China Lake

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘Gee,’’ he said, ‘‘couldn’t you be more precise?’’

  She caught the sarcasm. ‘‘You bet. Chenille says the Pentagon ordered Brian Delaney to kill Pastor Pete. It’s part of the plot to bring the Antichrist to power.’’

  ‘‘Glory,’’ I said, ‘‘does that actually sound credible to you?’’

  She looked at me as though I were ignoring a meteor flaming toward my head. She said, ‘‘Revelation, chapter eleven, verse seven. It says the beast will kill the witnesses, and now Pastor Pete’s dead. It happened .’’

  Jesse mumbled, ‘‘Post hoc, ergo propter hoc.’’

  She frowned at him. ‘‘What do you mean by that?’’

  I said, ‘‘Never mind. Glory, Brian didn’t do it.’’

  ‘‘I can see you’re really struggling with this. That’s because you’re under the great deception. But so is your brother. The Pentagon probably lied to him, maybe brainwashed him, could have told him Pastor Pete was a security threat or a foreign agent. See what I’m saying?’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ It was like arguing with a brick. ‘‘Tell us about this plot to impose martial law.’’

  ‘‘The government is assembling its forces to subjugate humanity to the beast. This is it. Things are gonna get bad. And soon.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘How soon?’’

  ‘‘Real soon. The government’s going to attack on the devil’s night.’’

  My stomach ached, but he was lost. ‘‘What’s that?’’

  I said, ‘‘Halloween.’’

  That was ten days from now. He leaned back, startled.

  Glory explained, ‘‘Halloween is a doorway to evil. Every year satanists kill kids with poison in Halloween candy, and they slaughter pets and rape virgin girls.’’

  HELL-o-ween. He said, ‘‘Those are urban legends. They’re not true.’’

  She said, ‘‘Listen to me. It’s a night when the wall between worlds gets thin, and Satan can reach into the physical dimension with incredible power. That’s why it’s the night the government is going to attack.’’

  Jesse didn’t bother to hide his incredulity. I said, ‘‘What’s the Remnant going to do?’’

  ‘‘This is the scary part. Inside the Remnant there are . . . different levels. Different groups, like. And there’s one crew that’s especially close to Chenille, really intense.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘Define ‘intense.’ ’’

  She said, ‘‘Chenille has a group of totally dedicated people, really hard-core loyalists. This is what scares me. . . ."

  She looked around the parking lot. There was nothing but the surf and the stars. Nevertheless she scrunched her shoulders, looking furtive.

  ‘‘Man, this is hard for me.’’

  I couldn’t let her quit talking. I said, ‘‘It’s okay. I’m scared, too.’’

  Her head snapped around. ‘‘Don’t say that. You’re the one person I thought wouldn’t be afraid.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘You’re the only one I ever saw stand up to Chenille.’’

  The statement took me aback. Feeling so big in her eyes discomfited me.

  She pulled the bandanna off her head. ‘‘You’ve got to understand, the Remnant saved my life. No lie—if it wasn’t for Chenille getting me out of a bad situation, I’d be dead by now. And she brought me to a place where things were clean, and true, and where I mattered . Me. In the Remnant, I meant something.’’

  Sensing that she wanted me to pull her along, I said, ‘‘But things have changed.’’

  She stared at the dark ocean. ‘‘Chenille said when I came to the Remnant that my life would be bound for glory. That’s why she gave me this name. It’s not my original one, you know. But then she sent me out here to get a job as a janitor.’’

  ‘‘She insisted that you take a custodial job?’’

  ‘‘She said it would teach me humility. As if I didn’t get enough humility before I was saved, spreading my legs in the back of strangers’ cars in exchange for drugs.’’

  She gave me a sidelong glance, trying to see if she had shocked me. I rested a hand on her shoulder.

  Her voice gathered heat. ‘‘And you notice she didn’t take a humiliating job. She appointed herself soloist in the choir. But no, she showed me the classified ad and told me to go apply for it. And you know what? I did a lot of down-and-dirty stuff before I was saved, but even when I was living on the street I didn’t think, ‘Wow, if I ever get out of this, I’m gonna get a real great menial job.’ Like, I used to go to the library. That’s how I got into science fiction. I read Orson Scott Card and Octavia Butler, totally amazing stuff. Oh, and Connie Willis . . .’’

