Kiss the Girls

ahead—that far ahead, anyway. My face was pressed tightly against the sheet metal, which was still warm from sitting in the sun at Nepenthe. My arms and legs were splayed out against the roof rack. I was wedged like a Samsonite all-nighter on the roof.
    I wasn’t coming off there, not if I could help it. He had killed at least half a dozen women around Los Angeles, and I had to find out if Naomi was still alive. He knew Casanova, and he knew about Scootchie.
    Rudolph floored the Range Rover again, and the engine roared through its gears as he tried to shake me loose. He was weaving all over the road.
    Trees and ancient telephone poles zoomed past me in blurry, fast motion. The rushing pines, redwoods, and mountain vines were like the changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. A lot of the foliage was brownish-gray, prickly as vineyards in the Napa Valley. It was a strange perspective on the world.
    I wasn’t exactly enjoying the scenery from my perch on the Range Rover. It took all of my strength to concentrate on hugging the roof.
    Rudolph drove very fast along the winding narrow road, doing seventy or eighty where fifty was dangerous.
    The FBI agents, what was left of them, hadn’t been able to catch up. How could they? They’d had to run back to their cars. They would be several minutes behind us.
    Other cars passed us we got closer to the Pacific Coast Highway. Drivers gave us the strangest looks. I wondered what Rudolph was thinking as he drove. He wasn’t trying to throw me off anymore. What options did he still have? In particular—what was he planning as his next move?
    We were both temporarily in check. Somebody had to lose very big, and very soon, though. Will Rudolph had always been too clever to be caught. He wouldn’t expect to be stopped now. But how would he get out of this one?
    I heard the noisy diesel chug of a VW van. I
saw
the
rear end
of the van coming fast. We passed it as if it were standing still.
    There was a flow of traffic against us as we approached the ocean road. Mostly kids out for an early evening spin. Some of them pointed at the Range Rover and thought it was a big joke. Just some major asshole from the Sur pulling a stunt, right? Some aging merry prankster high on tequila, or maybe even twenty-year-old acid. A crazed man hanging on to the roof of a Range Rover doing seventy miles an hour in what amounted to a very scenic parking lot.
    What was his next goddamn move?
    Rudolph didn’t bother to slow down on the curvy, extremely populated, blacktop road. The motorists headed in the opposite direction blared their horns angrily. No one did anything to stop us. What could they do? What could I do now?
Hang on as tightly as I could and pray!

Chapter 71

    A BRIGHT flash of grayish-blue ocean broke through the scrim of fir and redwood branches. I heard rock music blasting from the slow-moving parade of cars up ahead. A collage of music was in the air: Pop 40 rap, West Coast grunge bands, acid rock from thirty years ago.
    Another splash of Pacific blue hit me right in the eye. The setting sun was casting its golden glow on the spreading firs. Wheeling terns and gulls passed slowly over the trees. Then I saw the full expanse of the Pacific Coast Highway up ahead.
    What the hell was he doing? He couldn’t drive back to Los Angeles like this. Or was he crazy enough to try? Eventually he’d have to stop for gas. What would he do then?
    Traffic on the highway was light heading north, but heavy moving south. The Range Rover was still doing sixty or better—careening faster than anyone ought to drive on the curvy side highway, especially as it merged into the busier coast road.
    Rudolph didn’t slow down as he approached the crowded highway! I could see family station wagons, convertibles, four-wheel-drive vehicles. Just another crazy Saturday night on the northern California shoreline, but it was about to get a whole lot crazier.
    We were fifty yards from the highway now. He was going as fast as ever, if not faster. My arms were stiff and numb. My throat was dry from exhaust fumes. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. Then suddenly, I thought I knew what he was going to do.
    “You son of a bitch!” I yelled, just to yell. I wedged my body even tighter against the straining metal roof rails.
    Rudolph had created the impromptu escape plan. He was only ten to fifteen yards from the highway traffic, no more than that.
    Just as the Rover reached the sharp turn onto the Pacific