“Richard Branson is taking us to Narnia in his laser blimp. Just get on the fucking freeway.”
He steers us onto the 405 and heads south. I can’t see the third van, but I know it’s behind us.
My head swims. I hope Howard gets us there soon. I don’t want to let him know how bad I am, but I can’t help groaning.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
I bend my arms up and down.
“Rigor mortis. Each time it hits, it’s harder to break through.”
“Interesting,” he says in a tone that should be reserved for viewing dissected frogs and roadkill.
Just north of the airport I say, “Take this exit. Head for those warehouses over there.”
He takes us down a side road to a cluster of metal buildings.
“See that collapsed one over there? That’s where we’re going.”
“Are you sure?” he says uncertainly.
“Yes. And speed it up. The van is back.”
Howard hits the gas and fishtails the car, almost spinning us into the metal fencing along the road. But he gets control again and we head for the warehouse. I undo my seat belt and pull out the Colt. Twisting around in my seat, I fire at the van’s front tires. It takes all six shots, but I manage to hit one.
In the rearview, Howard sees the van lurch. He smiles, but it disappears quickly.
“It’s still coming,” he says.
“They’re running on the rim. It’ll slow them down. Keep driving.”
He pulls the Mercedes to a stop by the collapsed warehouse.
“Kill the lights,” I tell him.
When it’s dark, I pry myself out of the car with the help of the cane and Howard follows me inside the building. I use my phone to light the way.
We pass the same scattered pipes and shattered toilets I went by the last time I was here. Birds shriek at us from the ceiling. Howard stays close to me.
“Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Shut up.”
Lights slide over the interior of the warehouse as we reach the office in the back.
Howard says, “The van is outside.”
“We’re almost there.”
I cut myself again and bark some hoodoo. Rotting wooden crates all over the warehouse burst into flame. The birds go wild. The ones that can’t find a way out through the roof swoop down and fly out the front, right through the Vigil crew.
When we reach the office, I stay by the door and point to the fifties girlie calendar.
“Find February twenty-ninth.”
A few seconds later Howard says, “I found it.”
“Now push the number.”