Hell and Gone

31

The question is not when he’s gonna stop, but who is gonna stop him.

—Cleavon Little, Vanishing Point

HARDIE DROVE THE big bad black Lincoln Coma Car down the Pacific Coast Highway.

If you’re going to check out the gorgeous California coast, might as well do it in style—with someone special on life support in the secret trunk.

They stopped in Big Sur. Hardie had a burger and a beer in a small place called Ripplewood. The beer hit him hard. He used to have a high tolerance, but five-plus years on the secret-hospital-and-prison wagon must have killed it. His head swam. Not good. He couldn’t afford to be drunk for the next twelve hours. Hardie ordered three glasses of ice water. The waitress didn’t even flinch—she brought all three and one straw, as though she knew the deal.

Back outside, and once he was sure nobody was around, Hardie popped the trunk and slapped Doyle until his eyes opened. He hadn’t gotten everything perfect back here in the trunk of the Coma Car—and Hardie was no doctor. But the fucker was securely bound, at the very least. And guaranteed to be super uncomfortable.

“So, which address?”

Doyle tried to spit on Hardie, who jumped back, but caught some of the saliva on his hand anyway. Hardie leaned over and press-wiped it on Doyle’s overalls, which only made Hardie’s hand greasy and wet. Disgusting. Doyle leered at him.

“Okay, then,” Hardie said. He punched Doyle in the head twice, then closed the trunk.

The scenery along the Pacific was breathtaking and beautiful, that much was true. But what they didn’t tell you about the Pacific Coast Highway was that it pretty much went on forever. Repeated itself, too, to the point where you could have sworn you’d passed this exact same eye-popping view of a canyon overlooking the perfect blue ocean just a few minutes ago. It was an orgy of supermodels at sixty-five miles per hour, all beauty, no imperfections, and after a while it just made your dick want to shrivel up from all the splendor.

God, that beer had really hit Hardie.

Near the Hearst Castle, Hardie found a place to pull over and stretch his throbbing right leg. He tried to use cruise control, but one near collision convinced him he was better off regulating his own speed. It was tough, though, using his left leg on the brake and accelerator. His right leg just wasn’t trustworthy. Who knows if it ever would be.

Hey, asshole—you’re the one who got shot in the head. I served you well until then. Remember that.

You’re right, leg. You’re right.

There was a lonely stretch of beach not far from where a group of enormous sea lions basked in the sun, rolling around in the wet sand. Hardie once read that sea lions, though cuddly, could be quite ferocious. Maybe having a thousand-pound creature snapping a bite out of his leg would convince Doyle to cough up the address…

Instead Hardie drove farther, to a more secluded spot, pulled over, and decided to try again. He woke Doyle by twisting a crimp in his breathing tube. The man’s eyes popped open, and his face turned a sickly cyanotic color, but he still refused to pinpoint Abrams’s address.

A one-in-five shot; those odds sucked. If he was going to win this, he needed to trap Abrams immediately. A break-in at one of the other addresses would only serve as a tip-off.

Hardie continued down the California coast as the sun dropped down onto the flat gray slate of the Pacific.

Morro Bay at night.

Even in the gloom you could see the BIG FUCKING ROCK right in the middle of the water, as if a killer meteorite had crash-landed on earth. But instead of wiping out the human race, it just decided to kick back off the California coast for a while. With the sun down, it was chilly as hell out here, wet salty air lashing your skin.

Might be mildly romantic, if it were just him and Kendra out here, lounging around the seaport restaurants, maybe even holding hands and looking at the big fucking rock.

Instead, Hardie found himself with Doyle—his new main squeeze. Hardie found a quiet, desolate space behind an abandoned store and opened the trunk again. Hardie wasn’t going to ask this time. He popped the hood and started in with his fists, beating Doyle for a solid minute, not really worried about killing him because, you know—the bastard was already on life support.

“Not asking you again,” Hardie said.

Doyle spat blood. Like, everywhere. But he didn’t say a word.

Well, that went well.

Hardie slammed the trunk lid shut.

An hour later, as he passed Santa Barbara and the early rays of the sun seemed to warm up the entire universe, he got an idea.

Finally—

Hello, L.A. Can’t say I’ve missed you.

Feels like I just left you.

Only that was five-plus fucking years ago.

But you haven’t changed.

Not really.

Your streets still confuse me with all your sprawl. Your hills still scare the shit out of me—no offense, but I think it’ll be a long time before I go anywhere near the Hollywood sign, thank you very much. You’re still vain and wrapped up in yourself, which, frankly, is good, because I don’t want you even noticing I’m here. Just want to talk to one of your citizens for a while.

Hardie drove the car into the long-term parking lot at Los Angeles International Airport, took a ticket, instantly crumpled it his fist, and let it drop to the ground. The entire parking lot was a multilevel garage. He chose the top level. Right in the baking sun. Few cars were up here at this early hour of the morning.

Hardie opened the trunk. Doyle was already awake, as though he were waiting for him. Hardie put his hand on the breathing tube, but before he yanked it out of the man’s mouth, he told him the deal.

“This is the last time I’m going to ask you for that address. If you say nothing, I’m going to pull the battery and leave you to die in this car. It’ll probably take a while. I don’t imagine it will be a very pleasant death. Understand?”

Doyle nodded.

Hardie pulled the tube.

As soon as Doyle coughed up some phlegm and blood, he said in a raspy voice: “The Arcadia address.”

Hardie blinked.

“If you’re…”

“I’m not. Abrams is always there. Fuck—fucking let me out of this thing!”

“No. You should take another nap. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll come back and let you go.”

“You won’t. You’re going to leave me to die here, aren’t you, you prick?”

Hardie slammed the lid shut, walked around to the front of the car. Then he popped the hood, unplugged both of the batteries he found, closed the hood again, and walked away.

Yeah, he was.