by Meg Gardiner
Turning around, I said, ‘‘We’re spending the night at your place.’’
Luke popped up from the sofa and came toward me. ‘‘What’s the matter?’’
I grabbed him, spun him around, started pushing him toward the front door, too sternly. His face was a knot of worry. ‘‘Aunt Evvie, what’s wrong?’’
‘‘You two go on. Right now.’’
Jesse asked no questions. ‘‘Come on, little dude. Don’t forget your backpack.’’
But Luke wouldn’t need his homework. I didn’t plan to send him to school the next day. I didn’t plan to bring him back to my house, or to stay in Santa Barbara once the sun came up. I had to get him away, up to China Lake. I led him out the door.
On my bed, atop my patchwork quilt, lay a life-size inflatable plastic doll. It was naked except for a witch’s hat and a rubber mask shaped like a dog’s face. In its left hand were pages torn from my book. They had been used as toilet paper. Between its legs were discarded condoms and smeared, stinking dog shit.
Written in excrement between its anatomically correct breasts was SPY.
On the nightstand next to the bed, placed carefully, was the wooden crucifix my grandmother had given to me. The figure of Christ had been pried off with a hammer and pounded into the wall, nailing a note above my headboard.
But as for dogs and sorcerers, fornicators, idolaters, and all liars, their lot shall be in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.
I picked up the phone and called the police.
5
When I finally crawled into Jesse’s bed it was late. The cops had come to my house, two uniformed officers who took down my story. Afterward, Nikki and Carl helped me clean up the mess and pack Luke’s belongings into the back of my Explorer. Carl, raised a Baptist, told me why the Christ figure had been ripped off the crucifix.
‘‘They think it’s a graven image. They’re calling you an idolater.’’
The rest of the message I could decode myself.
I got to Jesse’s place near eleven. He lived on Butterfly Beach in Montecito, with the mountains hard behind and the surf at his doorstep. The house was glass and pale wood, with tall ceilings, hard floors, wide doorways, and no steps. A cloak of Monterey pines shielded it from the road. When I walked in he was working at the kitchen table, amber light reflecting his image off all the windows. The stereo was playing something old and acid, Steppenwolf. He stopped typing when I told him I was getting Luke out of town. The hardness around his eyes looked indelible. We stared past each other, too wound up to touch.
I checked on Luke, who was far beyond the wall of sleep, and went to bed. But I lay awake in the dark, listening to breakers crash outside, watching shadows stroke the ceiling. The pines shrugged and hissed in the wind.
SPY. The Remnant wanted to scare me away from talking to the press. I didn’t doubt that. Yet they usually welcomed media attention, good or bad. It had to be Jorgensen, I thought. They didn’t want people looking at his connection to them. At the Remnant’s service, he had shouted, I’ll tell. But he hadn’t. Whatever it was, he hadn’t had the chance. And I recalled Isaiah Paxton strolling away from the accident scene looking like a man whose problems had just been solved.
An hour later Jesse finally came in. He undressed, slid exhausted into bed, and lay on his back, running his fingers through his hair. I rested my hand on his chest.
He said, ‘‘Chaos theory must explain times like this. How one moment you’re fine; the next, bang, you get hit by a rogue wave.’’
‘‘Chaos, that’s your name for God?’’
In the dark, a bitter laugh. ‘‘Random Causation, Lord of the Chance.’’
A feeling gnawed at me, growing stronger. ‘‘I don’t think the Remnant is randomly causing problems for us. I think it’s designing them.’’
He stilled. ‘‘You don’t think it’s coincidence that Tabitha showed up right now?’’
‘‘No. Whatever they’re planning, I think she’s part of it. And so is Luke.’’ I propped myself up on an elbow. ‘‘Chenille said something at the book signing— that he’s special, more precious than I could understand. Jesse, she’s never even met him. But she talked like the Remnant has a claim to him.’’
Outside the ocean rolled, an erosive drumbeat.
He said, ‘‘Hit the road early.’’
