Solitude Creek

‘What’re you doing?’ Prescott repeated, more desperate.

March crouched down and examined the man’s face closely. He patted him on the shoulder, said, ‘Don’t you worry.’

And unzipped the bag.

CHAPTER 39

‘This’s it,’ Michael O’Neil said, pulling the rental car into the parking lot of Stan Prescott’s apartment complex in Tustin, California.

They parked several units down from Prescott’s to wait for an Orange County deputy to join them.

In the time it had taken the state jet to whisk Dance and O’Neil from Monterey Regional Airport to John Wayne, Orange County, O’Neil’s computer people had the identity of the man who’d posted that clip of the Solitude Creek deaths.

Stanley Prescott, aka Ahmed, was a forty-one-year-old bartender. Single. The information gathered also revealed that he had been working in his club’s Long Beach location at the time of the Solitude Creek and Bay View disasters, so he wasn’t the unsub.

His Facebook and blog profile revealed he was essentially a rabid bigot. It was obvious that he was claiming Solitude Creek and the other incidents were the work of Muslims to incite anti-Islamic sentiment.

People could be such idiots.

This news was discouraging, since he’d probably had no co

As they waited for the Orange County deputy to arrive, O’Neil took a call. He nodded and Dance noted he lifted an eyebrow. He had a brief conversation, then hung up.

‘Otto Grant. Remember?’

Of course she did. The farmer whose land had been confiscated under eminent domain. The possible suicide.

‘Santa Cruz police found a body in the water by the pier. Male. Same age and build. They’ll run the scene and get me the report.’

How sad, she reflected. ‘Did he have family?’

‘He was a widower. Grown children. Farming must’ve been his whole life, maybe all he had left.’

‘A hard way to go. Drowning.’

‘I don’t know,’ O’Neil mused. ‘In that water? You’d be numb after three, four minutes. Then … nothing. Worse ways to die than going to sleep in the Bay.’

Dance and O’Neil had to wait only a few minutes for the Orange County deputy to arrive. They waved him over. The stocky uniformed man’s name was Rick Martinez.

‘We’ve been following the wire about your perp. The Solitude Creek thing. The other one too. The author signing. Last night. Man, that’s terrible. I’ve never heard anything like this. This terror thing?’ A nod toward the apartment. ‘Is Prescott your doer?’

Dance said, ‘We know he’s not. But we’re hoping there’s a chance of some co

‘Sure. How do you want to handle it?’ He was speaking to O’Neil.

‘Agent Dance’ll wait here. I’ll go to the front door, you go around back, if you would. If everything’s clear, Agent Dance’ll do the interrogation.’

Wait here. Her lips tightened.

‘No warrants. He had a drunk and disorderly a few years ago, assault too, and he owns weapons, so we’ll handle it cautiously.’

The two men headed up the sidewalk, past a row of dying bushes and healthy succulents, another testament to the water problems suffered by the Golden State.

O’Neil waited near Prescott’s door, out of sight of the peephole and side window, which was curtained. Martinez, bulky and imposing, continued around the side of the complex to the rear.

O’Neil gave it three or four minutes, then knocked. ‘Stanley Prescott? Sheriff’s deputy. Please open the door.’

Once more.

He tried the door. It was unlocked. He glanced back at Dance. Held her eye for a moment. Then pushed inside.

No more than a minute later she heard two stu

CHAPTER 40

Antioch March was ru

Full out, a sprint. He realized he was still holding his Glock and slipped it into his pocket. He pulled his gym bag higher on his shoulder and kept going.

Ski mask? he wondered. No, that would definitely draw attention. Glancing back, he noticed that no one was in pursuit. Wouldn’t last long. People would be calling in the incident all over the neighborhood. Tustin wasn’t the sort of place where gunshots would be ignored.

And he knew one person who definitely was calling for backup at this moment: the woman he’d spotted outside the apartment, Kathryn Dance. She was here! She hadn’t seen him, as she sprinted fast to the front door of Prescott’s apartment, cell phone in hand. He might’ve gotten closer to her, tried for a shot. But she was, of course, armed and, he imagined, good with a gun.

Huntress …

And there were probably other deputies nearby. Maybe dozens. And, now, more on the way.

Ru

For a moment he’d been mystified as to how they’d learned about pathetic Stanley Prescott. Then, of course: just like him, they had an autobot sca

Sucking air into his lungs. March was in good shape, yes, but he’d never run this fast in his life.

The Chevy was a block away.

Go, go. Move!

He was upset that he hadn’t had time to grab Prescott’s computer. But his only thoughts were escape. It had been chaos in the apartment.

Two shots to forestall any pursuit. As the large man went down, clutching the wound, March began his sprint.

Now he saw the car. The Chevy.

Another look back. No one yet.

His feet slapping, the heavy gym bag bouncing on his back. There’d be bruises tomorrow.

If he lived till tomorrow.

His heart labored and the pain crept into his chest and jaw. I’m too young for a fucking heart attack. His mouth filled with saliva and he spat.

Finally he slowed and, chest heaving, walked casually to the stolen car. He gripped the door handle and pulled it open, looking around again. He fell into the driver’s seat and pressed back against the headrest, catching his breath. A few people were nearby but no one apparently had seen the sprint. They didn’t look his way. The strollers and dog walkers and joggers continued what they were doing.

Then he was tricking the ignition wires to start the vehicle. It chugged to life.

March signaled and looked over his shoulder. He pulled carefully into the street, no hurry, and started west, then turned south along surface streets.

He’d be back in Monterey in five hours. On the whole—

A flash caught his eye. He glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw two police cars, blue lights flaring, begi

Maybe a coincidence.

No … They were after him. One of the goddamn stroller pushers or dog walkers had reported him.

March made a skidding turn, pressed the accelerator to the floor and pulled his Glock from his jacket pocket.

CHAPTER 41

Dance ran into the shaded area behind Stan Prescott’s apartment and dropped to her knees beside the two men.

Michael O’Neil knelt over Deputy Martinez, who lay on his back, conscious but bewildered, fearful.

Martinez gasped, ‘I didn’t see him. Where’d he come from?’

O’Neil said, ‘Climbed out through the bathroom window.’

‘It doesn’t hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt? Am I dying? I heard that if you don’t hurt you might be dying. Am I?’