Sinner's Revenge

By Bob Thatcher

After a smooth first thirty years, successful Southern-California dentist, Doctor Joseph Wayne Pedrick, gets a solid one/two to the jaw from life. Reeling, when he sees a good reason to leave town on a quick trip, he grabs a few things from home and goes. Choosing his weekend hobby car, a lowered black 1954 Mercury, he’s off from L.A. to a ways north of the Golden Gate.

In the years since the Economy crashed and the Recovery didn’t include many now very angry and desperate citizens, the West has once again become Wild. Doctor Pedrick had never been off on his own like this before, but armed with his hunting shotgun and a small handgun in an ankle holster, he’s sure he can survive a few-hundred miles drive and back.

When animal shelters became overwhelmed and could no longer take all the unwanted canines, packs of hungry abandoned critters roamed and multiplied at will, city and country, beyond the control of anybody; Canada has outlawed tobacco; all U.S. citizens are permitted to carry guns for protection from vicious dogs and each other; feminists have won the right for women to go shirtless anywhere a man may; and using the 1975 book Sugar Blues by William Dufty—“ Like opium, morphine and heroin, sugar is an addictive, destructive drug, yet Americans consume it daily in everything from cigarettes to bread . . . “—a politician got through a bill to make sugar a controlled substance. But that’s just where things have gotten, not what the story is about.

Doctor Joe was happily married and content at lunch time, was in a total tailspin soon after dinner. At dawn the next morning he gets caught up in an armed robbery, and that night he’s off on a Mission, nobody could believe it. Not a familiar face or scene in sight. He goes through painful always-being-on-a-schedule withdrawals, cold turkey. He can’t believe the low blow his wife had delivered out of the blue. But he was off to discharge the chaldra of the security guard; only then would he go back home and pick up the pieces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Thatcher
• Release date: Jan 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458083340

Book preview

CHAPTER TWO

Joseph W. Pedrick, age thirty, an only child, had always sought to please his loving parents. He was the first member of either family to get a higher education than a trade-school diploma, had married a woman his folks adored, and was content that his life-course was established.

Now his world had been totally blown apart. His parents suddenly divorced and moved to different states—his father to Alaska, Mom to Florida. The wife they had liked so was less than fulfilling to Joe. His career as a dentist, the pride of his parents, was just a job to the son. And now, after the phone call from the accountant, nothing mattered.

His marital upheaval had begun with that leering plumber. Joe and his wife’s home had a septic drain problem, which turned out to be a clog of condoms that had caught on a rough protrusion in the pipe. Trouble was, Joe never used a condom. Those things happen. In spite of the number of them, (and how many hadn’t got caught?), Joe could handle that.

The shocker had been, after a little investigation, not even that his wife had two lovers, even that he could deal with. But his wife had. . . had. . . he couldn’t even think about the underlying cruelty of what she had done.

When he learned that final aspect of his wife’s infidelity, on top of the surprise break-up of his parents, Joe had considered many possible reactions to the pain, but nothing he could think of seemed it would make him feel better.

Joe Pedrick was simply an average guy, like in the old song. He enjoyed hunting and fishing, a good book, a hearty meal, occasional sex, a close game of pool, the respect of his friends—nothing beyond reason. He had no lofty social aspirations, he didn’t even enjoy golf or tennis. As the economy continued to decline year after year, many folks lost investments, soon couldn’t pay their debts, and suddenly been far in the hole financially. Joe was making sufficient income and had no debt except the house, had no stocks or real-estate investments, so was still flush as more ambitious folks were steadily being wiped out. It was the more affluent people who were suffering the most, walking away from their homes, turning pets loose since the pounds were overwhelmed, and many reduced to wandering alone or in groups just looking to stay alive. Most of the poor, with experience at getting by, were hardly phased by the economic situation. It wasn’t anything new to them.

Now Joe felt like the popular saying, Today is the first day of the rest of your life. He had nothing and no one. He virtually simply existed right now—no ties or responsibilities or anyone to please. The realization was frightening and exhilarating. The world was before him, but all he could see was a bottomless abyss. He had been only mildly concerned when he had been taken captive at the super market—as if he’d been dreaming. He really didn’t care one way or the other—no point of reference. He had perversely found the experience refreshingly new and interesting.

Yet now as he stood with the police in the parking lot and watched the bodies of the security guard and the woman being wheeled out, his hand closed around the ring in his pocket and he had a purpose. He mentioned nothing of this to anyone.