For a moment I felt hollow. Then his arms coiled around me and he was pulling me on top of him, framing my face with his calloused hands, guiding me down to kiss him. I shut my eyes, feeling the heat of his skin, needing the taste of him. I kissed him hard, and then etched my lips along his jawline, down his neck, across his chest, teasing him with my mouth, feeling the warmth and smoothness of his flesh under my lips. With my fingers I chased along his ribs and down his arms. Lifting his hand, I kissed his wrist and took his fingertips one at a time into my mouth. I heard his sudden intake of breath. His hand pressed against my back in rough caress.
This was a dance we had choreographed through trial and error, in the face of irremediable facts. He had a spinal cord injury; he had limited movement and little feeling in his legs; he needed plenty of stimulation to get hard enough for sex. We’d had to abandon old expectations, look past damage and loss, and find something new. To my joy he was a fearless and unabashed lover, and I found his body to be just fine, lithe and lean, tan from swimming outdoors. He was the place where I could forget everything, and right then that was what I felt desperate to do. He lifted me up above him, slid my silk camisole over my head, and kissed my breasts and belly. Feeling the brush of his beard, I moaned. He grabbed my legs and swung me into place above him. The sheets tangled. I tossed them aside.
We made love with silent urgency. Afterward we lay wordless, entwined. It was my last night in harbor.
The morning began in red sunshine, with the Pacific soothing the horizon and Luke thrilled to hear we were going to China Lake. Energized, he was like a bee in a jar, zigzagging everywhere. I had to roust him out of the bathroom, where Jesse was shaving, and from my car, where he was trying to stuff his ‘‘dispension’’ into a duffel bag. But I couldn’t complain. He was lofting his happiness like handfuls of confetti, showering us with spirit and tenderness.
He jumped up from the table when Jesse came to breakfast, rushing toward him. ‘‘Did you know I was going to Dad’s house? This is the best surprise!’’
‘‘You’re a lucky kid,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘Your dad is going to be so happy to see you.’’
‘‘Will you come visit me? If my house has steps I’ll tell you so you can bring your crutches.’’
‘‘Good thinking.’’
‘‘And you can teach me to swim the butterfly.’’
‘‘Absolutely.’’
Jesse raised his palm for a high five. After they slapped, he pulled Luke in for a hug. ‘‘I’m going to miss you, but you’re going to be great,’’ he said. ‘‘You’re going to be just great.’’
China Lake is two hundred miles and a world away from Santa Barbara, in a high desert valley on the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevadas. Luke and I got going just after nine. About eleven thirty we crested a range of hills and entered the tawny expanse of the desert. Soon after, we passed Edwards Air Force Base, where Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier and where the space shuttle first landed. I began to relax.
An hour later we stopped for gas and snacks in Mojave, a town that consists, as far as I can tell, of a railroad freightyard and a vast tarmac covered with mothballed airliners. Luke had dozed off but woke when I killed the engine. He stirred, sweaty and disoriented, and said, ‘‘Are we there?’’
He sat in the car with unfocused eyes and his damp hair stuck to his head. As I filled the Explorer’s tank a black Jeep swung into the gas station, stereo blasting. Two men about my age hopped out. They were a type I recognized—close-cropped hair, polo shirts hanging over Bermuda shorts, swagger tucked into an easy stride. While I stood inside the minimart waiting t
o pay, my arms laden with sodas and cinnamon candy, one of them got in line behind me carrying a six-pack of beer.
When I stepped up to the counter he looked at the candy and said, ‘‘Red Hots?’’
To play or not to play the game? I opened my wallet while the clerk rang up my total. ‘‘They’re good for highway driving. Hot stuff keeps you awake.’’
‘‘Don’t tell me a gal like you relies on candy for an explosion of sensation.’’
I gave him a sidelong glance. He had a square jaw and a slight smirk, and his eyes were hidden behind Oakley sunglasses. He said, ‘‘Hi, I’m Garrett.’’ He was that sure of himself.
‘‘Explosion,’’ I said. ‘‘The usual metaphor is fire-works, but I guess a slam-bang missile shot is what I’d expect from a fighter jock.’’
He snorted a laugh. ‘‘But it’s a heat seeker.’’
The teenage clerk was looking flummoxed, and the next line would be about going down, so I grabbed my purchases and headed for the door.
He said, ‘‘One direct hit and you’ll be begging to—’’
‘‘No way, flyboy. And especially not in flames.’’ I pushed through the door.
