conceivably likely to kill him for what he knows, it follows that they must also kill his family. And like a fool he has given himself away already, by talking about coming here to any number of people, as well as complaining to the cops. If they’re all in on it…
All right then.
Ducking down low, Henry just manages to slip under the boardwalk before the ATV has a clear view of the whole lower expanse. As he hunkers there in shadow, the vehicle rumbles the boards overhead and stops short at the condo door. Henry can hear the men talking as they dismount, leaving the engine running as they survey the broken window.
“What the fuck, man!”
“This shit is fucked up; I am so gonna nail the fucker that did this!”
“He is dead.” Unlocking the door, the man shouts in, “You hear me, you cocksucker? You’re dead!”
“We just better find his ass, that’s all I can say.”
“We’ll find him. He’s got no place to go, and Pulga’s watching the gate. Cover the window, I’m going inside.”
The ATV driver unlocks and kicks open the door. After a few seconds Henry can hear muffled shouting from within, though he can’t make out the words. The man posted outside leans in the broken window and says plaintively, “That motherfucker. The queen bitch is gonna tear us a new asshole when she sees this.”
As they are talking, Henry arrives at a dreadful yet inescapable conclusion, one he has no time to properly consider, but must act on with total commitment, right now, or lose the chance forever:
Numb with disbelief at what he’s doing, he boosts himself up to the deck and scuttles crablike to the idling all-terrain vehicle.
Shitshitshitshitshit…
The man at the window stands sideways to Henry, his lanky profile sharply defined against the dark interior. Broken glass clinks underfoot as he shifts his weight, leaning in to see better. The battered yellow ATV sits midway between them. Moving closer and closer, Henry is exposed for all to see; the slightest sideways glance from that man and he will be pinned like a deer in the headlights.
All right all right…
Scared to breathe, Henry reaches the ATV. Its engine burbles quietly like a slumbering cat, every detail of the thing heightened to brilliant clarity. Suzuki. As if in a dream, Henry throws his leg across the machine’s leather saddle and dares to take his eyes off the man just long enough to scan the controls—he hasn’t ridden anything like this since he was a teenager. Trusting to hazy memory, he kicks it in gear, any gear, and guns forward.
As soon as the ATV starts moving, Henry can hear someone shouting, “No you don’t you whore!” Out of his peripheral vision he can see the man sprinting toward him, but is too busy trying to hang on and keep the vehicle upright to worry about pursuit—the thing does a small wheelie and Henry’s heart jumps with it, thinking it is about to flip.
A rough hand grabs at the back of his shirt—“Gotcha!”—but Henry applies a burst of speed and breaks loose. Barely in control, he weaves drunkenly between the row of false condos and the steel railing overlooking the sea. He is moving in the opposite direction he should be—away from the handicapped-accessible exit ramp—but it can’t be helped; it’s the direction he was pointed. Over the engine he hears snapping sounds from behind—gunshots? Then a voice yelling, “Not at my ride, dumbshit!”
Henry comes to the end of the building and a second flight of stairs going up the hill. There is no vehicle ramp here, but he has no choice—he has to get off the exposed deck. Shifting down to first gear, slowing to a crawl, he turns sharply and takes the stairs.
For a second Henry thinks he has made a horrible mistake. The fat-wheeled buggy rears up so steeply on the first few steps that it seems to be on the verge of tipping backward—he remembers such a thing happening to him years ago on the dunes of Pismo Beach, spilling him into the sand—and he leans forward across the handlebars to lower his center of gravity. It works, barely.
As he settles into a lurching rhythm, Henry realizes it won’t get any steeper; he can make it…unless he does something stupid, like adding more speed. Which is exactly what he must do if he wants to get away.
The men are coming up fast, blazing on foot while he’s putt-putting along like somebody’s wheelchair-bound granny. Concentrating furiously,