Nine

26

Malibu, California

Wednesday, May 21, 6:03 A.M.

Kit slept in the passenger seat for about three hours, awakening just before they reached the California border. He had dreamed another of the old dreams and worried for a few moments that he might have talked in his sleep. But if he had, neither Meghan nor Spooky gave any sign of it. He woke to the sound of Spooky’s raised voice telling Meghan that she was on the wrong road and was going to cause them all to die in the desert. Meghan calmly denied that this was the case. Kit sat up.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Spooky said.

“Sorry,” Meghan said.

“She’s on the right road, and you’re the one who woke me up,” Kit said.

“I did not!”

He perfectly mimicked her dire predictions of death in the desert.

She folded her arms over her chest and kicked the back of his seat.

He stayed awake, answering Meghan’s questions about the cabin in Colorado. He tried to draw Spooky into the conversation by deliberately misstating how many rooms it had and how it was furnished, but she didn’t give in to whatever temptation she might have felt to correct him, so he gave a little shrug and told Meghan the truth.

Near Barstow, they stopped to stretch and get some coffee at an all-night diner. He took over driving again. Although Spooky had ordered a Coke and some fries-not eating many of the fries but apparently enjoying swirling them in a mound of catsup until they broke, one after the other-she steadfastly refused to enter into conversation. She put on headphones and started listening to her MP3 player.

She broke her silence somewhere between Pomona and Riverside to express her dislike of all she had thus far seen of California. She had never been to any city larger than Denver and was overwhelmed by Los Angeles and the heavily populated area that seemed to stretch endlessly around it. There was too much traffic, too many shopping malls, you couldn’t see stars in the sky. Kit knew he shouldn’t have let her have anything with caffeine in it when they stopped in Barstow-now she was overtired and cranky. Worse, for as long as they were in the car, Meghan would pay the price for that with him.

But when they reached the Pacific Coast Highway from Interstate 10, and she saw her first glimpse of the ocean just as the day was dawning, her criticism suddenly ceased with an abrupt “Wow.” She had remained fascinated all the way to Malibu.

“Is your house on the beach?” she asked, taking off the headset.

“One of them is, yes,” he said. “We’re going to be staying at the house in the hills most of the time, but don’t worry-we’ll go down to the one at the beach, too.”

“Will you teach me to swim in the waves?”

“Sure. You’re a strong swimmer, so it shouldn’t be hard for you to learn.”

“It looks kind of scary.”

“It can be,” Meghan said. “If you have a healthy respect for it, though, you’ll have a lot of fun.”

“What would you know about it?” Spooky snapped.

“I grew up here, near Kit’s house.”

“Are you going to stay at your own house, then?” Spooky asked, brightening.

Meghan laughed. “No, you’re not going to be rid of me after all.”

“Spooky…” Kit said, embarrassed.

“She made it sound like she lived here,” Spooky said defensively.

“I used to. After my mother died, we sold the house. I still live near the water, but north of here, near Carmel.”

Now he turned up the road leading to his home. “I should warn you,” he said, “that I’ve hired a security team. It might take a little getting used to…”

Meghan frowned. “I hope you haven’t gone to a lot of expense because of me.”

“No, they’re here most of the time.”

“You trust them with the house while you’re gone?”

“I’d trust Moriarty with my life,” he said.

“Moriarty!” Spooky shrieked in delight.

“Moriarty?” Meghan said, and gave an exaggerated shiver. “Didn’t you ever read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes?”

He smiled. “This one is no villain.”

“He’s the best!” Spooky said.

They approached a flat, concrete pad that extended several yards on either side of the car. A black wrought-iron gate and concrete-and-steel posts formed one set of barriers. Just beyond them, tall trees formed another. Meghan noticed that no branches were allowed to overhang the brick and wrought-iron fence that ran the length of the property. The thick fence appeared to be about twelve feet high. The gate was flanked by two pillars-cameras were perched on top of each.

A set of bright lights came on, illuminating the SUV and the flat concrete area around it, then the gate rolled open. A second, equally sturdy gate stood not far ahead. As Kit drove forward, the first gate closed behind them, penning the vehicle in a brick and iron box. A guard dressed in a dark green uniform and combat boots, wearing a sidearm, knife, and baton came forward.