There were two more bodies lying in front of the store, two of the robbers. A shopping cart loaded with red wine and cigarettes stood nearby. With all the stories coming together, it seemed there had been six or seven robbers in total.

Joe refused an offered ambulance ride to a hospital to be checked out, made his statement and answered questions. He slipped away first chance he got. After checking over the Mercury, he did what he should have done in the first place: walked to the numbered call box, gave his Card Number, and arranged for an emergency vehicle to bring him some gasoline.

That night Doctor Joe was on the road again, this time with a destination. When he passed the spot on 101 where he had run out of gas that morning, he subconsciously checked his gauge. Once he had gone through Hollywood and the Valley, the traffic thinned dramatically. He slid the latest Gracie Starr disc into the player, put his mind on pause, and just followed the taillights of the car ahead toward Ventura.

The day had been filled with purpose. First he had checked online. Three decades earlier, the giant security guard had indeed been a starting lineman for a winning Super Bowl team. No kids had worn his jersey number to school, but he had been good. The ring could be sentimental for the granddaughter, or it could mean some cash if she needed to sell it. That would be up to her.

With a couple phone calls, Joe learned that the guard’s daughter had married a Jim North. Both had died in a fiery plane crash on a visit to China eight or nine years earlier. Their orphaned daughter, Virginia Ginger North, now age twenty-two, was last heard from three years ago, living in the wild NoCal territories. If he was able to locate her, there could even be insurance money or inherited property waiting for her.

Mercifully, his wife, Crystal, had been out when he got home. He loaded the Merc with rugged outdoor clothing, pull-on boots, camping equipment, his Ithaca twelve-gauge shotgun and shells. He swung by the bank for cash; he had heard that many places not in secured Safe Zones no longer recognize Citizen Numbers or Cards. He and Crystal had flown to San Francisco and Seattle for short vacations, the cities were still patrolled, but much of the vast lands between the major urban centers had for the most part been given up to the lawless. Interstate-5 was heavily guarded and patrolled by air to keep commerce and traffic flowing and prevent car-jacking and robbery. But Joe was taking Route 101, he had heard so much about it. He was sure that if he didn’t venture up any side roads and kept moving—no matter what—through the open spaces, he could make it. Besides, he would have to take 101 across the Golden Gate Bridge to get to the territories, he might as well enjoy the safer, southern stretch.

A mere eighty miles north of Los Angeles, he had just passed the Seaward exit in Ventura, flashing blue and red lights went on behind him. He pulled over, knowing his car was being scanned for occupants and weapons. He lowered his window and stuck out both hands, knowing the officers would be cautious when they scanned his shotgun and ankle pistol.

Handguns drawn, two female Highway Patrol closed in on his car. Keep ‘em right where we can see ‘em. One aimed a gun at him through the passenger-side window, the other ordered him out of the car, immediately spun him around and shoved him against his car, put her pistol to the back of his head.

"Don’t even breathe.

Okay, C., come get the ankle gun.

With Joe disarmed, the two uniforms relaxed and backed off. One holstered her sidearm, pulled out an ID scanner. Okay, put your fingertips on the screen. She looked over to her partner, It’s okay, it’s him. The partner holstered her weapon, but remained back and poised.

We’ve been waiting for you, Doctor.

But how—

You set off alarms when you passed the county-line.

I hadn’t considered that at all. My other car has an unlimited travel clearance.

We tried to call you.

Joe thought of his phone he had thrown out the window along the freeway last night. I don’t have a phone.

The backup officer gasped, Never heard of such a thing.

Anyway, this is just a hobby car. It’s only licensed for L.A. and Orange counties. May I get a clearance through your computer? I’ve already been cleared state-wide personally and for my Cotati.

"Should be no problem. We mainly had to make sure it was you in it.

Where are you heading?

Up north. Mendocino county.

When the officer’s eyes widened and she didn’t move, Joe felt required to elaborate.

A friend’s daughter is up around Willits. Nobody has heard from her. I said I’d go look.

Well, Doctor Pedrick, she said over her shoulder as she started toward the cruiser, be careful. We gave up on keeping scanners up there long ago; they get destroyed as fast as they’re installed. She sat in her car and started tapping the computer keys. Except for some heavily-guarded ones at main intersections, there aren’t that many roads up there in those mountains, we wouldn’t know where to look if you disappeared. Since all the satellites got zapped by those lasers and there’re no GPS, we’re blind till they’re replaced.

