The plane accelerated, pressing me back into my seat.

My fingers went to the bandage, feeling the gauze and tape and what Simington had done to me. And to Darcy and to Liz.

We lifted off the ground and I felt it all—all of the things that I’d gone through the last few weeks—catch me like a sucker punch from an invisible fist. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push it away.

The plane angled upward and turned.

I opened my eyes and looked out the window, the tears obscuring everything I was saying goodbye to.

SEVENTY-FOUR

My cell phone rang as soon as I turned it on, stepping off the Jetway in San Diego. I recognized Carter’s number and answered.

“Hey.”

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice urgent. “Just got back. Walking to my car.” “From where?” “San Francisco.” “They found him.”

I moved over to the wall, out of the flow of foot traffic. “How do you know?”

“It was on the news an hour ago,” he said. “Hikers coming back from camping in the desert. They found him. Tried to call you, but I guess you were on the plane.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“I’m gonna lay low for a few days, see what shakes out,” he said. “We should be fine, but I don’t wanna take any chances.” “That’s fine.”

“I’ll call you,” he said and hung up.

I dropped the phone into my pocket. I didn’t know what I expected to feel, but Carter’s call hadn’t surprised me. I wasn’t entirely sure the police could tie Keene to us, but I knew where they’d coming looking first. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

I drove home in the rain, thinking about that, wondering what I should do.

The ideas were ticking through my head when I walked into my living room and found John Wellton sitting on the couch, in the dark.

“Where you been?” he asked.

I thought about asking him how he’d gotten in, but I didn’t see the point. “San Francisco.”

“What happened to your eye?” “Nothing.”

I stood there in the dark, looking at him.

“We found Keene,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Dead. Outside of El Centro.” “Shame.”

He stood and walked over to the glass slider, the rain slithering down the door. “One of El Centro’s guys was there. Named Asanti.” My stomach lurched. “Oh.” “Says you guys know each other.”

“Yeah.”

“Klimes and Zanella are working the scene with him,” he said. “They interviewed a woman named Lucia Vasquez.”

A huge flash of lightening exploded over the ocean and lit the whole room for a moment.

My throat went dry, and my fingers felt cold and heavy.

“Asanti says you know her, too.”

I kept my mouth shut.

“She says you came to her home a few nights ago. That a friend of yours—a big guy—took her and her boys to a motel. So she’d be safe.” He paused. “She says you told her Keene was coming to her home.”

My heart pounded like it wanted out of my chest, like I was keeping it captive.

He turned to me. “I’ll give you two hours.”

“What?”

“They sent me to find you, Noah,” he said, his voice thick. “I’ll give you two hours before I start looking. Gives you a head start to get out of here.”

“Look, Wellton—”

He raised a hand. “Don’t, alright? Just don’t. I understand why you did it. I asked you to call me, but you didn’t. The less you say the better.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’ll see what I can do, but for now, you need to get out of here and disappear. Unless you want to go down. Klimes is already champing at the bit to talk to you.”

I felt like vomiting. It was all slipping away from me, and there was no way for me to hold on to it.

But, then, what was really left for me to hold onto?

Wellton walked past me to the front door and opened it. “I can only put them off for so long. Don’t be a fool. Get out of here. And I don’t mean hole up with your pal. I mean get fucking lost.” He stepped out into the rain.

I sat down on the couch and watched the clock over the television tick away. I could stay and deny it all. There was no guarantee they’d have enough to tie me to Keene’s death. But what Lucia Vasquez knew was pretty damning. Klimes and Zanella had motive, and they knew I’d been there.

I didn’t want to go to jail. Didn’t want to be like Simington. Like my father. But maybe it was too late for that. It seemed that the more I had tried to distance myself from him, the more I had become like him.

You’re not him, Liz had said.

Maybe I wasn’t when she said it, but I sure seemed to fit the bill now.

The hands on the clock lay across each other and pointed at the twelve. Midnight.

Simington would be strapped in now. The syringe would be readied. Maybe two more minutes in his life.

How many were left in mine?

The Last Day of February

I wondered how it had come to this.

No. That wasn’t right.

I knew exactly how it had come to this.

Lightning shattered the sky and raked the black surface of the ocean. The rain spilling out from above hit my face and body like a shower as I stood on my patio, soaking me and the duffel bag slung over my shoulder. The water stung the cut above my eye and grew the bloody stain on my shirt.

I knew that I wouldn’t ever stand on this patio again, stare at this view again, live in this home again.

Thunder rolled off the Pacific like it was coming through a megaphone, rattling the windows and doors of all the homes on the boardwalk. The rain picked up velocity, splashing violently into the puddles on the ground.

I wiped the water from my eyes and took another look, making sure that all of it—my home, the view, this world I had created for myself—would never leave my memory.

I knew that it wouldn’t, just as I knew that the last month would never leave me either.

Things like that don’t leave you. They inhabit you. Forever.

I turned to the glass door and squinted through the reflected bands of rain. My gun lay on the kitchen table. Two surfboards stood in the corner. Most everything I owned was still inside. I didn’t know what would happen to those things. And I didn’t care.

The lightning cracked again behind me. A starter’s pistol, telling me it was time to go.

I stepped off the patio and headed for the car, leaving the remains of my life behind.

Published in Electronic Format by

TYRUS BOOKS

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Copyright © 2011 by Jeff Shelby

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

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This is a work of fiction.

Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

eISBN 10: 1-4405-3267-2

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3267-2

This work has been published in print format under the following ISBNs:

1-93556-239-8 (Hardcover)

1-93556-254-1 (Paperback)