by Don Winslow
The living room is all done in white. Bone white walls, with black-and-white photographs of lotuses in silver frames and a flat-screen plasma television set. A white sofa, white chairs. The wood floor is painted black, but the carpet's white.
Tammy isn't in the living room.
Dan moves toward the closed bedroom door. He nudges it open with the toe of his boot and then steps through, pistol up and ready to shoot.
She's not in the bedroom, which is similarly decorated. White walls, black-and-white photos, white bedspread on the double bed, and a flat-screen television, smaller than the one in the living room. The guests must watch a fuck of a lot of TV while they're self-actualizing, Dan thinks as he moves to the bathroom door and listens.
The shower is running.
One of them fancy new “rain showers” by the sound of it.
He leans into the bathroom door.
It's locked.
Women always lock the door when they're taking a shower, Dan thinks. He blames it on Psycho.
Dan leans back and launches a kick into the door. The jamb splinters with a crash. Dan steps into the bathroom and points the gun to his left, toward the shower.
But she ain't in it.
And the window is open.
61
A steep set of stairs runs down to the beach from the back of Shrink's.
It cuts through a berm of red clay planted with succulent ankle-high ground cover that blossoms red in the spring but now looks silver and glossy under motion-activated lamps set in the ground every twenty feet.
Dan negotiates the stairs with surprising grace for a big man. He holds the pistol in one hand; the other glides along the pipe railing as he calls, “Tammy? I just want to talk with you, baby!”
If she's out there, she doesn't answer.
The night fog is coming in fast, already obscuring the water and the beach. Dan pauses on a landing and listens.
“Tammy!” Dan yells. “There's nothing to be afraid of! We can work this out, girl!”
He waits for an answer, the pistol poised to shoot in the direction of a voice. No response comes, but then he hears footsteps, running down the stairs below him.
Dan chases her down the stairs.
Onto the beach, into the fog.
62
Boone and Petra run down the stairs at Sea Cliff Park, just south of Shrink's, Boone trying to hear Tammy as she whispers into her phone, “He's coming. I can hear him.”
“Keep coming this way,” Boone says. “We're almost there.”
He makes it down to the beach and looks north, the direction Tammy should be coming from. But it's tough to see anything-the fog has moved in and set up housekeeping for the night, and the moon hasn't thought about getting up yet.
“Tammy?” Boone says. “Can you see me?”
“No.”
Boone peers into the fog.
Then he sees her.
Dressed only in a white robe, she looks like a ghost. Or maybe an escapee from a mental hospital, her long red hair disheveled and wild in the moist night air. She's running, as much as she can run in the heavy sand, her long legs working against her, struggling for balance. She's not even sure what she's running toward, just a voice on the other end of a telephone, saying he was going to help her. At first, she didn't believe him, but there was something in the voice that changed her mind.
She sees him and tries to run faster.
Boone trots toward her, grabs her as she falls into his arms, gasping for breath.
“He's behind me,” she says.
“Dan?”
She nods and gulps some air. Petra comes up and helps Boone lift Tammy to her feet. Tammy looks at her. “I'll testify. I'll do anything you want.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Let's get you out of here,” Boone says.
The shot comes out of the fog.
63
Johnny Banzai hears the shot.
You don't hear a lot of gunshots in Encinitas, especially not west of the PCH, and certainly not in the proximity of The Institute of Self Awareness, where people do not tend to “find themselves” at the wrong end of a gun. No, the guns around Shrink's tend to be surfboards, not firearms.
Gunshots are going to grab any cop's attention, but these shots really reach out and grab Johnny's head, because they're coming from the direction of his destination, the aforementioned ISA, and Johnny's aware that he's getting there in the wake of Boone Daniels.
Boone caught this wave first and Johnny jumped in, and now they're both pumping it to get to the real Tammy Roddick first. Johnny has some very pointed questions to ask her, he has some equally sharp queries for Boone, and he wants to know from both of them what they have to do with the Jane Doe lying beside the motel pool.
