Fangs Out (12 page)

“Where are we going?” Savannah asked.

“The Walkers. They live up in La Jolla. Nice little guesthouse out by the pool.”

“How many beds in that nice little guesthouse?”

I glanced over at her.

“I’d just like to know what the sleeping arrangements are, Logan, that’s all.”

“We’ll figure it out when we get there, OK?”

“No, Logan, definitely not OK. The unknown equals tension, and tension in any relationship creates conflict. Or are you forgetting what our marriage was like most of the time?”

“Some of the time,” I said, correcting her.

“It’s one bed, isn’t it?”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

I blew through a yellow light and hooked a left, back onto northbound Pacific Highway. A US Airways Boeing 757 thundered in less than 200 feet overhead on short final to runway 27 at San Diego’s Lindbergh Field. The other car was still behind us, its headlights in my rearview.

“Why are we going so fast?”

“No traffic, open road. This is Southern California. Do you know how rare that is? I’m just enjoying the moment.”

Savannah bought none of it. She leaned forward and checked the side-view mirror. “We’re being followed.”

“Really? News to me.”

“C’mon, Logan. I can see the guy. He’s right there.”

Our pursuer was now all but hugging my bumper. I floored it. He floored it, drafting my rear like Dale Earnhardt at Daytona. Then blue and red lights swirled on his windshield. There came the whoop-whop of a siren.

Our pursuer was an unmarked police cruiser.

I pulled over to the shoulder of the road. The officer got out and advanced on my side of the SUV, silhouetted by the spotlight he’d purposely aimed at my mirrors to blind me to his approach.

His right hand rested cautiously on the butt of his holster pistol as he slowly scanned the SUV’s interior with his Maglite. He looked young enough to have graduated that morning from high school.

“Any idea how fast you were going tonight, sir?”

“Obviously not fast enough to outrun you.”

“You were trying to outrun me?”

“I was concerned you might be somebody who intended to do us harm.”

“Why would somebody intend to do you harm?”

“My question exactly,” Savannah said, eyeing me hard.

We would’ve been there all night, me attempting to justify to both of them my paranoia and flagrant disregard of California motor vehicle code.

“Just give me the ticket.”

And he did.

S
AVANNAH REMAINED
largely silent on the drive to La Jolla, steamed by my unwillingness to explain what had prompted my latest run-in with local law enforcement. About the only thing she said was that the collapse of our marriage could be pinned to a large degree on my lack of “emotional honesty,” as evidenced by what she condemned as my “chronic secretiveness.” It started, she said, when I was unwilling to reveal anything to her about how I really earned a living when I worked for the government. And now I was doing it all over again, clamming up, refusing to tell her why I thought we’d been followed.

“I’m just going to say one thing,” Savannah said, “and that is, the cornerstone of any healthy human relationship is open, honest communication.”

“I thought you said the cornerstone was mutual respect.”

She pivoted her gaze toward me, her mahogany eyes scorching me like a blow torch.

“Please tell me you’re not mocking me, Logan, because if you are, you can turn around right now and drop me back at the train station. I’ll be only too happy to go back to LA tonight.”

“That was the last train tonight.”

“The airport, then.”

“I wasn’t mocking you, Savannah.”

End of conversation.

The Walkers’ residence was dark and quiet—which made sense considering it was nearly one
A
.
M
. by the time we arrived. They’d left the back gate leading to the guesthouse unlocked.

Somewhere far off, an owl hooted its salutation to the night. Savannah followed me as I maneuvered her suitcase up a meandering flagstone walkway and past the Walker’s kidney-shaped pool. The backyard was not as lushly landscaped as Savannah’s opulent spread in the Hollywood Hills, but lush enough. She paused and stooped, swishing her hand in the warm, glistening water.

“Perfect temperature. Reminds me of that night in San Francisco, remember?”

Did I remember? How could I forget? We were newlyweds, living in a tiny apartment without air conditioning in San Francisco’s Mission District. One normally doesn’t need AC in SF, but that summer, Baghdad by the Bay baked like, well, Baghdad. One night after midnight, we made our way to the downtown Hilton, passed ourselves off as guests who’d misplaced our room key, and went for a cooling dip in the hotel’s pool, which we had all to ourselves. Then we got busy in the Jacuzzi.

“One of the best nights of my life,” Savannah said.

I wanted to tell her that it had been one of mine, too. But, somehow, I couldn’t. There were moments when I still struggled emotionally to get beyond that fine line between love and hate, the one that can consume a man after losing a woman like Savannah. Some moments remained more blinding than others.

“I vaguely recall we went swimming.”

She shook her head and said nothing as she followed me inside.

The little guesthouse, like the gate, was unlocked. Turning on a brass floor lamp revealed a kitchenette and a small, bright bathroom done up in Mexican tiles hand-painted with yellow sunflowers. The sink was ceramic and shaped like half a clamshell. The faucet dripped. There was one bedroom and one full-size, four-poster bed. Savannah stared at it for several long seconds before I grabbed the bedspread and a pillow and tossed them on the terra cotta-tiled floor.

“You don’t have to sleep down there,” Savannah said.

“You’re right. I can sleep in the car.”

I started for the door. She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward her.

“Maybe we should just see what happens,” she said.

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning what you think it means.”

“Seriously?”

