I pulled down the driveway, leaning forward to keep my sore shoulder blade away from the seat. As I made a left onto Highway 1, I could hear the sound of sirens wailing from the south. I worried about Ginny, wondered where she was.
Following Pop’s directions, I headed north a quarter of a mile, then pulled off to the left by a chain suspended between two moss-covered trees that blocked what looked like an old logging path. I got out of the car and opened the combination lock. It was just like the one on every gym locker in the world.
The rounded steel in my hand, the ridged black plastic dial and small, indented white lines and numbers, felt so familiar to me.Touching them stimulated something more powerful than school memories, but I couldn’t stop to let the thought coalesce. The lock opened on the first pull.
Back behind the wheel again, I drove twenty feet down the overgrown path, stopped, then ran back to replace the chain.
Porkpie was slumped against the seat, just coming to, when I returned to the car. I pulled out one of the Sigs and stuck it in his face, keeping one eye on the barely discernible road and the other on him. I wanted to pounce on him, break his neck with my teeth, tear him apart, and howl with fury.
For a full five minutes I drove through weeds, shrubs, and assorted fauna at a pace that barely kept the speedometer needle bouncing off zero. Porkpie was fully awake now, eyeing me like a rabid Doberman.
We emerged from the woods and entered a little field, at the edge of which stood a small, one-story, split-log cabin. Tiny porch, one window on either side of the low door, fieldstone fireplace, and a lopsided lean-to shed. An inch behind the cabin was a hundred-foot cliff and the cold Pacific—the classic Hollister House view. I stopped the car and turned off the motor. The surf resounded against the rocks below.
“I’m going to get out and come around,” I told Porkpie. “Put your hands on your head. If you move, I’ll shoot both your knees.”
His contemptuous eyes followed me to the passenger door. Opening it, I stepped back and instructed him to get out. He obliged. The crook of my arm was stiff from holding it in one position.
I told him to put his hands down.
He lowered them, clenching and unclenching.
“Tell me where Krell and Tecci are,” I demanded.
Porkpie reached behind his head to touch the lump, winced, and hunched down like he was going to be sick. He dry-heaved once, and, as he straightened back up, threw a lightning-fast front-kick at my hand, knocking the gun into the web of tall grass.
Positioning himself in a karate stance, he whipped a roundhouse kick that I barely pulled away from. In a fluid move, he shuffle-steppedin and launched another right at my chest. This time he connected, sending me flying backward about six feet past the house, knocking half the wind out of me.
I grabbed my gut and felt for the other Sig, but before I could get it out he was on me, driving a heel into my ribs.
I covered up, rolled, and scrambled out of the way and to my feet. He closed the distance again and threw another kick that connected, propelling me closer to the cliff and the angry ocean below.
“A kickboxer against a stuntman,” he hissed, grinning at me through yellow teeth. “Let’s see some stunts, boy.”
Again I reached for the gun; again he drove his foot into my aching gut. I stumbled backward almost to the edge of the precipice, arms out, gasping for breath. Slipping on the rocks where the field gave way to the cliff, I struggled to regain my balance. I couldn’t catch my wind; my diaphragm was paralyzed.
“Ready? Action!” Porkpie shouted, setting up for the kick that would send me over the edge. As he threw his leg out, I dropped to one knee, ducked, and punched him right in the sack with everything I had. He grabbed his crotch and cried out. I put a hand on the ground for support and swept his feet out from under him. He fell back, his hat falling off, and slipped on the same rocks that had almost gotten me the moment before.
Arms flailing, Porkpie tried desperately to stay upright. I reached for the gun. As I pulled it from the rig, he slipped and tumbled silently off the cliff.
I lay back on my elbows and stared, saucer-eyed, at the cloudless sky until I was able to draw a steady breath. I continued to lie there, half in the tall weeds, half on the cold rock, for maybe ten minutes before I finally sat up.
My stomach hurt, my shoulder blade hurt, I’d killed two guys, my would-be informant had just turned into pate, and Ginny was starring in
With a quivering hand, I picked the damn thing up, inched over to the edge of the precipice, and tossed it over the cliff.
I shrugged out of my jacket and inspected it. There were two four-inch tears to the left of the mid-back. I reached over to feel my shoulder blade where it hurt. Two big slivers of glass protruded.
Painfully, I plucked them out with my thumb and forefinger. Each piece was triangular, from the sliding glass door Mr. Muscles had shattered. I flung them at the ocean.
I couldn’t very well cruise into town looking for Ginny; if the cops got me, I’d be no good to her. I had no choice but to wait for Pop. I trudged up the stairs to the Baby Face Nelson Suite.
I entered the cabin, expecting to walk into a faceful of cobwebs. Instead, I found Pop’s quaint private little hideaway.
In the center of an oval, braided rug stood an old easel with an amateurish watercolor of a bird in a tree taped to it. A padded piano stool—the kind you can lower or raise by screwing or unscrewing— stood in front of the easel.
A well-made rocking chair sat in the corner by the fireplace, a neatly folded Mexican blanket draped over its back. A handsome oak pirate’s chest was placed next to the chair; on top of it sat a tall kerosene hurricane lantern and an open box of kitchen matches. In the far corner of the room was a sink with an iron-handled pump.
