Ridiculous.
She wished she hadn’t killed Harry and Lib. She always wished she hadn’t done it.
Not that she felt very guilty about it. They both got what they deserved. They’d turned against her. Sooner or later, they would’ve turned against Eric, too. If she hadn’t killed them, there would’ve been hell to pay.
But she’d liked them.
Both.
If things had worked out differently. Lib might’ve been like a big sister to her. Harry might’ve been like a brother
Or lover.
Who knows?
Ever since that night twelve years ago, she couldn’t drive past the grave without remembering it all.
Couldn’t remember without wishing she hadn’t killed them.
Wishing they hadn’t made it necessary.
It all worked out for the best, she told herself.
Not for them.
Well, tough. They should have behaved.
Better that they didn’t behave, she thought. Otherwise, I might’ve been lulled into trusting them. Then it would’ve been me and Eric getting the shaft.
This way, I got in the first strike.
What’s that military term?
A preemptive strike.
Yeah.
I sure preempted the shit out of those two. Got them before they could get us.
Off through the trees, Pacific Coast Highway came into sight. Sandy drove ahead slowly, then stopped a few yards short of the heavy, iron gate barring her way. She hopped out and strode toward it. As she walked through shadows and brilliant sunlight, her boots crunched the fallen leaves, pine needles and twigs. Mixed in with the heavy scents of the woods was a fresh, strong smell of ocean. And a feel of the ocean’s breeze, cooler and fresher than the sweet warm air of the woods.
It always got her just about now, on her way to open the gate.
My gate.
. The dirt road hadn’t been gated in Harry’s days. Sandy, herself, had bought the barricade in town and hired a couple of guys to install it.
The gate did a fair job of keeping people out.
That, and the sign wired to its front:PRIVATE PROPERTY
KEEP OUT
VIOLATERS SUBJECT TO PROSECUTION
AND TARGET PRACTICE
The sign was her own creation. She thought the “target practice” bit, while threatening, showed a certain wit and style.
The sign and the gate itself seemed especially cool considering that the private property wasn’t hers.
The land belonged to Harry Matthews.
He owned it. He was buried in it.
After removing the padlock, Sandy walked backward, pulling the gate. When it was wide open, she stepped back, read her sign and grinned. then she hurried to the pickup. She rolled through, shut and locked the gate behind her, then drove slowly over the rough dirt tracks, bouncing and shaking until she reached the edge of the highway,
She waited until an enormous RV roared by. After that, the road was clear. She made a hard right turn onto the pavement and stepped on the gas.
The nearest town was Fort Platt, almost fifty miles up the coast. She turned on the radio. Reaching over in front of the passenger seat, she opened the glove compartment Half a dozen cassette tapes were piled inside. She found her favorite Warren Zevon tape—the one with “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” Then she shut the compartment, slid the cassette into the slot in her radio, and pushed the start button.
“Now we’re cookin’,” she muttered.
As much as she regretted leaving Eric behind—and worried about his safety—she couldnt help but enjoy being alone on the road.
Free.
She settled back in the seat and smiled at the feel of the wind in her face.
Resting her left arm on the sill of the open window, she steered with one hand. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse. Air ruhed in through the arm hole, slid over her breasts, fluttered the front of the blouse She unfastened a couple of buttons to let more air come in.
High above the ocean, she could see little more than the horizon when she looked straight to the left. Looking ahead, however, she could see down over the left side of the highway. A fabulous view stretched out ahead of her—miles of rough, rocky bluffs with patches of sandy beach down below, the ocean’s frothy rows of combers rolling in. The water was pale blue and glinting sunlight. Far off to the west, a bank of fog lay across the water like a mat of snow.
To the right, she could see densely wooded hillsides and cloudless sky.
This is the life, she thought.
If you don’t mind biding your life away in the bills with a monster.
She felt a quick flush of guilt.
He’s my kid, she told herself. He is my life.
He’s a monster.
But he’s mine and I love him. And what choice do I have, anyway ?
She knew the choices.
She’d thought about them many times.
Alone during her long drives into town, she rarely failed to think about the choices.
There were only two, really. Either continue hiding out with Eric, or leave him.
It’s not as if he really needs me anymore, she thought. He could get along just fine on his own.
Years ago, Eric had started chasing down and killing wild animals (and sometimes people) for his meals. He ate them where they fell, though he often brought back gifts of meat for Sandy to cook up for herself. Sure, he enjoyed special treats like pizza, popcorn, cake, chocolate chip cookies—but he didn’t need anything like that.
Didn’t need Sandy at all, really.
Sure, he’d miss me. He’d miss his mom. But he could get along just fine without me.
And I’d be free. I could have my own life.
Without him.
She felt hot and sick with guilt...and with a vast, overwhelming loneliness.
I couldn’t, she thought. I could never betray him like that. And God, I’d miss him. I just couldn’t.
But the alternative seemed almost as terrible.
To spend her whole life in that little cabin, all alone except for Eric. No lovers, no real children.
Real?
Again, guilt surged through her.
You know what I mean, she thought. I know he’s real. Do I ever! But my God, is it so awful to wish for a normal life? A husband and human kids?
It’s not that I don’t love Eric, but...
“Shit,” she said.
She hated thinking about these things.
Just then, the song came on. The song she liked best. The weird and spooky ballad about Roland, the headless Thompson gunner.
She sang along with it and tried not to think about such matters as Eric and freedom.
It was after ten o’clock by the time she drove over the bridge and entered town. At a public phone inside the Sea Breeze Cafe, she dropped in a quarter and tapped in a number that she knew by heart.
After two rings, a familiar voice asked, “May help you?”
“Hi, Blaze, it’s me.”
“Darrriing!”
“Could you use me today?”
“Could I? Of course! When could I not use you?”
Just thought I’d check. Make sure you’re not off on a cruise or something.”
“Oh, perish the thought! I may never go on a cruise again. I thought I’d die! Several people did! Ha!”
“Fun. Anyway, do you want me to come up to your place or should I meet you somewhere, or...?”
“Oh, come here first. If we decide on an outing, I’ll drive.”