“Wayne, stop. I’m not defending him.” Lily had just come out of the restroom and was walking toward Alex. “All I’m saying is that DFG has no proof. They’d better get more than that before they arrest Ngo.”
Wayne followed the direction of her gaze and turned. His face reddened and then he was off his chair, fists clenched at his sides.
Christ, Rho thought, not another scene like last week!
Quickly she stood and followed, but by the time she caught up with Wayne, he was looming over Alex, in his face and shouting.
“I told you what’d happen if I saw you with her again, you fuckin’ gook!”
Rho grabbed Wayne’s arm, tried to pull him back. He shook her off and she stumbled against the next table. The bar grew quiet.
Alex sat with his arms folded, acting as if Wayne wasn’t there, but Lily half rose. “Stop it, damn you!”
Wayne grasped his sister’s arm and dragged her all the way to her feet. “Go outside and wait for me in my truck.”
“I’m not — Ow! That hurts, you bastard!”
Someone stepped between Rho and Wayne now, a tall man who moved swiftly and confidently. He got Wayne in a restraint hold, breaking his grasp on Lily. Said to the couple, “Get out of here. Now!”
They went, while Wayne struggled against his captor. Rho stepped forward to intervene and recognized the man. The tourist she’d almost run down that morning.
“Let him go,” she told him. “I’ll handle this.”
The black-haired woman took over, and Guy released his hold on her friend. She grasped him by the arms and spoke forcefully, her delicate face close to his.
“You can’t keep doing this, Wayne. You’re only driving her away from you.”
“Fuckin’ gook’s wrecking her life—”
“No, Lily’s wrecking her life, and till she realizes that and decides to do something about it, nothing you say or do is going to change things.”
“Guess you’re the expert on that, Rho.”
The woman recoiled, taking her hands off him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
He shook his head and turned on Guy, giving him a shove that knocked him against the jukebox. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, buddy. Keep your goddamn hands to yourself!” Then he started for the door in a tight, angry stride.
Guy pushed away from the jukebox and rubbed his shoulder, where Wayne’s hand had caught him. The woman came over to him and said, “Thanks. I owe you. Where’d you learn that hold?”
“In the navy, shore patrol. May I buy you a drink?”
“Let me buy you one.” She headed back to her table and Guy followed, taking the chair Wayne had vacated. The noise level in the bar was returning to normal. Probably altercations were a normal component of Signal Port’s Saturday-night festivities.
“Your friend doesn’t like Asians much,” he commented.
“My colleague at the sheriff’s department, Deputy Wayne Gilardi, doesn’t like that particular Asian — and for good reason.”
Guy remembered the SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT bumper sticker on her truck, and winced. She was a cop. And so was Wayne. Jesus...!
“I’d’ve never grabbed him like that if I’d known—”
“No way you could have. He’s off duty.”
“Still, you don’t go around assaulting the local law.”
“You’re perfectly justified when the local law’s making an ass of himself. Besides, his fellow deputy nearly assaulted you this morning. Recovered from that scare yet?”
“Fully. My name’s Guy Newberry, by the way.” He waited to see if she might recognize it, but if she did, she gave no sign. Writers, he thought wryly, labored in obscurity. Even best-sellers like himself failed to achieve notice unless they were celebrities in some other field or at events where the attendees expected to see them. On the one hand, anonymity made his type of work easier, but on the other it could be deflating.
“Rhoda Swift.” She offered her hand, and he clasped it. Her grip was strong and straightforward.
As she signaled to the waitress he said, “So you’re with the sheriff’s department.”
“Thirteen-year veteran, work out of the substation here in town. And you’re a stranger to the coast.”
“It shows that much? Well, yes, I’m from New York City. But I’m thinking of relocating. What’s it like to live in Signal Port?”
She frowned — more puzzled by the question than displeased, he thought. “Like living in any small town, I guess. Everybody knows you, your life history, your business. And they’re pleased to hash it over with anybody else who’ll listen. Fortunately, you also know about them, so in the end everybody’s even.”
“You’ve lived here your whole life?”
“Except for college in another small town.”
“Ever had the urge to get out, try a big city?”
“Not particularly. I’d still be carrying the small-town girl around inside me. Now you, Mr. Newberry—”
“Guy.”
“Guy. And please call me Rhoda. What is it you do that allows you to consider relocating to someplace this remote?”
Rhoda Swift, he thought, might be more friendly than her fellow townspeople, but just as adept at fielding questions. And he sensed that, as a member of the sheriff’s department, she’d close off completely if he revealed the reason he was here. So he opted for a half-truth.
“Freelance writing,” he said. And with the intention of making her thoroughly bored with his profession, he launched into a monologue about the new laptop he’d bought for the trip.
The evening proceeded pleasantly, if not very profitably, through drinks and dinner, but ended abruptly when Rhoda’s pager went off and she returned the call from the phone in the lobby. She came back to the table tight-lipped and obviously upset, but would offer only the terse explanation that a potential witness to a serious crime had been killed in his cell in the county jail in Santa Carla.
Chrystaclass="underline" Before
Friday, October 6
10:32 A.M.
Jesus, this road! I thought a couple of those stretches back in Mendocino County were white-knucklers, but this one’s got them beat to hell. Take a curve too fast and you’d be screaming all the way down the cliff. And it’s a long way down.
How the hell do people up here survive, driving this thing every day? Guess they get used to it. Must get used to being so far away from everything, too. Haven’t seen a house in miles, just cows on the hillsides. I remember what Jude used to say about the cows: that they were specially bred with their legs shorter on one side so they could stand up on those steep slopes. Thought she was a riot, but it drove Leo nuts every time she said it.
Mileage sign. Signal Port’s thirty miles north. Less to where I’m going. But miles seem longer up here than on regular roads. Lots longer.
Jesus, Chryssie, watch your driving! You’ve come too far now to screw up and take a nosedive off the cliff. You’re nervous, is all. All those instructions and warnings Jude gave you — they’re fuckin’ with your head.
Why’d she send me up here if she thought I couldn’t get away with it? Desperate, I guess. Greedy, too. Well, why not? Me and her, we never had nothing. And why shouldn’t she believe I can’t pull it off? All my life she’s been telling me I’m a loser.
Well, not this time. This time Jude’s gonna be wrong.
Sunday, October 8
She was kneeling in the fog-damp pine needles, the boy’s body so slight that she easily cradled him in her arms. Blood bubbled at his lips as he gasped for breath, his eyelids fluttering. She thrust frantic fingers into his mouth, trying to clear his airway.