  I said, ‘‘Doomsday Book.’’

  ‘‘Yeah! I’d sit there wishing I could travel in time. . . .’’ She stopped. ‘‘But since then, I’ve found out that the future is more shocking than what you read in SF novels.’’

  Jesse was tapping his fingers against his knee, letting me know that he was restraining himself from open derision.

  She said, ‘‘I loved your book, Evan. But then I’d remember, This is unscriptural, and I’d feel so dirty. . . ."

  Jesse said, ‘‘Knowledge. The love that dares not speak its name.’’

  She said, ‘‘Lust for knowledge caused the Fall. When Eve ate the apple from the Tree of Knowledge. ’’

  ‘‘And your church is working its ass off to eradicate what we’ve learned since then. You know, burning bookstores.’’

  It had been a mistake for him to come. He was justly angry, but if he kept this up the meeting would be over in about ninety seconds. I said, ‘‘Jesse—’’

  Glory said, ‘‘Learning isn’t the supreme good. Truth is, and faith.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said, ‘‘ignorance is bliss.’’

  ‘‘You know, if you believed in God, you’d be walking.’’

  Shit. Point of no return.

  He nodded, an exaggerated aha! nod. ‘‘I see. And what else?’’ She looked at him crooked, and he said, ‘‘What else would I get for believing in God? How about incredible sexual stamina, or—ooh, a private jet? Can I make a list?’’

  I put my hands up in a T and called, ‘‘Time-out.’’

  They looked at me.

  ‘‘I have a question,’’ I said. ‘‘The Remnant isn’t big on book learning, so why did Chenille tell Glory to take a job at a university?’’

  They stared at me, thinking about it. Finally Glory said, ‘‘She said the reasons would become apparent in time.’’

  We listened to the surf ramming the rocks.

  Jesse, calming down, said, ‘‘Sabotage.’’

  ‘‘That’s my guess,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Where do you work?’’

  ‘‘Biological Sciences.’’

  An ideal target for Pastor Pete’s hatreds—all those microorganisms, all that Latin terminology. But something about it bothered me, a niggling thought deep in my brain, one I couldn’t quite reach. I walked toward the edge of the asphalt. The wet sand shone pale silver when the waves receded. In the far distance I could see the Goleta Pier, and the Beachside Restaurant bright against the shore, its lights ticking on the water.

  I said, ‘‘These hard-core loyalists. Who are they?’’

  She said, ‘‘Ice Paxton, Shiloh, Curt Smollek, the Brueghel triplets . . . maybe ten or twelve people.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘You?’’

  ‘‘No. I’m not in the inner circle.’’ Her voice stung with the rejection.

  I said, ‘‘Tabitha?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  Relief brushed over me. I was surprised at how much I had been rooting for that answer, how much I hoped that Tabitha wasn’t totally gone.

  ‘‘Tabitha’s star isn’t rising anymore,’’ she said. ‘‘She was more Pastor Pete’s favorite than Chenille’s, especially after she botched the mission to rescue her little boy.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘Rescue? That’
s what you think it was?’’

  ‘‘Whatever. Pastor Pete was sympathetic to Tabitha afterward, but Chenille thought it showed she lacked the guts for field operations. So now Chenille’s freezing her out.’’

  Lack of courage, I thought, had nothing to do with it. Jealousy did. Tabitha had whipped it up in big helpings—for Brian, Chenille, and who knew who else.

  I walked back toward her. ‘‘Why does the hard-core group scare you so much?’’

  ‘‘Because they’ve stripped off the trappings of this world. They’ve sold their homes and possessions to prepare for the devil’s-night assault.’’

  A chill had crept over the air and clung to me. ‘‘Preparing. To counterattack?’’

  ‘‘They’re going to stage a preemptive strike.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘Jesus.’’

  ‘‘When?’’ I said. ‘‘Where?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘You have to.’’

  ‘‘Operational details are need-to-know only. And janitors don’t need to know.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘When they sold their things . . . what did they do with the money?’’

  The look on her face told him he should have known. ‘‘They bought weapons.’’

  I closed my eyes.

  She said, ‘‘They have a stockpile, enough to start a war.’’