Joe got an eerie rush with those police lights flashing in the darkness as a green glow rose from the Pacific Ocean, just out of sight to the west. Another mile north and he would be driving right next to the breakers.

Okay, Doctor, your toy there is cleared for the state. The fee has been deducted from your auto account. She returned his pistol, indicated for her partner to get back in the police car. Watch it if you stop anywhere past Santa Barbara city, especially around the rest areas. Dogs mostly. They’ve gotten some entire families. Even well-armed truck drivers. But we’ve also been getting reports of unknown persons wandering the open country.

As he pulled away from the police car, Joe suddenly realized, whoa, he was certainly having a lot of guns pointed at him today. Normally he would have come unglued by now, but his revelations about Crystal had numbed his senses, made him (he chuckled at the thought) like a man of steel.

Joe had never driven north of Ventura before. He had been here several times over the years with college friends, and later with Crystal, to frolic and try surfing on the famous waves. But he knew that U.S. Route 101 traveled through desolate cattle country when it cut inland north of Santa Barbara. After no sleep the night before, a morning of captivity and horror, a busy day, and now a one-hundred-mile drive, Joe decided to spend the night in Santa Barbara.

He turned in at the guarded gate of a motel parking lot, saw their scanner and figured that the office already had the registration information from his car’s chip with their limited-access computer. All he would have to do is sign and pick up his key. (The gals back in Ventura would know he was safe for the night if they had left his code open to follow his progress.)

In the room he stripped for a shower, decided instead he would relax in a hot bath. While the water ran into the tub, Joe found himself studying his body in the full-length motel mirror. He was shocked. Tubby and pale; not so much fat as just soft, but certainly not much to look at naked. The purple scars on both lower legs were his only coloring. It had been years since he had been to the beach, even though Huntington was a short drive down Highway 39 from his home. His back-yard pool was nice to barbecue by, but he never seemed to have the time to sun or swim. (He wondered how often Crystal and her men had used the pool together. A sharp pain passed through his thoughts. . . he forced them back to the image in the mirror.) Slightly under six-feet tall, a sturdy one-hundred-and-eighty pounds, he just basically looked bad with his clothes off. He had brown, wavy hair, strong facial features, his gray, Weimaraner eyes were his most striking characteristic. Clothed, he looked downright okay.

Oh well, he couldn’t worry about his body now. He took a pint of bourbon from his bag, poured two fingers into one of the plastic motel cups, and slid into the soothing hot water.

* * * * *

CHAPTER THREE

In the morning, Doctor Joe wondered just what he thought he was doing. Why was he here? He decided his decision to return a ring to somebody who could be anywhere in the world by now, or even dead up there, must be chalked up to the combination of shock, lack of sleep, and then more shock. He would have breakfast, then drive straight to his office. His office! He hadn’t even given a thought to his patients. This was an insane idea. A good night’s sleep had certainly done a world of good for his thinking.

He tossed his overnight bag into his car, decided to walk across the street to a restaurant. He bought a newspaper from the rack in front, walked in, nodded to an armed guard, found a seat in the sun by the front windows. He felt good.

The best thing for him to do would be to call his neighbors, Bob and Gerri, get one of them to put a note on his office door that he would open late today. He had totally blown off yesterday, but he could drive back south and possibly only miss the morning appointments today.

Coffee and orange juice in front of him, steak, eggs, and potatoes on the way, he opened the newspaper. The headlines screamed of various folks taking life too seriously; he flipped to the bottom half of page one. There was a picture of the wealthy businessman from yesterday, his mouth open and his palms up.

The headline read: Security Guard Brings Reign of Terror on Market Hostages. The executive explained how he himself had attempted to talk sense to everyone throughout the ordeal, but the uniformed guard had ignored his advice and recklessly cost his own life as well as that of the innocent woman, whom the exec had valiantly tried to protect. It was further heavily insinuated that Doctor Pedrick hadn’t handled himself very well either—leaving it up to the reader to decide in-as-much as the dentist hadn’t even had the courage to stick around and talk to reporters.

Joe was going north. If nothing else, to tell the young woman the truth about her grandfather if she should hear of this. He ate his breakfast without tasting a bite as he read both articles on the robbery.

Outside in a computer booth, not wanting to explain anything just yet, he composed a notice for his office door and sent it to his neighbors with a request that one of them please post it for him. He got his office home page and changed the recorded telephone and computer greetings. Then he recorded an apology to be called to all his patients with an appointment this week and had the calls sent.