“Good evening, Mr. Logan.”

“Good evening, Joe. ‘Long time the manxome foe he sought.’”

“Thank you, sir. Good to see you again.”

The guard spoke into a radio attached to the shoulder of his uniform, and the second gate opened.

“What did you say to him?” Spooky asked.

“It’s from Jabberwocky. A password of sorts. If I hadn’t said it, he would have known I was in some sort of trouble, perhaps being forced to drive in.”

“Teach it to me!”

“I’ll teach you Jabberwocky, if you’d like, but the password will change now.”

They came up a long, steep drive bordered by trees that kept the house hidden from the road. At the crest of it was a house that had been built in the 1950s along modern lines-a two-story structure that curved with the hilltop, with wide decks and tall windows of dark glass overlooking canyons and cliffs, and beyond them, the Pacific.

Kit caught Meghan looking at it with a wistful expression. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m remembering your grandmother. She always made Gabe and me feel so welcomed here. Do you miss her when you visit this house?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice. How had she known?

He stopped the car near the front steps. “We’re home,” he said, then wondered immediately what had led him to use the phrase.

Meghan smiled to hear Kit call this home. Elizabeth Logan would have liked that, she thought. Memories of visiting her while Kit and Gabe were in school came back to her. Despite the difference in their ages, Meghan had always enjoyed talking to Elizabeth and found it easier to confide in her than in her own mother. Meghan’s mother had always been a beautiful butterfly, fragile and delightful in her way, but unable to stay still or concentrate. “Be thankful you got her looks and my brains,” her father used to say. “If the dice had rolled the other way, you would have crapped out in both departments.”

Elizabeth encouraged Meghan to come by anytime, and in her, Meghan found the listener she so needed then. Most often, Elizabeth could be found standing near the deck of the pool, wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat. The pool was built at the top of the cliff that ran along that side of the property. Although Elizabeth seldom swam, this was where she spent a great deal of time in the afternoon, peering over the railing at the canyon below. Meghan had wondered why she didn’t choose one of the other decks, which had more striking views of ocean and hills. Then one day Meghan realized that Sedgewick was just below that cliff, hidden beneath trees. She somehow knew that Elizabeth would not want Kit to know of those afternoon vigils, but as she thought of them now, she felt Elizabeth watching over them as surely as she had then.

Spooky was already out of the car, not bothering to close her door. “Moriarty!” she called, running toward a tall man with short silver hair who was coming down the front steps. He had an athlete’s build and grace.

“Hey, you scamp!” he said, smiling at Spooky as she gave him a quick embrace. “What? You aren’t going to try for my wallet?”

“You always catch me,” she said.

“Hello, Moriarty,” Kit said, coming up to them, wondering how it was that being around Moriarty always made him feel a weight lift from his shoulders, to feel as if everything would be all right.

“Good to see you made it safely,” Moriarty said, shaking his hand.

“Moriarty, this is Meghan Taggert. She’s the friend I called you about yesterday.”

Meghan’s brows rose in surprise.

“I hope the man we sent to meet you at the hotel worked out all right?” Moriarty said.

“Oh-yes. He saw me safely to the tram. Thank you.”

“Why don’t you get the ladies settled in, Kit? I’ll start unloading some of the luggage.”

“I’ll get it later. You aren’t hired to be a bellman,” Kit said. Moriarty was his last real link to Elizabeth Logan. He had never asked the nature of their relationship, but he knew it had not been merely employer-employee, whatever they might have said to the nosy.

“I’m not here because I’m hired, either,” Moriarty said, as if reading his thoughts. “Go on, you all look as if you walked from Colorado. We can talk later.”

As they drew nearer the front door, Meghan saw Kit holding a rabbit’s foot and stepping carefully on the large marble tiles of the entry, avoiding cracks. At the door-over which, she noticed, he had at some point added a horse-shoe-he slipped the rabbit’s foot back in his pocket.

