by Harry Bryant
I tried to split my attention between the road and David's seatbelt which was still loose in his hand. He looked dazed. Apparently his head wasn't so hard after all. I fished for the end of the seatbelt, caught it, and pulled the whole strap out as far as it would go.
The nose of the car drifted, and I corrected back into my lane, and with one more glance at the road ahead—making sure it was clear—I turned my attention to David's seatbelt. It wasn't easy to plug the passenger seatbelt in from the driver's side, but I managed it, and the strap slithered back across David as I let go.
As I leaned back into my seat, checking my environment, I caught sight of a black flash in my sideview mirror. A second later, a leather-clad shape on a loud motorcycle roared past us. Instinctively, my foot lifted off the gas so I wouldn't rear-end him.
I shouted something at the biker—even though he couldn't hear me. My twitch hadn't been much, but we had lost our momentum, The horses under the hood were going to have to work hard to make up for that loss.
And the biker knew I had faltered. He swerved back and forth in front of me, dropping back with each pass so that I had to either tap my brakes or risk hitting his bike. It was a ballsy move, and he thought he had my number. He would keep slowing down, forcing me to do the same, and within a few minutes, the other bikers would catch up.
I was in a ‘76 Ford Mustang. This was a car that proclaimed—very loudly—I like 'em big and noisy. It was a dick car, and sure, I drove it somewhat ironically, but I also drove it because a) it reminded me of the asshole I had been once upon a time, and b) it had a 5.0 L V8 engine in it and weighed somewhere close to three thousand pounds. The biker was playing that small predator wearing out its slow-moving prey with its quick, darting attacks game, but I was a goddamn grizzly bear, and I didn't have time for his shit.
The next time the biker swung across the lane, I mashed the gas pedal down and slammed the front end of the Mustang into the back of his bike. He tried to keep control of his bike, opening the throttle in an attempt to pull ahead of me, but I kept coming. I jerked the wheel to the left the next time I hit him, and it was like putting serious english on the cue ball on a pool table. His bike went down with a heavy crash. Sparks and bits of metal flew, and then the bike and its rider were behind us.
I looked back to check on the remaining bikers. The three who had been following us were getting close, and the second of the two who had been waiting for us on the turnoff was already behind me. He had one hand on the bike, and there was something in his other hand. Something hard and metallic.
"Get your head down," I shouted at David.
Something hit the back of the car, like a giant hand slapping us on the ass. A second later, a hole appeared in the back window and a big starburst of broken glass bloomed on the front windshield. Up high, closer to David's head than mine, but still too close for comfort.
"He's shooting at us," David moaned. He slouched lower than me. He had shaken off his momentary daze and lost his nominal whine somewhere in the process, which was a definite plus.
I reached up and thumbed the rearview mirror to get a better angle on the biker behind me, and nearly got my thumb shot off for my efforts. The car swerved as I flinched from the second starburst on the windshield.
As the biker steadied his bike behind us, I dogged the wheel to the left. When I jerked it back to the right, I slammed on the brakes. The back end of the Mustang slewed around, filling the road with the car, and the biker had to lay down his motorcycle or veer off the road. I gave him a second to commit, and then I let up on the brake, hauling on the wheel with both hands. We came out of the slide, and as we roared off, I glanced up at the rearview mirror, looking for the biker.
No sign. He had gone off the road.
Two down. Three to go.
I wondered if Clint and Brace were part of the trio behind us.
We had to get off this road. After the turnoff for Highway 166, there was nothing but the straight and scenic for a dozen miles. I could let the Mustang run, but the bikers wouldn't lose that much ground, and at the other end, there was nothing but Los Alamos and freeway interchanges.
I started looking for a turnoff, and when I spotted one on the left, I took it hard and tight, leaving a band of rubber on the road. The Mustang fishtailed as it left the pavement and hit the dirt road, and the wheels threw up a trail of dust and rock as the car got its footing on the road and took off again.
The access road was single-lane, and it twisted back and forth. I didn't bother looking back for the bikers. I was kicking up enough dirt they would have no trouble figuring out where I had gone.
So much for disappearing.
I didn't want to vanish so much as—
I didn't have a chance to finish the thought. As we came barreling around a curve, a chain link gate suddenly appeared across the road. I had a second to react, but that second went by really quick.
"Oh, shit!" David squealed as the Mustang sheared the chain holding the two halves of the gate together.
We roared out onto a wide plateau between a couple of low hillocks. In the center of the flat space was the hulk of an oil derrick, its massive head slowly rising and falling. A second chain link fence circled the base of the oil pumping machine, and as the car raced around the derrick, I looked for a second route off the plateau. And didn't see one.
Shit, indeed. There was no way off but the way we had come.
Swearing under my breath, I cranked the wheel of the Mustang, hauling the heavy car around the derrick. As we turned a half-circle and faced the way we had come, three bikes roared up from the access road. They split up immediately: two coming right at me, and the third circling around the far side of the derrick. I recognized Brace as one of the pair coming at us.
