China Lake

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘You have to tell this to the police.’’

  ‘‘They won’t believe me.’’

  ‘‘You have to try.’’

  But anger and a feeling of futility were ballooning in me. Brian’s behavior had probably hosed him. He had fled from a murder scene, which police and prosecutors capitalize on as consciousness of guilt.

  I said, ‘‘Where’s the gun, the one you tried to give me?’’

  ‘‘Nowhere.’’

  I almost popped off the floor. ‘‘Brian, no. Tell me you didn’t get rid of it.’’

  ‘‘Hell, yes. I don’t need a firearms charge against me, carrying a concealed, unregistered weapon. That could be seen as conduct unbecoming.’’

  ‘‘They could have run ballistics tests on it, proved it wasn’t the murder weapon.’’

  He blinked. He hadn’t thought of that.

  I ran a hand through my hair. ‘‘Where’s your service automatic?’’

  ‘‘Where it always is. The closet.’’

  ‘‘You sure?’’

  His mouth hinged open, and I knew he wasn’t.

  I said, ‘‘You didn’t get it when you went back to the house?’’ He shook his head. ‘‘You didn’t even check?’’ He closed his eyes. Desperation began welling up, a dread that his nine-millimeter was gone, in the murderer’s hands. I said, ‘‘You have to get to the police station right away and try to salvage this situation.’’

  ‘‘Not yet.’’

  ‘‘Yes, yet!’’ I held my hands out, aghast. ‘‘What the hell are you talking about? They’ll think you’re hiding out. With me.’’ Which was exactly what he was doing. ‘‘Listen. This is critical. The police can do a gunpowder residue test on your hand. It’ll prove that you haven’t fired a weapon, but the test has to be done within a few hours of firing.’’

  ‘‘How do you know?’’

  ‘‘Because I’m a frickin’ lawyer, Brian! Because I watch cop shows!’’ I said, ‘‘What time is it?’’

  ‘‘Almost six.’’

  It was too late now. I sat down on the edge of the bathtub. ‘‘You should have gone to the police last night.’’

  A fierce light flashed in his eyes. ‘‘Do you understand why I didn’t? Do you have the slightest clue? I was looking for you.’’ His chest rose and fell. ‘‘Evan, think about it. Peter Wyoming was murdered at my house. The police are going to arrest me.’’

  ‘‘Not necessarily.’’ It sounded weak, even to me.

  ‘‘Yeah, they are. Homer and Jethro down at the station will put two and two together and get seventeen. If I had called the cops from the house last night I would be in jail right now, and Luke would be prey for Tabitha. The instant I’m behind bars she’ll make a play for custody.’’ He raised his hands, pleading. ‘‘I couldn’t possibly go the police until I was sure that he was safe with you. You’re the only person I trust his life to.’’

  Touched, I stood up and hugged him. But I felt undone by this whole sad, frightening conversation.

  He said, ‘‘I’ll go to the police. But first I want you to take Luke someplace safe.’’

  I nodded, understanding. Going back to my house in Santa Barbara was not an option.

  I stepped out of the hug. ‘‘Mom and Dad won’t be home for ten more days.’’

  Our parents, divorced twelve years, were taking their annual vacation together. They were on a cruise in Southeast Asia.

  ‘‘Call them,’’ he said. ‘‘Ship to shore. They’ll fly home.’’

  ‘‘I’m hiring you a criminal lawyer. Jesse’s looking into it.’’

  ‘‘You told Jesse?’’

  I held up a hand. ‘‘Don’t. It’s the wrong time to get huffy, bro.’’ I gave him a stern look. ‘‘You need Jesse right now. You do.’’

  He was fighting the thought that he needed anything, because he was heading where pilots dreaded to go: out of control. But the trajectory was out of his hands.

  I tried to put a lighter tone in my voice. ‘‘Trust me; I’m a lawyer.’’

  He eased down. ‘‘And a frickin’ one, at that.’’

  ‘‘We’ll get through this.’’ I set my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘‘I’ll call Detective McCracken.’’

  Dimly we heard a knock on the motel room door. I stiffened. The knocking turned to pounding. A voice shouted, ‘‘Police. Open up.’’

  They had a warrant for Brian’s arrest. Murder one.

  10

  Brian asked the police for one small measure of grace. ‘‘Cuff me out in the hallway. Don’t do it in front of my son.’’

  They declined. Laura Yeltow was the one with the handcuffs, and she locked them on him there in the room, binding his hands tightly behind his back before leading him away. She said nothing to me, but gave me a look that said it all: Accomplice.

  Momentarily I felt swamped, unable to move. Then I saw Luke huddled on the floor beyond the bed, knotting the edge of a blanket in his hands, his lower lip quivering. I picked him up. He wasn’t heavy, just all skinny legs and elbows. He started crying, shuddering in my arms. I rocked him back and forth, telling him lies.

  ‘‘It’s going to be okay,’’ I said.

