An unwelcome surprise was waiting for Bonnie when she emerged from Clown Burger. Her Jeep was in even worse condition than before.
One headlight had been kicked in, the front window on the driver’s side smashed. The front seats had been attacked with something sharp—a key, probably—the cushions grooved with jagged gashes spelling out F. U.
She looked around for Kyle’s Hyundai, but it was long gone, of course. With a sigh she opened the door. Her glove box had been pried open, its contents distributed everywhere. Kyle had been looking for something. A gun, probably. If she’d found one, she might have gone back inside Clown Burger with more serious trouble in mind.
“Crocodile, Crocodile …” Bonnie shook her head sadly. If you couldn’t trust a renegade drug mule, who could you trust?
She settled behind the wheel and put the Jeep into gear. The night air through the broken window was cold on her face. At least it wasn’t raining. You had to look on the bright side.
She headed south for a mile or two, then cut over toward the ocean. She went through Brighton Cove and kept going. No particular reason. She was edgy, that’s all. Something was nagging at her, some stray thought or memory she couldn’t quite bring into focus.
Shitty night anyway. The tail job hadn’t worked out the way she’d hoped. And she’d gotten another ticket. And yes, she’d saved Kyle Ridley’s life—but she was starting to wonder if that had been such a great idea. Maybe she should have stifled her good Samaritan impulse and let nature take its course.
But no. Even after the little bitch trashed her ride, Bonnie still couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Sure, she’d done a stupid thing, but Bonnie herself had done some stupid things when she was that age.
Like working for Edna Goodman …
And boom, just like that, she was back in the past, reliving her summer night in Palm Garden.
The bar called Sidewinder’s was just as classy an establishment as she’d expected. Above the entrance a flashing neon sign spelled out the name and an animated rattlesnake lashed its tail. Motorcycles and pickup trucks crowded the parking lot.
Inside there was a long bar, four pool tables, and smoke everywhere. Back then it was still legal to light up in a restaurant, at least in Arizona. She sat at the bar and ignited one of her Parliament Whites. She’d been a smoker since she was fifteen.
The bartender delivered her order, a Jack & Coke, her beverage of choice when she could get it. Though she was a hair under twenty-one, the guy didn’t ask to see her ID. Sidewinder’s wasn’t that kind of place. Anyway, her time on the road had made her look older than she was. Something about the squint of her eyes, she thought.
She nursed the drink, making it last. She wasn’t planning to order another. She needed to stay sharp.
Now and then she brushed off come-ons from random barflies. It was just possible the come-ons were encouraged by the words printed in big letters on her T-shirt: If You’re Hard, I’m Easy. It was a joke, but some of these dirt farmers and tarantula wranglers seemed to take it a little too seriously.
Most of the time, she just sat back and took in the atmosphere—the slap of pool cues, the roll of balls into the pockets, the grudging handovers of cash, the occasional near-fights, with the contenders puffing themselves up like toads and challenging each other, but always backing down. Not a violent place. Not like some of the dives she’d seen, where people would cut you with a switchblade for an offending glance.
The pool tables were arranged under suspended lights, where money for wagers was deposited. Spectators occupied highback chairs along the rear wall. Railbirds, they were called. They murmured appreciatively after the better shots.
Bonnie had played some pool back in Philly, and there was a good chance she could have hustled these rubes, but she resisted the temptation. She had to stay low-profile, like a real private eye.
A jukebox stood in the corner, playing everything from Buddy Holly to Tim McGraw. One guy kept slugging in coins and selecting Bad Moon Rising, the Creedence tune. He must have played it half a dozen times until a pal got hold of him and escorted him away from the jukebox. Bonnie hadn’t minded. She liked that song.
Mainly, she watched Ed Goodman. He shot some pool—not badly, but not well enough to elicit any murmurs from the railbirds—and he played a couple of numbers on the jukebox. He downed a single beer, straight from the bottle, and joshed with the waitresses, giggly gals ranging in age from twenty to sixty, all of them showing a lot of tit in varying degrees of pertness. Nothing too suspicious. Bonnie was beginning to think the assignment was going to be a washout.
Around nine o’clock, she caught Ed sneaking glances at his wristwatch. Shortly afterward, he sauntered out of the bar.
Bonnie followed, abandoning the melting ice that was all she had left of her Jack & Coke. By the time she got outside, Ed’s Mustang was already pulling away. She hopped on her Kawasaki and got going. She’d never tailed anybody before, and she hoped she was doing it right.
He surprised her by driving out of town. She shadowed him down a stretch of two-lane highway. The sky was fully dark and the road was empty. The asphalt hummed under her tires in its steady, reassuring drone. The song of the road—that was how she thought of it. She’d heard that song in many different keys throughout the past two years.
She’d often wished she could have afforded a Harley rather than the beat-up secondhand Kawasaki, but tonight she was grateful for the soft burr of the Japanese motor. A Harley’s angry growl would have echoed through the desert like the mating call of a T-Rex.
At a turnoff marked Rattlesnake Junction, Ed left the highway. First Sidewinder’s, now this. Bonnie wondered what it was about rattlers that made them worthy of so much signage. If she lived in a place infested with venomous reptiles, she didn’t think she would want to advertise the fact.
