The night bird, p.24
The Night Bird, page 24
“That car’s not going anywhere,” Frost told her. “You’re going to have protection 24-7 until we find this guy.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Lucy told him.
“Yes, we do. If you want to go anywhere, talk to the cop in the car first, and she’ll go with you. Frankly, I’d feel better if you stayed home. And don’t put on any music or watch television, okay? I don’t want you taking any chances.”
Lucy stared at the floor and looked overwhelmed.
“Do you remember anything more from your missing day?” he asked her. “Did anything else come back to you?”
She shook her head, but her lip trembled. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? That sounds like you do remember something. What is it?”
“I have this odd memory in my head. It’s a bridge. It’s nowhere I’ve ever been, but I remember it. I feel it. I’m in the middle of this awful gorge, and I can barely hold on. I would do anything to make it go away. I would die to make it stop.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“This is what he does, Lucy,” Frost murmured. “He plays on your fears. He exploits the things that terrify you. Just tell yourself that it wasn’t real. It was an illusion.”
“How can I remember something that wasn’t real?” Lucy asked. “Because it feels like it actually happened. It’s in my head. If you asked me to swear on the Bible, I’d tell you that I’ve been on that bridge.”
“You can’t trust your memory,” Frost said. “Memories lie. Even the good ones don’t always tell the truth.”
“I just want this to be over.”
“Soon. It will be over soon.”
She reached her arms out to embrace him, but at that moment, he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. He checked his caller ID and saw Francesca Stein’s name. He glanced at Lucy, who gave him a broken smile and waved him away. He stood up and answered the call. “Dr. Stein?”
“Hello, Inspector.”
The cool maturity in the psychiatrist’s voice was such a contrast to the youth and innocence of Lucy Hagen. They were two very different women. He also noticed something strange. Lucy clapped her hands over her ears to block out the sound of Dr. Stein’s voice through his phone.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked Frankie. “Are you okay? You had me worried last night.”
“I’m fine, but I need to see you,” she replied. “The patient I’ve been protecting is a man named Todd Ferris. We need to find him right away.”
39
“That’s Darren Newman’s house,” Frankie told Frost.
The detective put down his binoculars, which were trained on a Victorian house on Oak Street, opposite the narrow strip of Panhandle Park. The house looked like one of the painted ladies snipped out of a postcard of Alamo Square. It was narrow, with a paisley design on its green-and-lilac trim and red steps leading up to the door. The roof featured a single gable with a bay window in the middle.
The park’s century-old eucalyptus trees towered over their heads and scattered dagger-shaped leaves across the green grass. It was early evening, and the dark clouds had turned to mist, making their faces damp. More rain was coming.
“Newman’s at home,” Frost said. “I can see him inside.”
“I haven’t seen Todd, but I’m sure he’s going to show up here sooner or later.”
“And he said he would kill Newman?” Frost asked.
“He did. That’s the only reason I can tell you about any of this, Inspector. Todd is on the brink. I don’t know what he’ll do. Although honestly, I’m more worried that Darren will do something to him when he realizes that Todd has figured out what’s going on.”
Moisture from the drizzle gave a wet shine to Frost’s hair and beard. He shifted the binoculars to the parked cars on Oak Street. He panned along the sidewalk and the park’s dense trees, but the spitting rain had driven everyone away. They were alone.
“No one else is watching the house,” he said.
“I saw Todd’s face. He was serious. He’ll be here.”
They waited silently. Traffic came and went behind them, kicking up spray. Frankie kept her eyes on the old Victorian, but in the wet and cold, her mind drifted to the cliffs of Point Reyes. When she thought about that last weekend with her father, she could see him clearly now, broken body below her on the rocks. Face looking up at her. Blood.
She could hear her own voice, too. “Stop!”
But nothing else. Her memory was a blank space.
She found herself resenting what Jason had done, even if she’d asked him to do it. She’d been there to witness her father’s last moments, and now that walk on the trail had been stripped from her brain.