It didn't take all that long to find out that the Jane Doe wasn't Tammy. Then he went to Roddick's place of employment, Totally Nude Girls, and found out that (a) Tammy's boyfriend had been Mick Penner; (b) she dumped him for Teddy D-Cup; and (c) Boone was a step ahead of him. A quick visit to Teddy's La Jolla office and the flash of a badge got Teddy's receptionist to give up that the good doctor was on his way to make a house call at Shrink's after getting a phone call from a man who claimed that he was Tammy Roddick.
Classic Boone.
Goddamn him.
Except now Johnny hears shots, and he hopes to hell that he gets to arrest Boone and not do an investigation on his killing.
He opens his window, attaches the flasher unit to the roof of the car, and hits the siren. Then he gets on the radio and calls for uniformed backup. “Shots fired. Plainclothes officer approaching the scene.” It's dark and rainy out and he doesn't want to be standing there with a gun in his hand when nervous uniforms show up. They might see the gun before they see the badge.
Then he pushes the pedal to the floor.
Banzai.
64
Chess with guns in the night and fog.
Cool game in theory, scarier than shit in practice.
Adrenaline-pumping, ass-clenching, heart-racing scary. A paintball freak's wet dream, but these bullets aren't loaded with paint; they're lead. And if you fuck up, you're not going to get splattered; you're going to get splattered.
Boone tries to move himself and the two women through the muted fireworks display without getting shot. Which isn't easy because the beach is narrow at high tide, and Dan and his two boys keep closing off the space. Boone can't make a break toward the bluffs because they have that covered, and he can't get them up or down the beach because they have that sealed off.
Dan shoots and makes his target move, shoots and makes them move again-and each time they move, he directs his guys and closes off the space. Just like in the ring, he's patiently walking them down, working them into the corner for the kill.
Boone hears sirens in the distance. Cops are coming, but are they going to come in time? In the dark and fog, the shooters will take more chances than they otherwise would, knowing they can probably get away in the mist and confusion.
So the question, he thinks as he pushes Petra and Tammy to the sand and lies on top of them, is whether or not he has time to wait for the cavalry to ride in. A spray of bullets zipping just over his head makes up his mind. The police are going to get there in time to find their bodies. So they have to make a move.
There's only one place left to go.
65
High Tide sits in The Sundowner enjoying an End of the Workday Beer. The End of the Workday Beer is the best beer there is, with the possible exception of the occasional Weekend Morning Breakfast Beer or the Post Surf Session on a Hot Afternoon Beer.
But High Tide likes the End of the Workday Beer best because, as a supervisor for the San Diego Public Works Department, he puts in a hard, long workday. Josiah Pamavatuu, aka High Tide, is a busy man when weather like this pulls in. He'll have crews out 24/7 for the next few days, and he'll have to keep track of them all, making sure that they're getting the job done, keeping the water
flowing smoothly underneath the city.
It's a lot of responsibility.
That's okay-High Tide is up to it. He's enjoying his brew when Red Eddie comes in and sits down on the stool beside him.
“Howzit, brah?” Eddie asks.
“Howzit.”
“Buy you a beer?”
Tide shakes his head. “Driving, brah. Just one before home to the kids.”
“Good man.”
“What you want, Eddie?” Tide asks.
“ Bruddahcan't have a beer wid a bruddah he don't want somethin'?” Eddie asks. He raises a finger, points it at Tide's beer, and the bartender brings him one of the same.
“You're about da business, Eddie,” Tide says.
“Okay, business,” Eddie says. “Your buddy Boone.”
“What about him?”
“He's on a wave he shouldn't be on.”
“I don't tell Boone what he can ride.”
“If you're his friend, you would,” Eddie says.
“You threatening him?” Tide asks. His fist tightens on the beer mug.