  His face was fierce. ‘‘You have to find out their plans.’’

  ‘‘I can’t do that.’’

  He said, ‘‘I don’t believe you.’’

  Her voice took on vigor. ‘‘I’ve been shut out. Can’t you see that? I’m destined for scut work. I’m going to be a foot soldier or worse. Cannon fodder, or an air tester. Seeing if I can breathe in an area without coming down with anthrax.’’

  I took her arm. ‘‘Leave,’’ I said. ‘‘Leave the church. Tonight.’’

  ‘‘I can’t.’’

  ‘‘Sure you can.’’

  ‘‘Go back on the outside? No way. I’d be damned.’’

  ‘‘If you come with us, we can get you protection.’’

  ‘‘You mean from the police? You’re crazy. The police are part of the government network.’’

  ‘‘We’ll get you to a halfway house, or another church. . . ."

  ‘‘The Remnant will find me. Can’t you understand? There’s no way out. I’m trapped.’’

  She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. I put my arm around her shoulder, feeling bereft.

  17

  On the way home Jesse phoned the police, leaving a message for a detective he knew. Back at his house we paid the babysitter and sat wearily at the kitchen table, worried and at loose ends.

  He said, ‘‘If Tabitha’s on the outs with Chenille, the church could lose interest in Luke.’’

  ‘‘Let’s hope.’’

  He could tell I didn’t believe it. His face, drawn with fatigue, fell further. I realized he had been trying to reassure me, and felt a rush of tenderness for him. I put my hand on his.

  ‘‘I’m sorry that Glory gave you the business.’’

  ‘‘Nobody’s as zealous as a reformed whore. Get yourself a crucifix lobotomy! Everything will look so simple afterward!’’ He laughed humorlessly. ‘‘Like it’s made her life a bowl of cherries.’’

  ‘‘You’re made of pretty strong stuff, you know it?’’

  ‘‘It’s my heathen heart. Solid stone.’’

  I leaned over and kissed him.

  I said, ‘‘But next time try not to argue with someone I’m pumping for information.’’

  ‘‘Ever hear of Good Cop, Bad Cop?’’

  Cockiness, that little edge, was creeping back into his voice. I said, ‘‘Ever hear of fanning the flames? You just never met a bone you didn’t want to pick.’’

  I got up from the table. The surf had come up, big rollers heaving onto the beach, boiling white in the moonlight. I checked my phone messages. The News-Press reporter, Sally Shimada, had called again.

  Though it was almost eleven on a worknight, when I phoned back her beauty-contestant voice sounded perky. ‘‘Evan—wow. I was wondering if I’d ever hear from you.’’

  I could hear the television in the background. Sabrina, the Teenage Witch, or perhaps Animaniacs. I told my brain to shut up.

  She said, ‘‘I want to talk about your brother’s arrest. ’’ She sounded as if she were staring at a big hunk of prime rib, saying, Is that for me? Can I have a sharp knife?

  ‘‘I’m off the record, Sally. Background only.’’

  I told her about the Remnant attempting to abduct Luke outside China Lake, about Brian trying to protect his son, and about his innocence, his sterling character, his patriotism. I practically hummed ‘‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’’ I kept my back to Jesse, not wanting to see his expression.

  She said, ‘‘I have information that this was a crime of passion. That your brother’s ex was in love with Peter Wyoming.’’

  ‘‘Who told you that? Wait—you’ve been talking to Detective McCracken.’’

  I deflated. Sally wasn’t quite the naïf I had imagined, and I wished that I had told her my side of the story sooner. I started stalking around Jesse’s living room. He sat at the kitchen table, watching me.

  I changed the subject. ‘‘I saw you at Wyoming’s funeral today. You impressed me, knowing that Chenille was quoting scripture out of context.’’

  ‘‘You think a good Buddhist girl can’t get her hands on a copy of the New Testament? Yeah, she was definitely twisting it to suit her message. Revelation eleven, go on and look it up. Delaney, that sounds Irish; you must have a Bible lying around somewhere. ’’

  At Jesse’s house? Maybe to prop up an uneven table leg. But that was why I had brought the Gideon Bible from the China Lake hotel.

