Don Winslow - Dawn Patrol

For one thing, he couldn't afford the steep room rate. For another thing, he wasn't introspectively inclined. For a third and final thing, he was already pretty aware of who he was.

“If there is one thing that can be said about Boone,” Sunny Day proclaimed during a reasonably drunken session at The Sundowner after closing time, “it is that he knows who he is.”

“That's true,” Boone said. “I surf, I eat, I sleep, I work-”

“Sometimes,” High Tide said.

“Sometimes,” Boone said, “and, every now and then-more then than now-I make love. And that's about it.”

But now he wishes that he had gone to the place at least once, so he'd know the lay of the land, because now he's pretty sure that's where Tammy is.

The Institute of Self Awareness has developed a specialized and lucrative clientele.

To wit, people-especially famous people-who have become aware that their real selves might need a little cosmetic surgery, need a place where they can hide from the prying eyes of the public while the swelling goes down, the black eyes fade, and time passes before they reemerge into the world with their new noses, breasts, faces, lips, stomachs, butts, or all of the above. So the ISA now makes a lot of its income by providing a cocoon in which celebrities can hide until they fully morph into their new selves.

And the institute zealously guards its clientele against the paparazzi, the tabloids, and the just plain curious. The founding shrink may not have thrown up any fences against the surfers, but the new management has built high walls to shield its guests against even the longest lenses of the paparazzi. The walls are topped with strands of barbed wire and motion sensors, lest anyone should try to climb in. Beefy security guards patrol the perimeter and man the front gate of the reception room, barring entrance to everyone but expected visitors and attending physicians.

So while tourists and local visitors can walk around the gardens all they want, to get into the private part of the retreat itself is akin to entering the gates of Troy.

Teddy can walk right in.

Theodore Cole, M.D., is a cash cow for The Institute of Self Awareness. Teddy not only has strippers in there recovering from boob jobs; he has Hollywood stars and starlets, Orange County trophy wives who want a little distance from their home turf, and San Diego society matrons from La Jolla who have coincidentally discovered their need for spirituality along with their face-lifts.

So if Teddy wants to store a girlfriend inside the walls for a night or two, the welcome mat is out. And if Teddy says that no one is going to get in there to look for her, then no one is going to get in there to look for her.

When the Explorer pulls into the parking lot of The Institute of Self Awareness, the driver rolls down the window and Teddy, now in the front passenger seat, leans across and waves to the guard.

“Good evening, Dr. Cole,” the guard says, giving a slight stink eye to the car full of guys who don't look like they're seeking any kind of awareness, self or otherwise.

“I'm just going in to check on a client,” Teddy says, feeling Dan's pistol jammed into the back of the seat against his spine.

“Should I call ahead?” the guard asks.

“No,” Dan murmurs.

“No,” Teddy says.

The gate swings open, the Explorer goes through, and the gate swings shut behind it. Teddy directs the driver to a small parking lot.

“Now take us to where she is,” Dan says. “And, Doc, if you mess with me, I'm going to put one in your spine.”

Teddy leads them along the curving walkways lit by the little solar-powered lamps. Most of the guests are in their cottages, but a few are out taking a stroll around the grounds. One in particular, a tall redheaded woman in a white terry-cloth robe, attracts Dan's attention.

“Hey, is that…” Dan says, then names a famous movie actress.

“Could be,” Teddy says.

“What's she getting, a boob job?”

“Nose,” Teddy says. She wanted her nose shaved down. A tuck around the eyes. A little something to hold off the day when she has to play the bitch mother or the eccentric aunt. But Teddy's mind isn't really on that. He's thinking about some way that he can tip Tammy off, get her out of there before… He doesn't even want to think about what happens after the “before.”

As they approach Tammy's cottage, he can see lights on through the curtain of the front window.

“You got a key?” Dan asks him.

“Well, it's a card.”

“What the fuck ever,” Dan says. “You let yourself in, you leave the door open behind you. Got it, Doc?”

“Yeah.”

“Doc?”

“What?”

“If you're thinking about trying to be a hero,” Dan says, “stop thinking. You may be boss hog in the operating room, but this ain't your world, hoss. It will just get you in the wheelchair basketball league. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Open the door.”

Teddy walks up to the Lotus Cottage. It's always been one of his favorites, redolent with memories. Teddy has put some serious talent in the Lotus Cottage and has gotten some head in there that you wouldn't believe. Hand shaking, he fumbles with the card and eventually manages to insert it into the lock. The little green light comes on, followed by the soft click of the lock opening. Teddy gently pushes the door open a crack and says, “Tammy? It's me.”

Dan shoves him out of the way and steps into the cottage.

The living room is all done in white. Bone white walls, with black-and-white photographs of lotuses in silver frames and a flat-screen plasma television set. A white sofa, white chairs. The wood floor is painted black, but the carpet's white.

Tammy isn't in the living room.

Dan moves toward the closed bedroom door. He nudges it open with the toe of his boot and then steps through, pistol up and ready to shoot.

She's not in the bedroom, which is similarly decorated. White walls, black-and-white photos, white bedspread on the double bed, and a flat-screen television, smaller than the one in the living room. The guests must watch a fuck of a lot of TV while they're self-actualizing, Dan thinks as he moves to the bathroom door and listens.

The shower is running.

One of them fancy new “rain showers” by the sound of it.

He leans into the bathroom door.

It's locked.

Women always lock the door when they're taking a shower, Dan thinks. He blames it on Psycho.

Dan leans back and launches a kick into the door. The jamb splinters with a crash. Dan steps into the bathroom and points the gun to his left, toward the shower.

But she ain't in it.

And the window is open.

A steep set of stairs runs down to the beach from the back of Shrink's.

It cuts through a berm of red clay planted with succulent ankle-high ground cover that blossoms red in the spring but now looks silver and glossy under motion-activated lamps set in the ground every twenty feet.

Dan negotiates the stairs with surprising grace for a big man. He holds the pistol in one hand; the other glides along the pipe railing as he calls, “Tammy? I just want to talk with you, baby!”

If she's out there, she doesn't answer.

The night fog is coming in fast, already obscuring the water and the beach. Dan pauses on a landing and listens.

“Tammy!” Dan yells. “There's nothing to be afraid of! We can work this out, girl!”

He waits for an answer, the pistol poised to shoot in the direction of a voice. No response comes, but then he hears footsteps, running down the stairs below him.

Dan chases her down the stairs.

Onto the beach, into the fog.