The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(79)

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.