by Meg Gardiner
There must be some kind of way out of here. . . .
Sundown was coming, and it was Martian red in the smoke from the wildfire. The light angled through the wall of plate-glass windows facing the beach, landing bloody-bright on Jesse’s handsome face, and tinting his white T-shirt crimson. Coming into the kitchen, he uncorked a bottle of pinot noir and poured two glasses. Then he reached for a bottle of prescription pills. Tipping two into his palm, he swallowed them with the wine.
‘‘Pain’s bad?’’ I said.
He shifted himself in his seat. ‘‘I’ve had better weeks.’’ He drank, and changed the subject. ‘‘I didn’t tell you about the whale.’’
‘‘Luke did. Some Jet Skiers got a blubber facial.’’
‘‘City engineers had winched the thing to a fishing trawler and were towing it out to sea. The jokers who hit it were crawling drunk.’’ He spun languidly to face me. ‘‘The next day, when they woke up in the hospital, these bozos called me. They wanted me to sue the city for their injuries. Thanks to Gaul v. Beowulf’s Books, I’m suddenly an expert on wild-animal litigation. ’’ Caustic face. ‘‘I declined the case. Told them to call Skip Hinkel.’’
‘‘Speaking of whom . . . ,’’ I said.
He snorted. ‘‘Judge Rodriguez scolded him for slagging me off to the press.’’ Another swallow. ‘‘So Skip told the Department of Fish and Game that I was harboring the ferrets.’’
I was putting plates on the table. I stopped. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘It was an anonymous tip, but nobody else would have done it. A Fish and Game inspector showed up at the office on Friday. It’s hard to get much work done when an officious little man with a cage is scurrying around the firm.’’
‘‘I can’t believe Skip.’’
‘‘Sure you can. He’s a jackass. It’s an FFL.’’
FFL, Fucking Fact of Life. His term for things you couldn’t change.
I said, ‘‘No, it’s not. It’s your reputation.’’
‘‘I’m tough. My rep will be fine.’’
After dinner, darkness came quickly. When I put Luke to bed, I came back to find Jesse on the sofa, watching an X-Files rerun. His mouth was pressed tight, his shoulders crooked. The pills weren’t working. I stood behind the sofa and began kneading the base of his neck, feeling resistance, stiff muscles fighting me.
I tapped his shoulder. ‘‘Lie down on the floor.’’
He got on his back on the rug. I knelt down next to him and started stretching his legs, one at a time. I bent his knees, circled his ankles, and rotated his hips, working his hamstrings, calves, quads. I had no training in physical therapy but knew he needed to preserve his range of motion to keep from developing contractures, locked joints that could further disable a paraplegic. He lay there, looking tight. The lights were low, the TV flickering; Mulder confronting the Cigarette-Smoking Man. Mood lighting.
He said, ‘‘Why do you think the killer burned Pastor Pete’s body?’’
At once I found I had a throbbing headache, and the wasp stings were itching like crazy.
I said, ‘‘He could have been a psychopath, or trying to destroy evidence.’’
‘‘He?’’
‘‘Or she, or they.’’
He worked himself up onto his elbows. ‘‘If the killer wanted to get rid of the evidence, why didn’t he dump the body out in the desert? The Mafia does.’’
‘‘Maybe he was worried that the neighbors would see him removing it. I don’t know; maybe he came to the house on foot and had no way to carry it.’’
He said, ‘‘I think it’s something else. The way the killer positioned the body in the trash can, it seems like ritual. Or rage.’’
For a minute we listened to the surf murmuring outside. Then Jesse held his hand out. I pulled him to a sitting position. Tucking his feet in, he sat cross-legged, leaning back against the couch.
He said, ‘‘Do you still think the Remnant has big plans?’’
I rubbed my temples. ‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Do you think Pastor Pete’s death derailed their scheme?’’
‘‘No. Chenille indicated the opposite, that now they’re more determined than ever to battle the Antichrist. ’’ I paused. ‘‘It brought back something Nikki said to me. That we should be on guard against an event that convinces the Remnant that the end is now.’’
‘‘Their leader getting turned into a Roman candle, that would do it.’’
‘‘That’s what scares me.’’
