I scoop Marlo up in my arms and carry her along, weaving through the crowd as we make our escape. Noah is following right behind, and soon enough we’re all bursting out through the front door.
“Here!” I shout, hustling to the convertible that rests at an angle in my driveway. I drop Marlo in back and leap into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a loud roar. Noah hurries around and climbs in on the other side.
Before I get the chance to throw the vehicle into reverse, a hulking sprinting figure blasts out of the house with such ferocity that he nearly shatters the wood. The man with the axe is racing toward us, his presence causing my hand to instinctively tug on the shifter and my foot to slam against the gas pedal. Our vehicle rockets backward, tearing through a row of large green succulents andtossing up a flurry of desert pebbles in its wake. I yank the wheel hard, narrowly avoiding a boulder that decorates our drought-resistant front yard, then careening over a ditch that nearly throws Marlo into the front seat.
The man with the axe is right behind us—or before us, since we’re driving in reverse—pumping his muscular arms and legs with the feverish intensity of a track star at the starting gun.
Behind him, more neighbors pour out of the house, giving chase with equal intensity. There are dozens of them racing through the suburban night, machetes and knives and shovels glinting under the streetlights as they frantically stumble over one another. The ones with bare feet don’t even flinch as their soles hammer against the sharp desert rocks, eyes unwaveringly locked on their target—on us.
We reach the pavement and I tug the wheel again, evening things out as we hurtle down the street backward. Axe man is still keeping the pace, just a few feet away from the car’s hood and looking me right in the eye as he froths at the mouth.
Fortunately, it’s not long before the might of our sports car wins out over the speed of the mob. They’re still running when we reach the end of the block, but if I maneuver just right there’s enough space for me to flip the car around without them catching up. I turn hard, cranking the shifter and then slamming the gas once we’re facing the correct direction.
In my rearview mirror, I can see a plume of bubblegum fog billowing across the neighborhood.
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Noah’s having trouble finding his words. My friend is beside himself, his mouth struggling to catch up with the avalanche of thoughts spilling through his head. It’s a lot to take in.
“That was just—that was—that really just,” he fumbles, some variation of these words continuously tumbling from his throat. He looks straight ahead, gazing through the windshield in a state of confusion as his synapses frantically work to close the verbal loop.
Behind us, Marlo is totally silent. I’m steering with one hand, the other reaching back and gripping my daughter’s.
“We gotta call the police,” Noah blurts, finally managing a complete sentence.
“They can’t do anything,” I counter.
“Why not?”
“They won’t believe a word of this, and even if they do, Eddie will turn them against us the second he gets a chance.”
The timing couldn’t be better as we crest a small hill to see a blockade of flashing red-and-blue lights in the distance, cop cars lined up across the road several miles ahead.
“Looks like he already thought of that,” I sigh.
I pull over immediately, disappearing behind an old gas station and then turning back the way I came.
“All it takes is for one influenced cop to put out the bulletin,” I explain. “Suddenly, every road out of town is an Amber Alert checkpoint. Eddie’s smart, don’t forget it.”
I drive another mile or so, then finally pull over.
We’re on the edge of downtown, far from the previous storm of violence and chaos. The bar patrons have long since dispersed as morning creeps closer, night owls staggering home and leaving these blocks in a state of surreal emptiness.
Our street runs parallel to the Palm Springs Art Museum, the mid-century modern structure resting nearby. Between us and the building, a lush, palm-filled sculpture park hosts an enormous statue of Marilyn Monroe, her smiling face cast in the glow of upward lights.
Forever Marilynis the name of this statue, one of the few Palm Springs monuments that people actually seem to recognize (despite the fact that it toured all over the world before finally landing here). It stands twenty-six feet tall, the smiling starlet fighting to keep down herwhite dress as imaginary air blows up from below. Of course, this is more than just a depiction of Marilyn, it’s a statement. It’s a looming monument to the power of fame, for better or worse.
“Where are we going?” Noah asks, but my mind is already racing ahead.
I ignore the question, offering up a query of my own. “Why did that happen when Eddie bit you?”
“Eddie bit me?”
“The bug.”
It’s the second time I’ve explained this to Noah, but the first that he actually hears me. Noah takes a moment to process. I can tell his instinct is to laugh or scoff or reject my assertion, but this reaction is quickly escorted off the premises by the reality of what he’s just seen. The whole world has shifted.
“He didn’t like the taste,” Marlo chirps from the back seat.
