F is for Fugitive (Kinsey Millhone 6)

The fire lane began to climb steeply, dead-ending in a gate with a wire fence that stretched away on either side. I took a flying leap, put a hand on the gatepost and arched my back, catching my foot as I tried to clear the top. I smacked down with an "Oof!" rolled, and got up again, suppressing a moan. The fall had rammed the Davis right into my ribs. Much pain.

I plugged on, heading upward. The hill leveled out in a rugged pasture dotted with scrub oak and manzanita. The moon wasn't full, but there was enough of it to illuminate the choppy field through which I ran. I must have been a quarter of a mile from the road, in an area inaccessible to vehicles. I was desperately in need of rest. I looked over my shoulder. There was no sign of pursuit. I slowed to a jog and searched out a depression in the grass.

I sank down, winded, blotting my sweaty brow on the sleeve of my turtleneck. Some winged creature swooped down close to me and then cruised away, temporarily mistaking me for something edible. I hate nature. I really do. Nature is composed entirely of sticks, dirt, fall-down places, biting and stinging things, and savageries too numerous to list. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. Man has been building cities since the year oughty-ought, just to get away from this stuff. Now we're on our way to the moon and other barren spots where nothing grows and you can pick up a rock without having something jump out at you. The quicker we get there, the better, as far as I'm concerned.

Time to move. I staggered to my feet again and began to trot, wishing I had a plan. I couldn't go back to the motel-the sheriff's department was going to be there in ten minutes flat-but without my car keys and some bucks, what was I going to do? It occurred to me I might have been better off hanging out with Elva until the deputies arrived, taking my chances with the law. Now / was a fugitive, and I didn't like it much.

A flash of Shana's face popped into my head. She'd been bludgeoned to death, from the look of her, shoved into the narrow space under the hot tub until someone could dispose of her-if that was the intent. Maybe that's what Elva had trudged up there in the dark to do. I couldn't decide if I should believe her claim about the phone call. Had she killed Shana Timberlake? Killed her daughter seventeen years before that? Why the lag time? And why Ori Fowler? Given Elva as the killer, I couldn't come up with a scenario in which Ori's death made any sense. Could the phone call have been meant to trap me up there? As far as I knew, the only two people who were aware of where I'd be were Jack Clemson and Bert.

I halted again. The ground was beginning to slant downward, and I found myself squinting through the dark at a sharp drop-off. Below, a gray ribbon of road curled along the base of the hill. I had no idea where it led, but if the cops were smart, they'd be calling for backup cars, which might be cruising by any minute, hoping to cut me off. I scrambled down the rocky incline as fast as I could, half-humping, half-sliding on my backside, preceded by a tiny landslide of loose stones and dirt. I could hear approaching sirens as I skidded the last few feet. I was panting from exhaustion, but I didn't dare stop. I hightailed it across the road, reaching the far side just as the first black-and-white rounded the bend maybe six hundred yards away.

I plunged into the brush, hugging the ground as I belly-crawled my way through the weeds. Once I was safely in the cover of the trees, I paused to reorient myself, rolling over on my back. Against the encroaching fog bank I could see the reflection of the vapor lights that lined Ocean Street. Floral Beach wasn't far. Unfortunately, what lay between me and the town was the posted property belonging to the oil refinery. I studied the eight-foot chain-link fence. Strands of barbed wire were strung along the top. No crossing that. Big oil storage tanks loomed up on the far side, painted in pastel shades, like a series of cakes.

I was still close enough to the road that I could hear the squawking of the sheriff's cars in position along the berm. Lights raked the hillside.

I hoped the suckers hadn't brought dogs. That was all I'd need. I crawled to the base of the fence, clinging to it doggedly as I pushed on. In the dark, it served not only as a guide, but as a needed support. More warning signs. This was a hard hat area… and me with no hard hat. I was winded and sweating, my hands torn, nose beginning to run. The smell of the ocean was getting stronger and I took comfort from that.

Abruptly, the fence took a hard cut left. What opened up in front of me was a dirt path strewn with trash, a lovers' lane perhaps. I didn't dare use my penlight. I was still in the hills above Floral Beach, but I was getting closer to the town. In less than a quarter of a mile, I found myself at the tag end of the lane that spilled into a cul-de-sac. Oh glory, now I knew where I was. This was the bluff above Jean Timberlake's old apartment building. Once I reached the wooden stairway, I could climb down to the rear door of her place and hide. To my right, I spotted the glass-and-frame house where I'd knocked earlier. Lights were on inside.