Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 58

Tony Wheeler drove north more slowly than he usually did when he patrolled. The case was eating at him, and he tried to figure out why. It was more than that he had almost nailed Martin-dale; he might nail Martindale yet, after all. It was more than what bothered the sheriff-that Martindale was a smartass who thought the police couldn't nail him. What bothered him, Tony decided, was that Martindale was a cold, calculating potential murderer, and that, having failed once, he would almost certainly try again. At that moment, the radio came alive.

"Napa Four, this is base." It was the sheriff's voice.

Tony picked up the microphone. "Base, Napa Four."

"Tony, it's Norm."

"Yeah, Norm?"

"What's your position?"

"Two, two-and-a-half miles north of town."

"Good. The desk had a call from Mrs. Kinsolving a couple of minutes ago. She sounded upset, wanted to speak to somebody. I just got in, and I called her, but there's no answer. You wheel by there, and see if she's all right."

"Wilco," Tony said. "I'll be there in three minutes."

"Let me know if she's all right."

"Wilco. Out."

Tony made a U-turn and stepped on it. He turned into the driveway at what was now called the Kinsolving Vineyards and drove quickly up to the house. Mrs. Kinsolving, to his surprise, was on her hands and knees in a flower bed near the driveway, furiously pulling up weeds. He got out of the car. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Kinsolving," he said. "I'm Deputy Wheeler."

"Yes, I remember," she said. She was standing now, and both hands were filled with weeds.

"The sheriff said you called; is everything all right?"

Tears began to roll down her face. "No, everything is not all right. I'm out here pulling weeds, and I'm afraid Sandy's in terrible trouble."

It dawned on Tony that the woman was very nearly hysterical. "What kind of trouble, ma'am?"

"He's gone to meet Peter."

"Peter Martindale?"

She nodded. "I'm afraid of what might happen."

Tony was afraid, too. "Where is he meeting Martindale?"

"He called him and said they should meet at the first place they met."

"And where's that, ma'am?"

"I think at Alcatraz."

"Alcatraz?"

"Sandy told me that Peter had once insisted that they meet at Alcatraz."

"How long has your husband been gone?"

"I don't know, exactly. At least an hour, maybe two."

"Ma'am, thank you for telling me this; now you're going to have to excuse me, if I'm going to be able to do anything about it."

He ran for his patrol car, got it started, and pointed it toward town. He grabbed the microphone. "Base, Napa Four."

"Napa Four, base."

"The sheriff there?"

"No, Tony, he went off with the county manager in his car."

"Okay, listen carefully; I want you to call the airport and get hold of Bert, the pilot. Tell him I'm on my way out there right now, and I'll be there in about six or seven minutes. Tell him to have the police helicopter fueled and running when I get there, that we're going to San Francisco."

"Tony, you ought to talk to the sheriff about this."

"I don't have time to find the sheriff; you just call Bert and tell him that, and I'll take the responsibility, do you read me?"

"I read you, Tony, but remember, it's on your head."

"That's fine with me," Tony replied. He put the microphone back on its clip, flipped on the lights and siren, and stood on the accelerator.

Sandy drove across the Golden Gate Bridge feeling a mixture of emotions. He was apprehensive about this meeting, but glad that he was bringing the situation to a head. He was determined to make Martindale understand that by continuing with this madness he was putting his own life in jeopardy. He knew he could kill Martindale now. He could squash the man like a bug and never feel a moment's guilt about it. But he would make one more effort to reason with him; today's effort.

He looked out toward the Pacific and his vision did not go far; a fog bank covered everything to seaward-one of those midsummer phenomena that were so characteristic of this stretch of water. The bridge was in bright, cold sunshine at the moment, but soon it might be enveloped in the dense mists.

Sandy glanced at his watch as he drove off the bridge; he was in good time. As he parked the car he looked around for Martin-dale's Lincoln, but it was nowhere in sight. He bought a ticket and got aboard the boat. Halfway to the island, Sandy looked toward the Golden Gate Bridge, and it was gone. The bright, sunlit wall of fog had crept into the harbor and was making its way inland.

As he stepped ashore Sandy looked up and saw that, since his last visit, a section of the stout Alcatraz wall had collapsed. He was reminded of some ruined castle in Ireland. An elderly tour guide was waiting to greet the group, and Sandy pointed at the wall. "What happened up there?" he asked.

"The old girl is falling down," the guide said. "There's no money to keep her repaired. One of these days she'll be a complete wreck."

Sandy let himself fall to the rear of the group as it formed.

"Now," said the guide, "my name is Wembly, and for the last four years of this structure's life as a maximum-security prison, I was a guard here. I know every nook and cranny of this place, and I'm going to show it to you. Please don't hesitate to ask any questions." He led the group through the gate and toward the main body of the prison.

Sandy stayed a few steps to the rear of the group, not bothering to listen to the guide, thinking about what he was going to say to Peter Martindale.

Tony skidded to a stop on the tarmac at Napa County Airport. Bert was leaning against the helicopter, waiting for him.

Tony got out of the car and, as an afterthought, grabbed a shotgun, then ran for the passenger seat. "Bert, I told them to tell you to have this thing running."

"Well, I just got it fueled," Bert said petulantly. "Now where you want to go, and who authorized it?"

"Alcatraz," Tony said.

"Alcatraz? Are you outta your fucking mind? Who would authorize that?"

"I'm authorizing it. Bert, if you don't get this thing going right now, I'm going to shoot you," Tony said. "You can tell your boss I said that."

Bert got the thing going.

It was as before. As the crowd moved out of the cell block, Sandy hung back and looked at the cells to his right. Peter Martindale stood inside one, waiting.

"How much longer?" Tony said into the intercom.

"About ten, eleven minutes," Bert said. "Hang on, I gotta call in." He punched the push-to-talk button. "San Francisco approach, Napa One police helicopter."

"Napa One," a controller said.

"I'm five miles north of class B airspace at one thousand feet, squawking one, two, zero, zero, heading two, zero, zero."

"Napa One, what is your destination?"

"Alcatraz."

"Napa One, say again your destination."

"San Francisco approach, Napa One; my destination is Alcatraz. Request vectors."

"Napa One, do you intend landing at Alcatraz?"

"Affirmative."

"Is this an emergency?"

Bert looked at Tony; Tony nodded.

"Affirmative, San Francisco, this is a police emergency."

"Napa One, understand police emergency. Come left to one, niner, zero. Alcatraz is seventeen miles at twelve o'clock. Report Alcatraz in sight."

"Wilco," Bert said. He turned to Tony. "This better be good," he said.

"Napa One, San Francisco approach."

"This is Napa One.

"The coast guard has advised us that a fog bank has developed over San Francisco Bay and is currently estimated to be one-half mile west of Alcatraz, moving slowly east."

"Roger, San Francisco." Bert turned again to Tony. "You give me the most entertaining fucking flying, you really do."