the levee walls that towered twenty feet above me. He might be circling
back to the edge of the channel, intending to enter the riverbed behind
me.
Or he might not be interested in me at all. Though it would be
comforting to think that galaxies revolve around me, I am not the center
of the universe.
In fact, this mysterious figure might not even exist. I’d gotten such a
brief glimpse of it that I couldn’t be absolutely certain it was more
than an illusion.
Again I reached under my coat and touched the Glock.
Orson had padded so far into the passageway beneath Highway 1 that he
was almost beyond the reach of my flashlight.
After glancing at the channel behind me and seeing no stalker, I
followed the dog. Instead of riding my bike, I walked beside it, guiding
it with my left hand.
I didn’t like having my right hand my gun hand occupied with the
flashlight. Besides, the light made me easy to follow and easy to
target.
Although the riverbed was dry, the walls of the tunnel gave off a not
unpleasant damp odor, and the cool air was scented with a trace of lime
from the concrete.
From the roadbed high above, the rumble-hum of passing cars and trucks
translated all the way down through layers of steel, concrete, and
earth, echoing across the vault overhead. Repeatedly, in spite of the
screening thrum of the traffic, I thought I heard someone stealthily
approaching. Each time I swung toward the sound, the flashlight revealed
only the smooth concrete walls and the deserted river behind me.
The tire tracks continued through the tunnel into another open stretch
of the Santa Rosita, where I switched off the flashlight, relieved to
rely on ambient light. The channel curved to the right, out of sight,
leading east-southeast away from Highway 1, rising at a steeper grade
than before.
Although houses still stippled the surrounding hills, we were nearing
the edge of town.
I knew where we were going. I had known for some time but was disturbed
by the prospect. If Orson was on the right trail and if Jimmy Wing’s
abductor was driving the vehicle that had left these tracks, then the
kidnapper had fled with the boy into Fort Wyvern, the abandoned military
base that was the source of many of Moonlight Bay’s current problems.
Wyvern, which covers 134, 456 acres far more territory than our town is
surrounded by a high chain-link fence supported by steel posts sunk in
concrete caissons, topped with helixes of razor wire. This barrier
bisected the river, and as I rounded the curve in the channel, I saw a
dark-colored Chevrolet Suburban parked in front of it, at the end of the
tracks we had been following.
The truck was about sixty feet away, but I was reasonably sure no one
was in it. Nevertheless, I intended to approach it with caution.
Orson’s low growl indicated a wariness of his own.
Turning to the terrain we had crossed, I could see no sign of the
creeping gargoyle that I had glimpsed on the east side of Highway 1.
Nonetheless, I felt as though I were being watched.
I concealed my bike on the ground, behind a snarl of driftwood that had
gotten its teeth into a few dead tumbleweeds.
After tucking the flashlight under my belt, at the small of my back, I
drew the Glock from my holster. It is a safe-action pistol with only
internal safety devices, no little levers that need thumbing to ready
the gun for use.
This weapon has saved my life more than once, yet although it’s a
reassurance to me, I am not entirely comfortable with it. I suspect I’ll
never be able to handle it with complete ease. The weight and design of
the piece have nothing to do with my aversion to the feel of it, this is
a superb handgun. As a boy roaming the town at night, however, I was
subjected to some memorable verbal and physical abuse from bullies
mostly kids but also some adults old enough to know better and although
their harassment motivated me to learn how to defend myself and taught