He glanced over at a black Lexus convertible, and there was this total moron screaming at him—“Fuck you, asshole, fuck you, fuck you”—and giving him the finger.

The Storyteller couldn’t help himself—he just laughed at the red-faced idiot in the other car.

The jerk was so out of it. If he only knew who he was going postal at. This was hilarious! He even leaned over toward the window on the passenger side. And his laughter apparently made the nutcase even angrier. “You think it’s funny, asshole? You think it’s funny?” the guy screamed.

So the Storyteller just kept laughing, ignoring the irate bastard as if he didn’t exist and wasn’t worth coyote piss if he did. But this guy did exist, and actually, he’d gotten under the Storyteller’s skin, which really wasn’t advisable, was it?

Eventually, he drifted behind the Lexus, as if chastened and remorseful, and then he followed. The moke’s black convertible got off two exits later. So did he.

And this wasn’t in the story. He was improvising now.

He continued to trail the convertible’s taillights up into the Hollywood Hills, onto a side road, and then up another steep hill.

He wondered if the driver of the Lexus had spotted him by now. Just to be sure he did, he started honking and didn’t stop for the next half mile or so. Figured the other guy might be getting a little spooked by now. He sure would if it were him, especially if he knew who he had hassled down on the freeway.

Then he pulled out and started to pass the convertible. This was the coolest goddamn scene yet—he had all the windows open in his car, wind whipping through.

The driver of the Lexus stared over at him, and he wasn’t cursing or flipping him the bird anymore. Now who was showing a little remorse? A little r-e-s-p-e-c-t.

The Storyteller’s right hand came up, aimed, and he fired four times into the other driver’s face, and then he watched the convertible veer into the rocky wall on the side of the road, carom off, swerve back onto the road, then hit the rocks again.

Then nothing—the annoying bastard was dead, wasn’t he? Deserved it, too, the asshole. The shame of it, the pity, was that sooner or later this killing had to stop. At least that was the grand plan, that was the story.

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

DETECTIVE JEANNE GALLETTA floored her two-year-old Thunderbird. She had driven faster than this before but never on L.A. city streets. The storefronts on Van Nuys blurred past while her siren droned a steady rhythm overhead.