Redding is wearing on me.
Don’t get me wrong, the city is fabulous and I’d love to come back under better circumstances. It’s surrounded by mountains and beauty and has wonderful architecture, including the Sundial Bridge, an impressive city hall, and the Market Street Promenade, just to name a few.
I see it all in passing.
You get a different view of a city when you’re chasing a serial killer; it usually involves police stations, morgues, body dumps, and the seedier side of town.
We’ve only been back in Redding four days, but it feels like forty.
We’ve learned a lot and seen too much. We’re exhausted, our minds weighed down by the dead. After the scare with Jane and Pete, Jimmy just wants to see them and hold them. To say that we’re unfocused and unsettled and that our mojo’s been stolen by a serial killer who’s as brazen as he is ruthless would be an understatement.
At five-thirty Jimmy makes the call.
We’re heading home … but just for a day or two.
We’re not done with Sad Face.
Not even close.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
July 2
The view from Big Perch is magnificent year-round.
Each season has its own splash of color, but summers are particularly glorious. Today is no exception. By noon the sun starts baking the west-facing deck, and I’m forced to retreat under the awning to avoid an unpleasant case of sunburn. The Pacific Northwest isn’t exactly known for its sunburns, but when you have northern blood, as I do, it doesn’t take much to crisp the skin.
I’m about halfway through Full Black, a thriller by Brad Thor, and I’m determined to finish it by the end of the day. I’ve followed Thor for a number of years and have a signed first edition, first printing of his debut novel, The Lions of Lucerne. I’m a big Vince Flynn fan as well, and I was upset when cancer took him at such a young age. I have a few of his books stacked up and ready to read and have sworn to read his entire works out of respect for the man: my own personal tribute.
There’s just never enough time.
Today’s the exception. I read and read and read some more, pausing only long enough to grab a glass of iced tea. The phone only rings once and I don’t answer it. They don’t call back, so I know it’s not important.
By 4:15 P.M. Full Black is fully read, and I start in on Vince Flynn’s Extreme Measures. I don’t get very far before Ellis wanders over and suggests a barbecue. He has some two-inch steaks he’s been wanting to cook but says it’s a shame to enjoy such a treat alone. When I’m home, Ellis, Jens, and I tend to eat about half our meals together. It’s good for all of us. We’re like our own little three-man family unit, and Jens likes reminding Ellis that he’s the grandpa of the group.
I make a run into town in Gus, my Mini Cooper, and pick up three decent-sized lobster tails so we can make it surf and turf. I also grab two dozen oysters, which are great on the barbecue with butter and garlic in the half shell.
Dinner’s ready by 7:30, and at 9:16 we’re still at the table talking and playing cards as the sun sets beyond the San Juan Islands, painting the sky a thousand shades of red and purple. It’s beyond words; the afterglow of heaven.
As the night cools, we retreat to the hot tub with a six-pack of beer and melt into the soothing, caressing water. I’ll sleep well tonight. There won’t be any nightmares or the long parade of dead faces. The trailing shadow of a perfect day will carry me through the night.
Tomorrow evening we head back to Redding, but for now I sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
July 3, 10:37 P.M.
There are certain situations in life where it’s just not smart to take chances. A very public marriage proposal would be a good example. Before you propose on the Jumbotron during halftime at the football game, you’d better be certain she’s going to say yes. And the more life-threatening the situation, the fewer chances you want to take. That’s why you double-check parachutes, climbing ropes, scuba tanks, and landing gear. Some things you simply don’t gamble on.
Serial killers: another good example.
Throw the dice all you want when you’re in Vegas and it’s just money on the line, but when a serial killer knows your name and isn’t very happy with you, that’s not the time to live loose and free. If said serial killer has sent you a nicely wrapped gift containing a pair of wet eyes and a severed finger, well, that ups the ante a bit. Now it’s time to hold your cards close to the chest.
That’s what Jimmy and I are doing.
Gulfstream jets are not an uncommon sight at smaller airports in northern California, but we decide not to take any chances and, instead, land Betsy seventy miles to the south, at Chico Municipal Airport. Even though FBI isn’t splayed across her fuselage, and she looks like any other corporate jet on the tarmac, Sad Face is probably clever enough to get a tail number. Better to keep our distance so that our return goes unnoticed.
We rent a nondescript sedan at the airport—a Ford with tinted windows—and drop Les and Marty at a hotel a half mile from the control tower. They need to be ready at a moment’s notice, if needed. There won’t be any jaunts to San Francisco or Monterey this time around. The stakes have changed and the whole team is now at risk.
Les and Marty understand this; they’ve been through this drill before.
Before we pull out of the hotel parking lot, Jimmy slips Les a .40-caliber Glock and a black gun case. “It’s loaded,” he says, “same with the extra magazines in the case. Make sure you keep it close.”
“No worries, boss,” Les says, sliding the Glock into his waistband gangster-style. He takes the gun case and hands it to Marty.