Chapter One.

Cliff spied him approaching the other side of the pickup. “Where’d you go?” he called.

Berk looked around like, Who me? “Went for a piss. That okay with you?”

Cliff squinted at him and said, begrudgingly, “Yeah.” He climbed into the truck and Berk scrambled in after him, moving a little funny. Cliff sent him another look, but it was ignored.

“Where to next?” Berkley kept his eyes on the mirrors, maybe watching the horses get small as the truck ambled away. He seemed tense somehow, but Cliff was still learning to read him.

“Don’t know.” He turned his attention to the road. They were still on Halwell’s property, which stretched for acres in any direction. Money brought Cliff here, where he skirted the edge of SoCal and everything was yellow and dry. Berkley made him nervous, lighting smokes in a place that would catch fire just as easy, but he was careful, tapping ash into bottles and cans. “Head south, I guess.” Even as he said it, Cliff imagined a few days in Santa Monica. Sleeping and eating and laying in the sun. He asked Berkley what he thought.

“Sure,” Berk said, still not looking at him. “No problem.”

Halwell’s sticky fingered stable master had earned Cliff a cool fifteen-hundred. It would fill their bellies and tank many times over, and Cliff didn’t mind putting down a portion for a few nights in a clean bed.

They hit the main road and Cliff gunned it, kicking up clouds of dirt that hung thick in their wake. “Hell yeah,” he muttered, and rode with a hand out the window to catch the breeze. He was hungry. “Let’s get some eats. There’s that place off the highway we saw--”

Berkley aborted the suggestion with a shake of his head. The gesture shocked Cliff wordless. “Huh?”

So far, Berkley had been the easy going type. Didn’t seem to care one way or the other where they went, or how they got there, but now he set his mouth to a grim line. “Let’s just go another couple of hours.”

“Couple of--? But I’m hungry now.”

Berk gave him a cool look, eyes sharp. “Just do it, will you? Trust me.”

Cliff swung his gaze back and forth from the road to Berk to the road again. “Whatever.” He muttered, and more than hour later pulled them into the lot of a battered café next to Highway 1.

“Finally,” he said, stretching his arms up high above his head, working the kinks out of his spine. He kicked the door shut. “Damn, I’m starved. I feel like my stomach’s caving in--c’mon, what are you waiting for?”

Berkley stood next to the vehicle with his head bowed, passenger side door concealing his movements.

“You can piss inside,” Cliff told him, annoyed. His belly felt like a tiny knot of hunger, about ready to eat itself.

“Not pissing,” Berkley said, tight. “And shut up.”

Cliff walked over. “What the hell are you doing? The hell--?”

Berkley threw him a hot eyed look, at odds with the crazy grin he wore. It was a kind of look that made Cliff wonder if he wasn’t in over his head.

“Where’d you get all that?” He was incredulous, staring at the odd collection before Berkley shoved it all under the seat. Cliff spied a couple candlesticks, a pearl necklace, and a handful of cufflinks. The cufflinks were black but gleamed in the light. Obsidian, Cliff realized. “You didn’t--”

“Okay,” Berkley said, locking the door and slamming it shut. “Let’s eat.”

Cliff followed him into the café and they found seats at the counter. “That’s where you went. You were in the house. You were in the house! Berkley--”

Berkley smiled brightly at the waitress. “Water for me.”

It was too damn hot for coffee so Cliff got iced tea. “When he finds that stuff missing, what’s he going to think?” Halwell had met Berkley. It wouldn’t be a stretch for him to see another operation there, beyond Cliff‘s honest work.

Berkley was already studying the menu. “The stable master?” he suggested after a moment.

Cliff stared at him. Halwell was sixty miles away and all he had of Cliff was a cell number and, possibly, his plates. Possibly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Berkley plucked a menu from the condiments and set it open before Cliff. “People never notice that stuff. Really, it was just lying around.”

Cliff stared blindly at the menu before him. His gaze moved over the type but he did not see it. Just as he thought of that obsidian gleam Berkley spoke.

“So maybe the cufflinks,” he admitted. “But really, don’t worry about it.”

They ate quickly and hit the road, a bag of goodies for later between them on the bench seat. The first exit for Santa Monica Bay came up late that evening, when both of them were tired, sniping, and hungry again.

Berkley staggered around in the parking lot for a few minutes after exiting the truck and Cliff did much the same, trying to work the stiffness out of his muscles and joints. The beach was quiet with small fires every ten or twenty yards. Thinking they could use some space, Cliff said, “Why don’t you look for food and I’ll see about a room. Meet here in thirty?”

Berkley said, “You got it,” and Cliff pressed a fifty into his palm. He watched Berkley go and set off toward a near motel. The town was dark but the ocean hung black, as if absolutely nothing existed for as far as Cliff could see in that direction. He figured they could spend a few days here at least, maybe a week before moving on. Big Sur was near enough that he’d already chosen it for their change. It was spacious, protected, and sparsely populated. Perfect.

The motel was going for rustic, he decided. Bells over the door chimed at his entrance and Cliff had a moment to admire a cheap, textured interior.

