“Good. Very good. It's working. Now, I am supposed to make this thing move.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I damned-sure hope I know how.”
He did. His left hand automatically switched on the headlights and wipers, his right hand took the wheel and his foot pressed the gas. The car surged forward into the storm.
He drove, following the images and recollections that entered his brain; sloshing at first through dimly-lit, deserted back streets, then moving on through neighborhoods of tightly-woven, busier streets and finally joining a frantic, coursing torrent of automobiles, trucks and buses that was the interstate. He careened a bit unsteadily from lane to lane until he caught the hang of it. A few cars swerved and honked, spraying water on his windshield in their wake, but he finally settled into the lane that felt right and stayed there.
I’m remembering. It’s coming back. That ramp up ahead is Highway 101, he instructed himself, reading a long, green sign as he drove under it. I take this and my exit should be coming up twenty minutes after that.
Sure enough, at the prescribed time he saw the exit he was looking for and turned onto the ramp, leaving the nightmare of the freeway with a soft mutter of relief under his breath. Another half hour of driving, remembering turns as he came to them, landmarks as he saw them, found him in an up-scale residential area. He squinted and scowled through mists of rain to make out the road signs.
Coastal Pine Drive. My house is this way ... he confirmed, turning off the main street onto a two-lane, winding road that slowly climbed its way up the thickly-wooded, eastern slope of the San Rafael mountains. Peering through mist and a foggy windshield at the dark, blurry outlines of houses and trees, he finally recognized a gated driveway leading to a Spanish-style mansion set well back off the road; its lawns mostly obscured by a dense fortress of scrub oak and pine. He pulled to a stop in front of the gate, pushed a button on a remote control he recalled being located in the dashboard—-it was right where his memory told him it was—-and the gate swung open.
He drove forward, up the brick-paved drive, and stopped in front of the expansive, red-tiled and stucco hideaway villa. As he approached, two black dogs, lulling under a covered porch, sprang to attention, ears forward, noses pointed toward the car and its occupant. Cross got out of the car and whistled. Both dogs came running, jumping and whimpering, deliriously vying for their master's attention. Cross rubbed their ears and scratched their chins. “Miss me, boys?” he asked. The dogs responded in the affirmative with wagging tails and happy barks.
With the same remote control that opened the gates, Cross keyed in a digital code that opened the front door and stepped into the warmth of a spacious entry hall. He looked in amazement at the luxuriant furnishings, massive fireplace, carefully-detailed architecture and gilt-framed artwork that decorated the place. It was an odd sensation, seeing each thing, each possession for the first time, yet knowing it intimately at first sight. Straight ahead rose a fabulous, carved railing and an ascending, Mexican-tiled staircase. He hurried up it to the bedroom and shower he knew were waiting on the second floor. There, he threw open the bedroom doors, stripped off his sopping tie and shirt, and headed straight to the bathroom to turn on a steaming stream of hot water in the shower. No sooner had he done so than he heard a movement and soft cry behind him.
“Garrin?”
He turned to see a slender, stunningly-beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed in translucent white lingerie hurrying toward him, her arms outstretched.
She came to him and kissed him hard, pulling him close to her as her arms passionately embraced him. “Oh Garrin,” she breathed, pressing her head against his chest. “I've been so worried.”
A name came to him. Alicia. Alicia Elizando.
The woman continued with trembling voice, “When you took off like that this morning ... I was afraid you weren't coming back. Where did you go? And what ... look at you!” She drew back, noticing for the first time his hair, skin and remaining clothes were soaking wet. “What on earth? Your head! It's bleeding!”
She pulled him to the sink, held a hand cloth under cold water and dabbed at the gash on the side of his head with a shaking hand. “Garrin, what in the world happened?”
“I'm all right, Alicia,” he answered, taking the cloth from her hand. “Don't fuss over me. I need a shower, badly. Then we can talk.”
She backed away. “Certainly. Of course. I ... I'll wait for you on the patio. I'm just ... so glad you're home.”
He could sense she was offended and hurt. “I didn't mean to be curt, kitten. I'm just ... well, it's been a rotten day.” He brushed her cheek with his hand. “Get me a brandy, will you?”
She turned to go, wiping her cheek.
He grabbed her wrist. “Alicia, you're crying.” It gave him an odd pleasure to see it.
“I was worried,” she explained, flushing. “But you're home now. Everything's all right.”
“Yes.”
“I'll get the brandy. Don't keep me waiting too long.”
He smiled at her, a dark ember lighting within that he had not felt for a very long time. “No, pet. Not long.”
He watched her leave the room, her negligee gossamer about her body as she moved, her long hair shining like an ebony mane down her back. “Beautiful woman,” he whispered as a tapestry of memories of her flooded into his brain. “And I own her, body and soul.”
Garrin Cross ducked gingerly into the shower and began to scrub everywhere, eagerly washing away the grime and filthy smell of garbage and blood. He had just lathered his hair and was letting the hot water rinse the suds down his back when he heard the bathroom door open a crack and a man's voice call out through the steam.
“I can't believe you went by yourself this morning, Boss. That was very, very foolish. How did it go?”
Cross turned off the water. “Hand me a towel and I'll tell you.”
The man obliged and stood waiting outside as Cross toweled off. A few moments later, Cross emerged, wearing a white terry cloth robe, slicking back his dark hair with a silver comb. His eyes, in one quick sweep, took in the tall, blond Swede standing by the door with every bulging muscle in his great arms taught, his jaw set like iron. He remembered this man as soon as he laid eyes on him. Erik Holst, his bodyguard.
“He tried to kill me, Erik.”
“Chang?”
Cross nodded and turned sideways to a gilded mirror above an ornate, ash wood dressing table. He pushed back his hair, revealing a bruised gash.
“Pretty, isn't it?”
“You shouldn't have gone without me,” the Swede said, his accent thick with disapproval.
“I thought everything was set,” Cross explained, the recollection of events re-forming faster on command now, playing one by one in his mind. “I thought everything would be okay. Chang called at six a.m., gave me an address, and said to come alone or the deal was off. He wanted to meet within the hour. At first, I hesitated, but then I figured too much was at stake for him to do anything to mess it up. When I got there, nobody was around. Then I looked over and saw him waiting by some buildings, so I got out and walked over there....”
“Hell's hounds, Boss. Don't you recognize a set up when you see one?” the Swede growled.
“I'm not a total idiot, Erik. I wasn't unarmed. I thought I could handle it. As I got closer, I could see it was Chang. He smiled and held out his hand to shake and I reached out to take it. Right then, as he held on to my hand, one of his cutthroats came up from behind and hit me over the head. I vaguely remember somebody throwing a plastic bag over my face and I struggled to breathe. They held me down on the ground until everything went black.”
The Swede looked shocked. Frowning, he bent forward to look into Cross’ face. “You say they covered your head with a plastic bag?”
“That's right.”
“Then