His friend was running a squeegee across the Jeep’s windshield. A California Highway Patrol car was parked behind my Explorer, and the CHP officer was sauntering toward the minimart, counting out change for a cup of coffee. I was anticipating the next nugget of innuendo, not watching traffic on the highway. Maybe that was how the green Dodge pickup got by me.
I heard, ‘‘Too bad you don’t want to experience air cover.’’
‘‘Oh, you’re offering protection?’’
‘‘One hundred percent.’’
‘‘An officer and a gentleman,’’ I said. ‘‘Guess I had you figured wrong. Maybe you guys aren’t fighter pukes. Maybe you’re cargo haulers.’’
He slapped a hand to his chest, pantomiming heart-break at the insult. I climbed in the car, saying, ‘‘Keep your hand on the stick. You’ll stay happier that way.’’
He opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when he saw Luke. A kid—that confused the rules of engagement. I drove away feeling one up.
The last fifty miles of the journey cut across the rugged landscape you see in Marlboro ads. The autumn sun was slung low when I accelerated out of Red Rock Canyon onto a rising plain. Ahead, a ridge of hills began rising—the tail of the Sierras, California’s spine. Home-stretch. I nudged the Explorer up to seventy-five mph.
Luke, reviving, looked out the window. ‘‘Where’s China Lake?’’
‘‘There.’’ I pointed to the right.
In the distance, the city tumbled across the vast bed of a dry lake. It had the lonely, tenuous appearance of so many desert towns, the look of gravel spilled on a grand and merciless landscape. The navy built the base during World War II, as a site for testing air-launched rockets, precisely because the place is so remote. The Naval Air Warfare Center stretches north to the Panamint mountains across seventeen hundred square miles of test ranges and restricted airspace. Beyond that is Death Valley, and, farther east in Nevada, more closed military skies: Fallon, Nellis, and Groom Lake, popularly known as Area 51. This was the closest place I had to a hometown, a city that stops dead at the razor wire bordering the base, birthplace of the Sidewinder missile.
Luke said, ‘‘Dad said if we get there early enough, he’ll take me to the airfield.’’
‘‘You may be in luck, tiger. We should hit town in twenty minutes.’’
Traffic was light. One car headed south toward me. In the rearview mirror I could see a single vehicle, small and distant. It was black—maybe the flyboys’ Jeep.
The car heading south was a big American sedan, which made me lift my foot from the accelerator, because big American sedans can turn out to be police cars. I was decelerating toward the sixty-five-mph limit when it sped past—a Kern County Sheriff’s cruiser. I glanced at the speedometer and the wing mirror.
Is there anything worse than seeing a cop hang a U-turn toward your car?
He flipped on his lights. I muttered, ‘‘Shit,’’ and Luke’s head popped around. ‘‘Forget you heard that,’’ I said, pulling over on the shoulder.
Deep breath. I knew I was busted, even as I flash-fried excuses to serve up to the deputy. Luke squirmed around to watch him approach along the passenger’s side. He said in astonishment, ‘‘Are you getting a ticket?’’
‘‘Afraid so.’’ I put down the window on his side. ‘‘Afternoon, Officer.’’
He looked seasoned, a bulky man with a boxer’s flattened nose. ‘‘License and registration please, ma’am.’’
I handed them to him. ‘‘Sorry, Officer. Guess I was in too much of a hurry to get this boy home to his dad.’’ Shameless, but I thought it had potential.
‘‘Your license lists a Santa Barbara address. That’s the other direction.’’ His voice was as dry as the air.
‘‘Luke’s my nephew, I’m taking him home to China Lake—’’
The vehicle that had been behind me streaked past. It was indeed the pilots’ black Jeep. The flyers honked, hooted, and laughed as they drove by. I felt sunk.
‘‘Wait here,’’ the deputy said. He walked to his cruiser, talked on the radio, and returned, this time to my side of the car. ‘‘Step out of the vehicle, please.’’
This was wrong. He should have been writing up the ticket, not ordering me around. I opened the door and got out.
‘‘Place your hands on the roof of the vehicle.’’
