The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(71)

Jason laced his fingers on top of his head, and he grimaced, as if he were on a jury, deciding someone’s guilt or innocence. “Your father didn’t fall. He jumped.”

Frankie’s knees quivered. She felt dizzy, and she pitched forward, and Jason caught her. He helped her to the bed, and then he went to the bathroom and prepared a warm, damp towel, which he dabbed against her face. He sat down next to her, their legs touching.

“I saw it?” she asked.

“You went hiking with him that morning, the way you usually did. He was ahead of you on the cliff trail. You saw what he was about to do, and you shouted for him to stop, but he simply fell. And then you ran to the edge and saw him on the beach below. You couldn’t deal with it. You went back to the campsite. You stayed in your tent for hours, and then finally, you went to find the rangers, and you told them your father was missing.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “For God’s sake, why did he do it? Did I say something? Did we argue?”

“You know he had bouts of depression. He’d talked about suicide before.”

“Yes, but he was the supreme narcissist. It was just talk. I can’t believe he actually did it.”

“Sometimes people act in a split second,” Jason said. “One moment he’s on the cliff, and an impulse takes him, and he’s in the air. At that point, it’s too late to go back and stop.”

Frankie closed her eyes. She tried to summon tears, but she couldn’t.

“Do you remember it now?” Jason asked finally.

She stared into her brain and tried to draw a picture of that last morning. Even knowing what had happened, she saw nothing, and thinking harder didn’t change anything. She dipped a brush into paint, but with each stroke she applied, the canvas stayed blank. Everything Jason had told her was no more real to her than a story that had happened to someone else.

It made her think of the theme her father had chosen for their discussions that last weekend. Risk.

She’d taken a risk. Just like the patients who came to her took a risk. You can take away your pain, but once it’s done, it’s done. You’re in the air. It’s too late to go back and stop.

Their memories—those little proteins that made up a life—were gone.

“No,” she said. “I don’t remember anything at all.”



Frost awoke to music. He shifted on the sofa, which disturbed Shack, who hopped down to the carpet. Disoriented, he realized that the music was a Jefferson Airplane song. “White Rabbit.” He lay on his back, listening to Grace Slick’s angry, erotic voice before he realized that the music was coming from his phone.

He’d chosen “White Rabbit” as the ringtone for Herb, who’d partied with the San Francisco group as a nineteen-year-old in 1967. He’d seen a photo of Herb with Grace Slick and Marty Balin at the Monterey festival that June. Sometimes, his friend told stories from that summer, and Frost realized that, even back then, Herb was at the center of everything that went on in the city.

Frost rolled off the sofa and stumbled to the dining room table, where he’d left his phone. “Herb, what time is it?”

“Almost two. I’m sorry to wake you up.”

“Don’t worry about it. What’s going on?”

“Street Twitter came through.”

Frost was instantly awake. “What did you find out? Did someone see Lucy?”

“No, but a guy wearing that creepy mask gave twenty bucks to a homeless vet to pass along a message.”

“What message?” Frost asked.

His friend hesitated, didn’t answer.

“Herb? Come on, what was the message?”

“It may be nothing. This guy may just be playing games with you.”

“Tell me.”

“He said if you want to find what you’re looking for, ask Katie.”

Frost’s fist clenched. He breathed in and out. “I have to go,” he told Herb.

“Listen to me. He’s just getting inside your head. That’s what he’s trying to do.”

“I have to go,” Frost repeated. “Thanks, Herb. Really.”

He hung up the phone, and he stood in the nighttime chill of the house. If the Night Bird wanted to get inside Frost’s head, he’d succeeded. Frost knew exactly where to look for Lucy.

She was in the backseat of a car near Ocean Beach.

That was where he’d found his sister’s body.





36


Near Ocean Beach, the thunder of the waves was unrelenting. Frost got out of his SUV and felt salty spray on his face. The long stretch of the Great Highway down the hill from Cliff House was deserted, but Frost could feel the Night Bird watching him. Somewhere in the darkness of the beach, or on the rocky trails of Sutro Heights above him, the man had binoculars to spy on his prey.

The stretch of sand here was wide, flat, and seemingly endless, like a cold imitation of Santa Monica. He shivered as the damp chill got inside his bones. Across the street, he spotted one lonely car in the beachfront parking lot. It was an imperial-blue Chevy Malibu. This was no accident; the Night Bird had done his research. Katie had driven the same kind of car.

He ran the vehicle plate. The car had been stolen three days ago. It was all part of the plan.

Frost called for backup, but he didn’t wait for the sirens. He had to know. Ocean wind screeched in his ears, and a headache pounded behind his eyes. He crossed the street toward the Malibu, just like he’d done once before, when a mysterious phone call took him here. In the middle of the night. Six years ago.