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I followed as the bus continued south on Mission. Each time it stopped I slowed on the brakes, craning to see if Coombs had jumped off. He never did. He was taking it out of the city center.
Out near Bernal Heights, at the Glen Park station, the bus hung at the stop for a few seconds. Just as it was starting up again, Coombs hopped off.
It was too late for me to stop. I had no choice but to pass right by. I hunched low, every nerve in my body on edge. I’d been on lots of stakeouts, tailed dozens of cars, but never with so much at risk.
Coombs hung on the platform, scanning in both directions. I had no choice but to continue on. In the rearview mirror, I watched him. He seemed to be following my car as it faded out of sight.
Damn.… All I could do was drive. I was incredibly angry, so pissed. When I was sure I was out of sight, I accelerated, climbing a residential hill, cutting a three-point U-turn out of a driveway, and prayed Coombs would still be there.
I sped across the street and spun around to the Glen Park station from the other side.
The sonofabitch was gone! I frantically scanned every direction, but there was no sign of him. I pounded the wheel in anger. “Fucker!” I yelled.
Then, about thirty yards ahead, I spotted a mustard-colored Pontiac Bonneville pulling out of a side street, then stopping at the side of the road. The only reason I fixed on it was that it was the only thing moving.
Suddenly, there was Coombs. He ducked out of a storefront and jumped into the Bonneville’s passenger’s-side door.
Back at ya, I said to myself.
Then the Bonneville sped away.
So did I.
Chapter 87
I FOLLOWED, ten car lengths or so behind. The Bonneville spun onto the entrance ramp for 280 and headed south. I hung at a distance, my pulse racing. I was pretty much running on adrenaline now. I had no choice except to follow Coombs as best I could.
After a few miles, the Bonneville signaled and veered onto the exit for South San Francisco. It wound through the working-class part of town, then up a steep street that I knew to be South Hill. The streets grew dark, and I shut off my lights
.
The Bonneville turned down a dark, isolated street. Middle-class row houses badly in need of repair. At the end of the street, it pulled into the driveway of a white clapboard house perched on a hill overlooking the valley. The location was pretty enough, but the house was a shambles.
Coombs and his partner got out of their car, talking. They went into the house. I turned into a dark driveway three houses down. I’d never had such a chilling feeling of being alone. It was just that I couldn’t let Coombs go, couldn’t let him run on us.
I pulled the Glock out of my glove compartment and checked the clip. Full load. Jesus Christ, Lindsay. No vest, no backup, no cell phone that works.
I crept along the shadowy sidewalk toward the white house, the automatic at my side. I was good with the gun, but this good?
Several beat-up cars and pickups were parked in a random pattern at the top of the driveway. The downstairs lights were on. I could hear voices. Well, I’d come this far.
I made my way up the narrow driveway toward the garage. It was a two-car stand-alone, separated from the main house by a blacktop walkway. The voices grew louder. I tried to listen, but they were too far away. I took a breath and moved closer. Hugging the house, I looked inside a window. If Coombs looked as if he was going to stay for a while, then I could get backup here.
Six outlaw types, beer bottles, smokes, huddled around a table. Coombs was one of them. On the arm of one man I spotted a tattoo that made it all so clear.
The head of a lion, the head of a goat, the tail of a reptile.
This was a meeting of Chimera.
I inched closer, trying to hear. Suddenly came the rumble of another car climbing South Hill. I froze. I clung to the house, hugging the space between the main house and the garage. I heard the car door slam, then voices and footsteps coming my way.
Chapter 88
I SAW TWO MEN coming, one with a blond beard and long ponytail, the other in a sleeveless denim vest with massive tattooed arms. I had absolutely nowhere to go.
They fixed on me. “Who the hell are you?”
Two possibilities: back away with my gun aimed at them, or make a stand and take Coombs in right now. The latter seemed the better idea to me.
