Switchback: A San Francisco Mystery (A Darcy Lott Mystery) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Titles by Susan Dunlap

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Selection of Titles by Susan Dunlap

  The Jill Smith Series

  KARMA

  AS A FAVOR

  NOT EXACTLY A BRAHMIN

  TOO CLOSE TO THE EDGE

  A DINNER TO DIE FOR

  DIAMOND IN THE BUFF

  DEATH AND TAXES

  TIME EXPIRED

  SUDDEN EXPOSURE

  COP OUT

  The Darcy Lott Series

  A SINGLE EYE

  HUNGRY GHOSTS

  CIVIL TWILIGHT

  POWER SLIDE

  NO FOOTPRINTS

  SWITCHBACK *

  * available from Severn House

  SWITCHBACK

  Susan Dunlap

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Susan Dunlap.

  The right of Susan Dunlap to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Dunlap, Susan author.

  Switchback.

  1. Lott, Darcy (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Zen

  Buddhists–California–San Francisco–Fiction.

  3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  813.5’4-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8522-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-622-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-675-5 (ebook)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To Pat Priester McKeon

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am grateful to stuntwoman/stunt coordinator Carolyn Day, to my writing buddies Gillian Roberts, Susan Cox, Louise Ure, Linda Grant and Sarah Shankman. And, as always, my thanks go to my superb agent, Dominick Abel.

  ONE

  ‘Kill the Buddha,’ Leo Garson, abbot of San Francisco’s Barbary Coast Zen Center said.

  If you meet the Buddha in the road, kill the Buddha. I, Darcy Lott, his assistant, knew the koan. ‘I have to choose …’

  We were in the dokusan room where he met formally with students, sitting cross-legged on black two by three inch mats, zabutans, set so close our knees nearly touched.

  On a low altar, candlelight quivered by a ceramic Buddha. The scent of sandalwood wrapped around us like a shawl enclosing my question.

  ‘… choose between …’ I swallowed. ‘How can I give up what I can’t live without?’

  He might have smiled and said, ‘You’ll live.’ Instead, he waited.

  ‘I love stunt work, the choreographing, the high falls, the feel of the air as I fly free. The thwap the catcher bag makes when I hit it just right. And the car gags – when I hit the ramp just right and roll the junker, and the whole crew explodes in cheers. I love being a stunt double, doing the gags … I …’

  I had to face reality. That’s why I was sitting here. ‘There’s no work in this city. San Francisco’s too expensive to shoot in. There aren’t enough sound stages; last year’s spaces have been gobbled up by developers or tech companies. Movie companies come with trailers, food trucks, trucks for lighting and equipment, and, Leo, there’s no parking! Not without pissing off the neighbors.’

  ‘Parking!’ Leo laughed.

  Despite everything, I did too, for a moment. ‘I’ve hung on because I love being back in the city. My family’s here, the zendo, you, my Zen practice. Being your assistant … but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘The longer I’m out of work, the rustier I look. Directors wonder if there’s something wrong with me. If they remember me at all.’

  The roshi sat, hands resting one on the other, legs crossed. His eyes were lowered, his breathing undisturbed. He was neither pressing me nor offering escape. Beside him lay his kotsu, a polished S-shaped stick about eighteen inches long, given when his teacher granted him permission to teach. Like him, it was stronger and sturdier than it appeared. Like him, the wood had an odd homey quirk that always made me smile. Leo was just over fifty, with a shaved head and features too big for his face, but here in the dokusan room, in a black robe like the ones roshis have worn for centuries, he seemed ageless.

  I said, ‘If I want to be a stunt double I’m going to have to move to Toronto or somewhere where things are better.’ I met his gaze and silently implored him to produce an answer I knew did not exist. ‘I can’t bear to leave.’

  He let his gaze drop and sat totally still, his breath softly moving. I sat like a tornado in an opaque jar. At his monastery hours north of here he’d chosen me to be his assistant over more likely students. When he left there, he’d asked me to come with him to the city, to set up the Zen Center. I’d cracked my soul open to him. How could I ever leave?

  But how could I face never again doing another stunt?

  He picked up the kotsu, stopped and put it down. For a full half minute – an eternity in here – he didn’t move at all. Then he reached over and touched my hand. ‘There was a time I knew the right thing and I did it. I was wrong.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sometimes the “Buddha” you see is not the Buddha at all; it’s just what you see. When you indulge your delusions, you create your own Buddha.’ He moved his hand to his bell. ‘If you meet the Buddha in th
e road, kill the Buddha.’

