8
Despite all the houses slipping by on either side, hundreds of them, Sandy felt like he was in the middle of nowhere. Maybe because most of the houses looked empty.
He knew he was somewhere at the Jersey shore, but that was all he knew. He'd heard of it—couldn't listen to much Springsteen without hearing of the Jersey shore—but had never been here.
He'd been following Terry—somewhere along the way he'd started calling Holdstock by his first name—for an hour and a half now: across the George Washington Bridge, down the Turnpike to the Parkway, and now along this spit of land with a bay—Barnegat?—to the right and ocean dunes far to the left across the wide, house-choked island that separated the north- and southbound lanes. They didn't waste a square inch of buildable space around here.
Right now he and Terry made up half of the cars on the road.
The whole area would probably be jumping come the weekend, and every day after July Fourth, but at the moment it had the pre-season lonelies.
What's this all about, Terry? Where are we going? Another murder, perhaps?
Part of him hoped yes, but another part prayed no. Because if he saw a killing about to go down he'd have to do something about it, wouldn't he? He couldn't just stand and watch it happen, then report it later. Like the Savior had said after he'd clobbered that purse snatcher: to do nothing would make him an accomplice.
But this Holdstock was a hefty guy, and Sandy a featherweight. He thought of the Savior's little Semmerling and wished he had something like it.
Maybe he's just going to plot his next murder, check out his intended victim. That I can handle.
Sandy called his apartment for the fourth time. On the last three his voicemail had picked up but he hadn't left a message. This time Beth answered.
"I'm glad you called," she told him. "I expected you back by now. Where are you?"
"Believe it or not, the Jersey Shore. A last-minute assignment."
"Not that murder cult thing, I hope."
He didn't want to worry her. "Something entirely different. But I won't make it home for dinner."
"Aw, and I just got in the fixings for my world famous bean burritos. How late are you going to be?"
"Not sure."
"Whatever. I'll wait up."
"You will?"
"Sure."
Someone to wait up for you… how great was—
He'd just passed a sign that said WELCOME TO OCEAN BEACH, NJ and now the blinker on Terry's Honda was flashing a left.
"Oops, gotta go," he said, poising his thumb over the END button. "Call you when I'm on my way back."
Sandy couldn't follow the car into the same turn—Terry would guess he was being followed—so he cruised past to the next left, then gunned across the inhabited median to the northbound lanes.
Sandy groaned as he saw the Honda turn north again. Was it heading back to the city?
What's going on? he thought. Is this all some wild goose chase?
But his sinking feelings reversed when he saw the Honda make a quick right onto one of the residential streets.
Sandy grinned. Looked like Terry Holdstock had reached his destination.