Now, moving north up the precarious coastal two-lane, he glanced at his watch. One thirty. Not too bad considering how late he’d slept. He’d be in the city by three, unload the goods with the fence. Be out of there with the money and on the road again with plenty of time to dump the RV, leaving it on some back street where the homeless would strip it to sell for parts. Plenty of time to catch a bus to the nearest out-of-the-way car lot, some small operation where the salesman wouldn’t get fidgety if he paid in cash. Pick up a nondescript vehicle and head on north.
If he was ever questioned about the car that was now in the rented garage outside Molena Point, he’d say she took it when she ran off and left him. That he didn’t know why she’d taken it back there. He could get rid of it later, slip back into the village, drive it off to some chop shop.
As he plied the narrow highway north of Half Moon Bay, most of the sparse traffic was moving south, hugging the road above the sheer drop, detained from some fatal misjudgment only by occasional short lengths of guardrail. He kept the windows open, letting the cool, damp air soothe his burning face. The echo of the sea far below crashing against the rocks pleased him, he liked its wildness, he liked the thrill of danger. It was the same as the thrill of their thefts, they skirted the edge but always moved on unharmed. She’d loved that, loved the excitement that they could get caught but never did. She’d loved selecting their targets beforehand from within an intimate group, she’d loved their duplicity. She was the one who insisted they slip away with only the items she’d chosen and take nothing else. They’d had a good thing going. Live in a neighborhood a few years, get cozy with the neighbors, join the local organizations, go to the concerts and amateur plays, even the school functions when the neighbors’ kids were involved-that was key, getting involved. During that time while they were settling in, listening to their neighbors’ problems and sometimes trying to help, babysitting their kids, they could often pull a few jobs in some previous neighborhood if it was close enough. Pick a time when there was a funeral or a wedding that would involve most of the residents. Then afterward allow enough time to lapse so everyone grew complacent again, thinking the thieves had moved on. They had done this on the East Coast, too, before they’d come out to California. To rip off their adopted neighborhood, that was the thrill, and they’d planned their moves carefully.
And then she’d gotten in one of her moods, had to have one more fling sunbathing, and look what it got her, she’d messed up everything.
Taking his time around the hairpin turns, wary of some approaching driver trying to pass another on the narrow road, he played the radio, pushing the buttons for a new station whenever he got bored, selecting alternately the talk shows, the hourly news, some nutcase discussing alternative medicine, and a station that specialized in UFO sightings. Anything to keep his thoughts moving, not dwell on her. And not dwell on those cursed cats last night. The sea air was calming, but then going around a curve the wind hit his face hard, making the wounds burn like fire, so painful that he felt the cats on him again, clawing and biting. Even with the distraction of the radio, he kept seeing them exploding in his face, their eyes like fire. When he took his hands off the wheel, they were shaking. His stomach, full of breakfast now, was getting queasy again as it had last night. Last night he’d lain awake for hours sweating, seeing that pale cat bursting out at him through the broken window, feeling enraged cats all over him. That kept him awake until he got up, found the sleeping pills they sometimes used, took two, and then at last dozed off. But even then, he slept fitfully, would jerk awake, his face burning. Once he woke seeing Poe’s cat plastered inside a wall staring out at him, and then saw those cats screaming up from her grave letting the whole world know where she was buried.
Trying to pass a slow-moving truck on the two-lane, he pulled his thoughts back to the road, looking ahead as far as he could to negotiate the curve. He couldn’t drive these hairpin curves with his mind obsessing over cats. The road was precarious here, the drop precipitous, straight down maybe a hundred feet. He’d passed the truck without mishap and was headed downhill when the steering wheel jerked in his hand, jerked again, back and forth. Oh, Christ, not here, not another tire! Wheel felt like it was alive, nearly pulling itself from his grip. He steered into the cliff to slow the heavy vehicle, afraid to apply the brakes and make it skid. But when he tried to edge it into the cliff to make it stop, the wheel jerked harder, he hit the cliff too hard and careened away, and had to use the brakes. He hit them only gently but the vehicle dropped hard in the left front where he’d had the flat, far more out of control. What was wrong? The way it wobbled back and forth, it felt like the whole wheel was coming off. He had a flash of changing the tire, of putting on the lug nuts wondering which way they should go, which way he’d removed them. Feeling in the dark the sharp corners on one side, the rounded corners on the other. Had he got them wrong, or not tightened them sufficiently? Had he put them on backward, and they’d worked loose? The RV careened toward the edge so hard he could no longer steer. Felt like the wheel was half off, wobbling bad, the RV skidded straight for the edge, the steering wheel in his hands useless. He grabbed at the door.
The car was out over space, falling and rolling in midair as he fought the door. When he got it open, it swung and hit him. He managed to kick free and jump, the RV falling beside him. Its heavy bulk bounced against him and then he was under it, trying to swim through the air to get away from the hurtling vehicle. It twisted and came down on him and hit the sea-he hit the water on his back, the RV on top, driving him down, the jolt was like hitting concrete. Explosions of unbearable light shot through his head and then that pale cat exploding in his face; the whole world filled with cats screaming and raking him, and then her face, her face laughing at him and she had the blazing eyes of a cat. Her face was the screaming face of the cat closing over him…
The weight of the RV drove him deep, forcing water into his mouth and nose and lungs as tons of metal carried him to the bottom and crushed him against the seafloor. He knew no more. Nor would he ever know more, the sea roiled and shook the drowned vehicle, and after a long while the RV eased up again, releasing him as a limp floater.
39
WITH THE HILLSIDE remodel now a crime scene and Ryan’s work halted, and with the completion of two other jobs she’d been juggling and their satisfactory final inspections, Ryan and Scotty turned their attention to finishing Ryan’s studio. She could hardly wait to move into her own bright space. She started work in the mornings before Clyde was out of bed, was still at it when he shouted up to her that supper was on the table. The house was filled with the pounding of hammers, the whine of the Skilsaw, the thunk of the staple gun, and the intermittent purr of its generator. The whole house, upstairs and down, smelled of sawdust, of drywall and then of plaster, of paint and tile adhesive. With all the fumes and noise, Ryan took Snowball up to Dr. Firetti to board and to have her annual checkup and shots. Ryan’s dad was more than pleased to share his time, his bachelor pad, and his lady friend with Rock. Only Joe Grey remained among the chaos, coming and going at his pleasure, but sleeping in his rooftop tower with the sea breeze blowing through, unassaulted by toxic fumes. Long before Ryan finished the studio, the Chapmans and the Longleys returned from their vacations.