A man appeared, slightly stooped with white hair sparse atop his head. He knuckled one eye and regarded Cliff with a squinting gaze. “Evening.”

Cliff paid for two nights and asked a little about the area.

Tourists coming soon, a decent burger place up the block, a few bars, and one bowling alley. Squeezing the key in his fist, Cliff headed back to the truck.

Just as he started to grow anxious waiting, Berkley rounded a corner with full white bags in each hand. Cliff jogged out to help and guided him to the room. It was small but had a TV and full bathroom. Cliff guessed he stunk pretty bad, his pits were damp from driving in the heat all day and his clothes were dirty. A shower was sounding pretty good.

“I just went to Safeway,” Berk said, digging through the bags. “We can save most of this for later, make it last.”

There was bread, noodle cups, cookies and chips, other nonperishables, and beer. Cliff popped the caps off two and said, “Cheers.” They ate peanut butter sandwiches and finished the beer, watching TV from the bed. Cliff didn’t know if they were watching Death Wish 3 or 4 but he was zoning out on it.

“I think I found a place to bring that stuff,” Berkley said, clearing the bed of crumbs and crawling back on.

Snapping out of it, Cliff found the remote and let the TV go dark. He dropped back, lying flat with his arms spread. “What stuff?” The ceiling was paneled too, but chipped in a few places. He closed his eyes.

The bed jostled but Cliff kept his eyes shut. A sudden weight came down and they flew open. “Oof--!”

Berkley leered, looming high and straddling him at the waist. “Halwell’s stuff.” He popped the buttons of his fly. “And Mrs. Halwell. Can’t imagine that guy in pearls.”

Cliff pulled him down. This was the Berkley he knew what to do with. “I’ve seen stranger.” The mouth over his own tasted like beer and peanut butter. Cliff felt forceful, holding Berkley’s blond head and biting at his lips, but Berkley gave as good as he got. He pulled Cliff’s arms in and leaned his weight on them. Cliff bumped him off and they each tore out of their clothes.

Some time passed and Cliff jerked awake, vision fuzzy in the low light. But it was only Berkley bumping around for an ashtray.

“There you are,” Cliff heard him mutter, dropping a plastic dish onto the nightstand. He climbed back into bed and lit cigarettes for them both.

They sat against the cool flat wood of the headboard and Cliff reflected on how damn good he felt.

“Beach tomorrow?” he suggested, taking a drag. He felt loose and exhausted, half drunk and happy with whole days of sun, sand, and sex in his near future.

Berkley drew his knees up, elbow resting over one. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned and said, “Sure.”

Cliff admired the scar on Berk’s leg. It was still pink, slightly raw looking, and he dragged a finger down its length as Berkley watched. “I figure we spend a couple days here at least and see how we like it. Maybe check out some more of the coast after that, then up to Big Sur. Should be safe to change there.”

“Okay.”

Cliff waited to hear if Berkley had anything to add, and finally asked, “Any ideas?”

Berkley just blinked. “About what?”

Cliff looked away, and took a long drag off his cigarette. “I don’t know. Forget it.” Nearly a month had gone by since they’d left Hayward, since he’d made the call to Luke Driscoll and Grady Summers and told them they were safe. There had been a brief stop in Lincoln but ever since they’d been on the road. Cliff wasn’t sure Berkley understood--this was how he lived.

“This is it for me,” he explained. “My family’s in Lincoln but usually I’m on the move.”

“The Traveling Detective,” Berkley said, an idle mutter.

“Right.” Cliff didn’t take Berkley’s comment seriously. “It’s not for everyone. How are you doing? What do you think?

Berkley regarded him for a moment. He looked thoughtful, slowly scratching his chin. In the few weeks Cliff had known him, he’d learned Berkley to be impulsive and bright, and on occasion reserved. He seemed that way now, somber, almost troubled.

“I’m thinking,” Berkley slowly began, and looked away. He stabbed his cigarette out in the tray and Cliff did the same, sneaking one last drag. “I’m thinking now. Thinking tomorrow, maybe the next day. Big Sur sounds good.” He glanced appraisingly at Cliff, and away again. “I know we don’t really know each other that well, but, I mean, uh.” Berk frowned, and Cliff watched him closely. Some emotion passed fleetingly through him, and Cliff saw it but could not say what it was. It was there and gone again, all in the space of an instant.

Before he could say anything, Berk gave a practiced grin. He finished, brightly, “We have mad sex, you’re hot, and I get to see the sights. It’s all good, man.” He winked, and Cliff watched him rise to hunt for the remote, knocked previously aside.

Cliff agreed that they did have mad sex, and over the last few weeks had frequently found himself admiring Berk’s wiry build. He was skinny but Berkley struck Cliff as capable, as a bit of a scrapper, and moved like a man who knew his body well. Still, for all his agreements, Cliff felt something like disappointment at Berkley’s words.

They were silent for a few moments and Berkley flipped through the channels. There weren’t many, and on the second pass Berk quit looking. They found themselves with one of the sequels to Planet of the Apes. Zira announced her loathing of bananas and Cliff said, “So, your pack. Your family…” He was not sure what he meant to ask, but trusted Berk to understand.

