ago: the man who established the network of missions that are now landmark buildings, public treasures, and magnets for history-minded tourists.
Bobby’s parents and a group of like-minded citizens had formed a committee to press for the banishment of the Junipero Serra statue on the grounds that a monument to a religious figure did not belong in a park created and maintained with public funds. Separation of Church and State. The United States Constitution, they said, was clear on this issue.
Wisteria Jane (Milbury) Snow—“Wissy” to her friends, “Mom” to me—in spite of being a scientist and rationalist, led the opposing committee that wished to preserve the statue of Serra. “When a society erases its past, for whatever reason,” she said, “it cannot have a future.”
Mom lost the debate. Bobby’s folks won.
The night the decision came down, Bobby and I met in the most solemn circumstances of our long friendship, to determine if family honor and the sacred obligations of bloodline required us to conduct a vicious, unrelenting feud—in the manner of the legendary Hatfields and McCoys—until even the most distant cousins had been sent to sleep with the worms and until one or both of us was dead. After consuming enough beer to clear our heads, we decided that it was impossible to conduct a proper feud and still find the time to ride every set of glassy, pumping monoliths that the good sea sent to shore. To say nothing of all the time spent on murder and mayhem that might have been spent ogling girls in bun-floss bikinis.
Now I entered Bobby’s number in the keypad on my phone and pressed send.
I turned the volume up a little so Orson might be able to hear both sides of the conversation. When I realized what I had done, I knew that unconsciously I had accepted the most fantastic possibility of the Wyvern project as proven fact—even though I was still pretending to have my doubts.
Bobby answered on the second ring: “Go away.”
“You asleep?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sitting here in Life Is Shit Park.”
“Do I care?”
“Some really bad stuff has gone down since I saw you.”
“It’s the salsa on those chicken tacos,” he said.
“I can’t talk about it on the phone.”
“Good.”
“I’m worried about you,” I said.
“That’s sweet.”
“You’re in real danger, Bobby.”
“I swear I flossed, Mom.”
Orson chuffed with amusement. The hell he didn’t.
“Are you awake now?” I asked Bobby.
“No.”
“I don’t think you were asleep in the first place.”
He was silent. Then: “Well, there’s been a way spooky movie on all night since you left.”
“Planet of the Apes?” I guessed.
“On a three-hundred-sixty-degree, wraparound screen.”
“What’re they doing?”
“Oh, you know, the usual monkeyshines.”
“Nothing more threatening?”
“They think they’re cute. One of them’s at the window right now, mooning me.”
“Yeah, but did you start it?”
“I get the feeling they’re trying to irritate me until I come outside again.”
Alarmed, I said, “Don’t go.”
“I’m not a moron,” he said sourly.
“Sorry.”
“I’m an asshole.”
“That’s right.”
“There’s a critical difference between a moron and an asshole.”
“I’m clear on that.”
“I wonder.”
“Do you have the shotgun with you?”
“Jesus, Snow, didn’t I just say I’m not a moron?”
“If we can ride this barrel until dawn, then I think we’re safe until sundown tomorrow.”
“They’re on the roof now.”
“Doing what?”
“Don’t know.” He paused, listening. “At least two of them. Running back and forth. Maybe looking for a way in.”
Orson jumped off the bench and stood tensely, one ear pricked toward the phone, a worried air about him. He seemed to be willing to shed some doggy pretenses if that didn’t disturb me.
“Is there a way in from the roof?” I asked Bobby.
“The bathroom and kitchen vent ducts aren’t large enough for these bastards.”
Surprisingly, considering all its other amenities, the cottage had no fireplace. Corky Collins—formerly Toshiro Tagawa—had most likely decided against a fireplace because, unlike the warm waters of a spa, the stone hearth and hard bricks of a firebox didn’t provide an ideal spot to get it on with a couple of naked beach girls. Thanks to his single-minded lasciviousness, there was now no convenient chimney to admit the monkeys.
I said, “I’ve got some more Nancy work to squeeze in before dawn.”
“How’s that panning out?” Bobby asked.
“I’m awesomely good at it. Come morning, I’ll spend the day at Sasha’s, and we’ll both be at your place first thing tomorrow evening.”
“You mean I’ve got to make dinner again?”
“We’ll bring pizza. Listen, we’re gonna get slammed, I think. One of us, anyway. And the only way to prevent it is hang together. Better get what sleep you can during the day. Tomorrow night might