Chris Holm - The Wrong Goodbye

The anchorwoman had been talking the whole time, but of course I hadn’t heard a word. When I tuned back in, I heard her say, “…officials are baffled as to the cause of the recent infestation, which stretches from McDonnell to Vancouver Avenues west to east, and has been reported as far north as Dozier Street and as far south as the Pomona Freeway. Local business owners have expressed concerns about the animals’ impact on foot traffic, but Animal Control insists they pose no threat —and organizers of the upcoming Dia de los Muertos celebration assured KABC tomorrow’s festivities will proceed as scheduled.”

Dia de los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. A holiday that dates back to an ancient Aztec practice —to a time when humankind was young, and magic commonplace. A holiday on which it’s said dead souls return to walk amongst the living, and the living attempt to draw back the veil of death, inviting communion with those they’ve lost.

If that wasn’t where worlds draw thin , I didn’t know what was.

I shut the laptop lid, clapped Gio on the shoulder. “Nice work. Now let’s go get that son of a bitch and end this.”

“But, Sam…” he said, his jowly face tinged with worry. “Those things… they’re waiting for me. Is it wise for me to just go waltzing in there?”

“They’re not waiting for you , they’re waiting for your soul . Your soul, as delivered by Danny. They won’t take it any other way —they can’t.”

“You sure about that?” asked Theresa. The question had some steel behind it.

“If they could take his soul, he’d be gone for good already. I interred his soul once before, thinking it was the Varela soul Danny swapped it for. It didn’t take.”

“When the time comes,” she said, “you best not be thinking you can trade my Gio to get this Varela back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

“You try, you won’t be dreaming ever again, you hear me? I’ll find a way to end your ass for good.”

“Ter!” Gio admonished.

“No,” I said, “it’s fine. Theresa, you have my word I won’t hand Gio over to Danny.” As for ending my ass for good, Theresa’d have to get in line.

“How do I know your word is worth a damn?”

“You don’t. But my word is all I’ve got.”

“The hell it is,” Gio said. “You got us. Now let’s roll.”

We grabbed the shotgun. We grabbed the chips. We grabbed some cash from Theresa’s register, and as many Red Bulls from the fridge as we could carry.

We were in such a goddamn hurry to get the hell out of Las Vegas, we blew a stop light at the corner of Twain and Dean Martin. Then we hauled ass onto I-15 south toward Los Angeles, oblivious to the traffic camera that snapped picture after picture of our departure.

We were a mile north of Chino on 60 when I spotted the tail. The 60, I supposed they’d say out here on the left coast, but I was born back east, so no the for me. Just one black-and-white, a Statie I suppose, pulling out of one of those spots they don’t like you swinging U-turns through and sliding into traffic two cars and maybe fifty yards behind us.

“Dude,” said Gio, who was riding shotgun, “we’ve got company.”

“Be cool,” I replied. “He’ll leave us be.” And at the time, I actually believed it. I’d been speeding pretty seriously until I spotted him, but when I did, I’d eased off the gas, and coasted by at barely seventy. I figured if his lights weren’t on yet, he’d just hang behind us a while by way of warning, and then leave us alone. I didn’t realize at the time the traffic cam in Vegas slapped a big, fat arrow at the end of the dotted line of mayhem half a country long that indicated where we were heading —one that resulted in the Feds putting out a BOLO for us that stretched from Sacramento to the Rio Grande.

Five minutes after we picked up our first Statie, two more slid in behind him, all quiet-like, so as to not spook us. It spooked us.

“Uh, Sam? Our company’s got company.”

“Yeah, I see ’em, Gio —I’m not blind ,” I snapped.

“Hey!” This from Theresa, in the back.

“Sorry,” I said through gritted teeth, my hands at ten and two on the wheel.

Three minutes later, we picked up a few more —two sliding into traffic from the Nogales Street entrance in Rowland Heights, and a third swinging through a turnaround at damn near sixty miles an hour.

I kept the needle right at sixty-five, and my eyes on the road before me, trying my damnedest to come up with some kind of workable plan. I was running out of time, and not just with the cops. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the sky ran the spectrum from goldenrod above to the deepest crimson as it met the western horizon. I’d heard tales of the smog in LA being responsible for some beautiful sunsets. I had no idea if it was the cause of this one. What I do know is it was the most gorgeous one I’d ever seen —which seemed fitting, since I had a little under four hours to get the Varela soul back and stop Danny from unleashing an apocalyptic flood; chances were, it was the last I’d ever see. For all its beauty, that sunset proved unsettling, if only because the amber hues above reflected dully off the white side-panels of the cop cars behind me, and the ensuing gold-and-black put me in mind of a swarm of angry bees. These past three days, I’d had enough run-ins with angry insects to last a lifetime.

As I drove, I watched the cop cars in my rearview multiply. They were still hanging back a bit, and they’d yet to fire up their lights —but they were creeping up behind us. If I had to guess, I’d say they were hoping to take us by surprise, end this chase before it started.

Funny; I kinda hoped to do the same.

I ran through the angles in my head. The way I figured it, they couldn’t use a spike mat to pop the Caddy’s tires, because there were other motorists aplenty on the road. Not as many as I’d expected though, this close to LA, which meant they’d likely closed the onramps once they spotted us. They were biding their time… but to what end? Not to get an unimpeded crack at us; they didn’t seem to be shunting any of the traffic already on the freeway aside. So why?

A low whump-whump-whump from somewhere in the distance gave me my answer.

A helicopter.

I fucking hated helicopters.

No, really: I hijacked one once —long story —and it was nothing but a grade-A ass-pain, up to and including when I had to ditch it in the middle of Central Park. But at least I now knew what was holding the boys in blue at bay: they were waiting for their air coverage. Waiting to have eyes on us. Once that hap pened, there was little we’d be able to do to shake them. Which meant the time to move was now.

I put the pedal to the metal —or, in this case, to Roscoe’s custom shag floor mat —and the Caddy’s engine sprang to life. Seventy-five. Eighty. The cop cars dropped back a ways, caught by surprise after ten plus miles of traffic law observance. Eighty-five. Ninety. By the time the lot of them found their accelerator pedals, I’d put a hundred yards between us —and at least a half a dozen cars.

Suburb after suburb blurred by, nothing but green foliage and rooftops half seen over the highway’s noise barriers. Places with names like Hillgrove, La Puente, Hacienda Heights. Exits on a highway, nothing more. The skyline of Los Angeles glinted in the distance like some dark gemstone against the bloodred velvet of the sky.

One hundred miles an hour. One-ten.

Cops behind us. Danny, with luck, ahead. And night falling fast. Three days whittled down to three hours.

One way or another, our exit was coming up.