Underneath the bend in Mulholland Highway, the firm dirt of the slope gave way to gravel. Paolo began to slide. Arms stretched out for balance, he half fell, half scrambled down the side of the hill. By the time he reached the bottom of the gully he was covered in dust, palms grazed, mouth dry from the parched earth. He looked up. The road where he’d left Meredith was about twenty yards above him. It was still light enough to see without a flashlight. Anyone who stopped by her body would only have to throw a casual glance in his direction to spot him. About fifty yards away was the edge of a pine grove. It was the nearest cover.
Paolo turned and sprinted hard toward the pines. Behind him, he heard a car speed right past the spot where Meredith had fallen. Some people were soulless dirtbags. But for once, that was working in his favor. He kept his eyes down. The ground was full of rocky obstacles. Every yard brought hazards. This was hiking country, not a running track. But he couldn’t slow down.
Thirty yards to go. Twenty. The sound of a car slowing down. Noises amplified by the dry terrain. If they stopped their engine they might even hear his footsteps.
Ten yards, five. On the road behind him, a car door opened.
Paolo dashed behind the thick trunk of a pine. He pressed up against it, tight to the bark. His chest rose and fell, burning. He spat dusty saliva, picturing the scene on the road above.
He’d left the BMW’s driver’s-side door open. Meredith’s body was on the ground about ten yards along the road. To anyone who stopped, it would look like she’d been alone. Tests would show that she was drunk. A drunk-driving accident.
My fingerprints are all over the steering wheel.
But what would even make them think Meredith wasn’t driving?
Paolo raised his hands in front of his face. They were shaking. He interlaced his fingers as though in prayer, breathing in through his nose. He exhaled slowly. Apart from his fingerprints, there was no sign he was ever in that car. No reason to suspect she wasn’t alone.
His heart thudded against his ribs. He could feel blood draining from his head. Panic rising from nowhere, threatening to engulf him.
Think. Be still, and think.
He closed his eyes and thought of deuce. Match point to the opponent on deuce, his own second serve. Blow this and you blow everything. Be calm. Becalmed, like a sailboat. There’s no wind. The sea is like a mirror. This boat is going nowhere. Breathe. Pull back your racket and serve.
Paolo’s eyes opened. The sounds from the road carried with absolute clarity across to where he stood hidden. At least two cars had stopped now. Raised voices. Phone calls were being made.
There’s no sign I was ever in that car.
He clung to this thought as he began to navigate through the trees. Every step took him farther into the wilderness. Roads and hiking trails twisted across these hillsides every which way. He’d be sure to run across one, eventually. And then what?
Clumsy, ambling movements eventually became a regular strolling pace as Paolo adjusted to the minimal light. In the east of the sky, a pale, greenish tinge hinted at the approach of the full moon. He wasn’t wearing a watch, as usual, and so he checked the time on his cell phone. It was a little after 9:40. He pocketed his phone again and peered into the gloom of the gulley into which he’d stumbled. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. The ground was dry and cracked beneath his feet. Dry scrubby grasses lined the route. Somewhere to his left, Paolo heard the trickle of water. The vaguely clear path that he was following veered in that direction. The grasses closed in, until Paolo had to brush them aside as he walked.
It struck him then that terrain like this might house rattlesnakes. Paolo stopped and made his way back to a cluster of trees that he’d passed minutes ago and began, carefully, to examine the ground for any kind of stick. He found a twig no longer than his forearm and he used that to scratch around for another, longer specimen. It took longer than he’d hoped, with the dim light challenging his eyesight. His senses became more alert in the quiet, magnifying every tiny noise, and made him jolt to attention. Eventually, he found a stick, about a thumb thick and a yard and a half in length.
Making his way back along the trail, Paolo swept the staff before him, clearing the path, just in case any snakes were dumb or sleepy enough not to scoot out of the way at the sound of his footsteps. The sound of water became stronger, but never reached more than a healthy gurgle. If this was a river, then it was mostly dry, like many rivers in the California desert.
For the first time since he’d left Meredith, Paolo allowed himself to relax, just slightly. It couldn’t take more than an hour or so in any direction to happen across one of the crisscrossing roads. The whole area was a national park, so there would have to be some kind of visitor parking lot, eventually. He wasn’t exactly lost, but he still needed to find a way home.
Paolo felt for his cell phone and then stopped. The cops could trace cell phones, if they’re used. If they were scanning for calls, hunting for the hit-and-run driver, they might use the GPS on his phone to place him at the crime scene. They might connect Paolo to the accident. They might even find the hit-and-run driver—who would tell the cops that Meredith wasn’t the driver.