Joe crossed the street to his old Mercury. In all this turmoil, he was still unable to miss its sleek profile, the chromium moon wheel covers, the sassy sun visor, the classic fender skirts. He got in and left the lot, driving slowly past the dark-windowed security shack.

Turning onto the north on-ramp of 101, just as he was about to look back at the oncoming traffic, he caught sight of a man with a bedroll climbing out of the dry river bed that ran under the highway, his long orange beard, obviously freshly combed, blowing proudly in the breeze.

•

Joe calmed down as he drove. Hey, what did he expect from that geek in the newspaper anyway? He had probably had to clean his drawers before he gave that interview. Joe would find the girl and set her straight, give her the ring, but he wouldn’t let that little man eat at him the entire trip.

The gently rolling hills, with only the occasional live-oak tree, seemed to Joe to be begging for a trail bike to be scooting across them. The hills looked like giant pillows a person could fall on but never get hurt.

As 101 moved away from the coast, the temperature rose. When all signs of civilization disappeared and traffic became sparse, Joe realized how vulnerable he was. He pulled to the shoulder of the road, checked in all directions for dogs, and the highway both ways for traffic, hopped out and grabbed the shotgun and a box of number four steel shot duck load from the trunk. Back in the car, he removed the plug that limited the shotgun’s capacity from two shells in the magazine and one in the chamber as required for hunting, and fully loaded it with five shells, put on the safety, and laid the gun on the floor within reach. While he was stopped, he checked the little .32 pistol at his ankle and then replaced it. Still no cars coming, he figured he would take this opportunity to relieve himself. Feeling the full impact of the desolation out here, he realized that he had better stock up first chance with some food and water, a couple cans of gas, spare batteries for his flashlight. It would become a matter of basic survival if anything went wrong with the car, even hitting a deer or a rock. And he wasn’t even two-hundred miles north of Los Angeles, with a long way to go. Matches, he didn’t even have matches, he realized. Thinking of some small thing now could prevent much misery later. He congratulated himself for thinking to bring the camping gear and rugged clothing.

Back in the driver’s seat, he started rolling north once again, had the super highway to himself. He knew that until just a few years ago there had often been heavy traffic along this stretch. Most travelers now either flew or took I-5 on their north-south trips. And of course no one could live out here anymore. Just too risky.

A row of big-rig trucks appeared in Joe’s rear-view mirror. Like a traveler in the covered wagon days, Joe figured that by joining the truckers, he would have a better chance of making it through hostile territory. As trucks began to pass, he noticed that a few other auto travelers had the same idea. Twenty-seven trucks and half a dozen cars passed him by; he hit the gas to keep up.

A couple miles up the road, Joe spotted wild dogs running through the golden grass off to his right; there must have been fifty of them. He would hate to be out changing a flat when they came along.

He switched his radio on: . . . all the bodies are as yet unexplained. . . Coming up next, all the latest sports scores from around the country. . . Are you tired of headache pain? The best relief— Joe clicked off the news, slid in a CD: The Best of Chopper.

Joe had always done his best thinking while driving. As a teenager in his parents’ car, it had been all he could do some nights to turn in the driveway with the dark road stretching on. He would slow down to turn, put on the left blinker, but his foot would refuse to leave the gas pedal for the brake. A couple good songs on the radio and he would be ten miles from home again.

Today he felt the same, mindlessly following the convoy ahead, listening to the old biker band belt out their version of some of the best attitude rock of the last fifty years. In his mind’s eye he could see Little Roy prance and dance, strut and slide across the stage, doing justice to the old songs. Joe tried to picture himself riding a motorcycle like Roy and the band. He had known that it would never be accepted into the rest of his life, but hey, now who’s to care?

The music ended and Joe defiantly started the album over again. He noted he was down to a quarter tank of gas. Next chance he would fill up. He saw three police cars driving south in a hurry, the first south-bound traffic he had seen. He shifted on the car seat, pulled out his wallet and tossed it onto the dash, changed the angle of his right leg to the gas pedal to avoid a cramp. He thought of the girl, Ginger. Would he find her; would she understand—or care? Didn’t really matter. He was doing this for the guard, and himself, as much as for her. He wished he had known the guard before, could have had a few drinks with him, gotten his opinion on a few things. If only—

Suddenly snapped out of his reverie, Joe saw the trucks and cars ahead taking evasive action, swerving left and right across the two lanes and paved shoulder of the road. He reached for the shotgun as he gunned the Merc and went for left. As the vehicles parted he could see the remains of a car smoldering in the slow lane. He passed in a flash. The car’s tires had melted away, all the glass was gone, the interior completely burned out, and not a soul in sight anywhere. Vehicle tracks showed disappearing east through the tall golden grass. He kept after the wagon train, but kept his hand on the 12-gauge now as he drove.

