The Two Minute Rule

the street in his direction.

Holman crabbed backwards away from the boat, then slipped across the backyard in the direction from which he had come. They were fanning away from the house and wouldn’t expect him to double back, but this was an old trick he learned as a teenager when he first started breaking into apartments. He jumped back over the fence into the next yard and saw a stack of patio bricks. He took one, and he would need it for what he had planned. He continued across the yard, not crashing across as he had before, but moving quietly and listening. He eased over the fence and was again behind the yellow house. The backyard was empty and quiet. He slipped along the side of the house toward the street, stopping, starting, listening. He couldn’t take too much time because Vukovich and the others would return when they couldn’t find him.

Holman slipped along the side of the yellow house, staying beneath the windows. He could see the Highlander sitting in the street. They would probably see him when he made his move, but if he got lucky they would be too far away to stop him. He edged closer, and that’s when he heard a woman’s voice coming from inside the house.

The voice was familiar. He slowly raised up enough to see into the house.

Maria Juarez was inside with Random.

Holman should never have looked. He knew not to look from years of breaking into houses and apartments and stealing cars, but he made the mistake. Random caught the movement. Random’s eyes widened, and he turned for the door. Holman didn’t wait. He lurched to his feet and crashed through the shrubs. He only had seconds, and now those seconds might not be enough.

He ran for the Highlander as hard as he could and heard the front door open behind him. Vukovich was already on his way back and broke into a run. Holman shattered the Highlander’s passenger-side window with the patio brick, then reached in and unlocked the door, Random screaming behind him.

“He’s here! Vuke! Tommy!”

Holman threw himself inside. Chee had given him two keys, and Holman had left the spare in the console. He jacked it open, fished out the key, then pushed himself into the driver’s seat.

Holman ripped away from the curb and didn’t look back until he was gone.

41

HOLMAN WANTED to dump the Highlander as quickly as possible. He turned at the next intersection, punched out of the turn, and powered up the street. He resisted the urge to turn again at the next cross-street because turning and zigging were sure ways to lose a pursuit. Amateur car thieves and drunks fleeing arrest always thought they could shake the police in a maze of streets, but Holman knew they couldn’t. Every turn cost speed and time and gave the police an opportunity to draw closer. Speed was life and distance was everything, so Holman powered forward.

Holman knew he had to get out of the residential neighborhoods and into an area with businesses and traffic. He hit Palms Boulevard on the fly, turned toward the freeway, and jammed into the first and largest shopping center he found, a big open-air monster anchored by an Albertsons supermarket.

The Highlander was large, black, and easy to spot, so Holman didn’t want to leave it in the main parking lot. He turned into the service lane behind the shops and stores, and drove along the rear of the shopping center. He pulled over, shut the engine, and looked at himself. His face and arms were scratched and bleeding and his shirt was torn in two places. Streaks of dirt and grass stains striped his clothes. Holman slapped off the dirt as best he could, then spit on his shirt tail to wipe away the blood, but he still looked like hell. He wanted to get away from the Highlander, but the remaining plastic restraint was still attached to his left wrist. Holman had cut the right loop on the boat’s propeller, and now the strands from the severed loop dangled from his left wrist like two strands of spaghetti. He studied the clasp. The restraints worked like a belt except the buckle only worked in one direction. The tongue of the belt could be slipped through the buckle, but tiny teeth prevented the tongue from being withdrawn. The plastic ties had to be cut, only now Holman didn’t have a blade.

Holman started the engine again, turned the air conditioner on high, then pushed in the cigarette lighter. He tried not to think about what he was going to do because he knew it was going to hurt. When the lighter popped out, he pulled the tie as far from his skin as possible and pressed the glowing end onto the plastic. Holman clenched his jaw and held firm, but it burned like a sonofabitch. He had to heat the lighter three more times before the plastic melted through.

Vukovich had taken his keys, wallet, money, and cell phone. Holman searched the floorboards and console, and came up with seventy-two cents. That was it. That was all he had.

Holman locked the Highlander and walked away without looking back. He made his way through a pet store filled with cages of chirping birds and found a pay phone outside the Albertsons. He wanted to warn Pollard and he needed her help, but when he reached the phone he couldn’t remember her number. Holman stood with the phone in his hand, drawing a total blank. He had programmed her number into his cell phone’s memory, but now his phone was gone and he couldn’t remember the number.

Holman started to shake. He slammed the phone into its cradle and shouted.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Three people entering the store stared at him.

Holman realized he was losing it and told himself to calm down. More people were looking. His cuts were bleeding again, so he wiped at his arms, but all that accomplished was smearing the blood. Holman scanned the parking lot. No patrol cars or anonymous Crown Victorias crept past the store. Holman began to calm down after a few minutes and decided to call Chee. He didn’t remember Chee’s number, either, but Chee’s shop was listed.

Holman fed in his coins, then waited while the information operator made the connection.

Chee’s phone rang. Holman expected someone to answer on the first couple of rings, but the ringing went on. Holman cursed his lousy luck, thinking the operator had given him the wrong connection, but then a young woman answered in a tentative voice.

“Hello?”

“I’m calling for Chee.”

“I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

Holman hesitated. It was the middle of the day during the work week. Chee’s shop should not have been closed.

“Marisol? Is this Marisol?”

Her voice came back, even more tentative.

“Yes?”

“This is Max Holman-your dad’s friend. I need to talk to him.”

Holman waited, but Marisol didn’t respond. Then he realized she was crying.

“Marisol?”

“They took him. They came-”

She broke into full-blown sobs and Holman’s fear level spiked.

“Marisol?”

Holman heard a man saying something in the background and Marisol trying to answer, and then the man came on the line, his voice also guarded.

“Who is this?”

“Max Holman. What’s she talking about? What’s going on over there?”

“This is Raul, man. You remember?”

Raul was the kid who put together Holman’s driver’s license.

“Yes. What was she talking about? Where’s Chee?”

“They hooked him up, man. This morning-”

“Who?”

“Fuckin’ cops. They arrested him.”

Holman’s heart started pounding again and he once more scanned the parking lot.