by Lee Goldberg
She did and at the same instant, Marty roared and charged the animal. The tiger pounced. Marty dived to the ground and Buck fired twice, the gunshots sounding like explosions.
The tiger leaped over Marty and kept on running, scrambling into the protection of the bushes and the darkness beyond.
The gunshots were still echoing in Marty's ears as he struggled to his feet, the wound in his side oozing blood again. At least that was the only place he was bleeding. Clara ran to him crying and hugged him as tightly as she could. He wanted to cry too, only with frustration at the malevolent God that was tormenting him.
A tiger? You attacked me with a fucking tiger? Haven't I been through enough already?
Clearly the answer was no. Fate wasn't through with Martin Slack yet. At this point, Marty wouldn't be surprised if he stepped on his front lawn and sank in quicksand.
Buck came up behind them, still holding his gun.
"Thank you, Buck," Marty could feel Clara's little heart pounding.
"That's what the gun is for. Let's get moving. I don't want to be here if Tony the Tiger comes back for his sugar flakes."
Marty straightened up, wincing in pain. His blood had gotten on Clara, but if she noticed, she didn't care. She looked up at him, still trembling, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"I want my mommy."
"I want mine, too." Marty held his hand out to Clara. "You were very brave, Clara. Can you be brave for me for a little while longer?"
She sniffled and took his hand. Marty gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze and they started walking, giving the dead dog a wide berth. They also kept a watchful eye out in case the tiger returned or a swarm of locusts happened to show up or a freak tornado touched down. Marty was ready for anything now.
"That was a big tiger," Clara said, relieved and a bit proud of herself.
"Yes it was," Marty said, feeling exactly the same way. This was an adventure they'd shared and survived, learning something about each other at the same time. The girl was tough; he knew that now. Clara stood up to the tiger without making a sound. He was certain she'd survive the loss of her mother and emerge stronger from the ordeal.
And Clara, for her part, knew that this stranger could be trusted, that he would protect her and comfort her as her own mother would.
They soon came to the sprawling shopping center that was the town square of Calabasas. People were bathing in the artificial pond on the corner, underneath the cracked, synthetic boulders of the fake, non-functioning waterfall and the sign advertising the center. Behind them, the giant Rolex had fallen and smashed into the parking lot.
When they rebuild this place, Marty thought, they should consider a Timex instead. It takes a licking and keeps on ticking, and it's probably a lot cheaper.
Marty, Clara, and Buck followed the street that sloped behind the center and rose into the hills, leading them finally to the red tiled guard house and iron gates of Oakridge Hills Estates.
If this had been a movie, Beth would have been waiting for him at the gates, crying with happiness. But it wasn't, and neither was she. It was too dark, and there were too many trees shrouding the steep hill, for Marty to see how badly hit the community was and to anticipate the odds of Beth being alive beyond those gates.
He would soon know, one way or the other.
There was a man standing behind the gate watching them approach. His hands were on his hips, right above the holstered gun clipped to the braided leather belt of his Ralph Lauren chinos. He wore the weapon like a man proud of his erection. He'd obviously been waiting all his life for a chance to strut around with it and he was going to enjoy every moment.
"That's close enough," the man held up his hand, motioning them to halt. "State your business."
"My business?" Marty asked incredulously, letting go of Clara's hand as he hobbled up to the gate. "I live here. Open the gate."
"I don't know you."
"I don't care. My name is Martin Slack, I live at 19067 Park Marbella and I want to go home. Now open the fucking gate."
"Do you know him, Walter?" The man turned to look at a balding man in a polo shirt and pleated shorts who was sitting on an icebox a few yards behind him.
"Nope," Walter replied. "Never seen him before, Bob."
Bob turned to Marty again. "I guess that settles it."
"Oh really?" Marty looked back at Buck. "Can you believe this guy?"
"You want me to handle this?" Buck asked.
"No, this is my home, Buck. I'll deal with it." Marty took another step towards the gate.
"I advise you to stay where you are," Bob said, letting his hand hover near his holster for emphasis. "This is a private community and these are desperate times. There are a lot of people who'd like to get in here right now and take advantage of our resources. So until order is restored, these gates are staying closed."
