365 Days Hunted Page 11

They didn’t need to know that we were leaving.

  Not just yet, anyway.

  * * * *

  In a way, it had been my own fault, because I had never truly explored the house. Instead, I had left it to Brandon and Kieran to go through it—room-by-room. I had been too busy outside—searching for signs of Mateo’s people along Mulholland Highway.

  It was time now to fix that error.

  First, I went into the rec room and ordered Rhys, Ethan, and Wester back to the theater room for a good night’s sleep. I wanted them all well-rested for the hike down to Malibu the next day. Then I moved through the darkening house, carrying a single tea candle.

  I took my time—going through every room, every drawer, every cupboard.

  With the exception of the room Brandon and Kieran were using.

  * * * *

  The gunroom was upstairs, just like Porter had said.

  It was long and narrow, like a rich man’s clothes closet. Each side held an assortment of weapons on racks. Underneath were drawers and, when I opened them, I found boxes full of bullets.

  There was also a large gun safe at the far end of the room. I wondered what was in it but—since it needed a combination—I was out of luck.

  * * * *

  Brandon and Kieran had stopped sleeping in the theater room after the first night. I found them on the second floor—in the master bedroom—at the end of the main hallway. Their voices echoed through the closed door as I crept towards it.

  I moved slowly, not wanting to alert them to my presence.

  “Fracking straight up, right between the eyes, mofo!”

  It took me a moment to realize that it was Kieran who was speaking. His words were muffled, strident—he had been drinking all right.

  “Shooting high. Gotta take it down—lilbitta right.” This was Brandon.

  “Shooting better’n you, Bran, so shut the frack up!”

  There were a bunch of thumps and grunts—the kind you get when two guys are wrestling around, being a complete couple of jackasses. I retreated slowly—moving back through the hallway toward the stairs.

  * * * *

  The bar was just off the living room.

  I’d been in it the first night we’d arrived, but not since.

  There were empty bottles everywhere now—some broken, others thrown into a pile in one corner. The soles of my shoes became sticky with alcohol as I walked around and, when I put my hand down on the bar, it came back wet and smelling of rum.

  What a mess!

  Luckily, the bar had a door that led directly outside. Over the next twenty minutes, I opened and emptied every bottle of alcohol that I could find in the bar—dumping it out onto the back lawn. Then I carried the empty bottles over to the garbage area and—as ridiculous as it sounds—put them all in the recycling bin.

  When I was done, I searched through the house once more.

  In an upstairs bedroom, I found another stash of alcohol and a small baggie of what I assumed was marijuana. As before—the alcohol went onto the back lawn and the bottles into recycling. The weed went into the regular garbage.

  Finally—exhausted—I went back to the theater room. Climbing into my recliner, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * * *

  When I woke up in the morning, it was to Brandon and Kieran staring down at me. I yawned up at them. “Yes?”

  Kieran looked furious, but Brandon was grinning. “Well-played, my man,” he said, “well-played.” Then, Brandon turned and walked out.

  Kieran stayed where he was, glaring at me.

  “You got something to say, say it,” I told him. “Otherwise take your pissy mug somewhere else.”

  “You suck,” he growled. Then he turned and walked out.

  “Very mature!” I yelled after him.

  No response.

  I looked around. The other chairs were empty. There was nobody else in the theater. I wondered what time it was and how long I’d slept.

  Suddenly—I sniffed the air.

  Was that bacon?!

  * * * *

  A few minutes later, I came into the kitchen to discover Porter cooking bacon and eggs on a little hibachi that he had set up on the top of the stove. Rhys, Ethan, and Wester were crowded around a second hibachi, grilling slices of pita bread. Brandon and Kieran, meanwhile, were setting the table in the dining room for breakfast.

  “Where on earth did you get bacon?” I asked, astonished.

  “It was in the pantry,” said Porter. “Rhys found it behind some rice. It’s non-refrigerated, until you open it.”

  “And there are still three more packages that we can take with us,” said Rhys, proudly.

  “And the eggs?”

  Brandon walked into the kitchen. “I got them over in Malibu Creek Park. One of the rangers living there has some free range chickens. A couple of them are layers.”

  Ethan and Wester walked by with a plate of toasted pita for the table.

  “Look at you guys,” I said. “This is simply amazing!”

  * * * *

  We actually had a great breakfast.

  Everybody was on their best behavior.

  Brandon was quite funny and charming, and told jokes that were even appropriate for our younger members. Kieran was a little on edge—but not much more than normal. He even joined in when Rhys and Wester decided to have a rap battle. (They all sucked.)

  Afterward, I announced that we were heading off after breakfast, expecting some resistance from Brandon and Kieran. I received no comments from either of them, though—just nods of acceptance. When the younger guys left the table for the theater room, Brandon and Kieran simply headed up to their bedroom to pack.

  As we cleared the table, Porter began to chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “There’s nobody around and you’re having us clean up,” he grinned. “And you call me OCD.”

