Bishop’s palmtop rang, but he couldn’t hear it over the roar of the Harley. The bike wound over the long road uphill, and its roar engulfed him. His attention was on the twisting pavement. The pavement rose and switchbacked along the edge of the forest canyon. The pine trees screened the dropoff, but glimpses of it flashed out between the trunks and branches. This was the place where Mad Dog had fallen. Bishop roared past it, his eyes on the road.
Heading for Cobra’s clubhouse. Heading for Cobra’s treasure.
Honey was on the pad behind him. He felt her leaning against his leather though she was light as air. He felt her arms around his waist, her head between his shoulder blades. He liked the feel of her against him and the bike underneath.
His palmtop went on ringing. It was in his jacket, zipped into a side pocket. Bishop didn’t hear it at all. After a while, the ringing stopped. The Harley went on, winding up the hill.
The rain hadn’t reached the East Bay yet. The clouds were swirling, dark and low. The day was edging toward evening, and as the light died the thunderheads seemed to press down toward the mountain. At the same time, the Harley climbed closer and closer to the churning gray mass. It felt to Bishop as if he were riding right into the thing, as if he were going to punch through the cloud cover and motor through lightning and rain and break out finally above the storm to coast along in the brilliant blue sky. But it never happened. The clouds kept whirlpooling continually closer and closer. The night kept coming on, kept pressing down. The wind grew wet and cold as if they really were nearing the heart of the downpour. But the Harley just went on growling and stuttering as it followed the rising road higher and higher still.
The palmtop began to ring again. The Harley’s engine drowned it out. The palmtop rang and rang and then, again, it stopped.
A little ways on, Bishop felt Honey tap his shoulder. He glanced down and saw her slender hand extended. He followed the gesture. There was a small lane to his left, curving away through the trees. He guided the bike onto it.
They came into an enclave of houses overlooking a cliff. They were small houses, run-down. They looked as if they’d been planted here years ago and forgotten, left to decay. Honey tapped him again, pointed again. He guided the Harley down a dirt drive.
They reached the clubhouse. Bishop hardly remembered the place. The last time he’d been here he’d been too jazzed from killing Mad Dog. Then later he was drunk and even later he was hungover. At this point, the whole experience was foggy to him, like a dream. He could never have found the place again on his own.
The house was still visible in the last light from the west. It was a two-story cabin made of raw pine. There was a porch out front with a rocker and a swing. There was a dusty yard beneath the porch. There was a dead Chevy in the dusty yard and a junked armchair stacked on top of an old sofa.
It might’ve been any weekend cabin on the edge of any hill. But there was a wood fence out front with razor wire coiled along the top of it. And there was razor wire on the roof gutter, too. The windows were black and empty and gave the house a hunkering, aggressive look somehow. And there was a plaque with a death’s head nailed roughly into the center of the door.
Bishop brought the Harley to a stop. He sat before the front gate, the bike idling. Honey dismounted, walked to the fence. She had the key.
She swung the gate open and held it for him. Bishop motored past her to where the driveway ended under an old oak. He killed the engine. Swung his leg over. Walked to her in the rising dust.
She put her hands against his chest, tilted her head up. He held her shoulders and kissed her. He looked over her to where the lights were beginning to appear in the city below. The lights twinkled on as the night grew deeper and then winked out as the storm moved over them. The bay was already completely hidden. The clouds flickered above it, lightning in their bellies.
“Big storm coming, it looks like,” Bishop said.
“Let’s do this,” Honey whispered, pressing her cheek against his chest. “If we’re gonna do it, let’s do it and go.”
He hesitated there another second, his hands on her soft shoulders. It was a pretty crappy thing to do, he reckoned. Stealing the money, disappearing with the client’s daughter. A pretty crappy thing to do to Weiss. Maybe he wouldn’t, after all. Maybe he’d just go in with her, help her get the cash and let her go. Or maybe he’d get the cash himself and turn it in to the Agency. Or what the hell? Maybe he’d get the cash and ride Honey down to Mexico and fuck her till Jesus came again. It was hard for him to say exactly what he was planning at the moment. But he figured he was about to find out.
She felt his hesitation. “Do you still want to?” she asked him.
He stood there another second. He stood there, thinking: What the hell. He knew he was pussy-blind. Sure he did. But so what? There were worse ways to stumble to perdition.
“Come on,” he said.
He followed her to the house.