“D'opposite,” Eddie says. “I'm trying to toss him a line, pull him in. He's looking for some wahine; she's causing a lot of aggro. If certain peoples was to locate the chick first, Boone's out of the impact zone, you know what I mean.”
“Boone can take care of himself,” Tide says. But he's worried why Eddie's approaching him about this. He waits for the other sandal to fall.
Doesn't take long.
“You have a cuz in Waikiki,” Eddie says. “Zeke.”
It's true. Like a lot of Samoans, Zeke moved to Hawaii five years ago to try to make some money. It didn't work out that way. “What about him?”
“He's an icehead.”
“Tell me something I don't know.” The whole family's been worried sick about Zeke. His mother can't sleep, can't eat her dinner. She begged Tide to go over, straighten him out, and Tide took some sick days, flew to Honolulu, sat down and tried to talk some sense into Zeke. Got him into rehab. Zeke was out three days, went back to the pipe. Last time Tide heard, Zeke was sleeping rough out in Waimalu Park. Only a matter of time before he ODs, or some other icehead takes him out for a dime.
Ice is the devil.
“What you saying?” Tide asks.
“I'm saying I can get the word out,” Eddie says. “Zeke is taboo. You help Boone see things right, deliver this girl to the proper address, no dealer in the islands will sell Zeke a taste.”
Tide knows it's a serious offer. Red Eddie has that kind of reach. All he has to do is put out the word, and no dealer in his right mind would even be seen talking to Zeke. They'd run away from him like he had leprosy. Zeke would have to straighten out.
“Don't say yes, don't say no.” Eddie finishes half his beer, lays a twenty on the bar, and gets up. “Don't say nothin'. I'll know by your actions what your answer is. I just think, brah, we island guys have to stick together. We're the ohana, eh? Aiga. ”
Eddie heads for the door. One of his moke boys opens it for him and he walks out, flashing Tide the shaka sign as he goes.
The devil comes in many forms.
The serpent to Eve.
Ice to a tweeker.
This time, it's a rumor that wafts through The Sundowner like warm air under the ceiling fans.
The Boonemobile is parked by Shrink's. Daniels must be checking out Shrink's. If Daniels is there, he must be scoping it out for the big swell. It's going to peak at Shrink's.
Tide finishes his beer, walks out to his truck, and heads north.
Family is family.
66
Johnny Banzai rolls up to the security shack at the Institute of Self Awareness and stops in front of the gate.
“I'm sorry, sir,” the guard says. “This is private property. You can't come in here.”
“Actually, I think I can.” He shows the guard his badge.
The guard tries to hang. “Do you have a warrant, Detective?”
“Yeah,” Johnny says. “My warrant is, if you don't open that fucking gate like two seconds ago, I'm going to drive through it anyway. Then, first thing in the morning, a battalion of health inspectors is going to arrive for a close look at the sushi and the celebrities. Then the fire inspectors are going to-”
The gate opens.
Johnny drives through.
67
Navy SEALs do it in training, but they're freaking Navy SEALs.
Lie in the ocean in winter at night, that is, not moving as frigid water washes over them, drops their body temps toward hypothermia, makes them shake uncontrollably, their bones and flesh aching with cold.
But that's what Boone, Petra, and Tammy do as Danny and his boys hunt the beach for them. Boone wraps an arm around each woman and holds her as hard as he can, feels them shiver as he tries to relax his own body. It's the only way to survive psychologically-force yourself to relax, not tighten up.
Cold and wet are a deadly combo. You can survive cold, you can tolerate wet, but the two of them together can kill you, send your body into shock, or force you out of the water into lethal gunfire.
Boone knows they don't have a lot of time left. He looks over at Petra. Her face is set in grim determination. Stiff upper lip and all that happy crap, but the woman is holding on; she's a lot tougher than she looks.
Tammy's eyes are shut tight, her lips clamped together, her jaw muscles locked. She's holding on.