She shook her head like she couldn’t believe any man could be so slow on the uptake. “You know, Logan, sometimes you can be a complete buzz kill.” Then she brushed her lips against mine.

Many things in life are incomprehensible. Soccer’s offside rule, for example. Or Hollywood’s insistence on continuing to cast Nicolas Cage in major feature film roles. But nothing is more inexplicable than fathoming what makes the average woman tick. And when that woman is anything but average, why even make an effort?

I kissed Savannah hungrily.

She melted into my embrace as we stood together, arching into me, her tongue softly probing mine, her fingers sliding down the back of my jeans. Her hair smelled like spring.

“You won’t be needing this,” she whispered, undoing my belt, “or this,” tugging my shirt over my head.

I glided my lips along the side of her neck, savoring the silken sweetness of her skin, as I gently cupped her breast. Savannah leaned her head back and moaned.

“This could be a huge mistake, Logan.”

“That’s what they said about Alaska, and that turned out just fine last time I checked.”

She laughed.

Call me a cornball, but a sweeter sound I’ve never heard.

Seven

M
y jeans were ringing on the floor beside the bed. I reached over, half asleep, and got out my phone.

“Logan.”

“Mr. Logan, Gary Castle, Castle Robotics, returning your call of yesterday. My apologies for not getting back to you sooner. I was back in Washington on business. Got in last night. Hope I’m not catching you too early.”

Savannah was snuggled into my back, her arm draped over my side, snoring softly. I glanced at the time display on the phone. It was nearly 9:30
A
.
M
. The last time I’d slept that late was in a crib.

“Not too early at all, Mr. Castle.”

“Hub Walker tells me you’re doing some work for him.”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Hub’s been like a father to me. One of the finest men I’ve ever known, hands down—and unquestionably one of the greatest pilots who ever lived. I don’t know if he told you: we met when I was working as a line boy at the Camarillo airport, gassing up planes, washing windshields. He flew in for an air show that summer. Quite a thrill. That was years ago, though, when I was still thinking about becoming a pilot myself.”

“Never too late.”

“It is for me, unfortunately. I’ve got some heath problems that would prevent my passing a flight medical.” Castle’s tone brightened. “In any case, Hub tells me you’re a flight instructor. Must be a blast, getting paid to teach people how to fly.”

“A total blast—if you don’t mind shopping at the Salvation Army and eating ramen several times a week.”

Castle laughed a little too hard. “How can I help you, Mr. Logan?”

“Actually, Hub wants me to help you.”

I told him that I’d been hired to refute Dorian Munz’s last-minute allegations. Any nuggets of information Castle could provide, however small, that hadn’t already gone public could go a long way, I said, in restoring his good name.

“Needless to say,” Castle said, “I wasn’t pleased with the field day the press had over the lies Munz told, but I honestly don’t know what more I can tell you that didn’t come out during his trial.”

“Hub seems to think there still may be a few apples left on the tree.”

“Well, if that’s what Hub thinks . . . I trust his instincts implicitly. Tell you what, Mr. Logan, why don’t you swing by my office in an hour, if that’s convenient. We can go somewhere, catch a little late breakfast.”

He gave me the address. I said I’d be there.

I thought it odd that Castle hadn’t mentioned Ruth Walker’s name during our conversation. Ruth had been a loyal employee. She was the daughter of the man Castle said was like a father to him. But I let it go. I was naked and in bed with Savannah. It was impossible to concentrate on anything else.

C
RISSY
W
ALKER
was standing at the kitchen counter, mixing a big glass bowl of batter, when Savannah and I entered through the patio door. Hub was sipping coffee at the breakfast bar, reading the morning paper. They were wearing matching blue terry cloth robes.

“This is Savannah.”

“You didn’t tell us she was so gorgeous,” Crissy said, hugging her.

“You’re the one who’s gorgeous,” Savannah said, her face radiant from our evening together.

Walker clasped her hand in his two. “Y’all make a fine-lookin’ couple, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so,” he said, his mood having improved appreciably from the night before.

“Actually, we
were
a couple,” Savannah said, “and, while we may still
look
like one, we’re really still more at the exploratory phase. We’re hoping to determine whether a sufficient foundational framework exists to reestablish something potentially long term.”

“Savannah’s a life coach,” I explained.

“Gotcha.” It was clear by Walker’s confounded expression that he had not a clue what a life coach was or did. I wasn’t sure I knew, either.

“By the way,” I said, “the faucet out in the guesthouse is leaking. Not sure if you knew that already.”

Walker sighed, pouring us coffee in two ceramic mugs. “I replaced that whole sink not two years ago. Guess I’ll have to get out there again with my toolbox.”

“You shouldn’t be getting out there on your hands and knees doing plumbing, Hub,” Crissy said. “Hire somebody.”

“I ain’t paying somebody to fix something I can fix myself. We’ve been over this I don’t know how many times.”

“Well, maybe if you’d hired somebody to do it right the first time, you wouldn’t have to be going out there to fix it.”

The sudden tension between them was discomforting.

“So, I hear you have a very pretty granddaughter,” Savannah said, playing referee.

Walker smiled. “Ryder. She’s at zoo camp. Goes every morning. You’ll meet her tonight.”

“She absolutely adores animals,” Crissy said. “We can’t have any, unfortunately. She’s highly allergic to all forms of pet dander.”