He'd opted to book a hotel in Orange County rather than near the airport, and he was glad of that. His plane wasn't scheduled to leave until eleven, and while he would have a long drive tomorrow morning during the tail end of rush hour, at least he didn't have to drive tonight. Fifteen minutes later, he was checked in and sacked out, and he did not stir until the phone next to his bed rang with the seven o'clock wake-up call.
He grabbed a quick Egg McMuffin for breakfast and headed back to L.A.
Between the unexpected traffic and having to turn in the rental car, he barely made it onto the plane in time, but once in the air he relaxed and looked out the window at the receding megalopolis below. He realized to his surprise that he was happy to be returning to Utah, that, despite everything, it felt like home. California was a fun place to visit but he was no longer a part of it. He was glad he'd come, though. He felt better for talking to his friends, for unburdening himself, and he felt stronger on the return flight, as though he now had the strength to stand up to anyone or anything.
Even the homeowners' association.
They landed in Salt Lake City shortly after one. A small crappy lunch had been served on the flight, and he was still hungry. It would be after three by the time he finally reached Corban , so Barry stopped at a Subway and bought a sandwich and an extra large Coke before starting off.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, he sorted through the box of tapes on the seat next to him, finally popping in Jethro Tull's A Passion Play.
He smiled to himself as the familiar strains of the music filled the car, and he cranked up the volume, feeling good.
If he had a hero it was lan Anderson. Not only had the Tull leader created consistently good music over the past several decades, he had done so uncompromisingly. Barry admired the undiluted artistic ambition mat had led Anderson to write and record an album such as A
Passion Play, the willingness to buck the critics and buck the fans and follow his own muse, consequences be damned. It was what he himself aspired to, that sort of freedom and daring, and while he might not have the talent to carry it off, he at least hoped he had the guts and integrity to try.
An hour and a half later, he was off the interstate and on the two-lane highway that led to Corban . The semi trucks and out-of-state cars that had been whizzing by him disappeared, and only an occasional Jeep or pickup passing in the opposite direction let him know that he was not alone out here.
Why, he wondered, did television news anchors always refer to semis as "big rigs"? There didn't seem to be any "small rigs" or even just plain "rigs." They were always "big rigs." It sounded like trucker lingo to turn, CB slang, and he wondered how such a phrase had garnered mainstream legitimacy.
The road was rising, high desert chaparral giving way to pinion and juniper forest, and he rounded a hilly curve to see a white Jimmy pull out from an almost invisible side road. He slowed to let the vehicle onto the highway, and the Jimmy accelerated quickly and roared away, rounding the next curve before Barry was even back up to speed.
He encountered it again ten minutes later, stuck behind a silver Lexus and honking furiously. He was still a good half mile back, but even from this distance it was obvious that the Lexus driver was playing games. He would speed up and slow down, brake nearly to a halt, then, when the Jimmy tried to pass, veer into the opposite lane to block the vehicle.
Finally, the Jimmy driver had had enough. He swerved onto the narrow dirt shoulder and attempted to pass on the right. The Lexus increased its speed, preventing the other vehicle from getting back on the road. There was a dry streambed up ahead, a fairly deep gully that the highway crossed with a bridge. The shoulder disappeared at that point, and dirt flew as the Jimmy shot forward in a desperate effort to pull in front of the Lexus.
The Lexus kept pace.
It was only at the last moment that it seemed to become clear to the Jimmy driver that his rival would not pull back and let him in, that this was some bizarre game of chicken the Lexus driver refused to lose.
The driver slammed on his brakes, but it was too late, and the Jimmy slid headfirst down the steep incline into the dry streambed.
Barry had closed the gap between himself and the other vehicles considerably and had a clear view of the accident. He braked to a halt on the last stretch of shoulder, got out, and ran toward the embankment. Ahead, he saw the Lexus' passenger window roll down, heard the driver yell something down at the victim. The car sped away. Barry tried to get the license number, but the back end of the Lexus was in shadow, and by the time it was again in full sunlight, it was too far away for him to read.
He slid down the slope in a crouch. The Jimmy had not rolled, but it had crashed headfirst into the sandy streambed, and the driver had apparently been thrown free of the vehicle through the open door.
Barry ran up. "Jesus! Are you all right?"
The man nodded, touched a hand to his bruised forehead, brushed sand and leaves off his shirt.
"You need some help? Want me to call an ambulance or the police?"
"No!" the man practically shouted. "No police!"
"Are you kidding? That guy ran you off the road. I saw it. I'm a witness."
"I'm not pressing charges. I don't want... I'm just..."
He shook his head as if to clear it. "Look, you offered to help. All I want is a ride up to the Shell station in Corban . Buck there'll come back with his tow truck and get the car."
"Sure," Barry said. "Anything you want. But you need to get the police out here. For the insurance report, if nothing else." "No!"
Barry held up his hands. "Okay, okay."
The man pressed various spots on his face, looking at his fingers.
"I don't see any blood," Barry offered.
The man took a tentative step forward.
"You need some help?"
He shook his head. "No. I can make it."
"What an asshole," Barry said. "I saw him playing games with you, not letting you pass--"
"I'd rather not talk about it," the man said shortly.
Barry nodded.
The two of them made their way up the steep incline. Barry took it slow, in case the man needed assistance, but he made it to the top without help.
"You from Corban ?" Barry asked as they walked toward his Suburban.
"Yeah."
"Me, too. I live in Bonita Vista."
The man's voice was quiet. "Me, too."
And though Barry tried to engage him in conversation, the man did not say another word until they reached the Shell station in town.
Barry did not even learn his name.
Russ Gifford came home from work to find his girlfriend gone.
He probably would have thought she was at the store or down on the tennis courts or out for a jog along the bridle trail, if not for the pink piece of paper that had been slipped between the metal supports of his screen door and was fluttering noisily in the strong post-monsoon breeze.
It was an official notice from the homeowners' association.
Russ read and reread the form, his hands shaking, his stomach churning with an unidentifiable emotion that could have been anger, could have been confusion, could have been fear. His name had been illegibly scrawled on a blank line reserved for that purpose, and a box next to the statement Action has been taken to rectify noncompliance had been checked. On the open lines that comprised the bottom half of the form was written the chilling and cryptic note: "Unmarried couples are not allowed to live in Bonita Vista (see Article IV, Section 9, Paragraph F).Tammi Bindler has been removed to ensure compliance."
What the hell was going on here?
He read the form yet again.
Not allowed to live? Removed? The ambiguously threatening words and phrases could be interpreted to mean she'd been killed, although he knew that couldn't possibly be the case. Of course, the other alternative was equally unbelievable and almost as disconcerting--that she'd been kidnapped and forcibly taken elsewhere.