Free Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte Page B

‘About that canyon where you picked me up . . . ?’ he said.
    â€˜Sorrel Canyon? Yeah?’
    â€˜Around fifteen miles east of PCH, there’s a road that angles off to the right. Any idea where it goes?’
    The big man shook his head. ‘All I know, Sorrel takes me from the I-10 to PCH. Them side roads, nothin’ but distractions. Like strayin’ from the true path.’
    â€˜Well, thanks for the lift, friend,’ Mace said, getting out of the van.
    â€˜Peace be with you, brudda. Let the Lord Jesus Chris’ shine his light into yo’ soul.’
    â€˜Back at you,’ Mace said.
    The van turned and headed off in the direction of the Coast Highway. Mace watched it until it disappeared into the dark.
    He did not get into the Camry.
    Instead, he walked the short distance toward Dolphin Way. He had no particular plan. He’d check on the guards, see what they were up to. Then he thought he might scout a little, maybe find a footpath down to the beach that avoided the security post.
    The section of the road by the gate was brightly lit, as was the gatehouse.
    He saw no sign of any guards, which was odd. If you were paying top dollar for the security of a gated community, especially one as exclusive as this, having guards there at night made more sense than having them during the daylight hours.
    Maybe they’d been called away?
    He supposed that happened every now and then. Somebody might get drunk and rambunctious. Kids might get loud enough for the nearest neighbor to complain. There could be medical emergencies. Heart attacks. Maybe a bit of spousal abuse. Hell, maybe even a theft. But wouldn’t one guard stay put, to keep out the riff-raff and raise the gate for arrivals or departures?
    Strange.
    He moved quickly past the empty gatehouse and entered Point Dume Estates.
    It would have been nice to know which of the estates had been Angela Lowell’s destination. At least he had the yellow Mustang to clue him in. If she was still there.
    The car was parked some distance from the security shack, beside a high, smooth wall, painted a pastel pink. A few feet away, the wrought-iron gate to the property was hanging open a few inches.
    Mace approached the gate. He looked in at an overgrown garden; its flowers adding perfume to a chilly breeze off the ocean. He entered the grounds cautiously, not liking the creak of the gate. He moved down a flagstone walkway, scanning the foliage for some sign of motion. All he saw were leaves, ruffled by the ocean breeze, shimmering in the moonlight.
    Beyond the plant life was a modern beach home, all stone and metal and glass.
    The two-wheel security scooter stood sentry before the pebble glass front door. The guards had been called here. But where were they?
    Mace stood still, closed his eyes and listened.
    There was the comforting roar of the surf, the flutter of leaves, the distant cry of a gull, faint highway-traffic noise. Nothing else. The neighbors were too far away for him to hear, or too quiet or too absent. Not a sound came from inside the stone and glass home. Not from the guards. Not from anyone.
    Suddenly, a light began to flicker at a window to his left.
    He moved there silently in a crouched position, staying lower than the sill. A sound came from the room, the deep growl of a dog. Curious, he rose enough to peek through the window.
    What he saw shocked him.
    A huge dog stood in the center of a large room, shimmering ghostlike in a column of light that appeared to emanate from the animal itself. It was the biggest mastiff Mace had ever seen, almost the size of a pack mule. There was a prehistoric quality to its narrow head and incredibly long, pointed teeth.
    The dog turned its odd head as if it were scanning its surroundings. Before it took in the window, Mace ducked down, his pulse racing. What the fuck kind of dog was this? Nothing he wanted any part of.
    He began backtracking, eager to get away from whatever was going on