Sole Survivor

Suburu.
        Across the street, the man at the bus stop looked impatiently left and right, as though disgruntled about the unreliability of public transportation.
        The engine of the Suburu turned over at once, but it sounded tinny. The steering wheel vibrated slightly. The upholstery was worn, and pine-fragrant solvents didn't quite mask the sour scent of cigarette smoke that over the years had saturated the vinyl and the carpet.
        Without looking at the man in the bus-stop shelter, Joe drove out of the lot. He turned right and headed up the street past his abandoned Honda.
        The pickup with the camper shell was still parked in front of the untenanted industrial building.
        When Joe reached the intersection just past the camper truck, there was no cross traffic. He slowed, did not come to a full stop, and instead put his foot down heavily on the accelerator.
        In the rear-view mirror, he saw the man from the bus stop hurrying toward the camper, which was already backing into the street. Without the transponder to guide them, they would have to maintain visual contact and risk following him close enough to blow their cover-which they thought they still enjoyed.
        Within four miles Joe lost them at a major intersection when he sped through a yellow traffic signal that was changing to red. When the camper tried to follow him, it was thwarted by the surging cross-traffic. Even over the whine and rattle of the Suburu engine, he heard the sharp bark of their brakes as they slid to a halt inches short of a collision.
        Twenty minutes later he abandoned the Suburu on Hilgarde Street near the UCLA campus, as far as he dared from the address where he was to meet Demi. He walked fast to Westwood Boulevard, trying not to break into a run and draw attention to himself.
        Not long ago Westwood Village had been an island of quaint charm in the more turbulent sea of the city around it, a mecca for shoppers and theatregoers. Midst some of the most interesting small-scale architecture of any Los Angeles commercial district and along the tree-lined streets had thrived trendy clothing stores, galleries, restaurants, prosperous theatres featuring the latest cutting-edge dramas and comedies, and popular movie houses. It was a place to have fun, people-watch, and be seen.
        Then, during a time when the city's ruling elite was in one of its periodic moods to view certain forms of sociopathic behaviour as a legitimate protest, vagrancy increased, gang members began to loiter in groups, and open drug dealing commenced. A few shootings occurred in turf disputes, and many of the fun lovers and shoppers decided that the scene was too colourful and that to be seen here was to be marked as a victim.
        Now Westwood was struggling back from the precipice. The streets were safer than they had been for a while. Many shops and galleries had closed, however, and new businesses had not moved into all of the empty storefronts. The lingering atmosphere of despair might take years to dissipate entirely. Built at the solemn pace of coral reefs, civilization could be destroyed with frightening swiftness, even by a blast of good intentions, and all that was lost could be regained, if ever, only with determination.
        The gourmet coffee house was busy. From the open door came the delicious aromas of several exotic brews and the music of a lone guitarist playing a New Age tune that was mellow and relaxing though filled with tediously repetitive chords.
        Joe intended to scout the meeting place from across the street and farther along the block, but he arrived too late to do so. At two minutes past six o'clock, he stood outside of the coffee house as instructed, to the right of the entrance, and waited to be contacted.
        Over the noise of the street traffic and the guitar, he heard a soft tuneless jangling-tinkling. The sound instantly alarmed him for reasons he could not explain, and he looked around nervously for the source.
        Above the door were wind chimes crafted from at least twenty spoons of various sizes and materials. They clinked together in the light breeze.
        Like a mischievous childhood playmate, memory taunted him from hiding place after hiding place in a deep garden of the past dappled by light and shadow. Then suddenly he recalled the ceiling-mounted rack of copper pots and pans in the Delmanns' kitchen.
        Returning from Charlie