I gunned the car toward him, and he and the other biker started shooting. Bullets chewed up the hood of the Mustang and made more of a mess of the windshield. I hauled the wheel to the right, and the car turned to present the driver's side at the pair, who kept shooting at the bigger target coming at them.
I had put myself between David and the bullets. All very noble, but not the smartest move.
The bikes roared past us, and I cranked the wheel back, my arm muscles screaming. Something wasn't right under the hood of the car, and the back end felt sluggish. It was listing to one side, too, and when I pulled at the wheel, I realized the front left tire had been shot.
I aimed the car for the road down from the plateau and pressed my foot down on the gas so hard that my knee ached. "Hang on," I shouted at David. The car kept wobbling, and while we made it off the hilltop, I couldn't get the car to make the first turn. We careened up the side of the mound that ran along the road, crested it and then slid sideways down the other side. I got the nose of the car pointed in the right direction, and vainly pumped the brakes in a pointless effort to stop our headlong rush to the bottom of the ditch.
The car hit, and my seatbelt held me down while the steering wheel punched me in the face.
I heard a whistling noise, like air escaping from a balloon, and I realized it was the sound of a human voice. Then, everything went black.
CHAPTER 19
What do you do when you get punched in the face?
The ghost of Mr. Chow sat on the hood of the car, which was not nose-down in a ditch. The Mustang was in a field of wildflowers—radiant yellow and orange as far as I could see. The only crimson in this Technicolor scene was all the blood on my shirt and the interior of the car.
You get up and punch back, I said, and while the words sounded utterly fine in my mind, they came out of my mouth like gibberish. There was something wrong with my jaw.
So punch back, Mr. Chow said. His face was all round and shiny in the warm sunlight. The cancer hadn't eaten him up yet. Or this was just the way my brain wanted to remember him.
My arms were heavy, and when I tried to move them,
it felt like they were being held down by leather straps.
Flow like water across stones, Mr. Chow suggested.
Flow this, I said, getting one arm loose enough to give him a middle finger salute.
Your anger gives you motion, he said, but remember it is just like water. So difficult to direct.
I got my other arm free, and instead of listening to him talk about flowing like water, I leaned to my left and shoved my shoulder against the stiff door. It took three tries before the door popped open, and between the second and third shove, Mr. Chow said something important, but I was too busy falling out of the car to listen.
I was too busy waking up to pay attention to my subconscious.
I blinked several times, and each time my eyelids hurt a little less. I was lying on my back, rocks jammed against my spine. A heavy aroma of gas and scorched plastic filled the air, and a haze of greasy black smoke drifted overhead. My right leg was still in the car because my foot was caught under the dash. There was safety glass everywhere, and little of the front windshield was still in its frame. The left front tire was flat, and a thin ant trail of flame was licking along the edge of the hood.
I pushed myself up, and tried to see if David was still in the car. No sign, and the passenger side door was open too.
Motorcycle engines grumbled in the distance, and I struggled to get my foot out from the car. Nothing was broken; my foot was stuck between the clutch and the accelerator pedal. My lower back ached, and parts of my face were unresponsive. The front of my shirt and pants were covered with splotches of blood—some of it still damp.
I couldn't have been out for more than a few minutes. Where had David gone?
I yanked my foot free and, ignoring the ache in my back, I went up the slope of the ditch, using both hands and feet. At the top, I collapsed on my belly, and scanned the surrounding area for any sign of David or the bikers. There was nothing moving but the inflexible derrick—going up and down like nothing had happened. With a groan, I stood up, and looked farther afield.
A trio of small shapes buzzed along the distant ribbon of the road—heading south, toward Los Alamos. The bikes were too far away to tell if any of them were carrying two passengers.
Fire flared on the hood, and I started to limp away from the car until I remembered the stash of cash I had hidden in the trunk. There was a panel in the trunk. I hadn't put all of Matesson's five thousand dollars in the duffel bag. This was my secret reserve.
I patted my pockets for a second before remembering the keys were still in the ignition. I slid down the slope, bounced off the open door, and ducked my head into the car. The odor of gas and oil was stronger inside the car, and I wrestled with my key ring for a minute before giving up and fumbling for the trunk release lever instead.
The fire was hotter as I scrambled back up the slope. The trunk lid was unlatched, but it wouldn't budge until I banged on it with my fists. Everything was jumbled together inside the trunk, and I shoved the junk aside so that I could get to the hidden panel. It popped open, and I dug out the remaining bricks of cash. I threw them over the crest of the ditch, getting them as far away from the car as I could. I grabbed a light windbreaker I had forgotten was in the trunk, and was halfway over the top of the ditch when the fire hit the gas line.
The car exploded in a noisy whump, and a ball of hot air, smoke, and fire rolled over me. I tucked and rolled down the far side of the ditch. My ears rang, and it felt like the back of my head had been singed. I was still holding on to one of the bricks of cash, and I spotted several others nearby.
A plume of black smoke chugged into the sky from the other side of the mounded dirt. That was going to attract some attention. I had to get out of here; I had to find David.
The bikers had him. They hadn't stuck around to make sure I was dead, which meant they had grabbed the kid and ran. Every second I sat there, they were that much farther away.
