Vigilante

CHAPTER 44

As soon as I got on the Pacific Coast Highway, I shut down my emergency package but hauled ass, using my horn to get around slower traffic. I wrestled with a tactical dilemma as I drove. Despite Marcia’s demand that I come alone, it definitely presented a risk. I didn’t know if I could trust her or whether she was setting up a trap. Correct police procedure demanded that I call in and get backup and I was about to do that, but my instincts told me it might not be the right move.

Jurisdictionally, the address in Malibu was in the county, which meant calling in the sheriff.

Marcia Breen sounded panicked. Supposing for the moment she was on the level and Nix was lurking around out by her apartment trying to get his hands on her, then bringing in a bunch of Malibu uniforms in black and whites could spook Nash before I got a chance to scope it out. If Marcia really had solid information that could prove Nash’s guilt and could make a statement tying him to Lita’s murder, then my case was made. But that still didn’t put him in custody. The last thing I wanted was to bust the pinata and not get any candy. In addition, if I showed up with a bunch of cops how would that affect Marcia, who had insisted I come alone?

Part of this thinking, I will admit, is produced by my natural tendency toward lone-wolfing. I’ve been in situations before where I’ve specifically asked a sister agency for covert backup only to get surprised by ten fully lit black and whites boiling in looking like a presidential motorcade. I decided the better option was to wait till I got to Ocean Way and then check out the neighborhood, looking for Marcia’s white Cad. I’d get her into protective custody, debrief her, and then decide what the next step should be.

It took me over half an hour to get to Ocean Way, which turned out to be a tree-lined canyon street up in the Malibu hills above the PCH. I found her apartment building at 2358 and slow-rolled the address. The development was a beautiful tile-roofed, Spanish-style structure built into the canyon hills. The units looked large and each had a balcony that faced down the canyon toward the ocean.

I drove the narrow street, looking for Marcia’s car. I finally saw her white Cadillac Eldorado with the top up parked a block up from her apartment complex on the right. I drove slowly past but could see nobody in the car. Maybe she had ducked down when she saw my headlights.

I hung a U and came up behind the Cad, parking in a slot two down from her. I pulled out my Springfield XD(M), took the safety off, and chambered up a round. Then I held it surreptitiously down by my right leg as I got out of the Acura, stood beside my car, and made a careful visual sweep of the street. Nobody seemed to be around. It was still early, only a quarter to seven. There was occasional drive-by traffic, residents heading home after work. I walked up to the Cadillac and looked inside.

Empty.

I tried the door and found it unlocked, leaned in, and popped the trunk. Then I walked back to check inside.

Spare tire and jack.

I took another careful look up and down the street, checking behind me. I didn’t want to get surprised, but the whole area seemed quiet. Nobody on any of the balconies or between the houses across the street.

I was just getting set to close the trunk when I heard a strange sound. It started as a faint whir but scant seconds later intensified like the buzzing of a large flying beetle. Then it hit the right side of my chest. Sudden intense pain followed.

I looked down and, to my horror, saw that a large red dart was sticking out of my shirt, just above the right nipple.

“Fuck,” I muttered, and snatched at it. But in the one or two seconds since it hit me I was already losing coordination. Sudden numbness spread through my upper body. I missed pulling the dart out on my first try. Whatever drug was in there, it was extremely fast acting, because in the next few seconds I was not even able to lift my right arm for a second attempt. I stood behind the open trunk of Marcia’s car, teetering like a drunk, as all the muscles in my body began to spasm and shut down.

I sensed someone walking toward me from my right. Paralysis had already hit and I couldn’t even turn my head to see who was approaching. The footsteps came closer.

A tall strange-looking man in camouflage clothes stepped into my field of vision. He was narrow shouldered and almost six and a half feet tall. He had a grotesque face that was a sharp collection of bony planes. Above it rode an unruly shock of red-orange hair. His long, stringy goatee was set off by snow-white skin and freckles. He had a lean body, ropy, as if fashioned out of twisted twine. But his worst feature was his eyes. Gray, predatory, and lifeless. I’d only seen eyes like those on the tiger sharks that sometimes cruise the reefs north of Rincon.

“Ils demandent dat chu shoot homme,” he said in a thick Cajun accent. Then he pulled the dart out of my chest and pushed me roughly into Marcia’s open trunk.

I landed next to the spare tire. Then the lid slammed closed and I lay paralyzed in the dark, unable to move a muscle.