Santa Maria had blockaded all but one exit leading into town. A twelve-foot fence with razor-wire on top ran five miles north and south of the one open, heavily-guarded exit. Ranchers, farmers, and merchants held on in the area by working together. They invited peaceful patronage, but any trouble was dealt with severely. Signs warned of sensors throughout the area, to discourage anyone thinking to by-pass the official entry to the city.

Joe had thought to stop here for gas, but his convoy continued on. He could make San Luis Obispo, he was sure, but not beyond without a stop.

Route 101 swerved back along the coast again, in sight of the ocean. Pismo Beach was now totally closed off to outsiders. Protected by cliffs north and south, the Pacific Ocean on the west and an imposing freeway fence along the east, the exclusive community lived in affluent isolation. Just north, Joe spotted the bullet-riddled green exit sign for the abandoned Diablo Canyon nuclear power plant, sitting in radioactive idleness.

Since Santa Maria, traffic on both sides of the highway had increased. The closer to San Luis, the hub of the central coast, the more vehicles traveled in each direction. More scanners began to appear along the road. Joe felt safer, relaxed behind the wheel, still kept the shotgun handy.

Over the next rise, spread before him, was San Luis Obispo. Located halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco, with highways leaving from the far north end of the city, the Paso Robles district, to cut east to Interstate-5, and from the south end, Highway 1 took off up the coast—a desolate road for hours, but it eventually passed through Big Sur, Monterey, Santa Cruz, and then on to San Francisco. Route 101 shot right through this major metropolis and took the more direct inland route north.

Everybody in the convoy had the same idea; Joe followed all his fellow travelers off at the first open exit. Wheeling into a truck-stop complex, Joe parked in front of a 24-hour restaurant. Hopping out for a badly-needed stretch, he turned in time to see an orange beard dropping out of one of the trucks he had been following.

* * * * *

CHAPTER FOUR

After a coffee and piece of apple pie at the restaurant, Joe walked over to a little market. He started to open the screen door, but stopped when he heard angry words coming from inside.

You can’t fire me! I’m the best worker you’ve got!

That’s arguably true, Estri, but you drive everybody nuts. Wilson was a good helper and now he’s the third man to quit since you’ve been here. You’re great in the store, but I have to have other help and I just can’t keep anybody with your attitude. I’m really sorry.

But, Mrs. Shepard, I need this job. What will I do?

Oh, Estri, a pretty girl like you won’t have any trouble with—

Pretty! Pretty? What’s ‘pretty’ have to do with anything? I’m smart and strong; that’s what counts.

Mrs. Shepard sounded patient. Estri, my store will run smoother without you. You’re honest and conscientious, but I’ve had more turmoil in the six weeks you’ve been here than in the ten years since my Fred passed away. I like you, but the store is suffering. I can’t keep training new help to have them be driven away by your, ah. . . extremism.

Doctor Joe watched through the screen as Mrs. Shepard placed a wrinkled hand on the girl’s shoulder, waved the other around indicating the store. Fred and I opened this market almost forty years ago, back when San Luis was a little ranch town and gas stop for 101. Now since the countryside is such a dangerous place to live, S.L.O. has become a huge, sprawling city. But I’ve kept my little grocery store pretty much the same as it’s always been. It’s my livelihood, but it’s also my oasis, my reason to be. She walked the young woman toward the front door. Come back in a couple hours and I’ll have a check ready for you.

The girl shrugged the friendly hand off her shoulder and marched toward the exit. I’ll be back.

Joe opened the door at the girl’s approach.

I’m very capable of opening a door for myself, thank you, she warned Joe, but he wasn’t about to allow the door to slam in the angry blonde’s face, so he continued to hold it open and stood out of the way as the unemployed girl whizzed by.

Inside the store, Mrs. Shepard sported a worried frown while watching Estri’s bobbing ponytail as she marched toward her room at the tired motel across the truck-stop parking lot. Joe started to make a comment, but stopped himself and instead grabbed a shopping cart and looked around the store for where to start.

Joe found himself nervously glancing out the front window for any suspicious activity. After the robbery yesterday, being in a grocery store again had triggered a tinge of Pavlovian fear in him. Satisfied, he concentrated on the groceries and supplies he had decided to carry with him On The Road.