This is what you do to everyone else, her mind whispered.
She’d never understood what her patients experienced when they lay on her chaise and stared at the images she’d made for them and responded to her subliminal suggestions. She’d never known what it felt like, afterward, to have part of your past stolen away. This was her chance to look through the other end of the microscope. She didn’t like what she saw.
“Are you okay?”
She realized Frost was staring at her, his forehead wrinkled with concern.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m not going to have another seizure, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“You looked far away,” Frost said, “and not in a happy place.”
Frankie shivered in the rain. “I’m questioning things. Some days I wonder if I’ve done more harm than good in my life.”
Frost’s eyes were curious, but he didn’t push her for details. She was grateful for that. He went back to his binoculars.
“Newman’s getting a call,” he told her. And then a minute later, “Come on, he’s on the move.”
Frost led her across the wet grass back to his Suburban, which was parked on Fell Street. Across the park, Frankie could see the door sliding up on the garage of Darren’s Victorian house. His red Lexus inched down the driveway, and when the traffic was clear, he backed onto Oak Street. The one-way street headed east, away from them, and Darren made an immediate right. His car disappeared.
Frost accelerated toward the point of the Panhandle and cruised through the yellow light into a left turn. Sutro Tower loomed on the hillside ahead of them. He sped to the next block and did another left to lay chase, but almost immediately, he hissed, “Get down!”
Darren’s Lexus sped toward them, no more than half a block away. Frankie slid as far as she could below the dash, and Frost dropped his visor to block his face. The two vehicles whipped by each other in opposite directions. Frost eyed his mirror, and Frankie took a quick look backward over the seat. She saw the Lexus make a right turn. Frost did a U-turn and followed.
They spotted Darren’s Lexus three cars ahead of them.
“He’s heading into Golden Gate Park,” Frost said.
They pursued Darren down a boulevard lined with trees and wide lawns on the north side of the park. A handful of bicyclists and joggers braved the rain on the trails beside them. The sky felt low, painted in angry charcoal. On their right, they passed the Conservatory of Flowers, surrounded by palm trees and gardens. Farther on, they saw the tower of the de Young museum.
Traffic thinned. The Lexus turned onto a small road leading deep into the center of the park, and Frost lingered to give the other vehicle space, then turned behind him. Dense trees soon enveloped them on both sides.
“He’s heading for Stow Lake,” Frost said. “Maybe he’s looking for the White Lady.”
“Ghost stories, Inspector? From you?”
“At night, the lake trail can make you believe almost anything,” Frost said. “I’ve been there.”
Ahead of them, the road split. Darren followed the lake’s northeastern border. It was as if they’d left the city completely behind them. Under the trees and the gray sky, the evening felt like night. Emerald water opened up on their right. The forested slope of Strawberry Hill rose from the middle of the lake. It was a steep climb to the top, with sweeping views of the city and a peek-a-boo glimpse of the spires of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Darren’s Lexus disappeared, but he couldn’t go far on the one-way street. Frost inched along the lake road in his wake. They followed a horseshoe bend to the southern shore, where the shoulder sloped upward above them, and the water disappeared through a mass of heavy brush. Gnarled trees lined the shoulders, deepening the darkness with their tall crowns.
When they wound around the next curve, they saw Darren’s Lexus parked on the side of the road. The car was empty. Darren was already gone. Frost backed up until the Lexus was out of sight, and then he pulled his Suburban into the dirt and turned off the engine. They both got out. Rain pattered on the tree leaves above them. It was quiet, far from the city noise.
Frost walked toward Darren’s car, and Frankie followed. The loneliness of the park made her uneasy. When they reached the Lexus, Frost checked inside, but Darren had left nothing behind.
“He wasn’t dressed for jogging,” Frankie said. “So where is he?”
“He got a call. He may be meeting someone.”