  The sun was just rising, stark gold in a sharp blue sky. When Luke calmed down I put him in the car and headed for the police station. The spray-painted vulgarities on the Explorer blared crimson in the dawn. We stopped at a bakery, where the owner stared silently through the front window at the car. At the station I sat Luke down on a chair in the lobby with a sweet roll and a carton of milk, and got absolutely nowhere with the police. McCracken wasn’t on duty. No one had any information for me. Brian was still being booked, and I wouldn’t be able to speak to him for hours.

  Heading back to the hotel, I passed the corner of Brian’s street. Inevitably I slowed and looked toward his house, about sixty yards up the road. Sitting on the sidewalk outside it were two people. Holding picket signs. I stopped.

  Luke said, ‘‘What’s going on?’’

  ‘‘Can’t tell. Don’t worry about it.’’

  I idled there in the middle of the road, aware that I wasn’t going to have to search. The Remnant wanted me to find them. They were waiting for me.

  I was not about to confront the Remnant with Luke in tow. Back at the hotel I called Abbie Hankins and asked if he could go over to her house.

  Abbie and Wally lived on Nancy Place, in a sand-toned Spanish-style tract home with projectile toys scattered across the lawn. Wally answered the door holding a cup of coffee in one hand and the Los Angeles Times tucked under his arm.

  ‘‘Ah. The coyote tamer.’’

  He had a soft and silly smile. Together with the gold-rimmed glasses it gave him a cuddly-bear look. He gave me a kiss on the cheek. Abbie came from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. She had a gauze bandage wrapped around her arm but otherwise looked chipper.

  I gingerly touched the bandage. ‘‘How’s it feel?’’

  ‘‘I’m like an old boot, too tough to chew up. Just needed stitches. I have to get the rabies vaccination series, which is a major ick. But it could have been a lot worse. I owe you, kid.’’

  A toddler came running up to us, a girl wearing a bib with HAYLEY stitched on it. Her hair was an Edgar Winter blond, her hands and lips covered with powdered sugar. She wrapped herself around Abbie’s sturdy calf and stared at Luke.

  Abbie looked at Luke too. ‘‘Wally got doughnuts for breakfast. Want some?’’

  He just leaned against me. Abbie gave me a sober look.

  Wally said, ‘‘Abs, show Evan what you found.’’

  She brightened. ‘‘Oh, you’ll get a kick out of this.’’

  Hoisting the little girl onto her hip, she led me into the kitchen, which was wallpapered yellow-and-green plaid, far too bright for my state of mind. On the table sat a high school yearbook, with a set of dog’s paws embossed on the cover and the title Paw Prints. She said, ‘‘Remember when we were Bassett High School Hound
s?’’ It was the yearbook from our freshman year—pimples, algebra, menstrual cramps. Abbie flipped it open to a photo of a track meet. There we were, running the eight hundred meters, gasping as though we’d run out of oxygen high up Mount Everest.

  ‘‘Brian’s in here, too,’’ she said, turning to the seniors’ portraits. ‘‘Look, Luke—here’s an old picture of your dad.’’

  Seeing Brian’s photo, I let out a breath. He positively gleamed. His face had the smoothness of someone who hasn’t yet been planed by experience. I couldn’t bear to look at it.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ Abbie said. ‘‘Hey, gal, what’s wrong?’’

  I pressed a thumb and finger against the corners of my eyes, saying nothing. I heard Abbie murmur to Luke and Hayley, telling them to go watch television, to take the box of doughnuts with them. A second later I felt her hand on my shoulder.

  I breathed. ‘‘A man was killed last night. The police think Brian did it.’’

  She didn’t flinch. She just held on to me while the dike burst. Wally poked his head in the kitchen and she shooed him away. She let me cry, and then let me tell her about it, and she didn’t look horrified, or titillated, or offer her own verdict.

  ‘‘Do what you have to,’’ she said. ‘‘Luke can stay all day if you need him to.’’

  Somehow I’d known she wouldn’t drop the baton.

  The picketers were Shiloh and Glory, the Remnant’s human antonyms. Shiloh, the martinet Bible-quote champion, held a placard reading, MURDER; Glory, louche and chesty in her Lara Croft fatigues, carried MARTYRED. They made unlikely partners, but then, I had never seen anyone from the Remnant alone. This bunch did faith as a cluster suckle at the teat of Peter Wyoming. I wondered what would happen to them now.

  I parked in front of Brian’s house. When they saw me coming Glory tensed up. Shiloh pursed her Kewpie-doll mouth and planted her feet wide.

  She said, ‘‘This sidewalk is public property. You can’t silence us.’’

  ‘‘Picket all you want. I’m looking for Chenille Wyoming.’’

  ‘‘We’re not afraid of you.’’

  ‘‘Of course you’re not. Don’t be dramatic.’’

