ORSON DROVE A LITTLE TOO FAST; but then, he was behind schedule. He’d thought Considine was ready to break, so he’d stayed in Los Osos a tad longer than he should have. Considine was cracking, but it was a slow breakup. He’d taken a trip to a liquor store and come home with a box of bottles. Orson figured he’d be there for the rest of the day. Now, he feared he’d be late for his lunch with Woody and Abby. And Woody was on a time schedule; the early lunch had been set so that he’d be sure to have enough time to pick Luke up today. But Orson also drove fast because it bothered him that both Woody and Abby seemed to have turned their phones off. He could see one of them shutting off a phone but not both. Abby especially was great about answering her phone and checking in when she was supposed to.

For some reason this last vineyard bothered him. He’d not shared his concern with Woody and Abby, not wanting them to think of him as overly protective, so this silence bugged.

“Argh,” Orson groaned, suddenly sorry he’d taken on this case, even if it was a favor for a friend. Talk about a cluster of problems if they did find the guy.

“I’m getting sappy in my old age, or maybe I just can’t say no to Faye,” he muttered. Talking to himself had become a habit. Instead of taking the off-ramp that would get him to the restaurant, Orson sped up, deciding he’d see if Woody and Abby ran into any trouble at the last vineyard on their list.

When he exited the freeway, he watched for their rental car, certain he was overreacting but unable to stop himself. He was sure he’d see them going the opposite direction and then turn around and follow them to the restaurant, make up some lame excuse, harangue them about turning off their phones, not tell the silly story that he was worried about them.

His GPS directed him to turn onto a dirt road, but the big sign for the Dancing Purple Grape Vineyard tipped him off first. He’d only been on the road for a few minutes when he saw another car coming his way at high speed. It could be Abby and Woody’s rental, but where was the fire?

He slowed and pulled as far as he could to the right, which took his car partway into a ditch. The vehicle coming at him didn’t slow, and he felt his jaw drop when he saw the strange bearded man in the driver’s seat —and Abby in the passenger seat.

What was going on?

Where was Woody? he wondered as the vehicle flew past, kicking up a cloud of dirt. Turning around as quickly as he could, spitting out more dirt as his rear tires spun before catching, Orson took off after the speeding vehicle.

He caught the car as it came to a stop when it reached the blacktop. Before Orson could decide what action to take, the driver’s door of the car ahead of him flew open and the bearded man stepped out. He raised a handgun and began firing.

His windshield exploded, and Orson reflexively threw his arm up in front of his face. That was when it felt as if his arm exploded.

Crying out, the searing pain leaving him breathless, Orson fell across the passenger seat, knowing he was helpless but unable to move through the pain mist in his brain to draw his weapon with his off hand. He thought of Faye and wished he’d told her how he felt.

The shooting stopped and he waited for the final bullet, certain he was minutes away from a kill shot. But time ticked by without the deathblow coming, and the pain he felt went from excruciating to simply agonizing. He opened his eyes to take stock of the situation and saw immediately that his right arm was a bloody mess; his right hand hung uselessly.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to grip the steering wheel with his left hand, nearly passing out as the movement affected his busted arm. He pulled himself up to look out the shattered window and saw nothing.

The car with Abby in it was gone.