  “We’re not animals,” I said. “This house belongs to somebody. Maybe they’re not coming back. Maybe they are. Either way—we still should do what’s right.”

  “I agree.” Then, he motioned toward the second floor. “Not so sure they do, however.”

  “They seem fine this morning. Didn’t even say a word when I said that we were going to Malibu today.”

  “I know,” nodded Porter. “Kind of odd, don’t you think?”

  “You saying they were faking it?”

  He grinned. “You think they were being real?!”

  * * * *

  When we left that morning, it was pleasant—the sun was behind the clouds and there was dewy moisture in the air. An hour later, however, the clouds had burned off and the sun was beating down hard on all of us.

  By the time we reached Mulholland Highway and Kanan-Dume Road—we were all tired, over-heated and cranky. Sitting on the ground—remaining hidden in the bushes—wasn’t helping anybody’s mood either. The guys were restless, irritated that I wasn’t moving them along quicker, instead of stopping every quarter mile to check that we weren’t being followed—or about to walk into a trap.

  “Seriously, how long are we going to have to sit here?” complained Rhys. “These bushes probably have ticks!”

  “My head hurts,” moaned Kieran. “I need an aspirin!”

  “Dude, we should just rush the bastards,” suggested Brandon. “Shoot first, ask questions later.” He was fiddling with something inside of his backpack—no doubt one of the extra guns that he had taken from the mansion’s gun safe.

  “Wish we were back playing ping-pong,” whined Ethan.

  Irritated, I looked down at Wester, kneeling quietly beside me. “You got anything you want to add, bro?” I asked him.

  Wester immediately gave me a thumbs-up.

  * * * *

  An hour and a half later, we came across Betsy. There were bullet holes in her side, the trunk was wide-open, and the surfboards were gone.

  “They killed her!” cried Rhys, horrified. “They killed Betsy.”

&nbs
p; Meanwhile, Kieran was walking around the Honda, counting the bullet holes. “Thirty-six shots,” he eventually announced. “Sorry, bro.”

  “Do you think it was Mateo’s gang?” asked Porter.

  “Who knows?” I shrugged.

  Bending down, I looked inside the vehicle. The glove box had been opened and the registration was missing. When I checked the rear storage area, I also couldn’t find the surf contest applications.

  Someone had taken the time to leave me a little present, however—a dried pile of human feces, right in the center of the rear carrier.

  “Oh, nice,” I said, frustrated. “Very mature.”

  Brandon came up beside me and looked inside the car. He whistled. “Dude was definitely leaving you a message.”

  “You think?”

  * * * *

  It was eerily quiet, traveling the rest of the way down Kanan-Dume Road to Malibu. We moved slowly, stopping at each curve—studying the road ahead until we were certain that there was no one lying in wait.

  This end of Kanan-Dume was sheer cliff—the road winding down and around until it finally hit the Pacific Coast Highway. I had always enjoyed driving this part of the route, taking my foot off of Betsy’s gas pedal and just letting her coast. If I had my windows open and I got the speed exactly right, the Honda would whistle—a low eeeee, as if Betsy was enjoying the drive herself.

  Walking an empty and dead Kanan-Dume Road—however—was a completely different experience. At times, rocks skittered and tumbled from the cliff above, startling us, as they came to rest mere inches from our feet. Twice we saw coyotes running across the road, only to disappear into the scant brush on the other side.

  Wester, we discovered, was absolutely terrified of the small wild dogs. “They gonna’ eat me!” he cried, latching onto my arm.

  “No, they’re not,” I assured him. “Coyotes are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

  “I don’t like them,” he persisted, shaking his head.

  Brandon pulled out his gun and held it up. “Don’t worry, Wester,” he said. “Next coyote that shows his face—I’ll put a bullet right through his furry snout.”

  “Put that gun away!” I ordered. “And you’re not going to be shooting at coyotes. That’s the last thing we need—someone hearing your gunshots.”

  * * * *

  The last half mile of Kanan-Dume Road was lined with massive houses—small mansions really—belonging to the ever-present rock stars, actors, and record producers of Southern California.

  “How many people you think lives there?” asked Wester, as we passed a large Mediterranean villa. It had a long, circular driveway; I could just see the tail lights of a red Ferrari parked at the far end. Beside it was a black Maserati.

  “If I had to guess,” I said. “Probably two to four people—a family maybe.”

  “Plus a maid and a cook,” added Porter.

  “And a pool boy,” said Kieran. “You know they’ve got to have a pool around back.”

  “Can we go and look?” asked Rhys, hopefully. “Maybe they’ve even got a bowling alley.”

  “I’d rather just get down to the bottom of the canyon first,” I said. “Besides, there’re going to be lots of big homes where we’re going. We can check out those.”

  “Where are we going, by the way?” asked Brandon.

  “Point Dume,” I said. “Porter knows of a house there that should fit us well. And it’ll be close to Zuma Beach, so it will be easy for us to go surfing.”

  “If it’s on Dume, we can also surf Little Dume Beach,” suggested Kieran.

