A Fatal Frame of Mind

Chapter Twenty-three

“When the professor said that all we had to do to find this man was take the next exit, he neglected to mention that after we took the exit we’d have to drive around in circles for hours,” Shawn said.

That wasn’t precisely true. They had been driving in circles for only forty-five minutes. And it was entirely possible that for most of that time they had actually been going in the right direction. One low rolling hill covered in golden hay and ancient oak trees looked pretty much like every other one.

But now that they were stopped at a T-intersection where the narrow lane that had taken them up a steep hill ended with a choice of left or right turns unless he wanted to go cross-country up the rest of the slope, Gus had a chance to peer around and see a vast vineyard sprawling out at their left.

“I don’t think we’ve been here before,” Gus said. “That vineyard doesn’t look familiar.”

“Because last time we passed it, it was on the right side,” Shawn said. “We’re going back the way we came. Which might be all right, because I’m getting hungry, and pea soup is sounding mighty fine. Pea soup and everything that comes with it.”

Gus knew that Shawn wasn’t referring to the soup toppings Andersen’s offered for an extra couple of bucks: the bacon bits and croutons and little pitcher of sherry that made a bowl into a meal. They needed to find Kitteredge’s friend quickly, or Shawn would be ready to dump the professor under an oak tree and head back home. Gus turned around in his seat to see if Kitteredge seemed to know where they were going.

Judging from the smile on his face, he did. “It’s a geographical anomaly that allows this valley to thrive,” he said gazing out at the vineyard below them. “Because it runs east-west-the only east-west running valley in the Pacific coastal region, by the way-it gets the flow of offshore breezes and fog that temper the otherwise harsh climate and allow for the growth of the vines.”

“That’s fascinating, Professor,” Gus said. “But this might not be the time for a discussion of the local landscape. Except for the part about where on it your friend lives.”

Kitteredge waved away the objection with a sweep of his hand. “There’s always time to gain a little knowledge,” he said. “Because you never know when you’re going to need it. For instance, in this case, you might think you don’t need to know about the formation of these hills or the techniques the Chamokomee Indians used to hide from the Spanish settlers who were trying to drive them off their land.”

“I might,” Shawn agreed. “And so might every human being on Earth. Because we would all be busy noticing that the most important feature of these hills is the fact that the sun has gone behind one of them and it’s about to start getting dark. Oh, and another one-that these hills don’t have a single street light anywhere on them. So we’re going to be driving around in the dark looking for a place we couldn’t find in daylight.”

If Kitteredge noticed the hostility in Shawn’s voice, he didn’t seem to be terribly concerned by it. “That’s what I mean when I say you never know which bit of knowledge is the one you’re going to need,” he said. “In this case it turns out to be both of the ones I just mentioned.”

In almost any situation, Gus would have happily listened to his old professor lecture on whichever subject struck his fancy. But he could feel Shawn’s hunger-fueled frustration radiating from the passenger’s seat, and it was hard not to share a little bit of it.

“I’d love to hear all about this,” Gus said. “But maybe we could wait until we reach your friend’s house.”

“Or until Guns N’ Roses finally gets around to putting out Chinese Democracy,” Shawn said.

“They already did,” Gus said. “A couple of years ago.”

“Really?” Shawn said. “You’d think after all that waiting somebody would have noticed.”

“I’m afraid this can’t wait,” Kitteredge said. “That’s what I was trying to explain. You see, if we were in the Purisma Hills to the north, then we could expect to keep driving up until we reached the maximum elevation of seventeen hundred feet before we started down toward the Los Alamos Valley. If we’d gone south into the Santa Ynez Mountains we might climb as much as twenty-five hundred feet before we began to drop down toward the Pacific Ocean. But you see, we are in the Santa Rita Hills. And among the salient details of the geographical region, along with its ideal climate and soil conditions for viticulture, is the relatively lower elevations of its peaks: no more than nine hundred and fifty feet.”

Shawn turned to Gus, real pain on his face. “He’s going to be lecturing his executioner on the chemical composition of the lethal injection as the guy pushes the button,” Shawn said. “And he’ll probably still be talking after he’s dead.”

Gus cast a pleading look over his shoulder. “Please, Professor, we just need to know which way to turn.”

“That’s my point,” Kitteredge said. “We are currently at an elevation of roughly the maximum for the area, as you can tell from a quick glance around.”

