Mission Canyon Read Free Page A

out a shout. The security guard raised a finger to his earpiece, listened, and started running toward the door. Clipboard watched him go, confused. Or maybe wondering if the Lone Ranger really had shown up. She shot me a suspicious look.
    A second guard ran through the crowd. My cellular phone rang, and stopped, and that sent a tickle up my neck. I turned to leave.
    George Rudenski put his hand on my arm. ‘‘Why are you looking for Cal?’’
    ‘‘It doesn’t matter.’’
    ‘‘Are you here to ambush him?’’ His calm eyes now had heat in them. ‘‘Tonight is about raising money for disadvantaged kids, not about getting yourself a scoop.’’
    He had it wrong, but just about right. Turning from him, I ducked toward the door before Clipboard could stop me. I felt small.
    Outside, I found tumult. Two cars had tangled in front of the museum. A white minivan was up on the sidewalk, and a blue Audi had sideswiped a mailbox.
    The guards were running toward it. It was Jesse’s car.
    I rushed down the stairs, fighting fear. The minivan driver was walking toward the Audi, waving his arms.
    ‘‘You call that driving?’’ he shouted. ‘‘You pulled out right in front of me.’’
    A security guard reached the Audi and yanked open the driver’s door.
    ‘‘Get out of the car.’’
    Leaning in, he grabbed Jesse’s arm. I wanted to slap him.
    Jesse wrenched loose. He was talking on his cell phone, had the earpiece in, hands-free.
    ‘‘—south on State Street,’’ he said. ‘‘Right now, as we speak. Five-eleven, brown hair, blue dress shirt and khakis.’’
    The guard reached for him again.
    ‘‘Don’t touch me.’’ He elbowed the guard and locked an arm over the steering wheel so the man couldn’t pull him out. Into the phone he said, ‘‘Yes, on foot.’’
    I breathed. He was okay, I saw. And he was talking to the police, but not about this fender-bender.
    I said, ‘‘What’s going on?’’
    The minivan driver turned on me. ‘‘You know this guy? Where’d he learn to drive, clown college?’’
    Jesse looked up. His eyes were fiery.
    He said, ‘‘Brand’s here.’’
    His voice was like a falling blade. The guards, the minivan driver, the shouts and jostling elbows faded to static. My palms tingled.
    ‘‘Where?’’ I said.
    He pointed toward the corner. ‘‘Headed down State Street. Hurry.’’
    He didn’t need to say anything else. I ran.
    I sprinted down State Street. People were thick on the sidewalk, their faces cheery in the sunset, backed by palm trees and music tumbling from clubs and restaurants. I weaved and dodged, holding on to my wig, looking frantically around.
    Five-foot-eleven, brown hair, blue dress shirt and khakis. That described dozens of men on the street. It didn’t begin to cover Brand.
    Franklin Brand was the man who drove his two-ton, 325-horsepower car into Jesse and Isaac Sandoval. He was the coward who left them ruined on the ground. He was the fugitive who fled Santa Barbara the night of the crash, the bastard who’d spent three years enjoying himself on a foreign shore while Isaac lay cold in the dirt and Jesse fought to reconstruct his life. He was wanted on a felony warrant for vehicular manslaughter, and he was here now, somewhere among the throng.
    A woman stepped into my path. I banged into her, called out, ‘‘Sorry,’’ and kept going.
    Franklin Brand was the executive who, on an evening like this one, took his company car for a joyride up Mission Canyon. Rounding a curve, he came up behind Isaac and Jesse. They were powering up the hill on their bikes, training for a triathlon. Brand didn’t see them until it was too late. The skid marks started only after the point of impact, when he braked to keep from plunging over the edge himself.
    At the corner a red light stopped me. Cars streamed past. I looked up and down the cross street. Traffic eased and I ran across the intersection, knocking into people, muttering, ‘‘Excuse