my right eye, momentarily blurring the little monster. When my vision cleared, I saw that it had stopped. Now, slowly, it raised its two hairy front legs up into the air. Like a referee signaling a touchdown.
More movement behind it—
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Issuing out of a hole at the base of the boulder, as if straight from Hell, were dozens and dozens of tarantulas. All huge. All hairy, and all moving purposely toward me, like something out of a horror movie.
Like something out of a horror movie?
Hell, this was a horror movie.
Suddenly the water bottle next to me exploded, spraying me with water and briefly confusing the spiders. I had actually forgotten about the gunfight. Hell, the gunfight was almost a welcome distraction at this point.
I took a deep breath, tried to focus. They were just spiders, right? Were tarantulas even poisonous? I think some were. How about California desert tarantulas? And since when did California have tarantulas?
Another shot. As the bullet ricocheted off the boulder near my head, something touched my hand. I jerked my hand away just as a particularly fat and hairy spider tumbled onto its back, its legs kicking at the air furiously.
Sweet Jesus.
I gathered myself, mentally considered my choices, realized I didn’t have many, and then did the only thing I could think of. I fired a single shot from around the boulder. The blast sent the tarantulas scurrying—and me scurrying, too.
I stood suddenly, fired two more shots up into the cliff, and dashed off toward the north cliff wall. A single shot exploded in the sand near my feet. I had surprised the shooter. Hell, I had surprised myself.
Breathing hard, sweating even harder, I pulled up next to the curving cliff face, partially out of the shooter’s line of fire. Still, he was somewhere above me.
At least, I thought he was a he.
Typical male bias.
My skin was still crawling. I think I was going to have the heebie-jeebies for a week, if I survived that long.
A jutting rock buttress partially shielded me from the sun and, hopefully, from the shooter. I waited there another ten minutes without incident. Incident being, of course, gunshots and tarantulas. Now there’s a band name for you.
Keeping to the shadows of the cliff trail, I slowly worked my way back up the steep face. Already, I was regretting not having the water.
There were no more gunshots.
Or giant, hairy bugs.
I was about halfway up the cliff face when I heard it: the sudden roar of an engine. Recklessly, I pocketed my pistol, scrambled up the rest of the way as fast as I could.
Just as I crested the cliff ridge, I saw a blue Rawhide truck hauling ass out of here, kicking up about a mile’s worth of dust in its wake.
I looked over at my car; it appeared unmolested. Hopefully, it still had some gas.
A moment later, sitting in the hot seat, I slipped the key into the ignition. Praying hard, I turned the key. The engine started with a roar. I still had more than half a tank.
Thank God.
Chapter Twenty-four
My mother’s cemetery, late.
I had been drinking all evening. Cindy was away in Santa Barbara with some girlfriends. Not a bad idea since I tended to spend the weekends watching football.
Alone for the weekend, I was free to drink. Whoopee. Only I didn’t want to get so drunk that I couldn’t enjoy football. That would just be stupid.
Fuck football.
Okay, now I knew I was drunk.
With the engine still running, I was parked along Vicente Street, next to the cemetery’s entrance. My lights were off.
The cemetery was massive and rolling, covering many dozens of acres. Lots of dead bodies here. Of those bodies, I wondered how many had been murdered. And of those murders, I wondered how many went unsolved?
At least one , I thought.
Would be an interesting, if not macabre, poll.
It was after hours. The cemetery was black and empty. Through the low wrought-iron fence, I could see the gentle sweep of the landscape, which was
More movement behind it—
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Issuing out of a hole at the base of the boulder, as if straight from Hell, were dozens and dozens of tarantulas. All huge. All hairy, and all moving purposely toward me, like something out of a horror movie.
Like something out of a horror movie?
Hell, this was a horror movie.
Suddenly the water bottle next to me exploded, spraying me with water and briefly confusing the spiders. I had actually forgotten about the gunfight. Hell, the gunfight was almost a welcome distraction at this point.
I took a deep breath, tried to focus. They were just spiders, right? Were tarantulas even poisonous? I think some were. How about California desert tarantulas? And since when did California have tarantulas?
Another shot. As the bullet ricocheted off the boulder near my head, something touched my hand. I jerked my hand away just as a particularly fat and hairy spider tumbled onto its back, its legs kicking at the air furiously.
Sweet Jesus.
I gathered myself, mentally considered my choices, realized I didn’t have many, and then did the only thing I could think of. I fired a single shot from around the boulder. The blast sent the tarantulas scurrying—and me scurrying, too.
I stood suddenly, fired two more shots up into the cliff, and dashed off toward the north cliff wall. A single shot exploded in the sand near my feet. I had surprised the shooter. Hell, I had surprised myself.
Breathing hard, sweating even harder, I pulled up next to the curving cliff face, partially out of the shooter’s line of fire. Still, he was somewhere above me.
At least, I thought he was a he.
Typical male bias.
My skin was still crawling. I think I was going to have the heebie-jeebies for a week, if I survived that long.
A jutting rock buttress partially shielded me from the sun and, hopefully, from the shooter. I waited there another ten minutes without incident. Incident being, of course, gunshots and tarantulas. Now there’s a band name for you.
Keeping to the shadows of the cliff trail, I slowly worked my way back up the steep face. Already, I was regretting not having the water.
There were no more gunshots.
Or giant, hairy bugs.
I was about halfway up the cliff face when I heard it: the sudden roar of an engine. Recklessly, I pocketed my pistol, scrambled up the rest of the way as fast as I could.
Just as I crested the cliff ridge, I saw a blue Rawhide truck hauling ass out of here, kicking up about a mile’s worth of dust in its wake.
I looked over at my car; it appeared unmolested. Hopefully, it still had some gas.
A moment later, sitting in the hot seat, I slipped the key into the ignition. Praying hard, I turned the key. The engine started with a roar. I still had more than half a tank.
Thank God.
Chapter Twenty-four
My mother’s cemetery, late.
I had been drinking all evening. Cindy was away in Santa Barbara with some girlfriends. Not a bad idea since I tended to spend the weekends watching football.
Alone for the weekend, I was free to drink. Whoopee. Only I didn’t want to get so drunk that I couldn’t enjoy football. That would just be stupid.
Fuck football.
Okay, now I knew I was drunk.
With the engine still running, I was parked along Vicente Street, next to the cemetery’s entrance. My lights were off.
The cemetery was massive and rolling, covering many dozens of acres. Lots of dead bodies here. Of those bodies, I wondered how many had been murdered. And of those murders, I wondered how many went unsolved?
At least one , I thought.
Would be an interesting, if not macabre, poll.
It was after hours. The cemetery was black and empty. Through the low wrought-iron fence, I could see the gentle sweep of the landscape, which was
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