  He rang the bell.

  I sat, stunned. I wasn’t through. Well, I hadn’t thought I was through, but in his mind there was nothing more to say.

  I could have grabbed his hand before it reached the bell. Traditionally a student has that right to demand more, but when a roshi rings the bell it means figure it out yourself. You can figure it out. In the case of me, who lived upstairs in the room across the hall from Leo, demanding elucidation would have been a little disrespectful and just plain embarrassing.

  And it wouldn’t have mattered. This interview was over. He’d made his point, given his teaching. The koan was well known. Discard your attachments. Let go of the things you can’t bear to give up. Do not be caught even by your image of your Zen practice, of enlightenment, of the Buddha. Both of your choices are false Buddhas.

  I bowed to Garson-roshi and he returned the bow, palms together, our torsos bending slightly forward till we stopped inches apart, in that moment not one, not two.

  I turned back around, lifted myself from the cushion, plumped it, stood and bowed again and backed out into the hall.

  I stood for a moment preparatory to shutting the door on the roshi, the interview, the comfort of indecision. The candle beside Leo flickered in the dim overhead light. The incense had burned down to half an inch, its smoke curling toward me at the open door. I—

  Someone shoved past me.

  Into the dokusan room.

  Shouting.

  I heard Leo’s voice, ridiculously calm.

  The intruder was screaming.

  ‘Don’t—’ Leo groaned.

  All of it in a breath’s time.

  The attacker grabbed the kotsu beside Leo’s leg and swung it up overhead, holding it in both hands like an axe, like the Grim Reaper.

  For an instant, nothing moved. The candlelight glowed off the thick, dark-buffed wood. It threw his black hoodie and loose pants into shadow. The incense smelled like fire, like ash.

  Then everything moved. Arms drawn back over the shoulder; weight shifted, then fast movement forward. He was going for Leo, his back rounded, his arms flying forward.

  I flung myself at him. He was thin, weedy. Still, I couldn’t get him down. Arms hammering. Crack of wood on … something. Screams.

  Arms around him, I threw my weight backwards. My hands were slipping. I didn’t dare let go.

  The guy was hitting, thrashing like he had eight arms. His feet slipped like skates. I was falling back, almost in slow motion. I hit the floor with a crack. He came down on top of me and knocked my breath out. Gasping, I grabbed his neck. He yelped and twisted free. As he staggered toward the doorway I kicked with both feet. He stumbled, one knee on the floor, the other foot slipping. I rolled up on my knees, threw myself at him, shoved him over the sill and slammed the door shut.

  I braced myself against the door, my whole body rocking as I panted. The candle lay on the floor, its flame out. Nothing burned. The little Wedgewood vase was on its side, water spilled in an ellipses of sorts. The Buddha lay in pieces. I noted all that in an instant before I looked at Leo.

  ‘Omigod!’

  Leo was still sitting, his legs in the lotus position, left foot on right thigh, right foot on left: the position monks have sat in for thousands of years, in which they could fall asleep and not fall over. Leo had not fallen over. But his face was covered in blood. It ran over his eyes. I couldn’t even see his eyes. Couldn’t make out his nose and mouth. Blood was dripping onto his black robe, turning it a murky brown.

  ‘Omigod, Leo!’

  He didn’t move.

  I was still bracing myself against the door. I forced myself to stay put, to listen through the thrusts of his breaths and of mine for noise outside. Was the guy in the hoodie still there, ready to burst back in? The door was flimsy, closer to a curtain than a barricade; it opened inward. If he flying-wedged into it, there’d be no way to keep him out. Leo’s teaching stick … but no, I couldn’t even use that. Hoodie still had it. He could attack Leo with it, again.

  Footsteps? Thud of shoes on wood? Groaning, yelling? Nothing. The only sounds I could be sure of were Leo’s breaths – short, thick.

  ‘Leo, are you OK?’

  He tried to speak. I couldn’t make out the words.

  Letting go of the door, I bent down and pulled out tissues one after another from the pale blue box near him, dunked them in the water bowl on the altar and put them in Leo’s hand. ‘Here. For your eyes. Be careful.’

  Yanking out another, I said, ‘Do you have blood in your mouth? Here, spit into this!’

  I dunked some more, blotted the blood on his forehead. He was holding his tissues over his eyes. Was he cut? I couldn’t tell. Concussion? Worse? Head wounds bleed a lot. And he was bleeding a lot. Already the tissues were soaked. ‘I’ve got to call the medics. Got to go to the phone. Can you hang on?’

