‘Hello?’ he tried calling out, but his vocal cords were so weak, so dried up, that all he got was a meager whisper.
He tried feeling around once again. Nothing. No water. No food.
Terry brought both of his hands to his face. His lips were chipped and cracked… his skin dry and rough… his eyes tender to the touch.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ he whispered to himself, allowing his hands to drop down to his thighs like dead weights. ‘Where the fuck am I?’
That was when fear truly took over, crawling into the hollows of his body and pressing outward until he could feel his organs, his bones, his spine shaking inside of him.
Terry wasn’t expecting an answer to his question –Where the fuck am I?– but an answer was exactly what he got, because he wasn’t alone in that room.
Coming from the darkness just behind him, a guttural voice whispered the words.
‘In Hell!’
Eleven
In Lomita, O’Hearn’s Bar and Grill was located right on the Pacific Coast Highway, which was the longest state route in California, running along most of the state’s Pacific coastline. Since it was located on a state highway, parking would’ve proved to be not only impossible, but also illegal, if not for the fact that the Irish-themed bar was positioned directly next door to a small shopping mall, with plenty of off-street parking spaces to accommodate both establishments.
At 3:36 p.m., Garcia parked his car at the south corner of the parking lot, right next to a wild-cherry Mustang Mach 1. As he stepped out of his Honda Civic, he paused for a second.
‘You should get one of these,’ he told Hunter, nodding at the Mustang. ‘You need to retire that bathtub on wheels that you call a car, and this would be the perfect substitute.’
Hunter chuckled. ‘Really?’ He too eyed the car parked next to Garcia’s. ‘Do you have any idea how much one of these costs?’
‘Quite a bit, I’d imagine,’ Garcia replied with a shrug.
‘Well, let me add a tag end to your answer,’ Hunter came back. ‘Quite a bit…more than I can afford.’
Garcia made a face at Hunter, as if he didn’t really believe his partner.
‘What?’ Hunter challenged. ‘Can you afford a car like this?’
‘Probably not.’
Hunter smiled back. ‘I rest my case.’
On the inside, O’Hearn’s did resemble a typical Irish pub, with a few added features to create a sports bar atmosphere.
At that time in the afternoon, the place wasn’t exactly busy. On the main floor, only three out of their fifteen tables were taken. At the large bar, which was located across the floor from the entrance door, three men sat alone at the stools, an empty seat in between each of them. Two of the men were busy with their cellphones and the third one was watching a basketball game re-run on one of the four large flatscreen TVs high on the back wall.
There was only one bartender – a tall, skinny man with a bushy goatee and a LA Lakers cap. He was standing at the far-right end of the bar, polishing glasses with a dishcloth.
Hunter and Garcia approached him.
The bartender put down the dishcloth and turned to face the two new arrivals.
‘Top of the morning to ya both,’ he said, placing both hands on the bar counter and leaning forward slightly. His Irish accent was very pronounced. ‘What can I get you fel…’ He paused, and as his stare bounced from Hunter to Garcia, his left eye narrowed just a touch. He leaned back from the bar, his expression a lot less relaxed than a second ago. ‘Yer five-o, right?’
The American slang sounded strange in an Irish accent.
‘Is it that obvious?’ Garcia asked, looking at his and Hunter’s attire.
‘Aye.’ The bartender nodded at Garcia’s waist. ‘It is when yer gun is showing, like.’
Garcia looked at Hunter, as he adjusted his jacket over his waist. ‘My bad.’
Hunter immediately noticed that the bartender had kept his voice quiet enough not to be heard by any of the other customers. That clearly indicated that this wasn’t the bartender’s first rodeo. Hunter expertly positioned himself with his back toward the threecustomers sitting at the bar, before quickly showing the bartender his credentials.
