The Far Side of the Dollar

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The people and events in this novel are all imaginary, and do not refer to any actual people or events.

R. M.

IT WAS AUGUST, and it shouldn’t have been raining. Perhaps rain was too strong a word for the drizzle that blurred the landscape and kept my windshield wipers going. I was driving south, about halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego.

The school lay off the highway to my right, in large grounds of its own which stretched along the seashore. Toward the sea I caught the dull sheen of the slough that gave the place its name, Laguna Perdida. A blue heron, tiny in the distance, stood like a figurine at the edge of the ruffled water.

I entered the grounds through automatic gates, which lifted when my car passed over a treadle. A gray-headed man in a blue serge uniform came out of a kiosk and limped in my direction.

“You got a pass?”

“Dr. Sponti wants to see me. My name is Archer.”

“That’s right, I got your name here.”

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