Wyatt said, “Vance Potter, the current ranch manager, knows Hector Alvarez, who managed Rustling Willows for your parents.”
“Knows him or knew him?”
“Annalisa Alvarez died years ago, but Hector and their son are still alive.”
A chill shivered up Joanna’s spine, and she rose with it, leaving the bentwood chair rocking in her wake. “Jimmy Alvarez?”
Wyatt nodded. “Jimmy Two Eyes. They live only a few miles from here. You want to drive, or should I?”
41
As Kenny Deetle drove away from the burning house, his phone rang, but he didn’t answer it because he suspected that the caller would be the black-hat hacker bastard who mimicked him. Maybe five seconds after the call went to voice mail, Leigh Ann’s phone rang, and Kenny said, “Don’t answer it.” She said, “I’ve no intention of answering it.” As that call went to voice mail, the SUV’s computer self-connected with SiriusXM radio, ’60s on 6, where Barry McGuire was singing “Eve of Destruction.” Leigh Ann said, “This isn’t good,” which wasn’t a criticism of either the song or the singer, but merely an expression of concern that this situation might be spiraling out of their control.
The radio volume rose, and as Leigh Ann attempted to turn it down, her concern was borne out because Barry McGuire got louder, so loud that Kenny felt his tympanic membranes fluttering as if moths were beating their wings against the walls of his ear canals. Leigh Ann pressed the button to shut off the radio, but that didn’t work, either. They abruptly accelerated. The brake pedal went soft under Kenny’s foot. Of its own accord, the vehicle turned sharply to the right. The steering wheel locked. Kenny said, “Shit,” Leigh Ann said, “Shit,” and Kenny said it again as the Nautilus jumped the curb. A tire blew. The SUV wanted to roll, but didn’t. The engine roaring, McGuire bellowing, the vehicle’s computerized systems under the control of some cyberwizard, they plowed through a hedge, tore across a freshly mown lawn, and angled toward a stately two-story Victorian residence festooned with ornate millwork. The front steps were limestone, and the racing Nautilus rocked onto a limestone porch. The front door and the sidelights collapsed in a crack-bang of oak and a shattering of stained glass. The air bags deployed, pressing Kenny and Leigh Ann back in their seats, briefly robbing them of the ability to inhale, before abruptly deflating when the SUV jolted to a sudden stop.
Both the engine and Barry McGuire had fallen silent, but Kenny smelled gasoline. We’re going to be burned alive! He shouted at Leigh Ann—“Get out, out, get out!”—as he struggled to release his safety harness, but she was already gone, the passenger’s door open wide. He pushed through the driver’s door and scrambled from the Nautilus into an elegant foyer. He heard the house alarm wailing as a recording of a stern voice warned, “You have violated a private residence. The police have been called. Leave at once.”
The vehicle had taken a header into a massive newel post at the foot of a grand staircase that divided at midfloor and curved in opposing flights to a gallery above. Through an archway to the left lay a drawing room. On the right, tall library doors stood open.
Leigh Ann was hurrying along a hallway toward the back of the house, carrying the grocery-store tote bag that Kenny had dropped in her lap when they had fled the garage under his apartment building. He sprinted after her, caught up with her in the kitchen, grabbed her by one shoulder, and halted her. Raising his voice to compete with the security alarm, he said, “Is everything in the bag?”
Trying to pull away from him, she said, “We’ve got to get out of here quick, so we can say your wheels were stolen, it wasn’t us crashed into this place.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s the plan.”
“I don’t want cops in my life.”
“Who does?”
“Things are smooth with me. I like them smooth.”
“But do you have both the ice cream and fish sticks in there?”
“Fish sticks? What fish sticks? In where?”
“In the bag.”
She looked in the vinyl tote bag. “What the fuck am I doing with ice cream and fish sticks?”
“Don’t drop them. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I don’t even like fish sticks.”
The back door opened to a limestone patio covered by a trellis.
She said, “All that breading and probably just cod underneath.”
Beyond the patio lay a deep backyard with a lap pool, and at the end of the property stood a pool house or maybe guest quarters.