The Last JoyRide

Part 28

Friday 10:42 PM

The return trip home and the computer work Joy did had proven successful, so the night would be a little longer than I had hoped. Even after the food, I was exhausted and readily admitted that I was looking forward to persuading her to bed, even if only to hold her body close for a few hours.

I wasn't sure her mind ever shut off. I mean, I had only seen her sleep once in the very short time I had known her, and she was pretty drunk at the time. All the other times we had separated. For all I knew, she was up twenty-four seven three sixty-five. It seemed that way sometimes. She had bouts of downtimes, sure, but sleep? I could not confirm that. The only way to be sure was to hold her close and see. That bit of research I didn't mind at all.

We were on our way speeding down the freeway again toward Atlanta, rather an old northern suburb of the city proper, Peachtree Battle. Atlanta and parts surrounding it are part of the old south. By that, I mean they are pre-civil war. In fact, in the South, the Civil War, or as I refer to it, The Northern War of Aggression, is a definite demarcation of time.

Since Atlanta was primarily burned to ashes during the war's dying days, very few pre-war buildings are left. As the city once again took shape, the monied and elite took up residence in the northern rolling hills away from the hustle and grime of the factories and railroads. The neighborhood and area known as Peachtree Battle was just such an area. The many homes that are left are grand, each one different and lovely in its own way. Old money; it was there first, and there much of it remains.

We were headed to Peachtree Battle proper, as in the road Peachtree Battle, the main drag. The Eddie VanHalen was stationary, and Joy was in a rush to put eyes on it. I had sneaking suspicions she would make an attempt at recovery should we find it. Realizing the area we were about to enter, I was trying my best to put those ideas to rest before she got them out into the open.

She did as I instructed her and got off at Northside Drive. The same exit she had taken coming in the opposite direction only 2 days before this whole mess began. She sped up and down the hills of Northside Drive and finally made the left turn onto Peachtree Battle at my cue. She slowed to a much more reasonable speed, but still, I felt the need to give my two cents.

"Okay, Joy, this is not the place to be fucking around. It's going to be hard to stop without being noticed. When the cops aren't patrolling here, the paid security people are. It may look quiet and stately but let me assure you that the all-seeing eye is on you at all times."

"Would you relax, Max? We're just looking around," she answered while both steering the Jeep and making the screen on her GPS larger so she could pinpoint the location with more accuracy.

She slowed us to a crawl.

"It's close, like yards close, maybe two hundred," she glanced over at me, "and it's on your side."

"Okay, so, orange Lambo Muria?"

"Red."

"Okay red. Check."

She eased up the extremely wide road, topping a hill and leveling off. We could see the decorative landscape lighting on many of the homes, but they, for the most part, were set too far back from the road to make out any detail. We eased on, and then suddenly, she stopped in front of a tiled roof Spanish-styled home. It looked like something out of the Alhambra with just a touch of old Southern decay. It was beautiful even in the darkness; the yellowed stucco walls, some covered with sprawling ivy, towered above the manicured grounds. The straight cobblestone driveway led through an arched gate to the back of the estate and what looked to be a carriage house.

Suddenly Joy reached for the dome light and flung her door open. Before I could say anything, she had dashed across the street and into the driveway ducking to the right and disappearing into the shadows of the large magnolia trees that divided the drive from the neighbor's yard.