Boone tightens his grip on both of them.
Dan is puzzled.
He had Daniels and the two broads in a box, and they're gone.
Just gone.
Like the fog wrapped them up and took them.
He looks out toward the surf. No way, he thinks. No fucking way. That's suicidal. The cop sirens come closer and Dan hears footsteps running down the stairs. Turns to see those big cop flashlights piercing the fog.
Time to boogie.
68
High Tide turns into the parking lot at Sea Cliff Park and pulls up next to the Boonemobile.
Boone ain't in it.
What the hell, Tide wonders, is Boone doing up here on the bluff over the south end of Shrink's at night? Checking out the surf? Really, bruddah?
Tide heads down the stairs toward the beach. Hurts his knee, walking down stairs, but what are you going to do? He has to have a word with Boone, and down the stairs is where Boone is apparently at.
Except he ain't.
When Tide gets down on the sand, he doesn't see Boone standing there checking out the waves.
All he sees is fog.
Then he spots something in the shallow white water. At first he thinks it's a dolphin, but a dolphin wouldn't be in the trench in this weather and he sees only one, and dolphins travel in groups. Must be driftwood, something came in with the tide.
The driftwood stands up.
“BOONE!” High Tide yells. “HAMO!”
Brother.
High Tide walks into the water and grabs Boone, then sees that there are two women with him. Boone grabs one of them, Tide the other, and they stagger onto the beach.
Boone mumbles, “Tide…”
“Easy, bro.”
“Are they-”
“They're okay.” Tide takes off his jacket and wraps it around the smaller woman, who's shivering uncontrollably. Then he takes off his wool beanie and puts it on the head of the tall redheaded woman. It's not enough, but it will help for the time being.
Boone says, “How did you…”
“Beach-bongo telegraph,” High Tide says. “Word's all along the coast you're here.”
“We gotta get off this beach,” Boone says. He hefts the smaller woman into a fireman's carry.
Petra starts to say, “I can-”
“I know you can.”
He carries her anyway. Tide easily sweeps up the redheaded woman and holds her close to his chest as they climb the steps back up to the parking lot. When they get there, Tide grabs two blankets and some towels from the back of his truck as Boone star
ts to undress Petra.
“What are you doing?” she murmurs.
“Have to get you out of these,” Boone says. “Hypothermia. Give me a hand, hamo?”
Boone, his fingers trembling with cold, strips Petra down to her underwear, wraps her tightly in the blanket, then vigorously rubs her hair dry while Tide does the same with Tammy.
“How about you?” Tide asks.
“I'm okay,” Boone says.
They get the women into the cab of Tide's truck, then Tide starts the engine and cranks the heater on full blast. Boone goes to the back of his van, strips down, towels off, and changes into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
Tide climbs into the van.
“S'up, brah?”
“It's complicated, Tide,” Boone says. “Can you give me a hand? I need to buy some time.”
“What you got in mind?”
When Boone tells him, High Tide objects. “It's the Boonemobile, man.”
But Boone puts the van in neutral, and he and Tide push it to the edge of the bluff, then take a running start and shove it through the thin wooden guardrail.
“Good-bye,” Boone says.
The van launches off the edge, stays upright for a second, then somersaults down onto the beach. A second later, a muffled explosion goes off; then a small tower of flame rises up through the fog.
Hell of a bonfire on the beach tonight.
A Viking funeral for the Boonemobile.
69
The devil doesn't give you easy choices.
If he did, he wouldn't be the devil, just some gyppo piker wannabe masquerading as the real deal.
The real devil doesn't ask you to choose between good and evil. For most people, that's too easy. Most people, even when faced with temptations beyond their previous imaginings, will choose to do good.
So the real devil asks you to choose between bad and worse. Let a family member die of a horrible addiction, or betray a friend. That's why he's the devil, man. And when he's really on his game, he doesn't make you choose between heaven and hell; he gives you a choice between hell and hell.