He took my hand, ran his fingers up the inside of my arm. Even with everything going on, his touch was electric.
I said, ‘‘But I can’t fathom how framing Brian fits into their plans. If it does.’’
‘‘You’re damned loyal to Brian, know it?’’
His eyes, cobalt in the dim light, had a coolness that made his statement less than a compliment. Slowly he said, ‘‘Ev, have you thought about the fact that he doesn’t have an alibi?’’
I hadn’t told him about Marc Dupree’s refusal to provide that alibi. ‘‘I think one of his friends can.’’
‘‘A naval officer?’’
‘‘Yes. Another pilot, a commander.’’
‘‘Gosh, then he ought to be out in no time flat.’’
‘‘What do you mean by that?’’
He glanced at the TV. Mulder and Scully close, but not touching. ‘‘I mean that you canonize the U.S. Navy. You think the cops are a bunch of podunk hicks, and the navy can do no wrong. But I hate to tell you, law enforcement doesn’t genuflect the way you do.’’
‘‘That’s a harsh assessment.’’
‘‘But accurate. The China Lake police don’t care that Brian is a fighter pilot. You don’t see that because you worship him.’’
‘‘You’re being unfair.’’
‘‘Face it, you do. You fall on your knees and don’t look up or around or even consider the possibility that he isn’t being straight with you, that he had threatened Peter Wyoming, and that he could have—’’
‘‘Don’t.’’ I stood up. ‘‘Don’t say it. Do not even think it.’’
His eyes had turned hot. ‘‘This is called denial.’’
‘‘No.’’
Humorless smile. ‘‘I rest my case.’’
‘‘Jesse, shut up.’’
‘‘If you’re not even willing to consider the possibility, then you’re not being a good attorney.’’
‘‘I’m not an attorney in this situation; I’m Brian’s sister, and I refuse to think that way. Don’t you dare suggest it.’’
‘‘Ev. You need to step back and look at the situation objectively.’’
‘‘Bullshit. You’re suggesting that Brian did it.’’
‘‘I’m telling you that the police didn’t behave like total idiots when they arrested him. He had motive, means, and opportunity. And face it, Peter Wyoming attacked Brian at the core of his life, by trying to take Luke. Isn’t it possible that Brian snapped and took matters into his own hands?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘You and I weren’t there, so how can you be sure of that?’’
Never had I felt so angry with him. ‘‘You just hit the nail on the head. You weren’t there. So don’t speculate. Just because Brian gets on your nerves, you think he’s a murderer? You are full of shit, Blackburn. ’’
A scuffling sound and a small frightened noise came from the front entryway. I looked around and saw Luke jerk his head back around the corner, out of sight.
‘‘Oh, my God.’’
Luke’s feet beat a tattoo back to his bedroom.
I spun on Jesse. ‘‘Dammit! He heard!’’
Jesse started pulling himself up into the wheelchair. He looked devastated, but I was too incensed to care. I ran to the guest bedroom. The light was off.
‘‘Luke?’’
He was curled in a ball beneath the bed. When I reached under and touched his back, he jerked away. I lay down on my stomach and tried to slide u
nder the bed.
‘‘Luke, sweetheart. Come out.’’
‘‘No.’’ Tears in his voice.
‘‘Please, tiger. Come here.’’
But he only curled tighter and lay crying quietly.
Jesse appeared in the doorway. ‘‘Luke? Hey, little dude, I—’’
I waved him away.
It took me half an hour to talk Luke out from under the bed. And though I got him tucked back beneath the covers, he wouldn’t talk, didn’t relax when I told him Jesse didn’t mean it, that I was sorry he had heard us arguing . . . but why should he? My words sounded inept and insincere.
I found Jesse by the living room windows, staring out across the breakers. The wildfire’s ruddy glow tinged the eastern sky.
He didn’t look around. ‘‘I am so incredibly sorry.’’
‘‘How much do you think a six-year-old can take before his spirit breaks, Jesse?’’
He closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped. He said, ‘‘Evan . . .’’
I heard remorse in his voice, but also contention. I said, ‘‘You really don’t want to get into it with me right now. Take my word for it.’’