Spooky hurried past him, but Meghan moved more slowly-she took care as well not to step on cracks as she approached. She paused when she reached him, and heard him draw in a breath. She looked into his eyes, only inches away from hers now, and said, “I’m lucky to know you, Kit Logan.”

She kept moving, and when she was sure he could not see her face, allowed herself a small smile.

Later, Kit was in his study, while Spooky and Meghan were fast asleep in their bedrooms at the opposite end of the house. He looked out at the ocean, which could be seen from most rooms of the house, but didn’t really see it. He was still thinking of that moment on the threshold. He loved her scent. Maybe it was something she used on her hair or the soap she used, but he thought it might be more than that, something that was essentially Meghan.

As he shifted in his chair, his foot struck a soft object. He looked down and saw one of Molly’s toys. He felt his chest tighten.

Was it wrong, he wondered, to feel so much grief for a dog?

When Kit had called to say he was coming here, Moriarty had offered to gather the dog’s bedding and toys and clear them out of sight for him. Kit had declined. Perhaps, he thought now, that had been a mistake.

He saw that it was seven o’clock and turned on the small television set in the room to watch a local newscast on Channel Three.

“Our top story this morning-the FBI and the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department have released the identity of the fourth fugitive from the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list to be found here in Los Angeles County. We’ll have that and more when we return.”

He held fast to the rabbit’s foot throughout the commercial. “Not Gabe, not Gabe, not Gabe,” he whispered over and over.

He waited impatiently while the newscaster basically repeated himself, then breathed a sigh of relief as the photo of an older man appeared on the screen. Kit had memorized the Ten Most Wanted list by now. He knew the man in the photo was Victor Elliot even before the newscaster said so. A man who had masterminded armored car robberies.

“There have been other developments overnight,” the anchorman said, “and the FBI and sheriff’s department will hold a joint press conference at three this afternoon. We are expecting more details on Elliot’s death at that time.”

Some footage of police cars outside a home were shown. “This bizarre string of murders began with the discovery on Sunday of…” They recounted the previous cases, showing pictures of the victims. They cut away from these to a reporter named Diana Ontora. She was asking people on the street what they thought of the “Top Ten Exterminators,” as she called them.

“They’re great. They’re doing what the cops can’t do,” a man in a shopping mall said.

Diana Ontora came back on. “While most of the people we talked to said they think of the Exterminators as good citizens who had simply had all they could take of crime, Alex Brandon, the lead detective on these cases, doesn’t agree.”

Hearing Brandon’s name, Kit moved closer to the screen. The newscast cut to a clip of Detective Brandon saying, “They’re not heroes.”

Apparently taken from the press conference Meghan had seen yesterday, the clip showed Ontora badgering the detective at a press conference. Kit concentrated on Brandon himself. He remembered him-the youngest of the detectives to talk to him after he killed Jerome Naughton.

The newscast cut back to a live broadcast of Ontora, who was standing on a city street. Some kids were making faces behind her and mouthing “Hi Mom.” Ontora appeared irritated as she said, “This set of cases has thoroughly frustrated the sheriff’s department, which has finally called the FBI in to help investigate. Diana Ontora, Channel Three News.”

The anchorman thanked her. Another photo appeared, this one of a young man. Kit was about to turn off the television when he realized this was a related story.

“Sources close to the investigation tell Channel Three that law enforcement officials believe one of the suspects may be using the identification of Eric Grady, a young man who died under mysterious circumstances in Malibu last year…”

Eric Grady. Spooky had said that name yesterday-that was the name on one of the licenses in the wallet she had stolen from Freddy. Kit waited, but the newscaster didn’t give much more information.

He thought about Freddy pursuing Meghan at the hotel and on Sandia Peak. And the wallet. The way the bodies of the fugitives were left, hanging upside down.

If he had any remaining doubts, they were gone now. Everett and his friends were involved in hunting down the fugitives, and they had plans for Kit, Gabe, and Meghan.

Simply calling the FBI or the sheriff’s department was not an option-not only was Gabe’s life at risk, someone with his own background would be a suspect. If Kit came forward, connections would be made. Everett had taken steps to remind the investigators of the crimes committed by Kit’s stepfather, Jerome Naughton. Kit knew there were those who believed he had participated in those crimes.

