The Midnight Tour

So what does it really matter if I’m in town instead of the cabin? .

It matters.

At a break in the trees, she turned her head and looked over at the burial place. She always had to look. Long ago, she’d given up fighting the urge.

She knew precisely where to look. But the grave was not to be seen. It lay hidden beneath a heavy cluster of bushes.

Glancing at the bushes, Sandy remembered when they hadn’t been there. She remembered the look, the feel, and the strong dirt scent of the mound as it had been in the beginning. That first night, after piling in the dirt on Lib and Harry and Slade, she’d sat down on the mound because she was too worn out to go anywhere else and because she wasn’t quite positive about Harry and Lib.

They were probably dead.

But maybe not.

One or the other of them might still be alive down there, badly hurt and shat of air, but not quite dead. And maybe somehow strong enough to fight his or her way up through the dirt.

Not if I’m sitting on it.

Sitting on the grave, she’d thought about the three of them down there. A sandwich of naked bodies, Lib in the middle like a slab of meatloaf.

No, no, no, not meatloaf. It’s a salami, sandwich.

And Lib’s in the middle, but she isn’t the meat.

Hope she’s happy. Should’ve kept her big mouth shut.

Driving on past the bushes where the grave lurked, Sandy remembered how angry she’d been, that night. Everything had seemed so fine between her and Ub until Harry had shown up.

He’d ruined it.

We could’ve been a family.

But Lib had gone nuts for the guy and turned into a slut.

A talkative slut, a traitorous slut. Didn’t have an ounce of loyalty in her whole damn body. Couldnt wait to start spilling the beans.

She didn’t even know the guy!

Sandy shook her head.

She felt like a different person from the girl sitting on top of the grave that night.

God, I was so young then. And so angry.

And Jealous

Ridiculous.

She wished she hadn’t killed Harry and Lib. She always wished she hadn’t done it.

Not that she felt very guilty about it. They both got what they deserved. They’d turned against her. Sooner or later, they would’ve turned against Eric, too. If she hadn’t killed them, there would’ve been hell to pay.

But she’d liked them.

Both.

If things had worked out differently. Lib might’ve been like a big sister to her. Harry might’ve been like a brother

Or lover.

Who knows?

Ever since that night twelve years ago, she couldn’t drive past the grave without remembering it all.

Couldn’t remember without wishing she hadn’t killed them.

Wishing they hadn’t made it necessary.

It all worked out for the best, she told herself.

Not for them.

Well, tough. They should have behaved.

Better that they didn’t behave, she thought. Otherwise, I might’ve been lulled into trusting them. Then it would’ve been me and Eric getting the shaft.

This way, I got in the first strike.

What’s that military term?

A preemptive strike.

Yeah.

I sure preempted the shit out of those two. Got them before they could get us.

Off through the trees, Pacific Coast Highway came into sight. Sandy drove ahead slowly, then stopped a few yards short of the heavy, iron gate barring her way. She hopped out and strode toward it. As she walked through shadows and brilliant sunlight, her boots crunched the fallen leaves, pine needles and twigs. Mixed in with the heavy scents of the woods was a fresh, strong smell of ocean. And a feel of the ocean’s breeze, cooler and fresher than the sweet warm air of the woods.

It always got her just about now, on her way to open the gate.

My gate.

. The dirt road hadn’t been gated in Harry’s days. Sandy, herself, had bought the barricade in town and hired a couple of guys to install it.

The gate did a fair job of keeping people out.

That, and the sign wired to its front:PRIVATE PROPERTY

KEEP OUT

VIOLATERS SUBJECT TO PROSECUTION

AND TARGET PRACTICE

The sign was her own creation. She thought the “target practice” bit, while threatening, showed a certain wit and style.

The sign and the gate itself seemed especially cool considering that the private property wasn’t hers.

The land belonged to Harry Matthews.

He owned it. He was buried in it.

After removing the padlock, Sandy walked backward, pulling the gate. When it was wide open, she stepped back, read her sign and grinned. then she hurried to the pickup. She rolled through, shut and locked the gate behind her, then drove slowly over the rough dirt tracks, bouncing and shaking until she reached the edge of the highway,

She waited until an enormous RV roared by. After that, the road was clear. She made a hard right turn onto the pavement and stepped on the gas.

The nearest town was Fort Platt, almost fifty miles up the coast. She turned on the radio. Reaching over in front of the passenger seat, she opened the glove compartment Half a dozen cassette tapes were piled inside. She found her favorite Warren Zevon tape—the one with “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” Then she shut the compartment, slid the cassette into the slot in her radio, and pushed the start button.

“Now we’re cookin’,” she muttered.

As much as she regretted leaving Eric behind—and worried about his safety—she couldnt help but enjoy being alone on the road.

Free.

She settled back in the seat and smiled at the feel of the wind in her face.

Resting her left arm on the sill of the open window, she steered with one hand. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse. Air ruhed in through the arm hole, slid over her breasts, fluttered the front of the blouse She unfastened a couple of buttons to let more air come in.

High above the ocean, she could see little more than the horizon when she looked straight to the left. Looking ahead, however, she could see down over the left side of the highway. A fabulous view stretched out ahead of her