CHAPTER ELEVENWas it possible?
Joseph Horton had cruised down Broadway Terrace from Berkeley to Oakland, continued on Broadway, and turned right, away from the big Kaiser Hospital on MacArthur. He rolled past the row of motels opposite the darkened Mosswood Park. Hi-Hat, Happy Hour, Uncle Sam, Diamond Crown, American Eagle.
One hot sheet joint after another.
The Prius wasn’t the only car moving slowly past the motels. He had the radio turned on, volume low, some soothing music from KDFC to keep him calm, or at least as calm as he could be on this night. At least the previous night’s storm had passed over the Bay Area to drop what remained of its moisture as it rose over the Sierras and the Tahoe Basin and down a few hundred feet into the high desert country of western Nevada. If the sto