He believed it himself. Was he any less guilty of murder than Gabe?

The memories, always ready to torment him, came back to him in sickening, stark, snapshot images.

Think of lucky things, he told himself. Think of numbers. He clutched the rabbit’s foot and began to recite the multiples of seven. He reached one hundred eighty-two before he felt his heart rate slow. No time for this. You have to keep Spooky and Meghan and Gabe safe. Avoiding thoughts of those he failed to protect from his stepfather, he focused on the problem of Eric Grady’s license.

Spooky had lost interest in the wallet and left it in the car. Kit put on a pair of gloves and retrieved the wallet from the backseat. Moriarty, watching him bring it into the house, said, “Spooky told me about the guy at the restaurant. Sounds as if Ms. Taggert knows some self-defense.”

“I talked her and her brother into taking lessons in high school,” Kit said absently. He spread the contents of the wallet on the kitchen table. There was a driver’s license and three credit cards for Eric Grady, among other identification for other names-including the true one for Frederick Whitfield IV.

“I assume this isn’t the wallet of a guy with a multiple personality disorder,” Moriarty said.

“No. Moriarty, I need your help. Can you find out where the sheriff’s department and FBI are going to hold their joint press conference today?”

“Piece of cake. I’ll just pretend to be a member of the media when I call.”

“Thanks. Can you get rid of Spooky’s fingerprints on these?”

“With the processes they have now, maybe not. I can wipe off most of them, anyway. But you know it will take the other guy’s fingerprints off, too?”

“Yes. That’s not important.” He pointed to the real license. “His DMV thumbprint won’t come off.”

Moriarty smiled. “That’s true.”

“I’ll be in the study.”

“Okay, I’ll call about the press conference. Then maybe you can get some sleep?”

“Maybe.”

In the study, he glanced at a copy of the Los Angeles Times. A reporter had written a story claiming that experts were speculating that the Exterminators were a national network of rogue law enforcement agents based in Los Angeles. No law enforcement agency would be able to stop them, because none really wanted to. Kit knew better but wondered how much inside help Everett was getting.

He set the paper aside and opened a packet that had been forwarded to him overnight. It was a short stack of mail. Unopened bills. While many of his bills were paid by his accountant, these were forwarded to him by a private mailbox company without the knowledge of any of the team of financial experts who worked for him, and paid for out of an account that would have been extremely difficult to trace back to him. They were small bills-one for water, one for a telephone, one for gas, another for electricity. As he opened them, he smiled in relief. There had been low usage of all of these services, except for the phone. No calls, just the basic service fee. The accounts had all been at the same level until January-when the electricity, water, and gas had increased.

Anyone could be living in the cabin near Arrowhead.

He knew, somehow, that it was Gabe.

He put the bills in his desk drawer and locked it.

Moriarty came upstairs, told Kit that the press conference would be held at the sheriff’s department headquarters, and gave Kit directions. Kit asked for a small number of items, including some electronic equipment, and told him which ones he needed most immediately. Moriarty assured Kit that he could provide them, and that he would keep Spooky and Meghan safe while he was gone. The calm exchange of information was typical of countless conversations held over the ten years they had known each other. When they finished, Moriarty stood and went to the door, then turned back to him. “Kit…I’d rather go with you, if you want to know the truth, especially if you’re going to do what I think you want to do. Someone should be watching your back.”

Kit hesitated. It was the first time in memory that Moriarty expressed worry. “Keeping Spooky and Meghan safe is the most important thing you can do for me.” When Moriarty didn’t argue, Kit said, “Thanks-besides, it’s better if you’re here to bail me out if I do get in trouble.”

“Let’s hope that it’s no more than a matter of finding you a lawyer.”

“I’ll need to leave here at about noon,” Kit said. “I’m going to try to catch some sleep until then.”

“Well, at least you’re doing one sensible thing.”

Kit looked in on Spooky, resisted the temptation to do the same with Meghan, and in his own bed, fell quickly into a blessedly dreamless sleep.