Seize the Night

advantage on Roosevelt, but I've never seen a hundred pounds used to better effect. He seems to be not merely forty percent larger than Roosevelt, but twice as large, more than twice, and taller even though he isn't, a true leviathan on land, a guy who might discuss the techniques of city destruction over lunch with Godzilla.
    Doogie carries his massive weight with unearthly grace and does not appear to be fat. All right, Doogie does look big, tres mondo, mondo maximo, but he's not soft. You get the impression that he's made of animate concrete, impervious to arteriosclerosis, bullets, and time.
    There's something about Doogie that's every bit as mystical as the stone crow at the top of Crow Hill.
    Maybe his hair and beard contribute to the impression that he's an incarnation of Thor, the god of thunder and rain once worshipped in ancient Scandinavia, where they now worship cheesy pop stars like everyone else. His untamed blond hair, so thick that it offends the sensibilities of Hare Krishnas, hangs to the middle of his back, and his beard is so lush and wavy that he couldn't possibly shave it off with anything less than a lawn mower. Great hair can radically enhance a man's aura of power—as witness those who have been elected to the presidency of the United States with no other qualifications—and I'm sure Doogie's hair and beard have more than a little to do with the supernatural impression that he makes, though the real mystery of him cannot be explained by hair, size, the elaborate tattoos that cover his body, or his gas-flame blue eyes.
    This night he wore a zippered black jumpsuit tucked into black boots, which should have made him look like a Brobdingnagian baby in Dr. Denton pajamas. Instead, he had the presence of a guy who might be called down to Hell by Satan to unclog a furnace chimney choked with the gnarled and half-burnt contentious souls of ten serial killers.
    Bobby greeted him: “Hey, sass man.”
    “Bobster,” Doogie replied.
    “Cool wheels,” I said admiringly.
    “It kicks ass,” he acknowledged.
    Roosevelt said, “Thought you were all Harleys.”
    “Doogie,” Sasha said, “is a man of many conveyances.”
    “I am a wheel-o-maniac,” he admitted. “What happened to your eye, Rosie?”
    “In a fight with a priest.” The eye was better, still swollen but not to such a tight slit.
    The ice had worked.
    “We ought to get moving,” Sasha said. “It's weird out here tonight, Doogie.”
    He agreed. “I've been hearing coyotes like no coyotes I've ever heard before.”
    Bobby, Sasha, and I looked at one another. I recalled Sasha's prediction that we hadn't seen the last of the pack that had come out of the canyon beyond Lilly Wing's house.
    The cathedral-quiet fields and hills lay under a shrouded sky, and the breeze from the west was as feeble as the breath of a dying nun.
    In the live oaks behind us, the leaves whispered only slightly louder than memory, and the tall grass barely stirred.
    Doogie led us around to the back of the customized Hummer and opened the tailgate. The interior light was not as bright as usual, because half the fixture was masked with electrician's black tape, but even the reduced illumination was a beacon in these star-denied, moon-starved grasslands.
    Just inside the tailgate were two shotguns. They were pistol-grip, pump-action Remingtons even sweeter than the classic Mossberg that Manuel Ramirez had confiscated from Bobby's Jeep.
    Doogie said, “I don't think either of you board heads is likely to shoot a hole in a silver dollar with a handgun, so these suit you better. I know you're shotgun-familiar. But you'll be using magnum loads, so be prepared for the kick. With this punch and spread, you buckaroos don't have to worry about aiming, and you'll stop just about anything.”
    He handed one shotgun to Bobby, the other to me, and also gave each of us a box of ammunition.
    “Load up, then distribute the rest of the shells in your jacket pockets,” he said. “Don't leave any in the box. The last shell can be the one that saves your ass.” He looked at Sasha, smiled, and said, “Like Colombia.”
    “Colombia?” I asked.
    “We did some business there once,” Sasha said.
    Doogie had lived in Moonlight Bay six years, and Sasha had been here two. I wondered if this business trip had been recent or before either of them settled in the Jewel of the Central Coast. I had been under the impression that they had met at KBAY.
    “Colombia, the country?”