“I don’t think so,” said Winston uneasily. But Tory touched Winston’s hand, a signal for him to step down from red alert.
“Where are you headed?” asked Tory, beginning to munch on the fries.
Okoya looked out the window, gazing into the dim, dusty street. “Wherever you are.”
Great, thought Winston. The last thing we need is some asshole tagging along on our trip to find Dillon. And yet . . . Winston suddenly felt a pang of loneliness—as if this Okoya person had all at once created a space in their company that needed to be filled. Having a third party to talk to—to take their minds off of things for a short part of the journey might make the trek more interesting. And then again, this Stranger might want nothing more than to rob them, or kill them or both. But considering where they had been, and where they were headed, such a threat seemed minuscule and easily dealt with.
“We’re not leaving until morning,” Winston explained.
Okoya shook his head. “Why not leave now?”
Because we’re exhausted, Winston was about to answer, but suddenly he didn’t feel tired at all.
Tory turned to Winston. “We really don’t have to stay overnight.”
When their meal was done, they left together to gather what little they had from their motel. As they slipped their keys into the night drop, Winston turned to Tory.
“Interesting guy. Do you think he’s Navajo or Hopi?
Okoya stood by the curb, looking west; as if knowing their direction better than they did. Tory stared at Winston as if he were out of his mind.
“What do you mean ‘he’?” said Tory. “Okoya is a girl!”
Winston took a second look. The Indian’s long hair blew with the night wind—but long hair didn’t mean anything these days. Okoya’s voice was a gentle tenor . . . could it have been contralto instead? “Try again!” said Winston. “He’s a guy. You think I can’t tell the difference?”
“Apparently not.” said Tory. And so to prove it, Winston ran up to Okoya, fully prepared to ask the question point-blank: What the hell are you?
But when Okoya turned to him, Winston found that he didn’t have the nerve to ask. “Uh . . . Okoya,” stammered Winston. “That’s a very interesting name.”
Okoya smiled proudly. “It’s Hualapai,” Okoya said. “It means ‘Bringer of Fire.’ "
Eight hundred miles to the west, the Newport Beach Festival of Dead Fish had attracted massive media attention, but even as the media crews were arriving at the beach that night, Michael, Lourdes, and Drew were racing toward the marina to Michael’s boat.
It wasn’t all that spectacular a craft compared to the million-dollar yachts that graced the Newport marina, but the price was right.
“I made a suicidal lawyer see the joys of life,” Michael explained to Lourdes. “He was so thrilled that he gave me his boat, turned his house into a bed-and-breakfast, and now he serves poached eggs instead of lawsuits.”
Lourdes was amused, and Drew could only shake his head in utter amazement. “If you can do all that, why work at the Dog Kabob?” Drew asked.
“Because it’s normal,” answered Michael, and normality was something in short supply in Michael’s life.
He powered up the boat and piloted it out of Newport Channel to the open sea. As Michael suspected, a cold ocean current ran down the coastline about a half mile from shore. It was like a river in the middle of the ocean. Waves died as they hit the smooth ribbon of water, only to be reborn on the “river’s” other side—and all the while the mid-ocean stream remained so flat, you could see every detail of the moon reflected in its glassy surface.
“Dillon’s order,” Lourdes commented when she saw it. The ill-fated fish had traveled down this serene thread of water from somewhere up north. They could follow this ocean river straight to Dillon, if it lasted long enough. It was as easy as tracing the ashen trail of a burnt fuse.
“So who’s Dillon?” Drew had asked.
There was the long answer and the short answer, and Michael had no patience for long answers. “He’s the best of us, and the worst of us,” Michael said. Drew, who was generally too cool to admit cluelessness, accepted the answer, and didn’t ask again.
A day later, nightfall found them off the central California coast. They fueled in Morro Bay, and dropped anchor in the shadow of Morro Rock, its massive dome growing out of the ocean like the skull of a giant.
The boat had only one cabin, with a single, triangular bed beneath the bow. It was comfortable for one, livable for two, and impossible for three. Their ears practically touched as they all lay face-up, looking at the low ceiling of the cabin.
“I’ve never slept in a boat,” said Lourdes, to Michael’s right.
“It’s kind of cozy,” said Drew, to his left.
“It’s like a coffin,” said Michael, the only one who seemed bothered by the tight space. To him it felt like trying to sleep in the tip of a pointed shoe.
Outside, a mild wind blew, gently rocking the boat.
Lourdes sighed contentedly, and the sound irritated Michael to no end. There was nothing about this journey that was the least bit blissful, but to listen to Lourdes, you’d think they were all on a pleasure cruise.
“I’m really starting to worry about how unworried you are,” Michael told her.
“What’s to worry about?” she said gently. “You and I can beat anything.” She kissed him on the cheek, and a few minutes later, Michael heard her breathing slip into the relaxed whistle of a deep sleep, leaving Drew and Michael to stare at the beige-carpeted ceiling.
“So,” whispered Drew with a sly smile. “Is she the mystery woman you’ve been saving your moves for?”
“I don’t have any moves,” answered Michael.
“But she is your girlfriend, right?”
Michael had to consider the question. He had never thought of Lourdes as a girlfriend. More like cell mates than soul mates. “I don’t know,” said Michael glancing at her to make sure she was still asleep. “I guess.”
Drew shifted so he could look at Michael. “You must love her a lot.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Michael, wishing he would just shut up about it.
“That’s good,” said Drew. “There are guys I know on the track team that think girls are only good for one thing—and love is only as big as their hard-ons. Which in most cases offers no wind resistance, if you know what I mean.”
Michael laughed in spite of himself. “You have all the answers, don’t you, Drew?” he said. “I wish I had my head together half as well as you do.”
“You must really be screwed up if you think my head’s together.” They laughed a bit longer, and when it got quiet once more, Drew slid out of the cramped space.
“You’ll never sleep while I’m in your face,” said Drew. “I’ll go up and pilot the boat. No sense losing a night of travel time.”
Michael quickly filled the space where Drew had been, and was already dozing when he noticed that Drew had not yet left. He was still standing there, watching Michael and Lourdes sleep, like he had nothing better to do.
“Not that it really matters,” Drew said in that offhanded way of his. “But you remember that baseball story I told you? . . . Well, it wasn’t really about baseball.”
Michael yawned. “That’s nice,” he said absently.
Drew lingered a moment longer. Then Michael heard him up on deck as he raised the anchor, and started the engine. In a few moments, Michael was asleep, his back toward Lourdes, and his face to the windowless wall.