SATISH
AnnaSophia’s wild story about the “chef who never existed” gave Satish a headache. Or maybe it was the damn clock in the hallway. The constant ticking reminded him of the seconds slipping away. He didn’t dare move. Sitting so close he could count her eyelashes gave him a hard-on. She, of course, had no idea he breathed. When the clock clanged the quarter hour, he scooted so far away from her his ass teetered on the sofa’s edge. He recovered without—he prayed—playing the total fool.
Her flat, reading-the-weather-forecast voice hit him with a wave of self-disgust. He was thinking about his dick, and she was talking about the nightmare found in the incinerator’s ashes. The Feds had turned up teeth belonging to six distinct individuals—five identified as petty criminals and drug dealers barely on the FBI’s radar. She shivered and stared into space.
His mind had stopped tracking the story’s grisly threads. Hyper-aware he was studying the lushness of her lips, he faked a yawn and threw in the towel.
Whatever he’d missed about the teeth, he’d have to reconstruct later.
Or embarrass himself by lunging at her and kissing that tantalizing mouth.
Damn Patrick Reid. Satish rose. AnnaSophia offered him a comfortable bed in the pool house, but he gave the perfect excuse. “My mother may be awake. She worries.”
“Don’t all mothers?”
They stood as awkward and edgy as an Indian bride and groom meeting for the first time. He cleared his throat. She squinted as if half asleep and walked him to the front door. She carried a covered, stainless-steel coffee container. She put it in his uninjured hand, murmuring to take care of his blister.
How could she guess her touch scorched his skin more than the scalding coffee?
Her impersonal warning to drive carefully conveyed no awareness of him as a red-blooded male. She stood in the doorway while he fired up the Porsche and inched into the mist-enshrouded street. He checked both directions as if rush-hour traffic came at him from all sides.
Christ, if she guessed he’d orchestrated the poor-burned-patient scene, she’d call the cops. He turned off the CD player, slugged back coffee, and rolled down his window.
Night air might defuse the circus banging his skull. If he let any of what AnnaSophia told him seep into consciousness, he’d never sleep. Worse, if he spared a single thought for how much he wanted to kiss her goodnight, he’d never sleep for the rest of his natural life.
He drove like a drunk. Slow as a snail. Stomping the brake too often and too hard. Weaving across the dividing line, then over-correcting. He downed more coffee. Heat and caffeine coated the animosity lodged in his throat. He made a face. Ridiculous to feel bitter or wounded or anything but stupid. She’d never encouraged his infatuation. Never.
Being married to a psychopath, she must’ve given up on tenderness from a male.
And if she hadn’t given up, she’d never consider an ex-cop a good candidate for ...
Your mind has turned on you, idiot. He loosened his death-grip on the steering wheel and flexed his fingers and grabbed at reality waiting in the wings.
Two hundred yards—more or less—allowed him to get his driving under control. He was less worried by major thoroughfares than the tree-lined lanes where a Los Altos cop could lurk. The absence of traffic reassured him he could risk driving a block without getting stopped. This part of the town, like most residential areas in Los Altos, boasted no streetlights—a leftover from forty years ago when residents took pride in the safety of their insular fiefdoms.
The same attitude had carried over to sidewalks. You either lived near a neighborhood school and walked or rode your bike or carpooled with other kids. The city fathers and mothers finally laid sidewalks near schools, but most elementary kids now rode to the hallowed halls of academia with their parents or nannies while older kids drove themselves.
Mush. Mind is mush. Satish drove—unable to explain the meanderings of his thoughts.
Unwilling, not unable, he mentally corrected his petty lie.
When he saw the headlights behind him, he cursed and muttered, “Get your head out of your ass, Patel.”
The headlights flashed to high, blinding him, confirming the short-lived thought his tail-gaiter wasn’t a cop. The repeated on-off, on-off rhythm of the strobing lights sent a new jolt of adrenaline into his brain.
Okay, moron, you want to play? A tap to the accelerator and the Porsche leaped forward.
He took the next right, slowing for a 15 MPH curve.
His tail gave chase, tires screaming.
Idiot, 15 MPH means fifteen—not fifty. Satish imagined a bank of mailboxes toppling like toothpicks. He turned on his own high beams. This neighborhood of compact houses was as foreign as Los Angeles. A tree, in the middle of a round-about, loomed. He took a left and sped along a narrow street that stretched into a black hole.
