Even over the phone, I can tell Gunner is furious.

Dammit. I never intended to even tell him about this trip, unless something useful came out of it. I knew he’d be angry and try to stop me from going if I’d let slip what I intended to do. And on one level, I can’t blame him. But I just couldn’t stand not doing anything. I’ve never been good at waiting around for things to happen.

The trip east toward the Smiling Skull was uneventful. I showed up at the bar a little after five p.m. with only the vaguest notion of what I was going to do. The parking lot was almost half-full, with twice as many bikes as cars. I pulled in and shut off my car, then, steeling myself, I walked resolutely toward the front door.

Inside, an iron-jawed, angry-looking bartender with a shaved head watches me walk up, suspicion etched on his rough features.

“You sure you’re in the right place, blondie?”

“Is Rosie around?” I ask, with much more confidence than I feel. “I need to talk to her.”

He snorts. “You don’t know Rosie,” he mutters, turning away.

In desperation, I decide to take a chance. “Gunner sent me! From the Lords of Carnage.” The bartender turns back to me with a dubious expression. “He told me Rosie would help me out,” I explain.

He clearly doesn’t believe me, but at this point I’m guessing he just wants me out of his hair — or lack thereof. Picking up a phone, he punches a button and murmurs into it. Hanging up, he narrows his eyes at me. “She’ll be out in a second. You want a fuckin’ Shirley Temple while you’re waiting?”

I decide to ignore the insult. “I’m fine, thank you.”

By this time, some of the other customers are looking at me with the same curious and contemptuous expression as the bartender. I can’t help but think back to that first night when I was here looking for Gonzalo. I suppress a shudder, recognizing that this really is not a safe place for me to be by myself.

An old woman comes out into the bar area. She’s short — at least an inch shorter than I am — and looks to be in her late sixties, at least. She’s thin to the point of emaciation, and wearing a white shirt, a black vest, and a red bandana around her neck. Her no-nonsense silver hair is cut short and severe. Frankly, if I met her on the street I wouldn’t immediately be sure if she was a man or a woman. This is Rosie?

She seems as skeptical of me as I am of her. “Who the hell are you?” she asks bluntly, in a raspy smoker’s voice.

“Gunner Storgaard sent me,” I say, working hard to sound confident. “He said you might know something about a person I’m looking for.”

“That so?” she snaps. “Well, if Gunner needed information, why the fuck didn’t he come here himself?”

“He… he’s helping me out,” I explain hastily. “He’s a friend of mine.”

Rosie throws back her head and cackles. “Honey, Gunner don’t have friends. Especially friends without dicks.”

“Well, anyway,” I stumble, reddening. “He is helping me. And he told me you might be able to tell me where Gonzalo is.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see a couple of people glance at me, but I can’t be sure.

“Gonzalo?” Rosie’s voice is sharp. “Why the fuck would I know where that asshole is?”

“I just thought… he might have been here recently. Or you might know where he lives. Or something.” I trail off, feeling idiotic.

“‘Or something.’” Rosie mocks my tone, cackling again. “Look, girly,” She takes a step closer, putting a gnarled fist on her hip. “I don’t know what you’re about, and I don’t give a shit. I don’t know you from a hole in the ground, and I’ve got shit to do. If I were you, I’d get the hell out of here.”

“But if you could just tell me whether…”

The bartender suddenly appears at Rosie’s side. “You speaka da English?” he booms at me, poking his finger aggressively to the side of his head. “Rosie told you to get the hell out!”

A hatchet-faced man with long, greasy hair seated at the bar chuckles loudly. When I glance over at him, he shoots me an aggressively sexual leer.

I open my mouth to reply to Rosie, but stop. I realize no one here is going to tell me a damn thing. And I’m starting to feel very uncomfortable, and very conspicuous. The longer I stay, I realize, the more likely it is that something bad will happen to me.

“Okay. I’m leaving,” I murmur, taking a step backwards. I’m almost a little afraid to turn my back, but I force myself to do it, and walk out of the bar as calmly as I can. Outside, I realize my heart is pounding. My hands are trembling, half from fear and half from anger. I’m mad at them for being so mean, and mad at myself for being fool enough to have come here.