  ‘Mm, OK.’

  I opened the door, peered out into the hallway. No sign of the assailant. Then I ran for the phone. The landline, in the hall upstairs. Eternity passed while it rang, and another eternity while I told them a man had been beaten, had head wounds and was bleeding hard. While I repeated the address I was stretching the cord down the stairs around the landing, staring down the bottom flight at Leo’s open door, at the closed door to the courtyard, poised to leap if the guy came running back in. ‘Don’t hang up,’ the dispatcher said. I didn’t. I let the phone dangle as she launched into the safety questions. I took the steps back down in two bounds, then raced into the dokusan room, terrified that I’d find Leo unconscious.

  He was still sitting, his crossed legs holding him vertical, his hand frighteningly loose on the tissues. I eased him on to his back, hoping that lying flat was the right thing, not the absolutely wrong thing.

  I wiped his bloody eyes again, covered them with fresh wet tissues then raced back upstairs. I had to take a deep breath before I could trust myself not to yell into the phone. ‘The medics – where are they? His head’s covered in blood.’

  And then I heard the sirens.

  And brakes squealing, horns blaring—

  And the crash.

  TWO

  The ambulance? Crashed? How long could Leo hold on? His face was still covered in blood!

  I raced out the zendo door into the courtyard, expecting to see a heap of crumpled red metal in the road and hear firefighters and EMTs barking orders into phones. But Pacific Avenue was its normal, still self. Boutiques and small law offices, closed and dark, no moving cars, no vacant curbs. Fog was blowing in from the west, covering the remnants of the daylight sky.

  Then, abruptly, sirens burst the air from all directions. On Columbus Avenue, the major street by the corner of our minor street, people were running, yelling, like it was a bad night in Hell. But wherever the action was, it wasn’t visible from here. From the zendo courtyard I couldn’t see broken glass, crunched metal, rubble or even flames. And not a single emergency medical van.

  Where are the paramedics for Leo? Was this fracas blocking them? It was rush hour. Would this blockage spread to all the surrounding streets?

  ‘Stop!’ I said aloud to myself. Focus!

  I’m a stunt double – I don’t show panic. Outwardly cool was my mantra when a gag went bad, a friend cracked an ankle or a neck. But Leo …

  Outwardly cool, dammit. For Leo. I made myself walk, not race, back inside.

  Leo was ashen under the blood blotches splattered over his face. He looked like his skin was sinking into his bones, while bruises were growing on his cheekbones and his forehead. His nose was surely broken. His eyelids looked like mahogany mushrooms; his eyes nearly squeezed closed.

  I knelt down next to him and put a hand on his. ‘Leo’ – my voice sounded exponentially more controlled than I felt – ‘how are you feeling?’

  ‘Feeling.’ Normally his voice had a firm tenor quality; now it was frayed and barely audible. Feeling was what he was doing. Just feeling. Only that. Not, like me, worrying.r />
  Still, I wanted to … I wanted to bring him tea, fluff the mats under him, fan him, warm him, make him more comfortable. I don’t know what. Make him safe. I said, ‘I need to keep an eye out for the ambulance. I’ll be right back. Will you be OK without me?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He meant, I knew, not to indulge in the delusion of worry, of made-up possibilities. Not to be somewhere other than in the reality of this moment.

  I walked, not ran – I can walk fast – back into the courtyard. No ambulance. Fog already thicker. The dusk wind that slices east through the streets colder. Sirens rising and falling, muffled by distance and fog. Red lights shone at the corner on Columbus but none was moving. I hurried back inside and squatted down next to Leo as he bled out all his color. I felt like I was fracturing.

  And then I inhaled, felt my ribs moving and listened to the sound of my breathing in and out. In a minute the swarm buzzing around my head lifted just a bit, as if I had taken a step back from the turmoil. Leo didn’t look any better; help wasn’t any nearer.

  Should I call 911 again? Go back to the landline upstairs? The dispatcher – the dispatcher! Was she still on the line? Taking the stairs two at a time, I grabbed the phone as I hit the landing and shouted into it: ‘The paramedics? Where are they?’

  Before she could answer, the siren broke off. Brakes shrieked. Leather slapped on the sidewalk. I guided the paramedics inside and suddenly the little interview room was bulging with people and equipment. A gurney appeared; paramedics braced Leo’s neck, scooped him onto a tray and the tray onto the gurney. For a moment, his lips quivered. I thought he was going to speak, to say something about the tray, something light, like he might be mistaken for a Thanksgiving turkey. Say something to me.