Not a single streetlight. He glanced behind him and laughed.
No sign of his playmate.
Maybe driving with his lights off.
Must know the ’hood.
Satish snorted. “Maybe he’s a damn vampire and sees in the dark.”
Shadows engulfed the streets. Reduced visibility to zero. He drove in circles. Finally reached a fork in the road. Wasted no time debating choices. He went with his gut. He chose the left turn.
Within ten feet of his turnoff, a yellow sign warned: NO OUTLET.
He stuck his head out the car window and yelled at the starless sky, “Shiiiit.”
Stupid, yes. But. Cussing felt so damned good. He peered at the two signs lit by his high beams, mouthed the street names, and entered them into his GPS. The coordinates came up, and he laughed as exhaustion settled into his bones.
Shit. The easiest route out of the maze of cul-de-sacs and dead-ends was to retrace his way in. Mère would believe he got lost as much as she’d believe he could flap his arms and fly. He returned to San Antonio Road, a main drag through Los Altos and Mountain View and Palo Alto. Streetlights on all corners testified to the street’s importance.
The light at Portola turned red. Satish slid a couple of inches into the pedestrian lane and tromped the brake. He gripped the steering wheel. Thank God no foot traffic at midnight. He exhaled. Patience. Ten more minutes and he’d crawl into bed. A car pulled up in the right lane. The driver revved the motor.
Go for it, Hot Dog. Satish refused to give the idiot the satisfaction of a sideways glance.
Hot Dog reissued his invitation.
Too much adrenaline still churned in Satish’s gut. He whipped his head to the right. His pulse kicked up a notch. Sonuva—an Audi. A red Audi.
The driver had turned off the dash lights. Face shrouded, he ducked his head, rolled down his window, threw Satish the bird, and yelled, “Asshole.”
The traffic light turned green. Satish hit the gas. WHAAP. The Porsche leaped forward a nanosecond too late. A missile exploded against the closed passenger window. Satish let up on the gas and whipped his head to the right.
Sonuva— Seeing was not believing. Dark brown, semi-liquid gunk slithered down the glass. The Audie peeled onto Portola and vanished into the night.
“Bastard.” Satish veered to the curb and stomped the brakes. His nostrils flared, and his throat convulsed with the need to gag on the stench.
He covered his mouth with a handkerchief, shoved open his door, and jogged in front of the car. A plastic sandwich bag lay a few feet from the passenger door.
The bag didn’t contain a sandwich.
Or anything else edible.
Excrement—human, Satish was willing to swear—formed a small mound in the bag.
He swore. A very small mound since most of the muck clung to the passenger window.
Bastard. His jaw cracked. He opened the car door and rummaged in the glove compartment, cussing like a Mumbai traffic cop. He ripped out half a dozen Starbuck’s napkins. A muscle jumped in his neck. He breathed through his mouth and bent from the waist. His fingers, encased in a napkin, closed around one corner of the plastic bag.
God, what he’d give to leave it lying right where it had landed.
Stop whining. You’ve touched worse.
Buried images of rotting corpses reared up from their hell holes. He repressed an urge to puke, slid the baggie onto two more napkins, turned his head to one side, and exhaled in an explosion that banged his ears.
I have no idea, officer, why anyone would play such a lousy trick. Variations on the statement realigned the confusion in his skull. Red-Audi Guy. Who the hell was he? Why was Satish his newest target?
The questions churned, but he carried the sample of shit to his side of the car, opened the door, and laid the stinking mess on the floor behind his seat. Somehow he managed to avoid spilling any of the bag’s contents.
“Do not push your luck.” He rolled down the driver’s window, started the engine, and inched onto San Antonio. Crap still dripped down the other window. His mouth twisted. Tough. Cleanup had to wait.
The committee in his head jangled with warnings. Stay alert for the red Audi. Or a cop. He caromed into his driveway, killed the engine, and leaped out of the Porsche, slamming his door. A sliver of pale lemon light flickered in the living room next door. The street’s unofficial Neighborhood Patrol on duty. A drape at the picture window parted.
To hell with waking the neighbors.
The streetlight on the corner provided plenty of illumination. He yanked at the hose Mère used to water the zinnias and mums she’d planted in his boring, suburban neighborhood with streetlights and sidewalks everywhere. He hit the glass with enough water force to shatter brick.