Distant Memory (30 page)

The limb was far too light to use as a club, and the leaves and smaller branches made it unwieldy. Rolling on her back, she felt herself slip through the loose earth as Massey, now with two hands on her left leg, pulled her closer. “Nice try, woman, but not good enough.”

As quickly as she could, Lisa sat up, raised the branch over her head and brought it down, not as a club, but as a dagger, driving the ragged end through his coat sleeve and into the flesh of his forearm. The skin gave way to the broken stalk, and blood ran freely down the man’s arm.

Scrambling to her feet, Lisa seized the open car door and swung it closed, putting all her weight behind it. She slammed the door so hard that her feet slipped, and she fell back to the ground. She landed hard, hitting her head, but she saw the heavy car door close on Massey’s arms and head. The door, unable because of Massey’s interposed body to latch, sprang back open.

Lisa began to run.

Every step was agony. Her body protested with hot, piercing pain. Her stomach boiled with nauseating acid. She wanted to stop, to catch her breath, to calm the pain, to settle her stomach, but she ran. In a near-blind terror she raced through the trees in zigzag fashion, stumbling in the small, wet trenches with bone-jarring intensity. With each fall, she forced herself to rise again and to run.

When she fled, she first ran deep into the grove, hoping the trees would hide her, but she needed more than a hiding place, she needed
help. If Massey found her again, there would be no way to fight back. He would put a bullet in her head with no second thoughts, no remorse.

“The street,” she said to herself in an exhausted whisper. “Find the street.”

Turning to her right, she headed back the short distance to the two-lane highway. The 150. Behind her, Massey shouted her name. His voice was different. It was the most horrible thing she had ever heard.

Her breathing was ragged, her lungs burned for air. She was no longer running. Her body was too drained of energy to move any faster. Whatever reserves she’d had before had been used up over the last twenty-four hours.

Massey was behind her. She didn’t have to see him, didn’t have to hear his voice. He was chasing her, stalking her, hunting her like she was some rabbit. She had to reach the road, had to find someone to help. But what if she couldn’t? What if no one saw her? Or nobody was there, or they were afraid to help? Her life would end on the gravel shoulder of a strange road, next to an orange orchard. She would die not remembering her parents, not knowing anything. To her that was the most tragic thing of all.

The orchard gave way to the open expanse of gravel shoulder and the two-lane road. A car whizzed by just as Lisa emerged. She arrived too late, and now she was in the open. Making her way to the edge of the road she looked for headlights, she prayed for headlights. In the distance she saw a single pair of beams approaching.

W
hat the—” Hobbs slowed the car as he caught sight of a woman frantically waving her arms and staggering along the roadside.

“That’s her!” Nick shouted.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. I’ve spent the whole day with the woman. Hurry up.”

She was thirty yards ahead and on the right. Hobbs gunned the engine and steered directly for her. Seconds later, he brought the car to an abrupt stop, tires crunching on the gravel shoulder. Nick, despite his injuries, was out of the vehicle before Hobbs could bring the car to a full stop. “Lisa!”

Hobbs bolted from the car and raced around the front. Lisa had collapsed on the ground. Nick was helping her up. Cakes of moist dirt clung to her white shirt, face, and hands.

“Behind … behind … me,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. She was gulping for air, her eyes wide with fright.

“Massey? Massey is behind you?” Nick asked.

“He … has a … gun.”

A loud bang echoed through the air a fraction of a second after a hole appeared in the front fender of the car.

“Down!” Hobbs yelled as he yanked his gun from its shoulder holster. His eyes darted along the first row of trees that marked the
beginning of the orchard. In the dim light of the night he saw a man, his hand raised and pointed at the trio. Hobbs took aim and squeezed the trigger. There was another bang, and a second round ricocheted off the hood of the car. Hobbs flinched just as his gun fired, causing him to miss his target. The gunman recoiled and ducked back into the trees, out of Hobbs’s sight.

“Get her in the car,” the detective shouted, but Nick was ahead of him. Hobbs caught sight of the NSA man pushing Lisa into the backseat and climbing in after her. From his position near the driver’s door, he could see Nick cover Lisa with his own body.

Another shot from the orchard shattered the windshield into a million weblike pieces held in place by the safety laminate. Hobbs ducked behind the car and popped up a moment later to fire in the direction from which he thought the shot had originated. He then ducked into the driver’s seat, lying across it and the passenger seat.

“Get us out of here,” Nick said.

Instead, Hobbs grabbed the microphone of his radio, keyed it, identified himself and his location, and spoke the words that would bring in the cavalry. “Shots fired. Repeat, shots fired.”

The passenger window exploded into a thousand tempered-glass pieces, showering them like hail from the sky. The dispatcher responded and Hobbs heard her send out the call. Like Nick, Hobbs wanted to flee the scene. The attacker had better coverage and the advantage of position.

Wriggling back out of the seat, Hobbs moved forward, using the car as a shield. He would have preferred moving back, but that was too close to Lisa and Nick. A shot might pierce the door and hit one of them. By moving to the front of the car, he hoped to draw the line of fire away. It worked; another bullet hit the front of the car. Hobbs returned two shots.

“Lisa,” Hobbs said as low as he could and still expect her to hear in the backseat. “Do you know what kind of gun he has?”

Hobbs had to strain to hear her. “A nine-millimeter, I think.”

