Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [64]
This turn of events surprised Finney more than it probably should have; Stillman and Monahan had been friends for years. The two men spoke, then jog-trotted across Airport Way in front of some truck traffic and disappeared into the parking lot of an unmarked occupancy. From the street Finney could see three large warehouse-type buildings, most of the property hidden from view by a smaller, windowless structure in front.
Finney instructed the cabbie to wait a block away while the meter ticked and then, after thirty minutes, decided to return to his parked Pathfinder. When he drove back to Airport Way, Monahan’s vehicle had not moved.
From where Finney parked one could drive miles in two directions and see nothing but industrial and commercial occupancies. Fifty feet above and behind him was an elevated portion of I-5, which had punched through the city’s core back in 1960 at the time of the World’s Fair.
A hundred years ago this lowland had all been tide flats, but millions, if not billions, of yards of fill had been carted in to stabilize it. Even now, when heavy trucks drove past, the ground seemed to rumble disproportionately.
From past experience Finney knew the woods sloping up from underneath the freeway harbored encampments of homeless men. Years ago, when G. A. Montgomery was working on Engine 10, G. A. had ordered his crew to wash out an encampment with hose lines after the occupants squabbled with him about dousing their campfire. Young, inexperienced, intimidated by G. A., his crew hosed down everything in sight—sleeping bags, tents, books, clothing. It had been the middle of winter. Finney knew he was only thinking up more excuses to hate G. A., but he didn’t have to work hard. Plenty of people hated him.
As the afternoon wore on, workers left the complex in waves. Stillman left at five, and minutes later Monahan rushed out, patted down his pockets for his keys, and drove off in a haze of exhaust. Except for a couple of outside lights in the parking area, the buildings were dark.
When he thought enough time had elapsed, Finney walked across the street.
Behind the first tall, white, windowless building he found a large parking area where three vans marked MAKADO BROTHERS and a couple of dust-covered private vehicles sat.
He went back to his Pathfinder, fired up the engine, got the heater working, warmed himself, and drove around the block. It was a huge industrial block, almost half a mile in circumference, and by the time he got back to the front of the property, he was discouraged. Somebody was trying to put him in prison, and so far the only thing he knew was that Monahan had lied about the dangerous buildings list and about November 7. Yet he could be lying for all sorts of reasons. To cover up his own incompetence—maybe even to keep secret a surprise party for his wife.
Finney was back on Airport Way heading north when he saw a flash of winking red in his rearview mirror. He pulled to the side of the road and found an engine company closing in on him.
As he pulled to the curb, Finney looked in his mirror and realized the engine was in danger of sideswiping his truck.
He pulled his wheels onto the sidewalk, thinking if he didn’t move, he’d get hit. It happened too quickly to think of much else.
The Pathfinder rocked wildly as the sound of metal on metal screeched in his ears. It was incredibly loud and seemed to play out in slow motion. His window dematerialized, and then it was in pieces in his lap. There was a second metallic scraping and then a loud crash. The engine had grazed the side of his vehicle. Was the driver drunk? Having a heart attack?
When his vehicle stopped rocking, Finney found his driver’s-side door jammed. Shaking the glass off his lap, he climbed over the stick shift and out the passenger door.