They went out Sunset at around seventy miles an hour, went on through Beverly Hills, on. At the ocean they turned north. The road was being repaired for a half-mile or so; Kells slowed to thirty-five.
Granquist had been watching through the rear window, had seen no sign of the other car. She was close against Kells and her arm was around his shoulders. Her eyes were wide, excited. She kept saying: “Maybe we’ll make it, darling — maybe we’ll make it.”
Kells started coughing again — Granquist held the wheel while he leaned against the door, coughed terribly, as if his lungs were being torn apart. Rain swept in through the broken windshield. Kells took the wheel again, said in a choked whisper: “I’ll get a doctor in Ventura — if we get through.” He stepped on the throttle until the needle of the speedometer quivered around seventy again.
There were very few cars on the road. A little way beyond Topanga Canyon, Kells threw the car out of gear, jerked back the brake. He said: “I guess you’d better drive...” Granquist helped him slide over in the seat, crawled across him to the wheel — they started again. Kells leaned back in the corner, was silent. As they neared the bridge south of Malibu, Granquist slowed a little. There was someone swinging a red lantern in the middle of the road. Then she pressed the throttle far down, veered sharply to the left past a car that was parked across the road.
She glanced back in a little while and saw its lights behind her, pressed the throttle to the floor.
The road curved a great deal. Granquist was bent forward over the wheel — the rain beat against her face; her eyes were narrowed to slits against the wind and the rain.
There was the faint sound of a shot, two, behind them, a metallic thud as a bullet buried itself somewhere in the body of the car. Kells opened his eyes, turned to look back. He grinned at Granquist and his face was whiter than anything she had ever seen. He glanced ahead, said: “Give it hell, baby.”
Then he groped in his pocket, pulled out the big automatic. He smashed the glass of the rear window with the muzzle and rested the barrel on his forearm, sighted, fired.
He said, “Missed,” swore softly.
He fired again, and as the car behind them swerved crazily off the road and stopped, said, “Bull’s-eye,” laughed soundlessly.