Twice he had to swerve around fallen debris, and once around the smoldering wreck of a sports car, but the monster’s tail seemed to serve as a kind of rudder, keeping the beast on board and the limo on track. The roof strained and squealed, then burst its rivets and caved in another few inches. Carter, nearly horizontal in the broken seat, could barely operate the steering wheel and gas pedal. But the end of the street was fast approaching; he could see the last lampposts lighting the way.
Carter leaned toward the left, planted his foot on the floor where the missing door had been, and as he saw the black, empty crest ahead, he pressed on the gas pedal, then braced himself for what might be his last act on earth: Head low, arms tight, he threw himself out of the racing car, flying into a pile of burning brush, then tumbling and turning and falling through the smoke and ash and glass. He felt a shoulder pop from its socket, heard a bone crack, but even as he rolled away he was able to catch a glimpse of the Mercedes, its red taillights glowing, as it shot toward the cliff with the gorgon ripping at the steel and its head raised in triumph.
As Carter banged up against something hard, the breath was knocked from his lungs; he saw the car plow through the low metal barrier at the top of the street, and then sail off the edge of the cliff. The gorgon’s tail swung high in the smoky air as the creature — and its doomed prey — plummeted into the canyon below.
Then, before he could even catch another breath of the scorched air, everything went hazy, dim, and finally… black.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Beth pulled the curtain back and took a peek into the garden.
Agnes Critchley was out there, just as she’d expected, pruning her roses.
She let the curtain fall back, and sighed. She felt guilty about trying to avoid her — after all, the Critchleys had been nice enough to take them all in after their rented house in Summit View had gone up in flames — but she just wasn’t up to another chat about gardening and pest control right now. Living in the Critchleys’ guesthouse was a blessing, but it did have its price.
Joey was in his playpen, happily banging plastic blocks together, while Carter tried to work the end of a ruler into the cast holding his fractured left arm together.
“You want some help with that?” Beth asked.
But Carter shook his head. “It’s best if I learn to do these things for myself,” he said with mock solemnity.
“Anything I can do for you instead?”
Carter laughed. “What? Is Agnes outside?”
Beth nodded, caught.
“So you’re a prisoner until she leaves?”
“Something like that.”
Joey, hearing his father’s laugh, laughed, too, and tossed a red block out of the playpen.
Beth stooped to pick it up, and Carter said, “If you really need something to do, you could help me lace up my hiking boots.”
Beth frowned. “That would be aiding and abetting something that I think is a bad idea.”
“I know that,” Carter said, “but I’ve got to get some exercise. You want me to get fat?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said, though secretly she had to admit that she would. She bent down and started lacing up the boots — tightly — so there wouldn’t be any other accidents. She had had all the drama, and all the terror, she ever wanted in her life. She had seen things that would haunt her for the rest of her days. Her hair hadn’t exactly gone gray overnight, but there were definitely a few strands here and there that she had had to touch up.
She could feel Carter looking down at her as she tied the boots, and she knew, without even asking, what he was thinking. Ever since the Fourth, he had looked at her with a depth of affection, and protectiveness, that made everything before it pale in comparison; it was as if she and Joey had been restored to him by some divine providence and he was determined not to take any chances with them ever again.
It was a miracle, she supposed, that he was willing to leave her today to go hiking. Instead of worrying about his recuperation, she should have been encouraging him to go. It was a good sign, really.
“That alright?” she said, pulling the laces snug one more time.
“Perfect,” Carter said, tapping the new boots on the floor. Everything they owned had been lost in the fire. Their clothes, their books, their furniture, their photos… along with, most notably for Beth, the secret letter from Ambrosius of Bury St. Edmunds. When Beth had run home that day from the Getty — which had withstood the walls of flame like the impregnable fortress it was designed to be — she had, tragically, brought it with her.
And now it was gone.
As was, presumably,
All Beth had now was a collection of files and translations, notes and printouts, all pertaining to a mythical object that no one could see and that she could never again produce. The most beautiful and original illuminated manuscript the world had ever known, by the greatest and most innovative artist of the eleventh century, whose masterpiece would never be seen.
Champ barked, and ran to the door. Beth could hear Del exchanging pleasantries with Agnes Critchley outside.
“David Austin English roses,” he was saying. “They do need their water.”
“Yes, they do,” Agnes trilled back. “They’re thirsty fellows.”
How did Del know anything about roses? Beth was always amazed at the variety of topics Del could expound upon.
She opened the door, and Del — his white hair tied up in a blue rubber band, wearing shorts and a loose Lakers T-shirt — said, “I’m selling magazine subscriptions to work my way through college…”
Beth gave him a hug, and Joey squealed. He liked his Uncle Del.
“Anybody here ready for a hike?”
Carter stood up and with his right hand hoisted his backpack onto one shoulder. “Rarin’ to go.”
“You sure it’s okay if I take him away for a few hours?” Del said to Beth.
“Just promise to bring him back in one piece.”
Del shook his head. “He’s not in one piece now — you expect me to fix him?”
Carter threw his plastered arm around Beth’s neck and gave her a tender squeeze. He loved the smell of her hair, the feel of her shoulders, fragile but firm. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. We’ll barbecue.”
As he turned to go, he took one look back, and Beth was already bending down to take Joey out of his playpen. “You want to go and see the lovely roses?” she was cooing.
He left the door open — the garden was large and immaculately manicured, not only by Mrs. Critchley, now off in another quarter, but also by a regular crew of Mexican gardeners. Del’s truck was parked on the quiet street outside the gates.
“Where we going?” Carter asked as he tossed his backpack into the cab and climbed in.
“Temescal,” Del said, settling behind the steering wheel.
“Isn’t that completely burned out?”
“Probably. But that’s why I need to go there.”
“Need?”
“Got something to show you.”
Carter couldn’t argue with that. He had shown Del plenty… from creatures who had thrived ages before the dinosaurs to the burial site of the La Brea Woman… and her long-lost partner.
A few days before, on the pretext of going to the Page Museum for a teleconference, Carter and Del had met with James Running Horse, the leader of the NAGPRA protestors. They had wanted the remains of the La Brea Woman and Man to be buried in a spot sacred to Native Americans, and Carter felt he had been led, by means that were still a mystery, to a fitting resolution. He’d started by showing Running Horse the broken mano stone that had been discovered in 1915, when the bones of the La Brea Woman had been excavated.