Apprehension rose in me like cold water. He was going to frisk me. I leaned forward and rested my palms on the car. Felt his hands patting me down. He found my house keys and cell phone in the pocket of my jacket, left them. Luke was shrunken in his seat, as inert as a mannequin. The deputy took my arm and swung it behind my back. Warm metal flipped around my wrist. He cuffed the other arm and led me to the cruiser.
Shocked, I sputtered the obvious. ‘‘Am I under arrest?’’
‘‘Get in the car.’’
He pushed my head down, forcing me into the backseat behind the steel-mesh screen. Shutting me in, he walked back to the Explorer, opened the passenger door, and crouched down to speak to Luke. After a minute he returned to the cruiser. The car rocked as he sat down in the driver’s seat.
‘‘What’s going on?’’ I said. ‘‘Why are you holding me?’’
He grabbed his radio and called the dispatcher. ‘‘Verifying I do have Luke Delaney with me at present. Shall I bring the child into the China Lake station?’’
The reply crawled with static. ‘‘Negative. China Lake police are rolling to your location with Mrs. Delaney, ETA twenty minutes.’’
Holy God. I leaned toward the screen. ‘‘Listen to me. Luke’s mother does not have custody of him. Repeat, she does not.’’
He started writing on a clipboard. ‘‘The boy told me he hasn’t seen his mom since January. Says his dad brought him to your house one night and left him there.’’
His voice was like a slap. The accusation was clear: He thought Brian had stolen Luke and stashed him with me. Luke had simply told him the truth, but his six-year-old’s phrasing had convinced the deputy he was an abducted child.
‘‘No. His mother’s lying. You cannot let her have Luke.’’
He got out of the car. ‘‘This time you aren’t giving her the slip.’’
‘‘I have proof of custody.’’ He was walking away. ‘‘The papers are in my car. Green backpack on the backseat.’’ He slowed. ‘‘They’re in a manila envelope. Check it out!’’
He looked at me, and at the Explorer, and at Luke, considering. I said, ‘‘Please!’’ Finally, he opened the back door and reached in for the backpack. Yes. My heart was hammering. He set the pack on the cruiser’s hood and unzipped it. Yes.
He pulled out Luke’s dispension.
I felt the blood drain from my face. He tipped the pack upside down and shook it. Out fell my camera, lipstick, chewing gum. No manila
envelope. He shot me a look that said, Gotcha, stupid. With horror, I remembered Luke scrounging in the car at Jesse’s. When I wasn’t looking he must have removed the envelope from my pack to make room for his invention.
I shouted, ‘‘Luke put it somewhere. Ask him; he’ll know where it is!’’
‘‘Save it.’’
I blinked. Then I yelled, ‘‘Luke!’’ The deputy scowled. ‘‘Luke, the custody papers. Get the papers and show the policeman!’’
‘‘Hey!’’ The deputy pointed at me. ‘‘Shut that mouth or I’ll stick a gag in it.’’
I yelled, I begged him to search my car, to rip it apart. He ignored me. Luke didn’t move a muscle, even when the deputy squatted down to chat with him. I lay down on the seat, slipped my hands under my butt so that they were in front of me, and yanked on the door handle. Locked.
Twenty minutes, the radio dispatcher had said. Less now.
I wriggled my jacket around until I could pluck my cell phone from the pocket. Thinking, Call Brian, he’ll come, find Brian. I stared at the phone. I didn’t have his new number. Dammit! I phoned information, losing time. I bent low in the seat, out of sight, and got the number for the naval base. Another minute gone. Two. I finally reached the airfield. I told them to find Brian, told them it was an emergency, get him now.
The phone stayed quiet. Overhead, thunder rolled across blue sky. I looked out the window, saw Hornets, F/A-18s, carving arcs through the air. If that was Brian flying, I was hosed.
Then his voice came on the line. ‘‘Evan, what’s wrong?’’
‘‘Tabitha’s trying to grab Luke. Get out to Highway Fourteen with the custody papers.’’ I told him he had fifteen minutes, max, calculating that the airfield was about twelve miles away, and the papers who knew where.
He said, ‘‘Stop her. Do anything it takes to keep Luke with you until I get there.’’
‘‘Did I mention I’m handcuffed in the back of a sheriff’s car?’’
