Free Mission Canyon by Meg Gardiner

and follow. But cautious brain cells awoke and kept my foot on the brake. Wait. Watch .
    The light changed and I turned onto Patterson. Ahead, the Porsche bounded around another corner and accelerated out of sight, the road bending beyond an avocado orchard. The Mercedes followed.
    So did I, speeding past the orchard, a fire station, new houses going up on what had been farmland. I hit another intersection and played the odds, going straight, into a commercial strip of shops, motels, and restaurants. I saw neither Kenny nor the Mercedes. Anxiety balled in my belly. I couldn’t lose Brand again.
    I stomped on the brake. There was the Porsche, under the portico at the Holiday Inn. The marquee out front announced, LOBSTER BUFFET $9.99, and WELCOME, GARCIA FAMILY REUNION. I turned in, parked, and watched the Porsche in the rearview mirror.
    Brand got out, slammed the car door, and walked into the lobby of the motel. The Porsche drove off, engine revving.
    I waited.
    I didn’t see the Mercedes following the Porsche. I didn’t see it in the parking lot. I didn’t see the choppy-haired woman or the fat man strolling into the lobby.
    I win.
    Pulling on a baseball cap and sunglasses, I got out and headed for the lobby.
    I pushed through the doors into the Holiday Inn. Brand was standing at the front desk talking to a clerk, his back to me. I walked past him.
    He said, ‘‘Messages?’’
    ‘‘Your room number?’’
    ‘‘One twenty-seven.’’
    Sometimes you get lucky. He was checked in. He was expecting messages. I walked over to a rack loaded with tourist brochures, picked one, and slipped a pen from my back pocket. I wrote 127 on the brochure.
    I stood there for a few seconds longer. If I didn’t get to a bathroom, I would have a blowout. I glanced over my shoulder. Brand was standing at the desk reading message slips. The bathrooms were along a hallway to my left. I thought about it.
    What if this was an elaborate ruse on Brand’s part? He could be planning a getaway. Perhaps Kenny Rudenski had only pretended to drive off. Perhaps he was circling the block, preparing to pick Brand up by the laundry bins.
    And perhaps I should have read the skulking manual before following him. Page one: Pee, then tail.
    I couldn’t wait any longer. Turning my face away from Brand, I hurried for the restroom. I pushed through the door and saw that rare ladies’ room jewel, the vacant stall. O frabjous day. I locked the stall door, jammed my bag on the coathook. My eyes were watering but I was about to burst into song, maybe rip loose with an aria from Tosca in joy.
    Outside the stall came footsteps, and feet appeared, wearing Doc Martens. A woman’s hand reached over the top of the stall door, fumbled around, and grabbed my bag off the coathook.
    I yelled, "Hey—"
    But she was gone.
    It was a classic bit of thievery. I hurried as best I could, zipped up, ran from the stall and out into the hallway.
    Right into Brand.
    I swallowed a gasp, feeling my pores open. He was solid, a big man marbled with weight beneath the cashmere sport coat. He smelled jail-sour and had shaved badly. Graying stubble patched his jowls.
    His head snapped around. ‘‘Watch it.’’
    His eyes were a strange calico green-and-brown, almost kaleidoscopic, and rank with anger. Brushing me aside, he headed out toward the pool.
    My vision was thumping. Dumb seconds ticked off until I ran outside too, looking for the woman in Doc Martens. The motel was built around an interior courtyard, with a lawn and tall palm trees and a turquoise swimming pool. Kids were playing, sunlight flickering on the water. Brand walked toward the far side of the courtyard. He had a key card in his hand.
    The woman wasn’t there.
    Screw it. I ran back inside to the lobby and out the main door.
    My bag was sitting in a planter, half-open. My wallet was nearby. I checked: All cash, my driver’s license, Social Security card, and credit cards were gone. So was my cell phone.
    Out on the