Berkley lay naked over the covers, one ankle crossed over his knee. Absently, he wagged his foot. “Just my mom. Don’t worry about it.”

Cliff gave up asking questions and stared at Berkley’s body for a while. It was mostly smooth, a little pale, and firm all over. He watched Berk’s face while he pet one thigh, and squeezed, and moved a little higher. The movie broke for commercial and finally Berkley looked at him. His was face seemed blank somehow and Cliff almost pulled away, but then Berkley murmured something and their mouths met.

The next day they split ways. Cliff tried to give Berk money but he refused.

“I’ll find you,” he said, and took off.

Cliff welcomed the solitude and went for a walk. The beach was quiet, secluded at the bottom of a shallow hill, and easy waves licked the shoreline. He’d slept in and the time for breakfast had long passed, so he popped into a dim pub for lunch.

College baseball was on and Cliff watched it, not familiar with the teams but grateful for the distraction. The place was quiet and slow, and everyone checked the door when a newcomer arrived.

Cliff was just taking a break from his sandwich--it was huge--and had received a fresh pint when two men entered. They joined him at the bar and sat close on either side. Cliff ate a fry and kept his eyes on the game.

“Nice day out,” one of them said, the one on Cliff’s right. He stood taller than his friend, and upon entering had removed a panama hat.

Cliff made no reply. He thought it might be a good time to find Berkley, and reached for his wallet.

A hand found his arm. It was the man on Cliff’s left, shorter than his friend but solidly built, wearing a bright pair of swim shorts and a Mexican shirt. “Not going to finish your drink?”

Cliff looked back and forth between the men. He peeled off a couple of bills and said, “You two look like a couple of tourists in that getup.”

The men traded glances and Cliff hauled ass out of the pub.

It wasn’t long before he spotted Berkley exiting a small pawnshop, and Cliff ran up to meet him.

“Hey,” he called.

Berkley seemed happy with himself. He wore a tight little grin that made Cliff want to ask all sorts of questions, but he held off.

“Anything weird happen?” he asked, looking around.

Berkley slid his hands into his pockets and walked ahead of Cliff with a little swagger in his hips. “What do you mean, weird?”

Cliff glanced around, keeping his eyes peeled for Panama Hat and Mexican Shirt. “I don’t know,” he said, absently. “Anything. Anything weird.”

Berkley was silent for a long moment, leading them back to the motel. “Got a good take,” he said at last, incongruously.

“What?”

“Let’s get some trunks, a couple of towels, sunscreen--my treat.”

They rounded the last corner and Berkley kept talking.

“Go for a swim, get some sun--the fuck?”

“Shut up,” Cliff said, jerking him back around the corner. He peered around the gritty brick wall. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

“What? What?” Berk struggled and shook him off. He mimicked Cliff’s caution, peeking carefully around the corner. “Who the hell are they?”

“Don’t know.”

Panama Hat and Mexican Shirt circled the pickup, lifting the tarp in back. All of Cliff’s things were in there. “Stay,” he told Berk, and left him. “Something I can help you gentlemen with?” he called, striding across the lot. The men traded glances and Panama Hat strolled out to meet him. Mexican Shirt stayed where he was, still lifting the tarp over the truck bed but watching Cliff.

Cliff tried to sense whether they were like him or not. Usually there was some way to tell, some animal vibe about others like him that gave them away, but he sensed nothing. If they weren’t on pack business he guessed they were there to start trouble. Panama Hat came to a halt some feet away. He had a funny, meaningless kind of smile. Cliff just glowered at him, and finally, Panama spoke.

“Have we met before?” he asked.

“Lunch too far back for you to remember?”

The meaningless smile grew, and Panama slid his hands into his pockets. He wore bright trunks like his friend and a loose cotton blazer over a white t-shirt. The t-shirt read, “Welcome to Santa Monica!” Cliff would have bet his next meal the tag hadn’t even been ripped off yet.

“No,” Panama said. “Before that. Weren’t you up north a day or two ago? Hollister, Gilroy. That area.”

Cliff closed the gap between them and saw from the corner of his eye Mexican Shirt drop the tarp and step closer. Cliff stared hard at Panama. “I’ll ask you this once. What the hell do you want?”

The maddening curl to Panama’s mouth hardened to a tight line. “Six little things, Mr. Morgan, which should be no trouble seeing as they weren’t yours to begin with.”

“Six little--what?”

Panama opened his mouth to reply but a long Tarzan cry interrupted, breaching the tense quiet.

“The hell--” Panama said, and turned just in time to catch a loaded Safeway bag collide with his friend’s head. Mexican Shirt went down, and as he did a snub blade clattered over the pavement, winking in the sunlight.

Cliff did not know what exactly was happening, but he met Berkley at the truck and jumped inside.

“What the hell,” he said, as Berkley slammed his door shut.

But Berk was laughing, jabbing his finger at the other men and painting little smudge marks all over the window. “Suckers,” he said. “I got you. Suckers!”

Cliff peeled out of the lot.