Page 71

CHAPTER 71

MARTIN ROSCO’S DARK FIGURE standing over me as I lay on the weight bench flashed before my eyes. His chest caving in like a wicker basket under my barbell. His blood on the wall outside Baby’s bedroom. And now this new bloody handprint on the door of my car.

Dave Summerly picked up on the second ring. I tried to control my breathing.

“Someone is following me,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Someone is — ” I looked in my rearview mirror. I saw bright, sunlit highway. Random cars. A semitrailer. All the vehicles were keeping pace with me; no one was driving dangerously close or swerving to ride beside or ahead of me. There was no army-green truck. Nothing visible to justify the terror fluttering in my chest.

“Someone is following me, Dave,” I insisted. “And I’m scared.” I told him about the incident at the gas station on the way to Mendocino County. “I’ve been able to push down what happened in my house,” I said. “I’ve swallowed it and kept it inside all this time so I can work on the Troy Hansen thing. But I can’t keep it down anymore. I’m scared that whoever hired Martin Rosco to come after me has hired someone else, and that person is coming for me now.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m about three hours from home.”

“Do you have your gun on you?” Summerly asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you gotta establish whether you’ve got a tail,” he said. “Get off the highway and go somewhere secluded. Forest or mountains. Park somewhere with only one way in and one way out. Then see if anyone comes along.”

“And? What if someone does come along?”

“Shoot them in the leg and call the police, or get a photo of them and drive off. It’s up to you, Rhonda.”

“Something tells me you’re not taking me seriously here, Dave.”

“I’m not,” he said. “For two reasons. First, because I’m just gearing up to speak to Dorothy Andrews-Smith’s family and tell them that, yeah, their beloved grandmother was probably murdered by a gang, but maybe it’s worse. Maybe she was murdered by a serial killer.”

“And the second reason?” I asked.

“Because I feel like this stalker thing is bullshit, Rhonda,” Summerly said. “I feel like you’re just looking for an excuse to talk to me after we screamed at each other at your house. And ‘I think I’m being stalked, please help me’ is a pretty flimsy excuse, if you ask me.”

“Oh, is it?” I said through my teeth.

“If you’d called and said, ‘Dave, I want to apologize,’ then, yeah, maybe I’d have more time for you right now. Or how about ‘Dave, what I did was wrong.’ Or maybe both!”

I hung up on Summerly, held the steering wheel tight, and tried to calm myself down. I thought about calling Baby and telling her what was happening, but I didn’t want to drag her into any more danger. She was unpredictable enough, fiery enough, that she might take Arthur’s station wagon and drive to meet me, and I did not want that. Whatever this was, I needed an experienced hand on it. So I dialed Detective Will Brogan and watched the rearview mirror for signs of the green truck.

“I need your help,” I said, and I explained. He listened. Wherever he was, it was quiet.

“Okay,” he said. “Send me your location on your phone. I’ll get in my car now and meet you halfway. Whatever you do, don’t stop driving. Keep calm and keep to the speed limit. We’ll nail this fucker in a pincer movement.”

“Thanks, Brogan,” I said. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be right there,” he said.