Rolling to the left, Duran counterpunched reflexively, but not to much use. In an instant, his adversary was behind him, looping his meathook arms under Duran’s own, then clasping his hands at the back of his neck, pushing him down. Duran was in shape, but it felt as if his arms were going to snap like twigs—and there was nothing that he could do about it. The man he was fighting was fifty pounds heavier, a lot stronger, and just as quick.
Then something strange happened. Without thinking about it, Duran jackknifed, plunging his head toward his knees so quickly that the Big Man sommersaulted over his shoulders. It was a wrestling move, and its fluency surprised Duran almost as much as it did its victim. Where did that come from? he wondered, as the Big Man’s tailbone smacked into the rock hard floor.
He lay there for a moment, stunned, as Duran glanced frantically around for something to hit him with—something to put him out. But there was nothing. Then the Big Guy was on his hands and knees, struggling to his feet. Terrified, Duran took a step back, then drove his instep into the other man’s chin as if he were kicking an extra point, snapping his neck with a crack so loud it could have been a gunshot.
Then the night was still, and the only noise was Duran gasping for air—he was still lit up with adrenaline, still in pain—and a soft, whimpering sound from where Adrienne lay in the corner of the stairwell.
Kneeling by her side, Duran coaxed her to wakefulness. Putting his hand behind her head, he could feel the blood from an open wound, matting her hair. “C’mon,” he said, lifting her gently into a sitting position. “We’ve got to go.”
Reluctantly, she let him drag her to her feet, where she stood, swaying, holding his arm as if it were a life preserver.
“Where are the keys?” he asked.
She nodded to the shopping bag, which held her purse and other things.
He reached in, opened the purse, and fumbled through it until he found the keys. Then he took her by the arm, and led her down the stairs to the mezzanine, just off the lobby. There was no one at the front desk, and no security guard.
Seeing the open, empty expanse, Adrienne balked. “What about the other man?”
“He’s looking for his friend,” Duran said. “C’mon.”
Together, they ran to a side door that gave way to the parking lot. Bursting into the night air, they sprinted for the car, jerked open the doors and dove in. Duran jammed the key in the ignition, revved the engine and said, “Put on your seat belt.”
“What?!” Adrienne stared at him in disbelief. “Go!”
He shook his head, and revved the engine even louder. “Put it on!” he shouted. Then he reached over his left shoulder, and drew his own seat belt across his chest, fastening the strap in the receptacle by his side.
“But—”
Duran wasn’t listening. His arm was on the back of the seat, and he was half-turned, looking out the back window.
Sputtering with exasperation and fear, Adrienne did as she was told and buckled up. Then she folded her arms across her chest, and sat stock-still, looking straight ahead in rapt frustration.
“There he is,” Duran told her, as a wild-eyed man burst out the side door of the motel, looking left and right.
“Are we going to sit here forever?” Adrienne asked.
In reply, Duran shoved the gearshift into reverse. The tires squealed, caught, and shot the Dodge backwards into the front end of the Mercury Cougar, ten yards behind them. There was a crash of glass, and a geyser of antifreeze as the Mercury’s hood jackknifed, its engine compacting and right wheel well folding in upon itself.
Adrienne screamed, and the man in the doorway roared—haplessly, if that’s possible. Easing the gearshift into Drive, Duran reversed direction, pulling away from the scene with the comment that “Seat belts aren’t just a good idea, y’know. They’re the law.”
Chapter 22
They were out of the parking lot, and almost to the highway before Duran noticed that the rain had turned to mist. Pools of water glowed in the indelible twilight that passed for night in the city. Up ahead, a dull roar rose from the interstate like heat shimmering over a desert highway.
Adrienne groaned. Duran glanced at her.
She was acting as if she had a concussion, fading in and out like a weak radio signal. No sooner were they on the highway, heading north, than she asked him to pull over onto the shoulder so she could throw up. After that, she seemed a little better. More alert.
But they didn’t talk. Using the controls on the armrest, he rolled down the car windows, so the cold air could help them focus. Driving past Capitol Hill, he turned to her, and asked, “You mind if I say something?”
She shook her head. “What?”
“I told you so.”
She blinked. Frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said: I told you so.”
Her frown deepened. “And what was it you told me?”
“Not to go to work.”
Her lips parted in reply, then closed in a pout. It was disgraceful of him to throw that in her face—even if he was right. Especially if he was right. And if he didn’t know that, well… After a while, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“Bethany Beach.”
She looked at him in disbelief, and he could see that she was feeling better. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t go there! I have to work!”
Duran rolled his eyes toward the roof.
“Turn around,” she demanded.
Duran laughed.
“I mean it!” she said. “Get off at the exit.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’? Stop the fucking car! I’m the one who rented it. It’s my—oooh!” Her hand went to the contusion at the back of her head. When he glanced at her again, she was staring at the blood on her fingers.
“It isn’t safe,” she complained, almost in a mumble.
“What isn’t?”
“Being with you.”
A huge truck rolled past, rocking the car with its turbulence, kicking up clouds of mist. Neither of them said anything for what seemed a long time. They passed the exits for Annapolis and Duran noted the first sign with the seagull logo, pointing the way to the Bay Bridge.
After a while, she asked, “Why Bethany?”
Duran shrugged. “I spent the summers there as a kid. We had a beach cottage.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “You sure?”
“Yeah—of course I’m sure.”
“Because your record’s not so great on this kind of thing. I mean, who you are, where you’re from and all that.”
Up ahead, a green sign cautioned them against drinking while driving: Reach the Beach, it told them. A second sign offered a radio frequency for traffic advice. Then they passed over a series of rumble-strips on the way to a line of toll-booths. Braking gently, Duran handed the attendant a five-dollar bill, and thanked him for the change before continuing on his way. The clock on the dashboard read 2:49.
Halfway across the Bay Bridge, he turned to her and said, “I remember the cottage, exactly.”
“Then tell me about it,” she said.
Duran shrugged. “Well, it’s got a name. They all have names, all the cottages in the old part of Bethany.”
“What else?” Adrienne asked.
“The town used to be a church camp.” He looked at her. “Our house was called ‘Beach Haven.’ It was written—in script—on a wooden plaque. Next to the front door. Screen door.”
“How original… what else do you remember?”
“The sound the screen door made when it slapped shut, the way the paint was peeling on the ceiling over the porch swing.” He paused. “I remember the garden—not that it was a garden, really. I remember the plants: a couple of hydrangeas, some irises, a stand of black-eyed Susans. I remember the outdoor shower, the way you could see the ground through the slats.”