True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(35)

Ian recognized some landmarks along the way from his last trip out here—a rock formation that resembled a skull, a dry lake bed with some bones scattered across it, and the rotting hulk of an old truck—that helped him know when to turn off one dirt road and down another. Eventually, he drove through a cleft between two rocky hills, what Ronnie called “Mother Nature’s Glorious Cleavage,” into a hidden clearing where a ramshackle compound had been built.

A cinder-block house with barred windows and an array of solar panels on the roof was at the center of the compound. Radiating out from the house were a greenhouse, a utility shed, a corral with goats, chickens, cows, and a surprisingly lush vegetable garden. A bulldozer, a tractor, and a pickup truck were scattered around like a child’s forgotten toys. There was a gasoline pump and tanks for water and propane. So while it was clear that somebody was living there, nobody was in sight. The air was still and it was eerily quiet.

Ian parked in front of the house and turned to Margo. “I’m sure that he saw us coming for miles and he doesn’t know who we are. Get out slowly with your hands in the air. We don’t want to get shot.”

“This is starting out well,” she said.

Ian got out of the car, his arms raised, which wasn’t easy with one arm in a cast. Margo got out with her arms up, too, looking around for signs of life besides the listless livestock.

“Ronnie,” Ian shouted. “It’s Ian Ludlow and a friend. We’ve come with Doritos.”

“Doritos!” Ronnie shouted back excitedly from one of the hills. “Hot damn. What else have you got?”

Ian lowered his hands and popped the trunk so he could survey the bounty of goods. “Cheetos. Cap’n Crunch. Oreos. Funyuns. Pop-Tarts. Pork rinds.”

“All the essential food groups,” Ronnie said, much closer this time.

Margo turned toward the rocks. She saw a man but was momentarily blinded by the sunshine reflecting off his aluminum foil–wrapped soldier’s helmet. When her vision cleared, she saw the aluminum helmet was atop a deeply tanned, heavily bearded, potbellied man in his forties wearing Ray-Ban Wayfarers and a sweat-stained camouflage tank top and pants, and carrying a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

She stared at him, her head cocked. Ian could read her expression. Something was familiar to her about this strange man but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Ronnie dropped the grenade launcher on the hood of the Mustang and embraced Ian in a bear hug. Ian wasn’t an affectionate man by nature but it felt good, after everything they’d been through, to be in the strong embrace of someone who cared about him.

“Long time, man,” Ronnie said. “Way too long.”

They stepped apart, all smiles, and appraised each other.

“You’re looking good,” Ian said.

“Masturbation. Three to six times daily. That’s the key,” Ronnie said. “But you know that. You’re a writer.”

“I did not know that,” Ian said.

“That explains why you look like you’ve been constipated for a month.”

“That’s not why but we’ll get to that in a minute.” Ian looked past his friend to Margo. “Ronnie, this is Margo French. Margo, this is—”

She interrupted him, because now she knew the answer and it pissed her off.

“The Vine. Ronnie Mancuso,” she said. “The fucking Vine.”

The last three words were hissed like an accusation and pointed at Ian.

“Half-man, half-plant, all cop. That’s me.” Ronnie puffed out his chest with pride. “Not only did it pay for all this”—he swept his arm in front of him, gesturing to his kingdom—“but I’ve been able to communicate with plants ever since. Nothing would have grown here otherwise.”

“No, no, no.” Margo shook her head and fell back against the car. “This isn’t happening.”

Ronnie smiled at Ian. “Wow. My star power hasn’t dimmed. It’s blinding, man. Another reason I had to go where I couldn’t be seen.” He turned to Margo. “Yes, it’s me. I know it’s thrilling but get over it, darling. I crap just like you do. Maybe more.”

But she wasn’t looking at him. Her furious gaze was fixed on Ian. “I can’t believe you dragged me out here. This guy is your Yoda? The fucking Vine? If I have to become him to survive, the CIA can kill me now.”

Ronnie jerked as if electrocuted. “The C-I-A?”

Margo had spoken the three letters that were certain to get Ronnie’s full attention. Maybe it was Ian’s imagination but it looked like Ronnie’s ears had perked up like a dog’s.

“Have you heard about the plane crash in Honolulu?” Ian asked.

“Of course,” Ronnie said. “I have a radio. I need to stay on top of current events to know when the End of Days is coming.”

Ronnie’s mention of the End of Days drew a derisive groan from Margo. Ian ignored it and pressed on.

“The crash was a terrorism scenario I came up with for the CIA to help the government prepare for the worst,” Ian said. “But the CIA went out and did it. They crashed the plane. I don’t know why they did it. But now they want me dead and Margo dead, too.”

Ronnie walked past Ian and regarded the Walmart bags in the trunk as if they were rattlesnakes. “How long ago were you at Walmart?”