First to Die

Chapter 111

AS HE SAT SHACKLED TO THE SEAT of the police van on the way back from Napa, Nicholas Jenks watched the impassive eyes of the patrolman across from him. He plotted, schemed. He wondered how much it would take to buy his freedom. One million? Two million? After all, what did the fool take home? Forty grand a year? He figured the steely-eyed officer was someone above reproach, whose commitment to his duty was unquestioned. If he were writing it, that's who he would have put in the car with him. Five million, then. He smirked. If he were writing it. That notion possessed a cold, punishing irony for him. He had written it. Jenks shifted in his restraints- wrists cuffed, torso strapped to the seat. Only minutes earlier, he had stood in the redbrick courthouse in Santa Rosa while the prosecutor in her little Liz Claiborne suit pointed her finger at him. Over and over, she accused him of things only a mind as cultivated as his would think up and do. All he could do was stare coldly while she accused him of being this monster. Sometime, he'd like to lock her in the law library and show her what he was really capable of. Jenks caught a glimpse of the sky and the sun-browned hills through the narrow window in the rear door and tried to get a fix on their bearings. Novato. Just hitting Marin. He pressed his face to the steel restraining wall. He had to get out. If he were writing it, there would always be a way out. He looked at the guard. So what was the story, Joe Friday? What happened next? "You married?" he asked. The policeman stared through him at first, then he nodded. "Kids?" "Two." He nodded again, even breaking a slight smile. No matter how hard they tried to resist, they were always fascinated to talk with the monster. The guy who killed the honeymooners. They could tell their wives and friends, justify the miserable six hundred a week they brought home. He was a celebrity. "Wife work?" Jenks probed. The cop nodded. "Teacher. Business ed. Eighth grade." Business ed, huh? Maybe he would understand a business proposition. "My wife used to work," Jenks grunted back. "My first wife. In retail. My current wife worked, too, in television. Course, now she only works out." The remark produced a snicker. The tight-assed bastard was loosening up. Jenks saw a landmark he recognized. Twenty minutes from the Golden Gate Bridge. There wasn't much time left. He glanced out the window at the patrol car following them. There was another in front. A bitter resignation took hold. There was no way out. No elegant escape. That was in his books. This was life. He was screwed. Then, out of nowhere, the police van lurched violently. Jenks was hurled forward in his seat, toward the guard across from him. For a second, he wondered what was going on, then the van lurched again. He heard a chilling rumbling sound outside. It's a fucking quake. Jenks could see the lead police car swerve to avoid the charge of another car. Then it skidded off the road. One of the cops yelled, "Shit," but the van continued on. Jenks spun around in panic, trying to hold on to anything that was fixed in the compartment. The van was bucking and jolting. The police car following them jumped over a sudden hump in the highway and, to his total amazement, flipped. The driver of Jenks's van looked behind him in shock. Then suddenly the other cop in front screamed for the driver to stop. An eighteen-wheeler was breached in their way. They were headed right toward it. The van swerved, and when it did, the road buckled again. Then they were out of control- flying. I am going to die here, Nicholas Jenks thought. Die here, without anyone ever knowing the whole truth. The van crashed into the stanchions of a Conoco station. It screeched to a stop, spinning twice on its side. The officer across from him was hurled against the metal wall. He was writhing and moaning as he looked at Jenks. "Don't move," the officer panted. How the hell could he? He was still shackled to the seat. Then came this horrid wrenching sound, and they both looked up. The towering steel light above the station toppled like a redwood and crashed down on them. It smashed through the door of the van, striking the officer in back, probably killing him on impact. Jenks was sure he would be killed- all the smoke, the screams, the twisting of metal. But he wasn't. He was clear. The streetlight had torn a hole in the side of the car, ripped his restraints right out of the seat. He was able to kick himself free, even with shackled hands and feet, and push himself through the gaping hole. People were running in the street, screaming in panic. Motorists pulled off the road, some dazed, others jumping out of their vehicles to help. This was it! He knew if he didn't run he would replay this moment for the rest of his life. Nicholas Jenks crawled out of the van, dazed and disoriented. He spotted no cops. Only frightened passersby streaking past. He limped out and joined the chaotic street scene. I'm free! Jenks exulted. And I know who's setting me up. The cops won't get it in a million years.