Wicked Lies by Lisa Jackson, Nancy Bush Page A

if considering the consequences if a cop had stopped and found his weed, he added, “Maybe that was a good thing.” He took another long drag.
    “Which way are you going?” Justice asked, talk of police making him anxious.
    The dude pointed the opposite direction, west, toward the coast, and after a few seconds exhaled a pent-up cloud of smoke. “Where’d you come from?” he rasped.
    Justice gestured in the general direction of the steep hill to the north. It was flat-topped, a mesa, basically, since clear-cutting had taken off its timbered top. He’d driven the hospital van up a muddy track along its eastern side, over sticks and small boulders. He’d nosed the van through a forgotten chain gate that had been there since the beginning of the decade and broke with little resistance as he’d gunned the engine. He knew the area and had planned where to go when he escaped, and so he’d driven straight to the hilltop and then partially down the back side, parking the hospital van on the edge of a cliff side. Climbing out, he’d grabbed the jacket the orderly had left, with its Ocean Park Hospital patch on the sleeve; then he put the vehicle in neutral, got behind it, and pushed.
    The van had shot straight down into a gully, snapping off small trees on its way, crashing and blundering, splashing into a small stream at its bottom and turning onto its side. It made a horrendous amount of screeching noise—tree limbs grabbing at it—but it had made it all the way down and the whole noisy melee was over in the space of two minutes. Wary, ears straining, Justice had waited at the top of the mesa, squatting in the underbrush, hoping the van’s noisy crash was a distant rending for anyone within earshot. He’d then seen the line of police vehicles fly by far below, lights flashing in the early darkness, sirens screaming. He’d watched them disappear, and he’d sat down on the top of the mesa and waited, unsure of what form God’s next message might be.
    Then, as if God Himself had answered, this psychedelic relic of a Vanagon had staggered to the side of the road. Without doubting for an instant that this was his destiny, Justice had trekked rapidly down.
    “Can I get a ride?” Justice asked, trying not to cough at the vile smoke, a sense of urgency running through him. He couldn’t leave himself exposed, not for any length of time, even though darkness was approaching.
    “Can ya help me fix my tire?” the dude asked hopefully.
    “Gotta pump?”
    “Yeah, but there’s a hole, man.”
    “Got a spare?”
    “Nah . . . not one that works . . .”
    “Get me the pump,” Justice ordered. He heard the sound of a car’s engine whining closer and fought the urge to scramble back into the bushes.
    “Uh, okay.” The guy looked him over again, and then, as if deciding Justice was just a little tightly wound, he shrugged and opened the rear of the van, rattling around through a bunch of baby gear—a Big Wheels, a Pak ’n Play, some kind of circular bouncing device with brightly colored knobs—until he found a toolbox and the pump.
    The car’s engine was louder, and Justice, pretending to be looking over the axle, hid on the far side just as the car, a rattling old Toyota, cruised past. He caught a glimpse of the driver, a red-haired teenager, a girl, who didn’t so much as glance at the disabled Vanagon as she drove lead-footed toward the next town.
    “I’m Cosmo,” the dude said, as if he’d just realized he’d never introduced himself. He dropped the toolbox at Justice’s feet. “You?”
    “Bob.”
    Cosmo frowned. “Your name tag says . . .”
    “Yeah, I know.” Justice waved off the question and bent down to the box. If the guy got too suspicious, he’d have to take a hammer from the box and . . . His fingers curled over the smooth wood handle as he explained, “Had to borrow my buddy’s today. Left mine in my car. Sometimes I’m a damned fool!”
    “Well, Bob, if you can fix this thing, I’ll