shadows by the Evoras' garage. I've done what Elzie asked. I'm waiting for her here, dressed in black jeans and runners with a dark hoodie over my T-shirt. I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying to use the mountain lion to sense what's out there in the night. I guess I'm not very good at it yet, because suddenly Elzie's standing right beside me. I never saw or heard her approach.
She puts a hand on my upper arm and gives it a squeeze as we start walking.
"Thanks for coming," she says. "It means a lot."
"If it was me instead of him, I'd like to think people were trying to get me out, so it was hard to say no."
"Yeah, but you still could have."
I shrug, trying to be cool.
"Do you know where he is?" I ask.
"It has to be the old naval base. That's where everyone says the government's keeping the Wildlings they take off the street."
"Won't they have guards all over that place? We used to goof around in the wildlife refuge near there, but you can't get in at all anymore. I'm not so sure anyone can get by their security."
"I've got to try," she says.
Oh boy. What have I gotten myself into?
A couple of blocks from my street, she stops at a car and goes around to the driver's side.
"Is this your car?" I say. "I thought you were homeless."
It's not fancy, just a 2001Ford Taurus wagon, but a car costs money—not only for the initial outlay, but for gas and upkeep, too. You don't see homeless people driving around. You see them on traffic islands, trying to cadge change from the drivers stopped at the lights.
"It's borrowed," she says.
"Borrowed?"
"Relax. It's Danny's. I don't think he's going to mind if we use it to rescue him."
A sour smell hits me when I open the door. I see that the back seats are down and there's a rough bed taking up the length of the rear compartment, along with piles of clothing and a collection of fast food wrappers and empty pop cans.
"Yeah," Elzie says as she slides in behind the wheel. "He's not exactly the world's best housekeeper."
"This is where he lives ?"
"Beats couch surfing or sleeping on the beach. At least he's got a place."
"I guess."
There's a bunch of junk on the passenger's seat and on the floor. A damp towel that I wish I hadn't touched, old newspapers, a pizza box, a screwdriver, some paperbacks with the covers torn off. I toss it all into the back and get in.
She takes us out the Pacific Coast Highway heading south. With the windows all open, front and back, the stench isn't as pervasive. Eventually it pretty much goes away. It's that or I'm just getting used to it.
I expect her to be a reckless driver—everything about her seems a little wild and reckless—but she sticks to just a few miles over the speed limit. Fifteen minutes later, she pulls into a parking lot overlooking the ocean. There are over a dozen cars and vans in the lot and I can see a fire down on the beach. Surfer party. It makes me think of Marina. I should go out with her tomorrow morning if the waves are good. I'll make a fool of myself—I don't know why I can ride my wheels like they're a pair of shoes, yet I keep falling off a surfboard—but we always have a good time.
Elzie pulls the Taurus into a spot between a classic Woody, oak panels gleaming in our headlights, and a powder-blue T-Bird convertible with the top down. Killing the engine, she reaches under the seat and pulls out a pair of luchador head masks and hands me one. Mine's shiny gold with red flames around the eye and mouth holes. Hers is a deep blue with yellow highlights.
"You've got to be kidding me," I say. "What's going out like Mexican wrestlers going to prove?"
"It'll keep your secret identity secret."
"Come on, seriously?"
She puts hers on. All I can see is her green eyes, nose and lips. The long dreads are bunched at the back of her neck and make a weird bump under the mask.
"There are cameras everywhere now," she says. "Weather cameras, traffic cameras and at the base, there are sure to be security cameras."
I
She puts a hand on my upper arm and gives it a squeeze as we start walking.
"Thanks for coming," she says. "It means a lot."
"If it was me instead of him, I'd like to think people were trying to get me out, so it was hard to say no."
"Yeah, but you still could have."
I shrug, trying to be cool.
"Do you know where he is?" I ask.
"It has to be the old naval base. That's where everyone says the government's keeping the Wildlings they take off the street."
"Won't they have guards all over that place? We used to goof around in the wildlife refuge near there, but you can't get in at all anymore. I'm not so sure anyone can get by their security."
"I've got to try," she says.
Oh boy. What have I gotten myself into?
A couple of blocks from my street, she stops at a car and goes around to the driver's side.
"Is this your car?" I say. "I thought you were homeless."
It's not fancy, just a 2001Ford Taurus wagon, but a car costs money—not only for the initial outlay, but for gas and upkeep, too. You don't see homeless people driving around. You see them on traffic islands, trying to cadge change from the drivers stopped at the lights.
"It's borrowed," she says.
"Borrowed?"
"Relax. It's Danny's. I don't think he's going to mind if we use it to rescue him."
A sour smell hits me when I open the door. I see that the back seats are down and there's a rough bed taking up the length of the rear compartment, along with piles of clothing and a collection of fast food wrappers and empty pop cans.
"Yeah," Elzie says as she slides in behind the wheel. "He's not exactly the world's best housekeeper."
"This is where he lives ?"
"Beats couch surfing or sleeping on the beach. At least he's got a place."
"I guess."
There's a bunch of junk on the passenger's seat and on the floor. A damp towel that I wish I hadn't touched, old newspapers, a pizza box, a screwdriver, some paperbacks with the covers torn off. I toss it all into the back and get in.
She takes us out the Pacific Coast Highway heading south. With the windows all open, front and back, the stench isn't as pervasive. Eventually it pretty much goes away. It's that or I'm just getting used to it.
I expect her to be a reckless driver—everything about her seems a little wild and reckless—but she sticks to just a few miles over the speed limit. Fifteen minutes later, she pulls into a parking lot overlooking the ocean. There are over a dozen cars and vans in the lot and I can see a fire down on the beach. Surfer party. It makes me think of Marina. I should go out with her tomorrow morning if the waves are good. I'll make a fool of myself—I don't know why I can ride my wheels like they're a pair of shoes, yet I keep falling off a surfboard—but we always have a good time.
Elzie pulls the Taurus into a spot between a classic Woody, oak panels gleaming in our headlights, and a powder-blue T-Bird convertible with the top down. Killing the engine, she reaches under the seat and pulls out a pair of luchador head masks and hands me one. Mine's shiny gold with red flames around the eye and mouth holes. Hers is a deep blue with yellow highlights.
"You've got to be kidding me," I say. "What's going out like Mexican wrestlers going to prove?"
"It'll keep your secret identity secret."
"Come on, seriously?"
She puts hers on. All I can see is her green eyes, nose and lips. The long dreads are bunched at the back of her neck and make a weird bump under the mask.
"There are cameras everywhere now," she says. "Weather cameras, traffic cameras and at the base, there are sure to be security cameras."
I
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