More seconds passed.
I said, ‘‘I need some air.’’
I went down to the beach. The night was hot, the sky piebald with moonlight and fireglow. The surf hissed and ran across my bare feet like a foamy tongue. My head pounded. I walked for only fifty yards before breaking into a run.
How could Jesse think that Brian had killed Peter Wyoming?
The waves splashed over me and I picked up speed, hearing my feet hit the sand, just going, wanting the beating of my own heart to drown out all other sounds, all other thoughts. I ran and ran for miles, until finally I knew I had to turn around, and I came back hard, with my lungs burning from the smoky air. When I stopped I set my hands on my hips and tilted my head back. My face felt as if it were glowing with heat. Beneath my sodden shirt strings of sweat ran down my back. The stings throbbed.
The waves, so cold when I started running, now invited. I looked around—not another person was in sight. I stripped down and splashed into the water. When the surf reached my thighs I dove through an incoming breaker.
The water cooled my skin and soothed the stinging. Stroking farther out, I rolled onto my back and stared at the Milky Way. Firelit, the stars were a ruby vein in the night. The waves lifted and rocked me, and the world felt primordial.
Eventually I rode the waves back to shore. Walking up the beach toward the house, I saw that the lights were on in Jesse’s bedroom. It was an invitation. But I didn’t know whether he was waiting to offer regret or further argument.
The warm air felt refreshing on my bare skin, drying me as I picked up my sweaty clothing and carried it onto the deck. I brushed the sand off my feet with the T-shirt, getting ready to go inside.
Without warning the beam of a flashlight hit me full-on.
A man said, ‘‘Don’t move.’’
Too late. I jerked my clothes up in front of me, ludicrously trying to protect my modesty. I yelled, ‘‘Jesse!’’
The man stepped onto the deck. Behind him came someone else, also holding a flashlight. I couldn’t see their faces.
‘‘Jesse! Set the dogs loose!’’
Flashlight number one wavered. ‘‘Hold on! Freeze, and don’t say another word. California Department of Fish and Game!’’
14
The flashlights stepped onto the deck and bobbled toward me. Flashlight Number One said, ‘‘Identify yourself.’’
‘‘For crying out loud, you want ID? I’m naked!’’
‘‘Well . . .’’
My fright vanished. ‘‘Get the hell away from me. And turn off those lights.’’
‘‘This is state business, lady.’’
I could see him now, a short man with a clipped goatee and a hairless head that gleamed in the moonlight. He was holding a wire animal carrier and staring at my chest.
‘‘Shut off the flashlights and turn around, numskulls! ’’
They hesitated. I whistled loudly through my teeth, as if summoning Cujo.
Flashlight Two, needle voice and shaky hand, said, ‘‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’’
The patio door opened. The flashlights swung around to spotlight Jesse in the doorway, looking infuriated.
Flashlight One repeated, ‘‘Fish and Game!’’
‘‘I know who you are, Ranger Rick. Now get out of here.’’ He angled in front of me. I crouched down behind him and started dressing.
‘‘We have a report that you’re harboring contraband animals. We’re here to check it out.’’
‘‘Not without a warrant you aren’t. Get off my property.’’
‘‘We saw the lady—’’
I popped up and peered at him over Jesse’s shoulder. ‘‘You thought I was harboring ferrets? Hey, doofus, where?’’
‘‘I—’’
Jesse said, ‘‘Hit the road. Go back to Jellystone Park.’’
After that, after Jesse slammed the door on them and called them grandstanding assholes, dickhead rat catchers, he stopped, looked at me, and burst out laughing. ‘‘ ‘Hey, doofus, where?’ Talk about grace under fire.’’ He cajoled me, against my deepest, grudge-loving impulses, to smile. And later in bed he held me to his side, sailing his fingertips up and down my thigh. And it was almost enough.
But in the morning a faint odor of discord lingered over us, in silences and awkward glances. Perhaps it’s a law of physics—conservation of rancor. It never completely dissipates, just fades into background radiation. Heading out the door on his way to court he called to Luke. In the broad entryway he spoke softly to him.