When he got to the register, he heard the proprietor on the phone in the glassed-in office. She looked up and raised a forefinger to him, all the while talking and nodding into the phone. In a second she hung up.

Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.

No problem. I’m heading north and am in no real hurry. He looked back around the store. I couldn’t find bottled water.

Oh, we keep that in the back, it takes up so much room. Quart or gallon?

Joe thought a second. Better make it two gallons. Just to be on the safe side.

Mrs. Shepard passed through a swinging door and right out again with two plastic jugs.

Joe watched as she rang up his supplies, handed her his card.

Doctor Pedrick? Mrs. Shepard looked from his card to his face. I thought you looked familiar; I just saw your picture on the noon news today.

Air left Joe in a rush. The robbery? My name in the newspaper was bad enough. Yes, that was me.

You mentioned that you’re driving north. Would you happen to be going up the coast?

No. I’m taking 101, to San Francisco. Why?

Well, Mrs. Shepard looked around nervously, brushed a loose strand of gray hair back off her forehead. "That young woman who just stormed out of

here. . . I just had to let her go. But I do like her. I called a friend of mine near Santa Cruz, and she could use some help at her dog kennel. I believe the young lady would do better working with animals than people. She looked down at Joe’s groceries. Estri doesn’t drive and has a dog of her own so can’t take the bus. I thought you might be going up the coast. I’m concerned for her. I’d hate to see her do anything rash."

•

Back on the road, with the windows down and the hot air blowing freely through the car, Joe felt more at home with all the traffic around him. Mile after mile of apartments and businesses were visible from the freeway.

Passing Route 46, the major truck route east to I-5, Joe noted the battery of scanners—they weren’t taking any chances at such a major intersection—and gawked at the gigantic new truck-stop complex. Made the old south-end one pretty old-fashioned in comparison. This one had restaurants, bars, motels, two country western dance clubs, two sanity clubs, and hey, even a place to buy diesel fuel. The Atascadero district was the extreme north end of S.L.O. city.

Joe expected to return to lonely countryside and little traffic, but was greeted instead by a police road block. He came to a stop.

Doctor Pedrick?

Yes.

Destination?

San Francisco.

I’m afraid you won’t be able to take 101. . . there’s a lot of shooting going on in San Jose. Been going on all day. For anywhere past Morgan Hill, I’d suggest you cut over and take I-5 the rest of the way.

Hmmm. . . how about the coast? How’s the going up Highway 1?

The officer glanced up briefly at a car pulling to a stop behind Joe’s Mercury. It’s open, and there’s rarely trouble on that road, but it’s much slower going. I’d take Five—faster and more protection.

Thank you. I’ll go back to town and think it over.

Joe took the exit ramp and crossed under the freeway to the south on-ramp. The coast route seemed more intriguing than I-5—Big Sur, Carmel, Monterey (Steinbeck country—Cannery Row, Tortilla Flat.) Santa Cruz, Half Moon Bay, Devil’s Slide . . . Wait—Santa Cruz? He thought of the hot-tempered blonde storming out of the little market. Maybe some company for a few hours would be all right on the drive up the coast.

Back at the market, Joe told Mrs. Shepard that he would be driving up the coast route after all. If the young woman wanted a ride, he would be glad to give her a lift. Wanting to make the entire trip during daylight hours, Joe said he’d be taking a room for the night and if Estri wanted to go with him in the morning, he would be by the store to pick her up soon after it opened. Relief showed on the noble old face.

•

Joe decided to explore. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been alone in a strange town with time on his hands. (Had he ever?)

The Mercury caught a lot of attention. Joe enjoyed the stares, knew the car deserved them. The current cars and pick-up trucks came in fifteen basic styles with many interchangeable parts, good for the consumer and the planet’s resources, but lacking in the feel or class of antiques like this baby. He was proud to be the caretaker of a piece of auto history.

The town away from the freeway was a jumble of old and new; this must be the original part of town. As he traveled north on the city streets, the buildings became all new. This area must have been open countryside before the rush to the city began. Probably few at first figured that the move of people to town would become virtually total.

After an hour of cruising streets at random, Joe turned into a parking lot, locked her down despite the high fence and armed guard, ran his card through the slot to pay the parking. He took off toward a street that had caught his attention—a busy neighborhood with a multitude of pedestrians, theaters, shops, clubs, restaurants and bars. Hopewell Avenue. After walking the strip up one side and down the other, he entered a bar.

