Farther north, high up in the mountains above Mulholland Highway, where the rain fell as though the clouds had torn apart from the weight, the water found a barren stretch of an old sunbaked trail. Pounding down the newly formed channel with a mighty force, it tore through a small, incongruous mound of freshly turned soil. And exposed an outstretched hand.
The shallow grave was discovered by a biker, and the first responding officer, having heard about Hayley, had the good sense to call Bailey-a phone call that sent us screaming down the freeway and winding up the Santa Monica Mountains within the hour. Those steep, narrow roads would’ve made me nervous on a clear day, but on a day that was still dark with the threat of another downpour, and asphalt that was slick with rain and oil-not to mention the occasional patches of thick mud-my heart jackhammered so hard I had to remind myself to breathe. Each hairpin turn gave me a view of the thousands of feet I’d be falling to my death if Bailey made one wrong move. By the time she pulled in behind the patrol cars parked against the side of the mountain, my stomach was in my throat and I had to get out and take several deep breaths to keep from puking.
“Where the hell are we?” I asked when I felt like I could pass for normal.
A tall, dark-haired uni with a runner’s body who’d come out to escort us answered, “God’s Seat, on Boney Mountain.” He leaned down and peered at me. “You okay?”
Apparently I was wrong about passing for normal. “I’m fine.”
“It’s a tough ride. Especially for the passenger.”
And especially when the driver ignores the brake. I appreciated his kindness. And as we followed him down the trail, I also appreciated the fact that I’d been at home when Bailey called, which gave me the chance to change into jeans and hiking boots. We were easily two thousand feet up, and the torrential rain had left the path slippery as ice.
We paused at a split in the mountain that afforded a view stretching from the ocean to the valley. It was almost eight p.m., but there was still some daylight left and it was peeking through the heavy cloud bank. I could see why they called it God’s Seat. Even under dark, cloudy skies it was breathtakingly beautiful. After a few moments, our guide moved on and we eventually came to a small clearing encircled by crime scene tape. In the center of the taped-off area was a partially washed-out mound of dirt; the rain was still trickling across the path it had forged. Protruding from the earth was a waxy forehead and nose and an outstretched arm. But I couldn’t see enough to make out a face.