Together, they climbed the slope to a lakeside hiking path. Stow Lake’s ribbon of lazy green water hugged the trail. Frost stopped to listen, but they heard no footsteps on the gravel, just rain tapping on leaves. She’d been here on summer weekends, when the lake felt as peaceful as Chopin piano music. But not now. Now the dark water under the storm felt ominous.
“White Lady, White Lady, I have your baby,” Frost murmured. “Do you know the legend? Apparently, the ghost is searching for a child who drowned in the lake. If she asks you if you’ve seen her baby, she’ll haunt you if you say yes, and she’ll kill you if you say no. So you’re basically screwed either way.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Frankie replied.
“It’s worth believing in something,” Frost said.
He moved cautiously on the gravel trail. Frankie stayed beside him. The lake was on their right, and not thirty feet away, on the other side of the water, a dirt trail mirrored their path at the base of Strawberry Hill. The slope rose sharply through a tangle of tree roots and vines.
“Where did he go?” Frankie asked, too loudly.
Frost held out an arm to stop her and put a finger to his lips. Then he pointed. Just ahead, through the lace of tree branches, she spotted a stone arch bridge crossing the water to Strawberry Hill. A man, almost in silhouette, stood on the bridge. It wasn’t Darren Newman. Frankie recognized the man’s lanky frame and the wool cap on his head.
“That’s Todd Ferris,” she whispered to Frost.
The detective brought the binoculars to his eyes and aimed them at the man on the bridge.
“He has a gun,” Frost said.
40
“Get back to the car,” Frost told Dr. Stein. “I’ve got backup on the way. Just stay inside.”
He didn’t give her time to protest; he simply shoved his keys and binoculars into her hands. He left her standing on the gravel trail and took off running between low-hanging branches of the evergreens. By the time he reached the base of the stone bridge, Todd Ferris had vanished.
Frost drew his own gun. Slowly, he did a 360-degree turn. The trees and the gray sky buried the park in shadows, offering plenty of hiding places. He didn’t see Darren Newman, and he didn’t see Todd Ferris. The rain sharpened, hammering his face, and he had to wipe his eyes to see. When he listened, he heard footsteps on Strawberry Hill.
Crouching, he jogged across the shallow arch of the bridge. Ripples dotted the water where the lake widened. On the other side of the bridge, a narrow dirt trail stretched along the base of the hill, and the four-hundred-foot slope climbed sharply in front of him into a jungle of trees. He saw footprints in the mud. Running. Heading west. Clouds of rain blew into Frost’s face as he followed.
Fifty yards away, the footprints stopped. He saw furrows in the slope where someone had scrambled up the hill, clawing at the ground with hands and feet. Above him, he saw a moving shadow on the next terrace of the trail. He couldn’t see who it was.
Frost stayed beside the lake and found a switchback leading uphill from the water. He climbed on a soft trail of pine needles. Footing was treacherous on the wet slope, making him struggle to keep his balance. The storm closed in on him, as if the White Lady were unhappy with trespassers. Through the trees, lightning split across the sky, and a rolling, rumbling clap of thunder followed. A shower of leaves blew from the trees with the next gust of wind. Then another crack shot through the rain.
This one came from a gun.
Frost dove off the trail behind a thick redwood tree clinging to the slope. He didn’t know where the shot had come from, or how close it was. High above him, someone shouted. Two voices, back and forth. He squinted uphill, but it was too dark to see anyone. With his gun in his hand, he ran. As he did, another shot echoed across the hilltop.
Strawberry Hill leveled out at its summit into a patch of sawdust and picnic benches nestled inside the grove of trees. Where the land opened up, rain sheeted down to the wet ground, bringing a heavy scent of eucalyptus and pine. He crept onto the top of the hill and swung back and forth. The storm brought the forest to life. The evergreens around him were like tall black soldiers, and he glimpsed the dark panorama of the city through a web of branches. He took each step slowly. The wet ground sank under his feet.
“Darren Newman!” he shouted. “Todd Ferris! This is the police. I want to see both of you in the open with your hands up.”