  I nodded. “Plus the fishing will be good all around there.”

  “And there’s a Pavilions on the Point,” said Brandon. “We can stock up on food there. Sounds like a plan.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I echoed.

  A few moments later, Porter sidled up next to me and asked quietly. “I know of a house?”

  Making sure the others weren’t looking, I pulled out the photograph of Kaylee’s dad’s house and showed it to him. Porter immediately nodded in quick understanding. “You’re right,” he said, grinning. “I do know of a house.”

  * * * *

  Tourists who don’t know the area are always surprised to discover that Malibu is not a well-defined city. Instead, it’s twenty-eight miles of meandering coastline. As part of it, Point Dume juts out from that coastline—a multi-million dollar land bubble of mansions and horse ranches.

  This is where stars like Barbra Streisand and Julia Roberts have their homes—where you’re just as likely to bump into Chris Hemsworth shopping at the local Pavilions supermarket as jog next to Emilio Estevez along Dume Drive.

  * * * *

  The sun was just beginning to set when we finally reached Point Dume. That suited me fine, because I was worried about who might be living there. Until we knew for sure, I thought it would be better that we arrive in the shadows.

  As we turned up Heathercliff Road, there was a long line of dead vehicles stopped in the road, waiting for a turn onto the Pacific Coast Highway that they would never make. “Would you look at that?” I whistled, marking off the cars as we passed. “Mercedes, BMW, Jaguar, another Mercedes, Lexus…” I stopped at the last one, my mouth dropping open.

  It was a lemon yellow Dodge Viper.

  “This is so unfair,” I groaned. “That’s a 2017 Viper GTS! We’re talking over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of car—with the key in the ignition and we can’t even start it.”

  “We can always shoot it.” Brandon pulled out his gun and aimed it at the car.

  “Are you crazy?!” I lunged for him. “That’s a frigging Viper!”

  “Chill,” he said, putting his gun back. “I was just yanking your chain.”

  * * * *

  The Point’s local supermarket—Pavilions—was ahead and on the right. From where we stood, we could see that its parking lot was full of dead cars and idle shopping carts.

  Rhys pointed to a cart next to the opened door of a dark green Lexus SUV. “There’s still food in that cart,” he said. “Should we go get it?”

  “It’s almost dark,” I told him, shaking my head. “Let’s concentrate on getting to the house right now. We can always come back for the food in the morning.”

  “You don’t want to check out Pavilions now?” asked Brandon, looking disappointed.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “The beer will still be there in the morning.”

  Brandon didn’t even try to deny it. He simply grinned.

  * * * *

  The Michelson house was set back from Dume Drive, behind a large brick fence. We could just see the roofline, a series of gables—blue with white trim.

  A mansion, really.

  I walked up to the front gate and looked through its thick bars. The driveway went back—about 300 yards—ending at the front of an enormous 3-storey home. There were fruit trees all along the driveway on one side and a small vineyard on the other.

  “Look at that,” said Porter, coming up beside me. “I’d heard that some of the rich guys grew grapes here on the Point. Apparently, they’re not allowed to, but they do it anyway because—well, because they’re rich and who’s going to stop them?”

  “So, why did you choose this house anyway?” asked Kieran.

  I didn’t know how to answer that. Porter came to my rescue. He waved his hand toward the property. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “Big fence, fruit trees, vineyard. Easy to defend. Fruit to eat, close to the beach, but not so close as to make us easy to find.”

  Beside Porter, Brandon put his meaty hands on the bars and pushed. The heavy gate barely budged. “How do we get in?”

  “See,” said Porter. “Anyone comes after us, it won’t be easy for them to get in either.”

  Looking around, I saw a large, cement mailbox to one side of the entrance. It took some doing but I managed to climb up on it. Just above—on the fence—I noticed a camera. It was aimed toward the front gate. “Too bad thi
s camera wasn’t working,” I said. “It would be good for security.”

  Using the camera to balance myself, I shimmied over the wall. There was a large oak tree on the other side and I grabbed onto the biggest of its branches and—moments later—swung myself down to the ground. I was feeling pretty proud of myself until I walked around to the gate and discovered that Ethan and Wester were already there, waiting for me.

  Skinny little guys—they had simply slipped through the bars.

  Rhys, Kieran, and Brandon easily made it over the wall. Porter was a different matter, however; the kid simply had no athletic ability. Brandon eventually had to go back over the wall and push him up from behind, one hand on Porter’s butt. On the other side, meanwhile, Kieran and I passed Porter from one-to-another until we finally had him onto the oak tree and from there onto safe ground.

  * * * *

  “We seriously need to find another way into this place,” said Porter, as we walked along the driveway to the house.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get you a stepladder, grandpa,” teased Brandon, punching him in the shoulder.

  “Ow!” said Porter. “Like you seriously don’t know your own strength, dude!”

  Brandon grinned. “Pretty sure I do.”

  We stopped as we reached the end of the driveway.

  “Wow,” I said, looking up at the house. “This place is beautiful.”