  She said, ‘‘Revelation eleven talks about the tribulation, and says that a ‘faithful remnant’ of Christianity will be preserved from destruction. It also talks about two witnesses who testify to God’s truth. Now, my concordance says these are symbolic witnesses, that they might represent Moses and Elijah, or the early Christian martyrs, or—’’

  ‘‘I get the picture. Chenille was taking it literally.’’

  ‘‘And the witnesses’ resurrection—’’

  ‘‘Represents the triumph of the church, but she was also taking it literally.’’

  She said, ‘‘Maybe I should get a photographer to stake out the cemetery, huh? Catch Pastor Pete’s revival. That would be a deadlock on a Pulitzer.’’

  My eyes fell on chapter twelve. The Woman and the Dragon. Chenille had talked about a dragon when she confronted me at my book signing. She’d said she wouldn’t let the dragon devour Luke. . . .

  ‘‘Sally, look at chapter twelve.’’

  ‘‘Hang on.’’ I heard her flipping pages. ‘‘Revelation twelve. ‘Now a great sign appeared in heaven: a woman, adorned with the sun . . . She was with child and wailed aloud in pain as she labored to give birth. Then a second sign appeared in the sky, a huge red dragon which had seven heads and ten horns. . . . ’ ’’

  I said, ‘‘This would be the devil, would it not?’’

  "Yes." She continued reading. " ’. . . the dragon stood before the woman who was about to bear a child, that he might devour her child when she brought it forth.’ ’’

  My head began pounding again. There was more, and I read along with Sally: ‘‘ ‘She brought forth a male child, one who is to rule all the nations with a rod of iron.’ ’’

  A rod of iron. I saw Pastor Pete’s gleaming eyes and clenched fist, remembered him proclaiming these words. My mind was spinning. What twisted mix of biblical literalism and dementia had led Chenille to connect this passage to Luke? Did she see him in a messianic role? Was he some sort of chosen one?

  Sally said, ‘‘Does this mean something to you?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  She said nothing, hoping I would fill the silence, but I kept quiet. After a moment she said
, ‘‘All right. Do you want to hear about Dr. Neil Jorgensen, MD, deceased?’’

  ‘‘Oh. You bet.’’

  ‘‘You’re not going to believe what I found out.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘What killed him.’’

  ‘‘Sally—’’

  She told me. I blinked, and held the phone away from my ear, staring at it as though it had just bitten me. Jesse spread his hands and gestured, What? Eyes wide, I walked toward him.

  I said, ‘‘Would you repeat that?’’

  Sally said, ‘‘Neil Jorgensen died of rabies.’’

  Sally couldn’t stop talking. She may have botched her initial report about Jorgensen’s death, but now she had the bit in her teeth. She had interviewed the county coroner about Jorgensen’s autopsy, and had spoken to the pathology lab that had come up with the diagnosis.

  ‘‘Of course, the hospital didn’t suspect rabies, because of all Jorgensen’s other injuries. Rabies causes acute encephalitis, but Jorgensen’s head trauma masked it. Plus the disease is rare in the U.S."

  I listened, puzzling over how Jorgensen could have contracted the disease. ‘‘Don’t you get rabies from an animal bite?’’

  ‘‘Usually. But it’s possible for people to get it if infectious material gets into, say, their mouth or a wound.’’

  ‘‘Infectious material. Such as . . .’’

  ‘‘Saliva.’’

  ‘‘How about blood, animal droppings . . . ?’’

  ‘‘No. The virus gets into you through saliva and spreads along the nerves to the spinal cord and the brain. You can’t get rabies from petting a rabid animal or from contact with its blood, urine, or feces.’’

  ‘‘But if Jorgensen was bitten by a rabid animal, why didn’t he seek treatment immediately? He was a doctor.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. ‘‘The coroner is stumped.’’

  ‘‘Could he have come in contact with the virus in his medical practice?’’

  ‘‘Theoretically, I suppose . . .’’

  I heard the sound of paper flipping. Sally must have been reading from interview or research notes.

  ‘‘Nonbite exposure would mean getting contaminated with live virus, or with infectious material such as brain tissue. But according to my data, that’s a remote possibility except for laboratory workers. And Jorgensen was a plastic surgeon, not a pathologist.’’