

Neat, clean building, outside and in, cozy interior: spotless kitchenette, oak table set with four matching chairs, blue hats on a rack. On the table were the remains of takeout Mexican food. Taco Fiesta, Valencia address. Next to a half-eaten burrito, a Trivial Pursuit board. Three little plastic pies, blue, orange, brown, the last half-filled with tiny plastic wedges.

The door had been unlocked. When Milo and Mike Whit-worth and I entered, all three guards had stood up, grabbed for guns that weren't there. Across the room, a metal locker said WEAPON DEPOSITORY. Next to it was a plaque with the crossed-rifles logo of Bunker Protection.

Now we were all outside in the peach-scented air, under a sky surprisingly deprived of stars. The Bunker guards kept their eyes on the CHP cruisers that blocked the entrance to Fairway Ranch. Inside the cars, the barest outline of men behind night-darkened windshields.

As we'd driven in, Milo had eyed the low white fence, muttered, "No gate. They could've cruised right in."

Moments later, Mike Whitworth coasted up on his Harley and said something to the same effect.

"So you haven't searched yet," Milo said to the tallest guard. "E. Cliff." The one who'd protested loudest until Milo hushed him with a scolding index finger.

"No," he said. "It's past two in the morning, we're not going to wake up the residents. No reason to."

"You'd know if there was a reason?" said Whitworth.

"Absolutely," said Cliff. Adding a barked "Sir."

Whitworth stepped closer to him, using his size the way Milo does. "The way you're set up, anyone could get in-is it Ed?"

Cliff tried to smile as he backed away. "Eugene. Not correct. Anyone entering can be spotted from the guardhouse."

"Assuming the drapes are open."

Cliff's head jerked toward the building. "They usually are."

Milo said, "I'm usually charming." He moved in on Cliff, too. "So tell me, what category would two murderers driving right past you fall into? Sports and Leisure? Arts and Entertainment?"

"Sir!" said Cliff. "There's no reason to get disrespectful. Even with the drapes closed we see headlights."

"Assuming there were headlights-I know, there usually are."

"There's no reason-"

Milo stepped closer. Cliff was over six feet, but reedy, an elk confronting bears. He looked at the other two Bunker guards. Both just stood there.

Milo said, "There's every reason to search the premises, friend, and we're going to do it, right now."

"I'm sorry, sir, in terms of your jurisdiction…" Cliff began. Milo's nose moved a half-inch from his, and the voice tapered. "At the least, I'll have to clear it with headquarters."

Milo smiled. "In Minneapolis?"

"Chicago," said one of the other guards. Nasal voice. "L. Bonaface."