He knew he could just keep driving south. Michelle wouldn't be home until late so nobody would even be looking for the car. He could zip over to the freeway and be out of the Bay Area within a couple of hours, out of the state easily by nightfall. Maybe even out of the country. It wasn't yet 1:30. If he pushed it, he could cross into Tijuana well before midnight. And, after Glitsky and Hardy had fixed things up for him, after the authorities had come to believe that it was Sephia and his friends after all, he could simply come back, reopen the Ark, continue as before. It was his fight, sure, but did that mean he had to be in it? Wasn't that the sucker play?
And what about Michelle?
Holiday for years had been playing himself as the tragic figure who didn't commit. He was too bruised by life, too battered by love and loss. The women had always understood, as Michelle would come to understand. He felt his pain too deeply, he was too sensitive. The idea that his broken heart would ever heal just wasn't really on the table.
Was he really ready to abandon that charade for good?
He was. All the running around, the scoring, the drinking, the moving on from woman to woman hadn't given him one minute of true happiness. But Michelle had. By the same token, Dismas Hardy had taken him into his life, endured his jokes and visits and hangovers, made him part of the family-God knew why. So Diz and Michelle, were they just to be more sacrifices that he'd burn on the altar of his pathetic self-pity?
He'd come to his last turn if he wasn't going to get on the freeway. He didn't take it. Suddenly putrid with fear, he realized that he wasn't going to Mexico or anywhere else except Pier 70, where Glitsky was going to need all the help he could get. Hardy had never said anything definite about going himself-in fact, he'd outright denied he would be there. It was police business, he'd said. Civilians didn't belong, would be out of place.
But Holiday knew Hardy. He would be there.
When they got this cleared up, Holiday would start taking care of the Ark, of Michelle, of the rest of his business. His life.
19
On Saturday afternoon, Vincent Hardy opened the 'front door of his house and stood in the entrance to his living room where his father and Abe Glitsky were speaking in measured tones, having a serious discussion. He wore a long-sleeved Jerry Rice 49er T-shirt, tennis shoes and calf-length baggy shorts; mostly, though, what he wore was mud. Hardy looked at him with a wary expectancy, but mostly with a poorly concealed lack of patience.
"Dad," he said without preamble, "I need a chainsaw."
Glitsky, not really in the mood for it, nevertheless broke a rare smile. "As who does not, Vin? As who does not?"
"A chainsaw?" Hardy's back was still sore and he was reclining, feet up, in his reading chair. "A chainsaw?"
"Everybody needs one sometime," Glitsky said.
Vincent didn't get the joke. "Maybe, but I need one now. We really do, Dad."
"What for?" his father asked.
"To cut stuff."
"There," Glitsky said, the question settled for all time. "What did you think he wanted it for, Diz? To cut stuff. You can't do much else with a chainsaw, can you?"
"I saw some guys juggle one down at Venice Beach one time," Hardy said. "A chainsaw, a bowling ball and an egg. It was awesome." He whipped on his son. "What do you want to cut, Vin?"
"Some trees, over in the park." He pointed vaguely outside. "They're hanging over the sidelines at the football field."
"What football field?"
"Just at the end of the block. Where we practiced for Little League."
Hardy grimaced as he came forward slightly. "There's no football field down there."
"Yeah, there is. We're making one."
"That's why they need the chainsaw," Glitsky said. "Obviously."
Hardy knew the Little League practice area well. It was a small plot just to the left of the entrance to the elegant and majestic Palace of the Legion of Honor, one of San Francisco's premier tourist destinations. Hardy had been one of a contingent of local dads who a few years before had gone down to the Parks Commission and requested that they be allowed to bring in a backstop for baseball so that the kids could have a flat, grassy place to practice. The commission finally agreed, but only under the condition that it would be a revocable permit, good for a few months in the spring, and that the lot should otherwise remain pristine. And now, judging from his son's appearance, the place was at best a mudhole, and they needed a chainsaw to clear more land.
After Hardy had finally, with much gnashing of teeth, made the sad truth clear to Vincent, and he'd gone down to break the news to his friends and teammates, he lay back in his chair, covered his face with his hands briefly, let out a deep breath. "So where were we?"
"Do you realize that none of my three sons ever said those words to me?"
"What words?"
"Dad, I need a chainsaw. It kind of choked me up."
"It is a beautiful phrase."
"Every dad should hear it at least once. Well." Glitsky let out a theatrical sigh. "At least I got to hear your kid say it. That's some consolation. When the guys in Venice juggled it, was the chainsaw going?"
"Yeah."
"With a bowling ball and an egg? Was the egg hard-boiled?"
"I don't know. I'd assume so."
"But if it wasn't, imagine? I would have loved-"
"Abe." Hardy held up a hand. "Please."
Glitsky's mouth turned down. "Okay, but I think I've got a chainsaw in my garage, if you change your mind and want to borrow one."
"I won't. Can we drop the chainsaw?" Then, reading Glitsky's mind, Hardy said, "Don't."
Glitsky's frown grew more pronounced.
Hardy took his opening. "But on this other thing… I'm still trying to imagine who might have shot at us if it wasn't Sephia."
"And you're sure it wasn't him?"
"Blanca was sure enough when I talked to him last. Said he checked around and called Nick up in Nevada, where he'd been since last night. So it wasn't him. But who does that leave?"
"Maybe Wade's got some other shooters on the payroll?"
Hardy had thought of almost nothing else in the twenty-six hours that had elapsed since he'd arrived at Coit Tower. It showed in his drawn and worried face. "But there's no reason to come after me. I'm no threat anyway if Freeman…" His voice wound down.
"Maybe they don't know that."
Hardy's voice grew hard. "Meaning maybe you think I should tell them I'm out of it? Just roll over?"
Glitsky spread his hands. "Meaning nothing. My favorite theory is they weren't after you anyway. Whoever it was, they wanted Holiday."
"How'd they know he was there?"
"How'd they know you were? Somebody followed somebody, that's all. Happens all the time. The tail figures out your destination is Coit Tower, calls for the cavalry in the gray sedan, you're there when they arrive twenty minutes later. Then it's sorry, no hard feelings, but it's bad luck to leave witnesses breathing."
"Maybe," Hardy said. "But what's the deal with Blanca? I mean, early afternoon yesterday he's the perfect cop. Wanted to know everything I had. Impressions, suspicions, you name it. We talked about David, getting a lead on these cretins… anyway, three hours later he's a different guy."
"Maybe he ate lunch at Lou's in the meanwhile, got a stomachache."
Hardy kept talking. "He knows it wasn't Sephia. Plus he wasn't going after Panos until he got some physical evidence. Then he asks me how come I hadn't told him I was with Holiday up at Coit? Didn't I think that mattered? It's like, suddenly, I'm the bad guy. What, I'm making this stuff up to ruin his day? I wanted to go, 'Hey, remember me? I'm the guy who got shot at. I am the victim here.' Anyway, he tells me he'll call if something comes up, but I'm not holding my breath."