The parking lot at the country club. Paolo’s breath caught in his throat as he struggled to remember. Were there security cameras? He was pretty sure there were. If he’d been recorded getting into her silver BMW, then it was all over. He’d have to make some kind of excuse—say that Meredith gave him a ride somewhere, dropped him off.
But why would he need a ride if his car was right there?
Paolo could feel desperation swelling his chest. He needed to do something about his car. But how? If only he could call someone. John-Michael would help him. John-Michael kind of owed him for going halfway to San Francisco to pick his ass up after he totaled his Benz. Not to mention that like everyone else in the house, Paolo was keeping quiet about the fact that John-Michael had driven it, quite intentionally, off the coastal highway.
He urgently needed to call John-Michael. But Paolo couldn’t risk using his phone.
The trees grew more densely as the slope began to rise. Paolo’s progress slowed. He paused to get his bearings. Mulholland Highway was still right behind him. He was about one hundred yards away now. Still no sign of a trail. He pressed on. There was barely enough light to see by. The crickets creaked loudly in the undergrowth. It was the worst time of day for snakes. They’d be coming out now, slithering across his path. The best strategy was to make as much noise as possible to scare them away. But Paolo wasn’t sure if he dared to make loud, human sounds. All it would take was for one person on the accident scene to wonder if there had been someone else in the car and the police might come looking for him.
Who’s gonna tell? Not me.
The hit-and-run driver wasn’t likely to come forward, either. Paolo felt a queasy sensation as he realized—he and Meredith’s killer were now in this together. If one of them were to come forward, it would immediately trigger a hunt for the other.
It was a pretty solid bet that the driver wouldn’t be the one to come forward. But what if the guy got a sudden attack of conscience? Or realized that he might get caught and decided not to risk getting charged with a more serious crime, like trying to get away with it?
There could be no relaxing about this. Paolo had to do everything in his power to avoid being linked to Meredith’s death.
To his left, Paolo could hear the nearby creek trickling, an anemic sound compared to the heartier gurgle higher up the gulley. From over the rolling peaks in the east, a dazzle of moonlight now lit up a whole sector of sky. He looked up hopefully. Maybe soon he’d have enough light to be able to see a road. He was pretty sure he’d spotted the occasional red taillights streaking past, a long way ahead. Paolo stepped out with confidence, determined and optimistic.
His footstep landed on the sandy ground but didn’t rebound. Instead, it sank farther, broke the apparently dry surface, and gave way beneath him. The momentum of his walk carried his second foot inexorably into the same position. Both his feet were immobilized, one just below the surface, the foot completely submerged. Paolo felt panic clutch at his chest. He cried out. Terror swept through him as he struggled to understand what was happening. It only took him a few seconds to figure it out, yet those seconds passed slowly, vague thoughts infiltrating his mind.
I’m stuck. I’m stuck in quicksand.
Moments after he’d felt that first foot slump underneath him, Paolo began to realize that he was sinking deeper. He pulled hard at each foot, twisting this way and that. With every movement he sank a little more. Now he was submerged to the knees. The deeper he went, the more he panicked. The dual sensations of being trapped and of sinking were simply overwhelming. Any minute now he’d be in up to his waist. Then he’d have no hope, none whatsoever. The slowness of it all only added to the horror. It was like witnessing his own demise in slow motion.
With a flash of good sense, Paolo reached into his pants pocket for his phone and transferred it to the slim, tight pocket of his polo shirt. His right hand then dropped to the surface of the quicksand, which was dry and crumbly. He stared hard at the area around him. The surface of the gloopy mud gave absolutely no indication of what lay beneath. Experimentally, he stuck three fingers into the quicksand and quickly pulled them out. They were coated in thick mud the consistency of whipped heavy cream.
The mud now reached the top of his thighs. Paolo looked around. There was nothing for him to do but yell for help. Even that wasn’t likely to bring anyone. And if he were found, how would they even get him out? He might be stuck for days.
I might be on the point of death by then.
Paramedics would be involved, the cops, too, most likely. Questions would follow. Where had he come from, what was he doing here?
It dawned on Paolo with a burst of clarity—the only way out was to get someone to come for him. He’d have to contact John-Michael. Even if it meant risking the phone.
For the next few minutes, in the darkness and silence, Paolo weighed the risks. Dying of dehydration under the California sun. Immediate exposure to the cops, with questions sure to follow about Meredith. The phone was a far lesser risk, he could see that. Yet, who really knew what they could tell from cell phone data? Paranoid libertarian types were always bleating about how the NSA could figure out what you had for breakfast from your data trail, but how much of that was grade-A wingnut nonsense, and how much was true?
Paolo faced up then to the fact that he really didn’t know. But if he wanted to stay out of prison, he probably shouldn’t use his phone.
Which left only one option. He had to accept that no one would come to help him. Paolo had to get out of the quicksand, alone.