The cashier, a porcine blonde with black roots and an attitude, started coughing uncontrollably as she tried to find a price tag on the bottle of hydrogen peroxide I’d set down in front of her, along with vinegar, baking soda, liquid detergent, bib overalls, and a chartreuse “I ♥ California” T-shirt.

“Tell ya what,” she said, gagging as she tossed the bottle into the bag, “thirty bucks for the whole kit and caboodle and we’ll call it even.”

“My day’s just getting better and better.”

I tried to hand her the cash. She backed away from the cash register like I had leprosy.

“Just leave the money on the counter.”

I did as she asked, stuffed my purchases in a plastic bag, and got out of there before she threw up.

There was a run-down, eight-unit motel out on the highway south of town boasting “Free Cable TV!” Dutch paid for a room — the least he could do, he said, considering it was me and not him who’d been unfortunate enough to go mano-a-mano with Pepé Le Pew — then waited in the car while I went inside to de-skunk.

The bathroom sink was stained hard-water green. A centipede ran laps around the bottom of the chipped white bathtub.

“Moving day, crazy legs,” I said, trapping the squiggling insect in a wax paper cup before turning him loose outside.

I plugged the tub’s drain with a hard rubber stopper chained to the overflow and ran the water as hot as it would go, squeezing in the entire bottle of detergent. My skunky jeans and shirt went into the plastic bag from the general store, and from there, outside my room. When the tub was half-full, I poured in the hydrogen peroxide, most of the vinegar, and all of the baking soda. Then I lowered myself in and made like a submarine, grateful at having remembered an article in Boys’ Life I read growing up that said vinegar and dish soap, not tomato juice, did the trick when skunked.

The scalding water helped steam the stench from my pores, but did little to resolve the conundrum that swirled in my head. Where was Dutch’s buddy, Al Demaerschalk? What insights, if any, could he offer on who had tampered with the engine on my airplane, and how much of it, if any, was connected to the slaying of Janet Bollinger?

Four days had passed since Hub Walker had hired me to help clear the good name of the man his murdered daughter had once worked for. In that time, I’d crashed my airplane, been accosted at gunpoint by various assorted lowlives, and managed to dig the schism between my ex-wife and me only deeper. I’d also made a fast ten grand, but the money hardly seemed worth it.

The water was beginning to burn. I pulled the stopper and stood while the tub drained, slathering dish soap on a thin washcloth and scrubbing my scalp and body until it hurt. Then I showered off and scrubbed all over again.

Dutch Holland was snoring in the passenger seat of the Oldsmobile, his head back, mouth open, when I emerged a half-hour later and dropped my old clothes in a Dumpster behind the motel. I could’ve used some sleep myself, but I was eager to get back to San Diego before nightfall. No use tempting fate, flying a single-engine airplane over mountain terrain you can’t see.

I checked the Olds’ trunk for the jerry cans that “Mike” said were inside. Of course, there was none. He’d been lying the whole time. As if I didn’t know that already. Dutch and I would have to land and refuel somewhere en route back to San Diego. That meant part of the flight would be in darkness. Hopefully, we’d be out of the mountains by then.

I climbed in on the driver’s side, my hair wet and uncombed, closed the door as softly as I could, and turned over the engine. Holland barely stirred. He didn’t wake up until we were on the highway southbound and well on our way toward the Fair View Airport. He yawned, rubbed his eyes and nodded toward the new T-shirt and bib overalls I was wearing.

“You look like you just stepped out of the Grand Ole Opry.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I wanted to say that I was dressed that way only because I couldn’t find anything else in my size at the general store in Independence, and that beggars can’t be choosers. But I kept my mouth shut. I’d change clothes after we landed.

“At least you don’t stink anymore,” Dutch said, “though you do smell a tad vinegary.”

I turned on the car’s radio. An evangelical preacher was discussing why God intended for only men to mow the lawn, and how scrap-booking and cooking were lady-only activities.

“My wife couldn’t cook to save her life,” Holland said.

“My ex-wife is a great cook.”

One more thing to miss about Savannah.

I changed stations and caught most of Jimmy Buffett’s “Cowboy in the Jungle,” a song about learning to trust your instincts while accepting life’s inevitable ups and downs. Listening to the tune, I decided, was worth more than an hour on any shrink’s couch.

Fair Vista Airport was as deserted as when we’d first arrived. Even without security gates, Dutch’s plane had been left untouched. He asked if he could fly left seat. After all, he said, it was his airplane. I checked my watch: the sun would be down in less than an hour. It would take probably half that to reach the Inyokern Airport at the valley’s southern end, where we’d refuel before continuing on to San Diego.

“OK,” I said, “you fly us to Inyokern. I’ll get us back to your hangar.”

He smiled and flew magnificently. We landed, gassed up, switched seats, and lifted off once more, just as the last of the sun slid into the Pacific.

At altitude, on a clear night, Los Angeles glimmers black and gold like a living thing. Freeways and major streets pulsate like arteries with the flow of red taillights, feeding dozens of city centers — the amorphous creature’s vital organs. Electrified baseball and soccer fields festoon the body, their high-intensity stadium lamps burning holes in the darkness. Here and there, airport beacons rotate green and white. For pilots like Dutch Holland who are born and not made, it is a panorama that never gets tiresome. He gazed serenely to the west, watching jetliners bound for LAX hanging in the night sky like strands of fireflies. I knew what he was thinking because I was thinking it, too: that being able to fly an airplane, to enjoy that much beauty and freedom, was a privilege few others will ever know.

“’Evening, Los Angeles Center,” I said, keying my radio push-to-talk button. “Cherokee 5-4-8-7 Whiskey, with a VFR request.”

“Cherokee 5-4-8-7 Whiskey, Los Angeles Center, squawk 4-2-5-1 and say request.”

I dialed in 4251 on the Cherokee’s transponder and informed the controller of our location and altitude. I said we were en route to San Diego’s Montgomery Field, and requested “Flight Following.” That way, we’d be on radar — a good thing when you’d rather not scrape paint with other airplanes.

“Cherokee 8–7 Whiskey, radar contact, position and altitude as stated. Chino altimeter, 3-0-0-0. Maintain VFR.”

“Triple zero, 8–7 Whiskey.”

I glanced over at Holland. He was now slumped forward against his shoulder restraints, his mouth open, dozing contentedly.

Over the horizon, the lights of San Diego beckoned like an unsolved riddle.

We touched down at Montgomery shortly before ten P.M. Fifteen minutes later, following a pit stop at the port-a-potty, Holland and his Cherokee were safely back inside their hangar home.

“Thanks for humoring an old man,” he said.

“Thanks for letting me fly your plane, Dutch. You’ve got yourself a fine ship.”

He patted the Piper’s propeller spinner like the muzzle of a trusty mount, then offered to let me spend the night on the air mattress normally reserved for Al Demaerschalk.

“He’s probably over at his son’s house,” Holland said. “We probably should’ve started there to begin with. We can go over first thing tomorrow, if you want.”