"I live here," Marty had enough of Bob. He looked at the bald guy on the curb. "Hey, Walter, go get my wife. Bob can watch me."
Walter got up, but Bob motioned him to stay. "Sit down, Walter." The bald guy did as he was told. Bob glared at Marty. "I got a better idea. Why don't you show me some ID?"
Yes, that was a good idea. In fact, it would have solved everything. The only trouble was, Marty didn't have it. He left it with the Plebneys and he knew Bob wasn't going to accept any explanations.
But Marty didn't come all this way, and go through so much, to let Bob stop him.
"Sure," Marty reached into his jacket for the ID he didn't have, pulled out his gun, and aimed it right at Bob's pudgy stomach. Bob made a lame move for his weapon.
"Go ahead, Bob, reach for your gun," Marty said. "By the time you undo the snap on your holster, you'll already be dead."
Bob swallowed hard and raised his hands.
Marty glanced at the bald guy. "I thought I told you to get my wife, Walter."
Walter nodded frantically and scrambled up the hill. Marty hoped the guy didn't have a heart attack before he reached their house.
"Now Bob, I want you to pull that holster off your belt and slide the gun under the gate to me before I shoot you just for being a prick."
Bob looked like he was going to cry. He hated parting with his gun, but he did as he was told, set the holstered gun on the ground, and gently kicked it under the gate. It slid to Marty's feet.
"Pick up the gun, Buck." Marty said.
Clara stepped forward hesitantly and reached for the gun.
"No, Clara. Don't touch that," Marty said. "Let Buck do it."
"I don't see him," she said.
Marty looked at her, then over his shoulder. There was no one there. Buck was gone.
"Where did Buck go?" Marty asked her. She stared back at him with a blank face. "Did he say anything to you?"
Clara shook her head. "He only talks to you."
"You're not right in the head, buddy," Bob said, his voice quavering. "Put the gun down before you hurt me or the little girl."
"Shut up," Marty looked down the barrel of his gun at Bob and became aware of the weapon in his hand for the first time.
Where did that come from?
With a trembling hand, he lifted his jacket and looked under his arm.
He was wearing a holster.
Which meant . . .
Marty quickly closed his jacket and checked his shoulder.
The gunshot wound wasn't there anymore.
Which meant . . .
He recognized the gun now. It belonged to Heller. It was a prop from the show he was visiting when the quake struck. Marty had the gun all along. And it was full of blanks.
Which meant . . .
Which meant all those times Buck was pitching himself as a series, talking about what a well-developed character he was, Marty was selling to himself.
Buck was already a character. A totally fictional one.
Buck did not exist. He never did.
"Oh my God," Marty muttered to himself, falling to his knees and closing his eyes, letting the
gun fall to the ground.
No wonder Buck sounded just like that voice in his head. Buck was that voice in his head.
That Red Cross nurse was right, Marty thought, he did take a severe blow to the head. He'd been hallucinating for days.
His conscious mind tried to warn him, over and over again. Buck was one-dimensional. Buck's actions were clichés. It was impossible for Buck to survive the flood; it was an extraordinary contrivance that Buck found him impaled on that spike.
Why didn't he see that before? Why couldn't he accept it?
Because I needed Buck.
Without Buck pushing him, challenging him, forcing him to examine himself, he never would have survived. Marty had come to that realization long ago. Buck was there for Marty when he needed him and was gone when he didn't.
I've gone totally, completely insane, he thought. Maybe all of this is in my mind. I'm not even here. Maybe I'm still under my car, buried beneath a pile of bricks.
He was afraid to open his eyes. He didn't want to know the truth.
"Marty, oh my God, Marty."
It was Beth's voice. But was it real or, like Buck, a figment of his imagination?
He felt her arms around him, her tears on his cheek. "Please, Marty. Say something, are you all right?"
Slowly he lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Beth was on her knees in front of him, her lovely face, her adorable band of freckles, exactly as they were when he left her two days ago.
"I am now," he said.