“All I can tell from a quick glance around is that I can’t see anything, because it’s dark,” Shawn said. “Maybe the professor wants to explain why that happens, too.”

“Taking all this into consideration,” Kitteredge said, ignoring Shawn as he might a student who had interrupted class without first raising his hand, “you might wonder why it is that there seems to be an enormous slope rising above us.”

“I might,” Shawn said. “Or I might just put my head under the front tire and beg Gus to hit the gas.”

But Kitteredge’s words had an impact on Gus. He stared at the looming shadow in front of them. “What about the Indians?” he said, ignoring the strangled cry from the seat next to him.

“The Chamokomee were a peaceful people, even more so than their close neighbors the Chumash, and they had neither the inclination nor the ability to fight the better armed and trained Spanish,” Kitteredge said. “All they wanted was to live their lives undisturbed. So they became experts at hiding their settlements. They could construct elaborate structures to mask their villages from the outside world.”

“That would explain why we haven’t seen any Indians tonight,” Shawn said. “That and the fact that it’s too dark to see anything. But unless your friend is one of the Chappaquiddick guys-”

“Chamokomee,” Gus said.

Since he didn’t have a tire iron to beat Gus’ head in with, Shawn ignored the correction. “-why do we care about any of this?”

“I think Gus knows,” Kitteredge said.

Gus didn’t. At least not quite. But there was something playing around the edges of his mind, and if he could just pull it forward he’d know which way to go.

“All we need to understand is whether we’re supposed to turn left or right here,” Shawn said. “So maybe the one piece of knowledge we need here is your friend’s address.”

Gus peered down the road to the left, then the right. And then he knew. He cast a glance back at Kitteredge, who was smiling and nodding his encouragement.

“Hold on,” Gus said, taking his foot off the brake. “This may get a little bumpy.”

Before Shawn could object, Gus pushed his foot down on the gas and the car lurched forward across the intersection. Straight across toward the unpaved hillside.

“What are you doing?” Shawn shouted.

“Getting us there,” Gus said.

The Echo flew across the road, then shuddered and thudded as it left the pavement. Gus could feel the tires clutching for purchase on the loose dirt of the hillside. He could hear the engine screaming as it fought to haul the car’s weight up the steep slope, saw the high weeds covering the windshield like a curtain. For a moment it seemed like the car was going to slide back into the intersection.

And then the tires grabbed asphalt. Flat asphalt. On both sides of them the hill angled up steeply, but they were on a level road.

“What happened?” Shawn said.

“I think it was the old Chamokomee trick,” Gus said.

“An artificial hill to disguise the entry to my friend’s property,” Kitteredge said.

Shawn peered out the window to confirm this, but it was too dark to see anything. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

“I did,” Kitteredge said. “Why didn’t you listen?”

Gus glanced over at Shawn to make sure he wouldn’t have to physically restrain him from leaping onto the backseat and throttling Kitteredge. But before Shawn could unbuckle his seat belt, the air was filled with the sound of an explosion. The windshield flew in their faces in a shower of glass pebbles.

“Somebody’s shooting at us!” Shawn shouted. “Get out of here!”

Gus hadn’t actually needed the instruction. He stomped on the brake, threw the gearshift into reverse, and jammed down on the gas.

But before he got more than a foot, there were two quick shots, and the front tires exploded out from under them. The Echo landed hard on the rims and dug divots in the asphalt.

Shawn and Gus dived for their door handles. Gus made it out first and yanked open the back door, pulling Kitteredge out of his seat as Shawn rushed around the car to join them.

“Now what?” Gus said.

“We run,” Shawn said.

“Not a bad idea,” a voice from out of the darkness said. “Would have been better if you’d thought of it before.”

A figure stepped into the beam of the Echo’s headlights. At first all Gus could make out was the doublebarreled shotgun pointed directly at them. But once that had registered, he was able to make out some of the details of the man carrying it. And he wished he hadn’t.

The shotgun’s owner seemed to be no more than four feet tall. But Gus realized that was only because he was so hunched over from the hump on his back. His face was as gnarled and twisted as his body, with a jagged scar that started at his hairline and zigged across his face, taking out his left eye.

“Would have been much better if you’d thought of it before,” the hunchback said. “Could have saved me some shells that way.”