pool cabana, crunched through a planter made of railroad ties. An elderly man in a bathrobe watering flowers leapt away, screeching something unintelligible.
Looking for a shortcut, Steve ran through an adjacent yard and headed for the next street, El Prado. He was betting the pickup would turn right and make a run for LeJeune, away from the snarled traffic. He headed on an angle to intercept it.
Turn right. Damn you, turn right.
Engine roaring, wheels tearing through the soft grass, the truck bounced into El Prado just as Steve emerged from the yard of an adjacent home.
The truck turned right. He had the angle. If he timed it perfectly
…
You can do this. You can make it.
Running at full speed, Steve reached out. The rear gate of the truck was inches away. He launched himself, his foot catching on the bumper, his hand grabbing at the gate. He tumbled into the truck bed, sliding on his belly until his head hit the base of a lockbox, jamming his neck into his shoulders.
Shit, that hurts. That really hurts.
Bleary, unable to catch his breath, blood trickling down into his eyes, he scrambled to his feet just as the truck swerved right and tossed him into the left side-rail. Then it swerved hard left, and he was flung into the right side-rail. As he bounced off, he got a fleeting look into the tinted rear window of the cab. A man drove; a woman was in the passenger seat. Sitting between them, looking directly at him, tears streaking his face, eyes wide with fear, was Bobby.
Dizzy, his head throbbing, Steve grabbed the handle of the lockbox and steadied himself. He sensed movement behind him and whirled around. There were two old tires with no tread, a rolled-up tarp, and two cans of paint rolling around.
And a dog.
The dog was trying to get its balance, its tail tucked beneath its hindquarters. A big, mangy brown mutt with matted hair, a mix of Rottweiler and German shepherd, he guessed. The dog growled at him as if he had just swiped its pork chops.
“Hey, fellow,” Steve said, extending a hand, showing how friendly he was.
The dog crouched on its haunches. The hair stood up on its neck.
Keeping one eye on the dog, Steve opened the lockbox lid. Hammers. Screwdrivers. A drill. A box wrench maybe two feet long. He would have preferred a baseball bat, but the wrench would do. Behind him, the dog's growl deepened ominously.
There was oncoming traffic now, and the truck had stopped swerving. Turning his back to the dog, Steve leaned over the driver's side of the cab, reaching as far as he could, the wrench in his left hand. Just as his backswing hit its apogee, he heard the sound of claws scratching metal. A second later, he brought the wrench down with all his might, and he felt the dog's teeth sink into his butt.
“Shit!” Steve screamed as the window shattered.
“Shit!” yelled the driver from inside the cab.
The truck swerved right, jumped the curb, flattened a mailbox, and slammed into a jacaranda tree. Steve felt himself flying over the side rail. He landed face-first in a honeysuckle shrub. For a moment, all went black. In the next moment, he was aware of several things at once:
His eyes refused to focus, his butt ached, and his nose was bleeding.
The mangy dog was yelping, running down the street.
A man with glass shards stuck in his forehead was getting out of the driver's side of the pickup, blood streaming down in his face.
Bobby ran to Steve, crying.
An overweight woman in granny glasses hustled after Bobby, yelling his name. She had greasy, dark hair that was pulled back in a ponytail. As she ran, her breasts jiggled under a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Her voice brought back vaguely unpleasant memories. “Jan?”
“It's me, Stevie,” Janice Solomon said.
“Then I must have died and gone to hell.”
“Not yet,” the man said. He was standing ten feet away, a jack handle in his hand. Rufus Thigpen. Shaved head, scarred skull, and a face as mean as a hungry weasel.
“I thought you were in jail, Thigpen.”
“They let me out, shithead. Gave me three hundred dollars and a motel room.”
“They teach you how to use indoor plumbing?” Steve struggled to his feet, scooping up a handful of dirt from the honeysuckle bed. He didn't think Thigpen saw him do it; the guy was wiping blood from his eyes. Steve was afraid, but not for himself. He could survive being beaten up; Bobby could not survive being taken away.
Thigpen gestured with the jack handle. “I owe you some major pain, fucker.”
“Yeah, yeah. That's the second time you said that to me.” What had he said at their meeting in the Fink's office? “I owe you, fucker.” There was something about the phrase… And the voice… And the way he gripped the jack handle… And then it came to him. From some deep, dark place, like a chilly waterway.
“It was you, Thigpen. That's what you said to me on the dock. ‘I owe you, fucker.' You're the guy with the winch handle and the potty mouth.”
“I should have drowned you when I had the chance,” Thigpen said.
“I don't get it. Why break into my house? What did you want?”
“Ask your dumb-ass sister. If you can still talk when I'm through with you.”
“Don't hurt him, Rufe,” Janice wailed.
“Fuck that. He scrambled my brains.”
“How can you tell the difference?” Steve said.
Thigpen took a step toward him. Steve knew he'd have one chance, that's all. His eyes were starting to focus, but the throbbing in his head had worsened. A hundred pounds of sand shifted inside his skull with every movement.
Thigpen took another step and brought the jack handle back.
Almost there. One more step.
Bobby dived for Thigpen's legs.
“No!” Steve yelled.
Thigpen swatted Bobby across the face and knocked him to the ground.
“Touch him again, I'll rip out your throat,” Steve said.
“Try it,” Thigpen sneered.
Bobby crouched on his haunches in the dirt, a hand over one eye.
“It's gonna be okay, kiddo,” Steve promised. “We'll go home in a minute.”
“The fuck you will.” Taking one last step, Thigpen swung the jack handle. Steve slid to the side, the handle just missing his ear. He flicked out a hand and tossed the dirt into Thigpen's face, closing his eyes.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Thigpen clawed at his eyes, and Steve kicked him squarely in the groin. Thigpen doubled over, and Steve locked both hands together and swung them up, hard, connecting with the man's nose, breaking it with a satisfying crunch of cartilage and a spray of blood. Thigpen collapsed, moaning, one hand clutching his face, the other his crotch.
Steve limped to the truck and leaned on it for support. “Jan, what the hell?”
“I just wanted to see my Bobby for a little bit. I wouldn't hurt him…”
Bobby ran to Steve, wrapped his arms around him. “Can we go home, Uncle Steve?” He wouldn't look at his mother.
“You bet, kiddo.”
Thigpen got to one knee, mumbled something about the sword of God, collapsed flat in the dirt. In the distance, a police siren wailed.
“I would have brought Bobby back, honest,” Janice gabbled. “I woulda had to. Rufe didn't want to take him along.”
“Where you going?”
Janice pulled at her ponytail. “Away somewhere. After Bobby's case is over. This lawyer, Zinkavich, got us