The drumming of rain overwhelmed his voice, but he knew they could hear him. No one broke from the trees.
Frost stayed on the fringe of the hilltop and made a circle around the summit. Where a massive tree had been cut down, he caught a glimpse of the bay, but the eastern hills were invisible under the clouds. Blurry lights sprang up in the neighborhoods below him. His clothes were soaked. He was cold. He could barely see. With each footstep, he stopped and listened, trying to find a human noise hiding behind the roar of the downpour. If they were still here, the two men were silent, huddled in the protection of the woods.
It took him five minutes to circle the summit and arrive back where he started. He worried that he’d been lured here as a ruse and that both men had slipped back down to Stow Lake on one of the other trails. He holstered his gun. He slid his phone from his pocket to call Dr. Stein.
When he turned his back for a split second, he felt a rush of movement behind him.
Frost reached for his gun and spun around, but the back of his skull erupted into a fire of pain. His eyes burst with light and went black, and he sank to his knees and then pitched into the mud. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard shouting and pounding steps, but the noise went wildly up and down. He tried to stand. Dizziness screwed through his head like a spike, and he collapsed again. When he opened his eyes, the world was upside down.
Somewhere, far away, he heard another gunshot.
He crawled toward the slope. Mud and leaves covered his face, and lights exploded behind his eyes like pinpoint fireworks. His fingernails scraped at the bark of a redwood tree, and he used the tree trunk to pull himself to a standing position. He leaned against it, feeling the world spin as it righted itself. He could hear the two men on the hillside below him. They were getting away.
Frost pushed off from the tree and took a step down. His brain felt sucked up into the cyclone. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t say anything at all. Rain trickled down his back, but it wasn’t rain. He tasted metallic wetness on his fingers, and it was blood.
He felt himself falling sideways, with no way to stop it; he fell, hit the slope, and rolled. His body slid, spun, slammed against tree roots, and the hill carried him shoulder over shoulder to the dirt of the next trail fifty feet below him.
He landed hard, and he passed out.
Lucy sat by the window with a mug of tea. She leaned her head against the cold glass and watched the rain sweep through the street. A MUNI bus plowed down Haight like a ship slicing through ocean waves. Three teenage girls splashed through puddles on the sidewalk. Lights had come on in the other apartment buildings, and she could see people inside.
She felt anxious, as if she’d walked into a room and couldn’t remember why she’d come here. She had something important to do, but she had no idea what it was. She’d felt that way all day, and the rain didn’t help.
She was depressed about Frost rejecting her. He would have been the perfect man for a rainy night like this. He was funny and serious, mature and playful, handsome and boy next door. That was exactly what she’d always wanted and what she’d thought she would never find. She’d let herself hope there might be something between them, so it hurt to find out that he was looking for a sister, not a girlfriend. She still wanted him. It was easy to imagine him kissing her and making love to her, even if it was never going to happen.
Where was her life going? Nowhere.
Seven years on her own in San Francisco, and she still felt like a visitor here. The city overwhelmed her. There was too much of everything, and she found herself carried along, not choosing where to go. She wasn’t like Frost. Or Brynn.
Growing up in Modesto, she couldn’t wait to get out to the big world. Her parents lived in a boring suburb where girls became teachers and married guys who worked in banks or insurance companies. She’d wanted to escape all of that, but now it didn’t sound so bad.
There was a lot of sunshine in Modesto. There were no bridges.
She sipped her tea and thought again, I have something to do.
What?
Lucy peered down at the street below her window. The police car was still there, hammered by the rain. She’d met the officer inside, a woman about her own age named Violet Harris. Two hours earlier, Officer Harris had walked with her to the corner to get take-out coffee, and Lucy had bought her an almond–white chocolate scone. They talked about Macy’s and makeup, which was a strange conversation to have with a cop. When Lucy went back upstairs, Officer Harris told her to stop by the car if she needed anything. She’d be on duty until midnight, and then someone else would take over.