The cool air struck him as he parted the curtains inside the door. He stepped out of the bright sunshine and was instantly blind in the dimly-lit room. Knowing any and all in the barroom could see him perfectly, he had no choice but to wait for his eyes to adjust.

Sugar? a deep voice asked in passing. Joe shook his head.

A juke box started up to his left. Gradually he could see to make his way into the room. Hanging in two corners above the quiet daytime drinkers were two TV sets, one showing a baseball game, the other connected to the juke box showing music videos along with the tunes.

Joe stepped to the bar and asked for a bottle of Red Label beer.

Glass with that?

Of cour—No. No glass.

If anybody he had known forty-eight hours ago could see him now! He was amazed at how effortlessly he had dropped a lifetime—as if it had never existed. Beer in hand, he drifted toward the juke box, eyed the pool table and decided he would shoot a couple racks after going over the music selection.

The juke box took and immediately returned his card. He punched numbers. Then he slid the card into the pool table, returned it to his wallet. The balls fell into the drawer and he racked them. He broke and had about half the balls down when a woman at the bar asked, You open for a challenge?

I suppose. He ran the seven ball down the rail. Why not?

She hopped off her stool and walked into his line of sight. You a truck driver?

He banked the three ball cross-sides, narrowly missing. He looked up at the challenger. She was about his age, black hair and dark eyes, wearing a short white summer dress that highlighted her brown skin.

I’m driving, but just a car.

The woman walked to the wall and selected a cue.

Joe glanced around at the customers, his eyes now fully adjusted to the light. Several men were watching the white dress intently. A couple old-timers had turned on their stools to watch him play when he had first broke, were still turned his way, but were more interested in their own conversation, only looking up when he took a shot. Some patrons sat at tables eating meals. He decided he had better get something to eat before he left. He sunk the ten, the last ball on the table.

Wanda.

Excuse me?

My name. Wanda.

Oh, right. Joe.

They shook perfunctorily. Wanda slid her card into the table, the balls plopped out again.

Eight-ball?

Fine.

Joe chalked his cue, watched the dark-skinned woman drop the balls into the rack. He had wanted to slam a few racks down by himself, loosen up the ol’ elbow and release some inner emotional pressure, but at least she hadn’t jumped right up, had let him do one rack alone.

A flash of light caught his attention. A couple had entered the bar and were blinded. The woman paused, but her companion wasn’t fazed, strolled right in and crashed into a table, sending the salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder and menus flying. It was so common an occurrence the regulars didn’t even bother to look up.

Joe broke the balls halfheartedly. Nothing fell. He wasn’t feeling especially competitive. Your shot.

Thanks. Wanda shot in the one-ball. Where you from? She bent to try the six.

Joe waited till she had made her shot. What makes you think I’m not from right here?

She smiled up at him, lowered her eyes and sunk the five. The way you looked around when you came in; you’ve never been in here before. Among other things.

The cue ball had rolled a bit farther than she’d wanted. She tried a sharp cut on the deuce and actually over-cut it. Dang. Your shot.

Joe took his time, circled the table while he chalked his cue, studying the lay of the balls. He bent and pocketed the nine, then the eleven straight in, the white ball stopping dead for the fifteen. He stroked, cut the fifteen into the corner, the cue ball bouncing off the rail perfectly for shooting the ten.

Nice shooting, mister. How’re you at laser darts?

Joe made the ten and twelve, but got a bad break when, instead of the cue ball knocking the three out of the way so he had a shot on the thirteen, it froze to the three so he had no shot. He tried a desperation two-bank shot at the fourteen, but missed by a mile.

Joe looked up as a smiling young couple exited a virtual reality booth. Wanda missed her shot and Joe won the game, making a long-way bank on the eight.

Good shooting, Joe, but I better warn you, I’m getting warmed up. Another game?

Joe nodded. She had half the balls racked when a song Joe had played started. Wanda squealed, Oh, have you seen this video?

Joe shook his head.

Let’s watch it. I’ve only seen it once. Come on, I’ll buy you a fresh beer.

She took Joe by the hand and led him to the bar. The video featured a green-eyed redhead on guitar, her bare breasts moving in rhythm to her other-worldly blues licks; the back-up band merely featureless forms moving in a fog behind her. An eerie off-camera vocal accompanied the redhead’s guitar playing. Shivers ran up Joe’s spine.

Isn’t that a video!

I played the song by mistake, Joe confessed. Hit the wrong number. I’d never heard that before.

