“Tooney, you’re hurt.”
Tooney sat up. “I’m okay. Just cut. Can clean myself. No problem. No police. Please, Logan. Don’t call them.”
Logan stared at the old man, confused.
“Please,” Tooney said again.
Though Tooney was injured, nothing looked fatal. Logan thought for a moment, then grabbed the keys he’d spotted earlier on Tooney’s desk, and headed toward the back door.
“What are you going to do?” Tooney asked.
But Logan was already outside, so even if he had an answer, Tooney wouldn’t have been able to hear it.
2
There were only two ways out of town—either north or south, both on the Pacific Coast Highway. North was the tourist direction, the scenic route. It went past Hearst Castle and then up a long, winding road through Big Sur to Monterey. It was a slow drive with few outlets for a hundred miles or more. The one to the south led to Morro Bay, then over to San Luis Obispo and the 101 Freeway. From there, the whole country opened up.
Logan barely paused at the red light before turning south. It was the only way Tooney’s attacker would have gone. Once on the highway, he jammed the accelerator to the floor, then pulled out his cell phone. But as hard as it was not to, he didn’t call the Sheriff or an ambulance.
“Jesus, Logan. What time is it?” his father asked, sounding half-asleep.
“Get over to Tooney’s café right away,” Logan told him. “Have Barney drive you. He used to be a doctor, right?”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“You’ll need a first aid kit.”
“Logan, what happened?” Whatever sleep had been in Harp’s voice was gone.
Logan hesitated. “Tooney’s had an accident.”
He could hear his father throwing back his covers. “My God. Is it bad?”
“He didn’t think he needed an ambulance.” Logan knew it wasn’t exactly answering the question, but it was the best answer he could give.