She hugged him hard and he hugged her. They whispered, "I love you" again and again to each other. He would tell her all about his adventures and someday he might even tell her about Buck. Or maybe he'd just write about it instead.
Over her shoulder, he saw Clara standing there, a sad, lost look on her face. Marty gently pulled away from Beth. "Honey, I want you to meet Clara."
Beth turned, wiping the tears from her eyes, and looked at the girl for the first time. Maybe Beth saw the blue eyes and the freckles and also saw herself. Or maybe she just saw a frightened child.
"She's alone now," Marty said.
Beth reached out her arm to Clara. "No, she isn't."
Clara ran over and joined their hug.
Martin Slack was finally home.
AFTERWORD
Although I've lived in Los Angeles for over twenty years, survived the Northridge quake and the destruction of my home, and walked the route Marty traveled, I still referred to many books to add reality to my fantasy.
In particular, I am indebted to authors David Ritchie (Superquake: Why Earthquakes Occur, and when the Big One Will Hit Southern California), Mike Davis (City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles, and Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster), Philip L. Fradkin (Magnitude 8: Earthquakes and Life along the San Andreas Fault), David Gebhard and Robert Winter (Los Angeles: An Architectural Guide), and Leonard Pitt and Dale Pitt (Los Angeles: Encyclopedia of the City and County) for their excellent studies and reference works.
All of the mistakes, geographical liberties, and scientific fudging are entirely my own.
Lee Goldberg
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Writer/producer Lee Goldberg is a two-time Edgar Award nominee whose many TV credits include Martial Law, Diagnosis Murder, Hunter, Monk, and The Glades. He's also the author of dozens of books, including My Gun Has Bullets, Dead Space, Watch Me Die, Successful Television Writing, McGrave, The Dead Man series of monthly horror novels, and the bestselling Monk series of original mystery novels.
Books To Watch Out For
Watch Me Die
Harvey Mapes learned everything he knows about being a PI from books and TV...and in his first investigation discovers the difference between fiction and reality can be deadly.
"As dark and twisted as anything Hammett or Chandler ever dreamed up...." —Kirkus, Starred Review
"Approaching the level of Lawrence Block is no mean feat, but Goldberg succeeds with this engaging PI novel." —Publishers Weekly
"A wonderfully fresh voice in the mystery genre, Goldberg will delight fans of Janet Evanovich and Robert Crais," —Rick Riordan, author of Percy Jackson & the Olympians
McGrave
Los Angeles cop John "Tidal Wave" McGrave is an unstoppable force of nature who always gets his man...even if it means laying waste to everything around him...which is exactly what happens when he pursues the leader of an international gang of violent thieves to Berlin.
"The story is a blistering read from page one to the gut-wrenching ending. it sucks you in, yanks you through the story at a vicious pace, and leaves you sprawling, gasping for air at the finish line. Strap in and hold tight," —Mel Odom, author of the Left Behind Apocalypse series
"Tougher than Shaft, more violent than Dirty Harry, McGrave is a cop who disaster attaches to like a limpet." —Planet Peschel
"This book is the literary equivalent of buffalo wings and boilermakers." —Post Modern Pulps
And be sure to check out all of Lee Goldberg's Books!
Three to Get Deadly, Copyright © 2012 by Paul Levine, Joel Goldman, and Lee Goldberg
E-book Design: Steven W. Booth, www.GeniusBookServices.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the authors.
To Speak For The Dead, Copyright © 1990 Paul J. Levine
Cover photograph by DAJ/Getty Images
Cover design by Aaron Kowan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use an excerpt from "The Lawyers Know Too Much" from Smoke and Steel by Carl Sandburg, copyright © 1920 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., and renewed 1948 by Carl Sandburg, reprinted by permission of the publisher. "It's Still Rock and Roll To Me" by Billy Joel, copyright © 1980 by Impulsive Music. All rights controlled and administered by EMI April Music Inc. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.
Motion To Kill, Copyright © 2002 by Joel Goldman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) or events is entirely coincidental.
The Walk, Copyright © 2004, 2010 by Lee Goldberg
Originally published in hardcover by Five Star, January 2004
Second ebook edition published August 2010
All Rights Reserved
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
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