I saw them in concert last month in Oregon, up in Portland. ‘Devil’s Folly.’ They’re from Canada.

Joe reached for his new beer, heard the break of pool balls. Spinning around, he saw that the two old men had taken over the pool table. He looked to Wanda. She placed a hand on his forearm. It’s cool.

Joe looked at her really for the first time. That’s quite striking, your skin against the white dress. . . He let the sentence hang, had intended to say a word about her kindness to the two geezers.

I’m half Native American, half Japanese. A natural tan.

I didn’t mean—

People wonder. I know.

They stared at each other. Joe grew uncomfortable and spoke.

Would you care for something to eat? And thank you for the beer.

I am getting hungry, but, she lowered her voice, I know a better place a few blocks from here.

Well. . .

No strings. She looked at him seriously. Does your mother know you’re out?

What?. . . I’m sorry. I just don’t want you getting the wrong impression. I’m not looking for a . . . ah, date. I’m heading out in the morning and really not looking for anything in between.

She smiled, looked pleased. Come on. I’ll drive.

They walked down the block and around the corner. Joe’s jaw dropped. That’s yours?

Climb aboard. I dropped the trailer and it’s being unloaded.

Joe made his way up into the cab of the huge red Kenworth semi truck. Wanda climbed in behind the wheel, hiked her skirt up, started the engine.

We can flip for dinner if you’re worried.

* * * * *

CHAPTER FIVE

No good deed goes unpunished, Joe recalled. Estri sulked next to him, unimpressed by the car, the ocean to their left, the free ride, or apparently even the new job handed to her by Mrs. Shepard. Her black, longhaired, Afghan hound dog, Hair, sat sagely in the back seat, neither bouncing around nor panting wetly—he just sat quietly taking in the scenery.

Joe noticed two jet-copter gun ships take off from the old Hearst Castle, which had been taken over as headquarters for the central road patrol. With so few Americans vacationing by automobile in these parts, the lavish old structure had sat empty and abandoned until the police moved in.

When they passed the new town of Tolerance, there were armed guards at the entrance, of course, but unlike any other security personnel he had passed all this way, these guys smiled and waved at the old black Mercury as it worked its way up the coast.

We’ll be coming into trees up ahead, I hear. After all the rolling hills of brown grass, I’m ready for a change of scenery.

No response.

I’ve seen pictures of Santa Cruz. It should be an interesting place to work. It’s said there’s almost the Great Wall of China protecting the coast there from the gangs over in the valley, San Jose and that mess.

She didn’t seem to hear.

As they drove on, the road began to twist and climb. The mighty Pacific was suddenly far below and the terrain began to change dramatically. He tried again.

Let me know when your dog has to get out for a walk. She stirred; he seized on it. How long have you had him?

Listen, mister, I know you only agreed to give me this ride so you could try to get me to have sex with you. Well, forget it. You can save the small talk.

Whew, Joe looked over at her. No wonder Mrs. Shepard had had a hard time finding anyone to work with this young woman. He already found himself calculating how long it would be until he dropped her off. He figured it would take four or five hours on this winding road. He pressed on the gas pedal.

Last night had been so different with Wanda. He had thoroughly enjoyed her carefree company, but had still felt naïve and foolish, being a bit gun-shy after Crystal, wanting to know a woman better before opening up with her. He felt even more awkward when she’d asked him to dance after dinner and he had to tell her he didn’t know how. She had offered to help him learn, but there in that nightclub was not the time or place.

He concentrated totally on driving for the next while after noticing with a silent gasp that it was a long, straight drop to the rocks and the ocean below—and not even a guardrail in most places. His average speed was twenty-five, thirty miles per. He was getting a real workout with the steering wheel.

After a while he spotted a gravel turn-off on the left side of the road, overlooking the ocean. As he slowed and turned, the girl lunged for the shotgun and the car nearly coasted off over the edge as they wrestled for the firearm. With a desperate yank Joe broke her hold, with the butt shattering his driver’s door window.

What is your problem, girl?

Estri pulled back against her door. I thought you were going to rape me.

He lowered the shotgun back to the floor. "Listen, sister, maybe your dog doesn’t ever have to go, but from time to time, I do.

Get out.

But I—

Don’t utter a word and get right out now and I might let you back in when I’m ready to leave.

That stopped her. She was short on choices. She slowly opened the door and stepped out, pulled the back of the seat up and grabbed the leash attached to the dog. Joe leaned over and locked her door, took the key from the ignition and climbed out, locking his door.

Estri had walked to the