Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(59)

I walked east searching for a path up, but the slope only grew steeper. When I reached the far curve I turned back and found a weathered erosion cut. The cut climbed a dip in the slope and wound behind the shoulder.

The path was a slippery mix of crumbling soil and dislodged rocks between hulking balls of coastal sage. I passed between gnarly oaks, pushed through some sage, and reached a flat area crowning the shoulder. I went to the edge. Rachel Belle Bohlen had been found in the brush directly below me.

Scattered footprints dotted the clearing, but no fires had been built and the area was free of litter and trash. It might be a place where hikers admired the view, but it didn’t look like a campsite.

I called out.

“Mr. Philburn? Are you here?”

Maybe he’d never been here. Or maybe he returned for his things as Beth Lawrence believed and would never return.

I called louder.

“I come in peace.”

I didn’t expect an answer. I just wanted to say it.

I circled the clearing and spotted the faded remains of a rusted water tank beyond the ridge above me. A narrow path led up to the tank, so I followed it, circled the tank, and peered inside. The rusted metal was layered with faded graffiti, but I saw no evidence of habitation, recent or otherwise.

I spotted a pop of blue between the branches of a gnarled scrub oak on my way down. The change of angle was revealing. A tightly rolled sleeping bag and faded blue duffel were hidden beneath the oak. I did not want to search his belongings, but I did. A thin billfold beneath his clothes held three worn photographs, his teenage driver’s license, seven library cards from seven cities, and forty-two dollars. The driver’s license had been issued to Jared W. Philburn. The billfold was folded around a page torn from a small spiral notebook. The page bore a note written in square block letters.


I AM JARED WALKER PHILBURN

IN THE EVENT OF MY DETH

PLESE DONATE MY BELONGINGS

TO THEM WHO NEED HELP



An uneven signature was scrawled across the bottom.

I stood and looked around.

“Mr. Philburn? If you’re here, I would very much like to speak with you.”

Philburn didn’t answer and neither did the brush.

I put forty dollars into the billfold and the billfold into the duffel. I put everything back as I’d found it, walked to the lip of the shoulder, and studied the people below. I studied everybody I saw for as far as I could see, but I did not see Jared Philburn or anyone wearing a faded purple cap.

I took out my phone and called Joe.

“I found it. His things are here, so he’ll be back.”

“Say location.”

“The top of the shoulder across from the dump. He was right on top of them. He saw it.”

“On my way.”

Pike was cruising the western side of the park.

“He’s probably down in Los Feliz making his rounds. I’ll call Lou. Lou can have the area cops look for him.”

I was saying it when I saw the red truck. It was far away and small and moving very slow, coming up the eastside road with a line of cars bunched behind it. I could not see the driver, but it was the gardener’s truck. A tiny figure darted across the truck’s path and the truck swung hard past oncoming cars.

“Joe! This side! They’re here!”

I scrambled and slid and ran as hard as I could.





42





Jared Walker Philburn



Jared yearned to smile at the walkers and joggers and dogs he passed. The world held too little joy and comfort to turn one’s back on a smile, but Jared’s smiles were rarely welcomed and almost never returned. This left him sad. He did not wish to impose on others, so he kept his eyes down and shared a smile with himself.

Almost home and his mouth was watering.

Jared was imagining the joys to come when horns startled him so badly he stumbled.

A red pickup truck crept behind him a mere twenty feet away. The cars behind it passed when they could, but were otherwise trapped by oncoming vehicles.

Jared was well out of the street at the far side of the shoulder. He posed no obstruction. The truck could have easily passed, but idled along behind him.

Jared moved farther to the side and glanced back again. The truck didn’t pass. Horns blew. Cars roared past when able. Drivers cursed.

The red truck seemed familiar.

Jared tucked the white bag under his arm like a football and increased his pace. He glanced back again.

The driver’s face was a threatening mask. His mouth was a slash with down-turned corners and angular sunglasses masked his eyes. When Jared looked at the man, a sharp-eyed demon looked back.

Familiar.

Jared lowered his head and strode forward, waving his arm for the truck to pass. Go, go around, please.

The truck stayed behind him.

Jared walked faster. His legs moved faster than they’d ever moved before and his arm windmilled. Pass me, please, the street is yours!

The truck stayed with him like a shadow.

Get out of the street, fool!

Jared abruptly stepped off the shoulder onto the sandy dirt well off the road and stopped in a clump of weeds. He was completely off the pavement.

The truck stopped.

Jared stared.

The truck idled.

And then Jared knew. This was the truck with the men who had come in the deep of night, the men who had flashed and slashed with their lights to find him.