Back in my car, I lock the doors and take a few deep breaths to calm myself. This whole thing was a total bust. Closing my eyes for a moment, I try to think whether there’s any way I can salvage anything from this trip. There’s a town just to the east of here. Maybe I should just take a chance and go drive around, hoping I happen to see something? Maybe I’ll…

Thump! Thump! Thump!

I shriek in fright and jump in my seat, banging my head on the ceiling of the car. Wildly, I turn toward the noise to see the hatchet-faced guy from the bar leering at me from the other side of the driver’s side window. He’s grinning and laughing, obviously happy he scared me. Before I realize what he’s doing, he reaches for the door handle. I scream, turning the key in the ignition, The car roars to life. I know I locked the doors but I’m still terrified that somehow he might get in. I slam the car into reverse and hit the gas, not caring whether I run over him or not. He yells angrily and pounds on the hood of my car. I throw it into forward and squeal out of the lot, barely looking to see if there’s oncoming traffic as I hit the highway and drive away as fast as I can.

For a few seconds all I can do is try not to hyperventilate or crash the car as I accelerate, glancing in my rear view mirror several times to make sure no one’s following me. Eventually, as I continue back in the direction of Tanner Springs, the panic starts to dissipate little by little. What takes its place is a wave of despair, as I realize that for the second time I’ve walked all alone into a dangerous situation like a complete idiot. And for all that, I’m no closer to finding out anything about my sister.

I’ve never felt so helpless and stupid in my life.

It seems the fates aren’t done with me, though, because not long after I’m out of town, the car’s temperature light comes on. I down at the temperature gauge, and see the car is seriously overheating. Swearing, I pull over to the side of the road and reach down to put the car in park. As I do, I realize I’ve been driving in low gear all this time.

“God DAMN it!” I yell, pounding my fist on the steering wheel.

I’m stuck. I don’t know anything about cars. I’m afraid to drive any farther, and I have no idea what to do next.

Worst of all, I know — even though it’s the last thing I want to do — that I’m going to have to call Gunner to come help me.

A little over half an hour later, a tow truck arrives. The driver’s side door opens, and Gunner climbs out. I unlock my doors to get out and meet him.

The first thing I noticed is how pinched and angry-looking his face is.

“Thank you so much for coming, Gunner,” I begin, but he brushes past, barely looking at me.

I watch in helpless silence as he goes to my car, gets into the driver’s seat, and turns it on. He checks the instrument panel, then turns it back off. Sliding back out, he pops the hood, spends a minute or so looking around inside, and then slams it shut, hard. In spite of myself, I jump.

“Get in the truck,” he barks. Beneath the beard, his jaw clenches. Swallowing hard, I do what he says, climbing up into the high cab and shutting the door. I watch from the inside as Gunner positions a metal chain cradle under the front wheels. He lifts them up with a winch on the truck, then checks to make sure everything’s hooked up correctly. All the while, I’m sitting in the passenger seat, my hands clenched together and dreading the moment when he finally gets in the cab with me.

But the firestorm I’m expecting doesn’t come. When he’s finished, Gunner climbs in and turns on the tow truck’s engine without a single glance at me. He pulls out onto the highway, shifting gears as he speeds up, and soon we’re on our way back to Tanner Springs. The whole way home, he doesn’t say a single word. It’s like I’m not even there.

This is a million times worse than if he had just yelled at me like I was expecting.

The ride seems to last forever, but eventually we hit the city limits. Once we get into town, he drives me straight to his house and pulls up to the curb. Putting the truck in park, he finally turns to me.

“Your car is fucked,” he grunts. “I’m taking it to our shop.”

“Gunner —” I begin.

“Go inside,” he orders, his face contorted into a snarl.

“Thank you,” I whisper helplessly, and open the passenger door.

I’ve barely slid out of the cab when he reaches over to slam the door roughly behind me. He puts the truck in gear, and roars off into the evening.

I’m left standing dejectedly on the sidewalk, knowing he won’t be back again tonight.

Every single decision I’ve made today was the wrong one.

Tiredly, I drag myself up the front walk and into the house. I just want to go to bed.

Maybe things will be better tomorrow morning.

In any case, they can hardly be worse.