There was a flow of traffic against us as we approached the ocean road. Mostly kids out for an early evening spin. Some of them pointed at the Range Rover and thought it was a big joke. Just some major asshole from the Sur pulling a stunt, right? Some aging merry prankster high on tequila, or maybe even twenty-year-old acid. A crazed man hanging on to the roof of a Range Rover doing seventy miles an hour in what amounted to a very scenic parking lot.
What was his next goddamn move?
Rudolph didn’t bother to slow down on the curvy, extremely populated, blacktop road. The motorists headed in the opposite direction blared their horns angrily. No one did anything to stop us. What could they do? What could I do now? Hang on as tightly as I could and pray!
CHAPTER 71
A BRIGHT flash of grayish-blue ocean broke through the scrim of fir and redwood branches. I heard rock music blasting from the slow-moving parade of cars up ahead. A collage of music was in the air: Pop 40 rap, West Coast grunge bands, acid rock from thirty years ago.
Another splash of Pacific blue hit me right in the eye. The setting sun was casting its golden glow on the spreading firs. Wheeling terns and gulls passed slowly over the trees. Then I saw the full expanse of the Pacific Coast Highway up ahead.
What the hell was he doing? He couldn’t drive back to Los Angeles like this. Or was he crazy enough to try? Eventually he’d have to stop for gas. What would he do then?
Traffic on the highway was light heading north, but heavy moving south. The Range Rover was still doing sixty or better—careening faster than anyone ought to drive on the curvy side highway, especially as it merged into the busier coast road.
Rudolph didn’t slow down as he approached the crowded highway! I could see family station wagons, convertibles, four-wheel-drive vehicles. Just another crazy Saturday night on the northern California shoreline, but it was about to get a whole lot crazier.
We were fifty yards from the highway now. He was going as fast as ever, if not faster. My arms were stiff and numb. My throat was dry from exhaust fumes. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. Then suddenly, I thought I knew what he was going to do.
“You son of a bitch!” I yelled, just to yell. I wedged my body even tighter against the straining metal roof rails.
Rudolph had created the impromptu escape plan. He was only ten to fifteen yards from the highway traffic, no more than that.
Just as the Rover reached the sharp turn onto the Pacific Coast Highway, he braked hard. The loud screech of radial tires was terrifying, especially from where I was listening.
A bearded face in a passing multicolored minivan yelled out, “Slow down, you asshole!” Which asshole? I wondered. This asshole definitely wanted to slow down.
The top-heavy Range Rover held its path for a few yards, then it started to fishtail right, then left, then right again.
It was total bedlam now. Horns were blowing everywhere at once on the busy highway. Drivers and passengers couldn’t believe what they were seeing, what was bearing down on them from the side road.
Rudolph was doing everything wrong at the wheel on purpose. He wanted the Rover to spin out.
Its tires still squealing like animals being slaughtered, the Range Rover slid left until it was facing south, but it was actually traveling west into traffic. Then the Rover’s tail end swerved all the way around.
We were going to hit the traffic moving backward! We were going to crash. I was sure we would both be killed. Images of Damon and Jannie flashed before me.
I couldn’t guess how fast we were going when we broadsided a silver-blue minivan. I didn’t even try to hang on to the roof rack. I concentrated on relaxing my body, preparing for a bonebreaking, possibly deadly, impact in the next few seconds.
I yelled, but the sound of my voice was lost in the high-pitched screeching crash, the blaring car horns, the screaming spectators.
I barely missed the lineup of northbound traffic as I jetted off the roof. More horns blared. I was flying through the air with the greatest of ease. The sea wind both cooled and stung my face. It was going to be a crash landing.
I flew into the smoky blue mist that was settling between the Pacific Ocean and the Pacific Coast Highway. I hit the thick branches of a fir tree. As I fell through scraping, scratching tree branches, I knew the Gentleman Caller was going to escape.
CHAPTER 72
SKIP FORWARD. Cut forward. Spin, fall head over heels forward!
I was badly shaken and bruised from the car crash and fall, but apparently there were no broken bones. A crackerjack EMS team looked me over at the accident site on Highway 1. They wanted to check me into a nearby hospital for tests and observation, but I had other plans for the night.
The Gentleman was running loose. He had commandeered a car heading north. The car had already been found, but not Dr. Rudolph. At least not so far.
When she arrived at the bad scene at the highway, Kate went ballistic. She wanted me to go to the local hospital, too. Agent Cosgrove of the FBI was already there as a patient. We had a heated discussion, but eventually Kate and I caught the last AirWest shuttle out of Monterey. We were headed back to L.A.
I had spoken to Kyle Craig twice already. FBI teams were camped out at Rudolph’s apartment in Los Angeles, but nobody expected the Gentleman to return there. They were searching the place now. I wanted to be there with them. I needed to see exactly how he lived.
On the flight, Kate continued to show concern about my physical condition. She had already developed a top-notch bedside manner, warm and empathetic, but also surprisingly firm with a stubborn patient like myself.