‘‘Last night I said things I shouldn’t have. I have a big fat mouth and sometimes I hurt people’s feelings. I’m really sorry about what I said about your dad.’’
Luke rocked back and forth, staring hard at Jesse’s red tie.
‘‘I know how much you love your dad. And I know that he loves you more than anything in the world. I’m going to do everything I can to help him out.’’ He paused, watching Luke rock. ‘‘Okay?’’
Luke offered a tiny nod.
‘‘Okay. Be good for your aunt Evan. Wait till she’s out of the room before you eat the Halloween candy I hid in the cupboard.’’
Luke perked up. ‘‘M&M’s?’’
‘‘And Reese’s peanut butter cups. Ssh. She’s looking at us.’’
Jesse caught my eye. I knew what he was thinking, and had to agree: His apology was deftly done. But he had said nothing about Brian’s innocence.
I spent the morning on the phone, conferring with Brian’s criminal lawyer, talking to Luke’s teacher about why he might miss school for a couple of weeks, trying to track down my parents in the Strait of Malacca, and rearranging my work schedule. I was falling behind, and did need to earn a living. My royalties from Lithium Sunset covered my monthly breath-mint purchases, at best.
I also called the Eichners, the ex-Remnant family, arranging to meet with them that afternoon. Kevin Eichner cautioned that they’d never met Tabitha. I told him that didn’t matter and laid my own cards on the table, explaining that Brian had been arrested. If they were uncomfortable talking to me, I said, I’d understand.
After a delay, he said, ‘‘No, we’ll talk. We want to.’’
Nikki Vincent was going to watch Luke for me, so after lunch we met her at the zoo. The palm trees swayed and the sea lions barked. The place had an artful matchbox atmosphere—tiny habitats, a prairie dog village, a miniature train—but was hazed brown beneath the smoky, Blade Runner sky. Nikki looked regal, walking slowly, silver jewelry gleaming, her great belly swelling beneath an orange sundress. I hugged her and asked how she was feeling.
‘‘I’ve never heard of a pregnant woman actually exploding, but I’m wondering if it’s possible. I am woman, hear me blow,’’ she said. ‘‘How about you?’’
I told her about my fight with Jesse, how he
had doubted Brian’s innocence.
She said, ‘‘Want me to slap him around?’’ Then she shook her head. ‘‘You cannot spend your time being a mediator between your brother and your man. You have to tell these boys to put away their peashooters and get behind each other.’’
I sighed. ‘‘I have.’’
‘‘Tell you what. I’ll slap them both around, as soon as Brian is cleared.’’
I squeezed her hand. ‘‘Thanks for saying that.’’
Kevin and Alicia Eichner lived in Summerland, a seaside village of surf shops, organic restaurants, and hardy tans. Their tidy blue-and-white bungalow had an immaculate Ford F-250 pickup in the driveway, with a carpenter’s silver tool chest in the bed. Plastic windmill flowers twirled in a flower box on the porch, and a plywood ramp, sanded and painted, ran up to the front step. Their daughter, the girl with cerebral palsy, must use a wheelchair, I knew.
Alicia Eichner was as trim as the house. She wore a crisp pink top and pressed jeans, sprayed her dark hair tall on top, and had a broad mouth and a bronze complexion that suggested Mexican heritage. Kevin Eichner stood six foot four, was sandy-haired, with a full mustache and a loose, gregarious smile. He wore shorts with Caterpillar boots, and had a pair of sports sunglasses hanging around his neck from a cord. He said yes, he was a carpenter.
Alicia poured soft drinks and we sat in the small living room. The two of them, side by side on the sofa, looked apprehensive.
She rubbed her hands together. ‘‘I just have to start by saying, when we joined the Remnant we didn’t know it was’’—her broad mouth crimped—‘‘a cult. I mean, we would never join a cult. But the Remnant just seemed like a real great church, full of committed Christians.’’
Kevin said, ‘‘They was totally clear about where they stood.’’ He held his hand up like a meat cleaver. ‘‘They had a message that hit you right between the eyes. We thought we was headed in the right direction.’’
Alicia said, ‘‘And they cared about us. They were always so happy to see us at services. I mean, we’d been invited to join.’’
I said, ‘‘How’s that?’’