The Mustang went off road, plowing up a wide wake of dust. It headed into a box canyon with sculpted sandstone walls. The floor of the canyon was flat and sandy and tufted with prickly pear cactus. Saguaros clustered near the entryway, sentinels standing watch. The sky was a spread of deep purple embroidered with impossibly bright stars.
In the middle of the canyon sat a solitary motorhome. Lights glowed behind venetian blinds. Low music throbbed from within.
Ed Goodman’s secret love nest? Could be.
Bonnie parked the bike just inside the canyon’s narrow gateway, killing the ignition before Ed’s car came to a stop alongside the mobile home. She didn’t want him hearing her motor when the Mustang fell silent.
On foot she made her way down a gravelly incline, hugging the canyon wall. Her progress was slow and precarious, the loose stones slip-sliding under her feet like a hill of marbles. It was hot in the canyon, hotter than it had been in town, probably because no wind reached here. Somewhere an owl hooted. Horned owl, probably. Bird of prey.
Hearing that cry, she felt a little like a field mouse herself. Some part of her sensed that there was death in this canyon. But she kept going. She hadn’t learned to trust her instincts. She was young.
The Mustang’s door swung open and thumped shut. Ed stood there for a moment. He seemed to be surveying the area. She shrank back against the rock wall, wishing there was more cover. She wasn’t sure just what would happen if Ed spotted her. He didn’t seem like the violent type, but you never knew about people.
Truth was, she almost felt sorry for old Ed. Being married to a harpy like Edna couldn’t be any treat. If he wanted to sneak off and have his fun with some lady friend whose eyes weren’t so faded and whose mouth didn’t shape itself into that bitter grin, who could blame him?
She wondered if she ought to turn back, return what was left of the money, and call the whole thing off. Or more plausibly, just get back on her bike and ride out of here, keeping the money and the camera, and let Ed keep his secrets.
But she wasn’t going to do that. She’d made a bargain with Edna Goodman, and she was just honest enough to want to see it through.
Ed walked to the motorhome and rapped on the door. It opened, and a female silhouette appeared in the dim lamplight. Ed’s voice was clear in the stillness. “Hey, sweetie.”
The woman said something in reply, but her voice didn’t carry. He went in, and the door shut behind him.
Bonnie crept closer. The music seemed louder now. Some guy was crooning about the way you look tonight. She hated that shit. Give her some good head-banging balls-to-the-wall rock ’n roll over that sappy-crappy mood music any time.
She reached the side of the mobile home and listened. Voices from within, but no distinguishable words. Murmurs. Lovers’ coos.
The vehicle was sheathed in aluminum siding, dented in many places, ribboned in dark dust. The two windows on the near side were screened by blinds. She couldn’t see inside.
She circled around to the other side of the motorhome, doing her best to make no sound. Her boots weren’t made for stealth; they made soft crackling noises as they sank into dirt and loose stones. But with the music playing, she didn’t think anyone could hear.
The RV rocked slightly, as if weight had shifted inside. Were the lovebirds getting it on already? It seemed like a good bet. Ed didn’t strike her as the sort who’d be real big on foreplay.
The blinds were shut on this side, as well, but in the nearest window one of the slats was broken, allowing a stripe of lamplight to bleed through. She thought she could see through that opening—probably take a picture through it, too.
Stalking Edna’s hubby was bad enough, but taking a snapshot of him in the throes of passion was even worse. Again she thought about turning back. But there was that bargain she’d made. And the extra money Edna had promised as a reward for a photo.
It was the money that decided things. She would snap the photo if she could.
The voices were silent now. Only the song went on, building to a big finish.
Pressing herself against the side panels, Bonnie stood on tiptoe and looked through the gap.
She saw a record spinning on an old-fashioned turntable, a couple of chintzy lamps with soiled shades, a collection of porcelain figurines. There was no bed. There were only two chairs, facing each other. One was empty, and in the other, knitting contentedly, sat Edna Goodman.
Shit.
Ed hadn’t strayed, after all. At least not tonight. He’d gone straight home to his wife.
At that moment she realized her earlier qualms hadn’t been real. The truth was, she had wanted to catch him in the act and supply Edna with photographic proof. Not out of vindictiveness or greed or any personal motive, but because—well, just because it made a more interesting story.
The song on the record player ended. There was a beat of silence as the phonograph needle slid lazily to the next track.
As she turned away from the window, it occurred to her to wonder where Ed had gone.
That was her last thought before something slammed her in the back, hard and stunning between the shoulder blades, and she went down.
*
Bonnie came up short at a red light in Point Clement, not far from the amusement area. And suddenly she knew why her Easy Rider days had been on her mind tonight, why she’d kept circling back to the same unwanted memories ever since she’d glanced in the direction of the shooting gallery, and why her restlessness had brought her back, without conscious intention, to the vicinity of Wonderland.
She wasn’t sure. But it could be him. It really could.
Eleven years older. Different part of the country.
But it was possible.
The man who ran the shooting gallery just might be Ed Goodman of Palm Garden, Arizona.