A XYLØ song kept going through her head:
We’re diving in the deep end
We can’t turn back again.
She was between the devil, Tom Peaks, and the deep blue sea of painful memories and lingering terror that was Perdido Beach.
She had not yet found a convenient excuse to dump Armo, and truth be told, she did not entirely mind having him around. He had certainly been formidable in taking down the helicopter. The only problem was getting him to do anything that was not his idea. She had quickly learned that she could suggest to Armo—Armo, would you be willing to fill the tank while I go take a pee?—but could not order him to do anything. Even things he wanted to do.
While sneaking up on an isolated farm, she had had the following conversation:
“Armo, go left, I’ll go right.”
“You go left.”
“Left is darker and you stand out more in the light.”
“Yeah.”
“So go left.”
Long Armo silence and outthrust, pouting lip.
“Okay, which way do you think you should go?”
Shorter Armo silence. Followed by “I should go left. It’s darker.”
Brief Dekka silence. “All right then. Good idea.”
But there was, despite this, something charming about Armo, who was not bright or even slightly cooperative, but was also not a jerk or a sexist or a racist, or any other form of “ist,” unless it was “defiantist,” which was probably not a word.
And really, Dekka had to admit, she was hardly the easiest person to get along with, either. She might not have Armo’s extreme ODD, but instinctive defiance was definitely part of her makeup.
And the nice thing was that Armo extended the same extreme courtesy to her, never ordering, only suggesting or wondering aloud.
Suddenly, through her helmet and the thrum of the engine, she heard sirens, and they were coming closer. She looked left and right but the highway was flanked by low hills, all covered in scrub grass and squat bushes. There was no place to hide the bike or herself, no turnoffs, no businesses to slip into.
Nothing.
“Maybe I should . . . ,” Armo said, leaving it open.
In her rearview mirror Dekka saw two CHP vehicles practically levitating as they topped rises and bounced through dips.
Seconds away!
Could she outrun them? Maybe, but not for long. They would radio ahead for a roadblock or call for a helicopter. And on four wheels they were more stable than she was, especially with two hundred pounds of passenger—one pothole and she would go tumbling down the road.
The nearest CHP flashed its headlights and gave the siren a whoop-whoop-whoop, and Dekka realized with infinite relief that they were simply warning her to move aside. She slowed onto the shoulder and the cars flew past.
“Now I just need to get my stomach back down out of my throat,” Dekka muttered.
“Hey, where are we headed?” Armo asked.
“I’m heading to Perdido Beach; would you like to come?”
“Sure.”
She headed south again, going fast but not so fast she looked as if she was chasing the CHP, which, in any event, were soon out of sight around a curve.