David Boreal was still in trouble, and this time, it was all my fault.
By the time cars from the sheriff's office, the rural fire department, and the oil company who owned the derrick showed up, I was at least a half-mile away. I hadn't seen any sign of David, and I had struck out across the open terrain, using the hillocks and ravines to hide me from the road until I was far enough away that I wouldn't be immediately connected with the burning car.
I found a tiny creek in the one of the ravines. I didn't drink any of the water, but it was enough to clean up some of the blood and dirt. It felt like I had a good gash across my forehead, and my nose was tender but not broken. My chest looked like it had been beaten with a meat tenderizer, and it was already turning purple and yellow.
I wasn't the prettiest of hitchhikers, but instead of a bit of thigh, I flashed some green instead. It took three hundred bucks to convince an old man in a beaten-up Ford to let me ride in the back of his truck. He was heading to the grocery store in the strip mall just off the highway on the southern side of Los Alamos, and I peered over the edge of the truck as he turned onto the highway and headed past The Rose.
There were a handful of bikes parked in the lot, along with a few other cars, but there was no sign of movement around the building. The same was true for the hotel when I got a brief glimpse of it through the screen of trees that ran along the side of the highway.
The old man bumped his truck into the lot at the grocery store, and parked it in a spot close to the road. He got out, locked up the truck, and stood there a moment, looking up at the sun. "I might buy myself some extra beer today," he said to no one in particular, and he laughed to himself as he tottered toward the store.
It wasn't a bad idea, but I couldn't rest yet. During the drive, I had had lots of time to lie on my back, feeling every bump in the road like someone was pounding on my kidneys, and think about the mess I had gotten myself into.
On the one hand, I could just go to a used car lot and spend what was left of my expense fund on a beater that would get me back to LA. I could tell Matesson that I hadn't been able to find Gloria. Maybe she wasn't even at the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center. He should hire a real PI, if he was so eager to find her. Leave me out of it.
Or, I could find a phone and call Hack. Tell him that I lost the kid, and that I wasn't really a DEA agent, and good luck with extricating himself from the crazy situation he had gotten himself into. Odds were, though, he wouldn't take that news very well. And there was the issue with my car, on fire, out in the oil fields. There would be a lot of questions raised, and if I wasn't around, Hack could spin any bullshit story he wanted. It would get back to LA, where various agencies would see the obvious television appeal in busting an ex-con with a record for drug trafficking for doing it all over again in a sleepy little town in the middle of wine country. Not to mention preying on the heart of the despondent sister of the goofy brother who got in too deep and was summarily carted off and executed by this nefarious ex-con drug kingpin.
Or, I could keep pretending to be an undercover agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency . . .
I hauled myself out of the truck, and went into the store where I filled a basket with a handful of useful items that would instantly transform a disheveled wreck of a man into a passably invisible member of society. And a cheap tourist T-shirt too. Using the change I got from the young man in the express lane who gave me a serious side-eye as I checked out, I used the pay phone outside to call the hotel.
"Good afternoon, Los Alamos Motor Inn," a pleasant voice answered.
"Hey, it's me," I said.
"Hello. Oh, hi," Dolly said as she recognized my voice. "Is everything okay?"
"Not really," I said.
"David?"
I swallowed and ducked my head. "We need to talk about that," I said.
"What's happened?"
"Nothing. Maybe. Hopefully." I gave up trying to sell that lie. "Look, I need you to get your stuff and leave right now."
"Now?"
"There's a chance that you might be in danger," I said. "It's not safe there at the hotel. Just hang up—when we're done talking—just hang up and go."
"What's going on?"
"I'll explain in a bit. Just—Dolly, just do this, okay?"
"O—okay."
"I'm at the grocery store on the other side of town. Come find me there. I'll be waiting for you."
"Right now?"
"Right now."
"And David?"
"We'll talk about him when I see you."
"Is he—"
I shook my head and beat my fist lightly against the side of the pay phone. "I don't know, Dolly," I said. "But we've got to get you safe. Just—please, okay?"
"Okay, okay," she said. "I'm doing it."
"Good. I'll be here."
"I'll . . . I'll be there in a few minutes." The phone went dead in my hand. I hung up the receiver, and rested my head against it for a moment.
And then I went to find the bathroom. I had already frightened her with what I wasn't telling her. Might as well try to not make it worse when she saw me. And from there, I'd have to figure out how to protect Dolly, find her brother, and figure out some way to pull both of them out of this mess. Ostensibly by busting both the weed network and the cocaine-running CMFMC. Good thing I had the whole DEA thing going for me. Well, as long as no one bothered to ask too many leading questions.
It all boiled down to Mr. Chow's two-word aphorisms. Get up. Punch back.
CHAPTER 20
I didn't answer any of Dolly's questions at first. I just gave her terse directions out of town until we were on Cat Canyon, heading north, and only then did I relax.
"What's going on?" she asked.
She was driving with both hands on the wheel, hunched forward with her shoulders raised toward her ears. She was pale; she hadn't released one iota of tension since I had last seen her a few hours ago.
