I drove out west of the city toward Interstate 5. Bouncer rode shotgun with me in the news van. My first instinct was for an immediate and even violent confrontation with the driver of the pickup that had been following me. Fortunately, I’m aware that my first instincts aren’t always good. Anxiety over Rod’s safety urged me to quick action, but I needed to pick the terrain with care. The sun would soon be up, but with all the fog, you wouldn’t have known it. Consequently, the pickup stayed close. It followed us through a series of house farms where stucco ranchers blossomed in rows like heads of lettuce. I wondered if Carter King lived in a similar neighborhood. A thief and small-time grifter hidden among the happy families. Would a man like that ever settle down to respectability, even late in life? Bud hadn’t. Maybe Erabelle had been the closest he’d ever come to becoming Allan Hawkins instead of good old Bud. The modern buildings ended and actual farms and orchards began.
