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I accelerated along Ocean Avenue, the Pacific whipping by beyond the cliffs to my right. I was gripping the prepaid cell phone so tightly my hand cramped. "Why should I stay and risk my life for some seventeen-year-old girl I've never met? I told Caruthers about Baby Everett. I told Steve. They can handle it now. I'm not a cop."

On the other end, Induma said, "True. You're not."

Craving open air, I screeched over into a slant parking space and climbed out, slamming the door behind me. "Bilton's agents are on my heels. If I keep looking, I could lead them right to her. I could wind up getting her killed."

"A valid concern."

"I don't give a shit about politics. Or Bilton. I don't owe anyone anything."

"No one's maintaining you do."

"I've done everything I can." My voice was shaking.

Induma just said, "Nick."

I crossed the strip of lawn and leaned against the rickety rail fence. Below and beyond, past the Pacific Coast Highway, stretched a quarter mile of sand and endless water. The sun was low, filtering through the puffy clouds in magenta and violet. It reminded me of the circle of sunset I'd watched from the tunnel where Homer had hidden me. I looked down at my shirt, the one I'd pulled from the cardboard box behind the church. That stupid scrolled lettering-Forgive Us Our Trespasses.

"Frank knew about Baby Everett," I said, "but he kept it from Caruthers."

The weight of the implications hung between us.

I heard Induma shift on the couch, maybe stand up. She said, "You're trying to clear Frank. I know that. But if you're gonna keep prying at this, you have to do it knowing that you could damn well confirm your worst fears."

The phone was trembling at my cheek. I said, "I have to get out of here." I hung up. Drew in a few deep breaths. Then returned to the Jag. I could leave it somewhere for Induma later, in some other city. I stared at the rucksack in the passenger seat, then at the broad curb drain, at the ready for all those L.A. hurricanes. Three steps and I could shove the rucksack through into the sewer and be rid of all this. Five yards and a push. I could leave the bundled hundreds curbside for the homeless folks camped out along the grass.

Instead I backed out and rode down the Santa Monica incline, merging onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Blending into traffic, I headed north, away from the city, away from Bilton and ultrasounds and the charred remains of Mack Jackman. I was now one of those cars I'd heard thrumming overhead from the tunnel, one of those fortunate souls with somewhere better to go. Just as Homer had told me four days and a lifetime ago, I was a runner, not a fighter. And just as he'd said, people don't change.

I had better reason to run now than I ever did. I was trying to run away from Frank's being dirty. I couldn't stay and face the possibility that everything I'd gone through these past seventeen years was for someone who wasn't worth it. The thought alone knocked the fight out of me, left me resigned to the only life I'd always feared. I deserved- motel rooms and transient work, dark memories and 2:18 wake-ups. As bleak as that seemed, I'd take it over losing Frank all over again.

I flew through Malibu, past the fish-taco joints with the washed-out surfers counting gritty change from neoprene pockets, past the Country Mart where movie stars park their Priuses between jaunts on Gulfstreams, past the impeccable and untrodden green lawn of Pepperdine. I kept going, past rocky state beaches, past VW buses out of seventies horror films, past falling-rock signs and even a few falling rocks. Somewhere around Paradise Cove, my cell phone rang.

I pulled it out of my pocket. Checked caller ID. Induma. I flipped it open.

"They got Homer."

The words moved through me, an icy wave. After a time I said, "Where?"

"They took him from his parking space outside Hacmed's store. Hacmed tried to call you. His stock of throwaway cell phones, I guess they have sequential numbers. He called the last one in line before the one on his rack. The one you left here rang, so I picked up."

"Okay. Give me a… I need a minute. Sorry."

I hung up and pulled over onto the hazardous shoulder, my hands bloodless against the black steering wheel. Vehicles shot past off the turn, rocking the Jag on its stubborn English chassis, one or two offering me a piercing blare on the horn as an after-the-fact fuck-you.

I don't know how long I sat there, but when I looked up, the sun was a shimmering remembrance on the water at the horizon. A few seconds later, the dark waters extinguished the last dot of yellow.

I waited for a break in the headlights, then signaled and U-turned, heading back to whatever was awaiting me.

With mounting dread I drove to the corner mart, pulling the Jag around back. I stared across at the white parking-space lines.