That meant the gunman could have fifteen or so rounds at his disposal. Hobbs shuddered. By his count, only four rounds had been fired unless … “Did he shoot at you earlier?”

“No,” Lisa said.

“Sit tight,” Hobbs said. “We’re stuck here until help arrives.”

“Can’t you drive us out of here?” Nick asked.

“Not without getting my brains splattered,” Hobbs replied.

Another shot bounced off the hood, missing Hobbs by inches. If he could only see the man, he might be able to put an end to this.

The street-side rear door opened, and Lisa crawled out with Nick behind her. “Keep your head down,” Nick said to her. Lisa crouched down by the rear wheel. Nick, his face a mask of pain from being forced to bend his tender and swollen knee, shuffled over to Hobbs. “Do you carry a spare?”

Hobbs knew what he was referring to. Many officers carried concealed guns, usually around the ankle. They were backup guns for situations in which an officer might be deprived of his service weapon. When he was a patrolman, Hobbs had done that very thing but not since making detective. “I’m afraid not. Tanner’s gun is in the glove compartment where you put it.” Another shot sounded, and the men flinched.

“What about the trunk? Any weapons in there?”

“A shotgun.” Hobbs remembered seeing it when he was looking for the gloves earlier that day.

“A handgun or a shotgun,” Nick said. “Shotgun it is.” While still crouched, Nick opened the driver’s door and looked under the dash. He found what he was looking for: A black plastic lever with the word
TRUNK
on it. Reaching in, he gave it a tug. The trunk lid swung open. Closing the car door, Nick made his way to the rear of the vehicle. He stopped by Lisa. Hobbs heard him ask, “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” she replied.

“Hang in there. Help is on its way.”

For Hobbs, help couldn’t arrive soon enough.

Lisa could do nothing but wait and force herself to be calm. Closing her eyes, she tried to will her heart to slow and her breathing to settle, but just as she achieved a measure of success, the firing startled her again. She was out of Massey’s hands, and for that she was thankful. She barely noticed her injuries. She was turning numb.
Shock
, she reasoned.
No
, she told herself,
I have to fight it. Use my brain. Emotions won’t help. Think. Reason. Think
.

“Give it up, Massey,” Nick shouted across the back of the car. “Don’t make things worse than they are.”

The response came in the form of a shot.

“Why doesn’t he run?” Hobbs asked Nick.

“Who knows,” Nick answered. “Maybe he’s crazy.”

“He’s not crazy,” Lisa said breathlessly. “He’s driven. He blames me for his predicament. He wants me dead.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Nick said, pumping the handle on the shotgun and then firing into the orchard.

A car whizzed past them just as another shot was fired their way.

“Some passerby is going to get killed,” Lisa said.

“The sheriff and his deputies will set up a roadblock as soon as they can,” Hobbs said.

“Let’s hope it’s soon enough.”

In the distance, Lisa could hear the ululations of police sirens. Then she heard another sound, that of a helicopter. She had forgotten about the craft. Massey had pulled off the road abruptly and driven into the stand of orange trees. The helicopter, which had not found them, must have continued searching Highway 150. Now it was back.

A blinding light shone down from the black sky. Lisa turned in time to see Hobbs motioning toward the orchard. The pilot redirected the light toward the trees. The orchard lit up under the artificial sun. The warm summer air was filled with the smell of orange blossoms and laced with the acrid odor of gunpowder.

Police units began to arrive with sirens wailing. Over the radio, Lisa could hear the pilot talking to the ground units. He had spotted the gunman, who was now running deeper into the orchard. Knowing that Massey was fleeing, Lisa peeked over the car. She could see the beam from the chopper move as it followed the man.

“I’ve lost him,” the pilot said. He then began to circle the orchard. A second later, the pilot said, “I’ve got him again. He’s southbound about two hundred yards from your location—”

Another shot rang out, and everyone ducked. Lisa waited for a moment and then peeked over the car again. She could hear the helicopter but could not see its light.

The radio crackled again. “This guy is crazy. He shot out my light. I don’t believe it. He shot out my light.”

Sheriff’s deputies and CHP officers moved slowly into the orchard.

“It’s just a matter of time now,” Hobbs said. “He can run, but he can’t hide.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” Lisa said as she struggled to her feet. “Your pilot was wrong. He’s not crazy. He’s devious.”

“Well, whatever he is,” Hobbs said, “he’s not your problem anymore.”

“I hope you’re right,” she offered.

Hobbs leaned into the car and said something into the radio; a few seconds later an ambulance appeared.

Since the ambulance was in an area still considered dangerous, Lisa was loaded unceremoniously into the back and driven away. The routine field exam was waived in light of the menace. Nick had insisted on going along. At first Hobbs resisted, wanting Nick to describe Massey to the sheriff’s sergeant who took control of the scene. After a brief argument, both men rode in the ambulance—Hobbs in front, Nick in the back with the attendant. Lisa was just glad to be away from the area and
wished that the ambulance would continue on out of the state. Instead she was told that she was being taken to Ojai Valley Hospital.

Lisa gazed up first into the eyes of the attendant who looked like he had just graduated from high school, then into Nick’s drawn and haggard face. He looked worn, thin, and on edge. His hair was mussed, and his still bare chest was soaked with perspiration. His arm was bleeding again; a rustred patch had saturated the bandage she had put on in the motel room.