When he hears a low rumble, he believes, for a few blissful seconds, that God’s sent him an instant answer. Then headlights flash far downslope, silhouetting the pines and the redwoods briefly, before some sort of station wagon slowly makes its way up the service road toward the clearing.
A Volvo.
He’s been expecting an Altamira sheriff’s cruiser or maybe a black sedan that screams FBI. Instead, he gets a Volvo station wagon. What the fuck?
The car’s drifting in a way that suggests the driver’s lost control. It’s not going very fast, so when it slams nose-first into a pine trunk, the collision isn’t too jarring, but the tree dents.
The horn blares.
The impact canted the headlights so they’re shining slightly uphill. He’s not blinded, but he can’t see what’s behind the windshield. With the horn going the way it is, there’s no doubt someone’s slumped against it. Someone badly injured, possibly losing life. Tommy Grover?
Slowly, he gets to his feet.
A few yards away, Bertrand Davis does the same, eagerly looking to Jordy for a signal. The guy’s not Milo’s size, but he’s still a linebacker type. He’s turned his baseball cap backward, and even though it’s chilly up here in the mountains, his black T-shirt’s sweat stained, possibly thanks to the long, anxiety-producing wait.
A yard or two beyond him, and a little ways downslope, Mike Frasier rises from the brush as well. He’s about half Bertrand’s height, but thanks to a serious Napoleon complex, he’s got about ten times Bertrand’s courage. Frasier’s the kind of guy who’ll run into an enemy hideout with a grenade between his teeth while his bigger comrades come in hot behind him. Shortly after they first met, Jordy nicknamed the little dude Bottle Rocket.
Frasier starts walking toward them in a crouch, which says maybe he’s seen more of the Volvo than either of them.
Once they’re in a huddle, Frasier whispers, “Thing’s got no door on the driver’s side.”
“What?” Bertrand asks.
“No door. It’s gone. Like it’s been torn clean off.”
“It’s Tommy, man. It’s gotta be,” Bertrand whispers.
Jordy looks downhill. The horn’s still blaring, the headlights shining slightly uphill. Everyone else who was at the Prescott snatch has gone up the mountain with Milo. A strategic mistake, he realizes now, because there’s no one to ID the car. But none of them mentioned a Volvo. They said it was two different plain sedans, both black, that sped up out of nowhere, not a station wagon.
“He got hit, I bet,” Frasier whispers. “He’s bleeding out down there, man.”
Jordy shakes his head, which causes Bertrand to add, “Someone could be after him. He could tell us who, how many. Jordy, come on. We can’t just stand here.”
Jordy says, “I’ll head in the direction of the road till I’m a few yards past the wagon, then I’ll cut down around the back and come up on it from the other side. Bertrand, I want you to follow me, but stop directly behind the car, back up out of sight, and wait. Frasier, you come downhill on the passenger side. But you keep eyes on the woods behind me as I approach the vehicle. You see anything coming up on me from behind, shoot it dead. And nobody moves in until you see me close on the car.”
They nod, start to move. Frasier’s the smallest and the stealthiest, but they’re all doing their best to beat him in the light foot department tonight.
Once he’s safely past the car, Jordy starts downhill, Bertrand right on his tail. When they reach the service road’s fairly level ground, Bertrand falls back. Jordy keeps going, gun out, crouched, dodging low branches before he comes parallel to the station wagon in the cover of the trees east of the road.
No shadows dart from the wagon as he circles it from behind.
Frasier was right. The driver’s side door is gone. There’s not even a mangled piece of it left. It’s like the damn thing was torn right off the car. Once he’s away from the headlights’ glare, the wagon’s silhouette is easy to discern.
Something’s leaning on that damn horn, though. Something as heavy as a human body.
In a crouch, Jordy sweeps the woods behind him, then the stretch of pines off to his left that leads to the storage shed. The headlights give off enough of a glow that he can make out the general outline of each tree trunk. None of the shadows seems human. And he has to go by sight because that damn horn’s drowning out every other sound. It’s up to Frasier to keep him covered from his vantage point uphill.
Gun raised, Jordy starts toward the car. His skin prickles when he steps out from the trees, but there’s a deliciousness to the feeling as well. He’s approaching the chance to prove himself again after his screwups these past few days. Off to his right, he sees Bertrand coming up on the car from behind, and then he sees Frasier’s shadow coming downhill.
Then, finally, he sees what’s behind the wheel. He stops cold.
Because nothing is behind the wheel, and still the horn’s wailing.
Something, he realizes as he blinks, is in the wheel.
Something that looks either metal or plastic and is almost as slender as a pen. It’s been pushed through the center of the steering wheel as if the wheel’s rubber center was just a tub of butter. The amount of pressure required to do this would be formidable, but also precise in a way he’s having trouble understanding.