  But her knuckles were white, gripping the picket sign. Her tiny nostrils were flaring when she breathed. Glory was biting her lip and blinking hummingbirdfast. They were, in fact, afraid of me. Their grief and bewilderment were very real, and I suddenly felt callous.

  I said, ‘‘I’m sorry about Reverend Wyoming’s death.’’

  ‘‘As if.’’ Shiloh raised her chin, but it was quivering. Glory’s shoulders shook. Tears started spilling, jinking across a scar at the corner of her left eye.

  I said, ‘‘I need to speak to Chenille Wyoming.’’

  ‘‘She’s at Angels’ Landing,’’ Shiloh said. When I cocked my head, she added, ‘‘Our church retreat, out in the backcountry.’’

  ‘‘How do I get there?’’

  She stared at me for thirty whole seconds, fussing with her ponytail, maybe screwing up her courage, or maybe trying to discern whether I was flesh and blood, or a specter, hobgoblin, some sort of golem. Then she set her picket sign on the lawn. ‘‘Get back in your car. We’ll take you.’’

  We drove south out of town into open desert, eventually turning off the highway onto a dirt road. The land became increasingly hilly, until we crested a rise and drove down into a sandy clearing filled with pickup trucks, mobile homes, and a ramshackle cabin.

  ‘‘This is it?’’ I said.

  The place looked like a low-rent concentration camp. Jerry-rigged electric wires hung from poles around the clearing, and in a rickety barn old vehicles sat up on blocks, spattered with droppings. I could see dark forms in the rafters, nesting birds.

  A hand rapped on my window. I started. Next to the car stood Isaiah Paxton, his flinty face in shadow.

  He said, ‘‘Kill the engine and step out of the car.’’

  When I got out a hot breeze blew across me and a tumbleweed, an actual tumbleweed, bounced past. Though the compound was nearly empty of people, I had an intense feeling of being watched. Outside the cabin door Curt Smollek was standing sentry, one hand holding a rifle, the other hand picking at a pus-filled zit. He eyed me from behind his probing fingers. Next to him a blue-eyed dog crept forward from the shadow of the building, its chain clinking. Panting, it watched me too.

  Paxton said, ‘‘Miz Wyoming will see you in a minute.’’

  He called Shiloh over and handed her a device that looked like a portable bar-code reader, the kind supermarkets use when checking stock on the shelves. She told me to hold out my arm.

  ‘‘Why?’’

  Here, she didn’t feel frightened of me. Her hall-monitor snottiness returned. ‘‘It’s an Antichrist detector. ’’ Grabbing my wrist, she ran it along my arm. ‘‘It checks to see if you have the mark of the beast.’’

  Holy cow. You really can buy anything off the Internet.

  She pushed the hair off my forehead and waved the device over my temples. ‘‘It detects microchips and tiny tattoos.’’

  It was a bar-code reader. Paxton watched tensely, looking ready to drop me if the device started beeping or horns erupted from my skull.

  She lowered her hand. ‘‘You’re clean.’’

  ‘‘If that thing really works,’’ I said, ‘‘you might think about using it before you hitch a ride with someone you distrust.’’

  She, Paxton, Glory, Smollek, and the dog all glared at me. I felt my bravado flaking away. What the hell was I doing here?

  The door to the cabin opened. I braced myself, expecting Chenille, but it was Tabitha who burst through the doorway. She raced at me, eyes bulging, hands out like claws, a moan rising from her throat, turning into a shout.

  ‘‘Brian killed him! He killed Pastor Pete!’’

  Her hair was unkempt, her face pale, her lips so dry that they had cracked and bled. She grabbed my shirt.

  ‘‘Did you know? Did you watch him do it? Oh, Lord!’’ She threw her head back and keened. ‘‘Why didn’t you stop him?’’

  And as suddenly as it had ignited, her ferocity flamed out. Sobbing, she collapsed against me. Instinctively I put my arms around her to keep her from falling, and she wept into my shoulder, clinging to me. Paxton’s face tightened into a hard knot, as if he’d caught us in a monstrous impropriety. He pried Tabitha loose and led her toward the cabin, his hand on the back of her neck. I took a step back, wondering what had just happened.

  At the door he looked over his shoulder at me. ‘‘Come on.’’

  Hesitantly I went in, with Shiloh and Glory following me. The air was stifling. The venetian blinds were drawn, and the living room sat in dim, sallow light. The wooden floor creaked under our feet. I drew in a breath. Chenille was sitting on a black Naugahyde sofa, with the three baton twirlers arrayed at her feet. She was dressed completely in white—cowboy boots, skirt, blouse, fingernail polish, lipstick, eyeshadow, Stetson, so gleamy that she seemed to suck in what light infiltrated the room. In front of the sofa, where you would expect a coffee table, sat an empty coffin.

  Her eyes, dark marbles, rolled upward at me. ‘‘The law says we got to put Peter in that box. They won’t let us transport a body without it being in a casket.’’

  I said, ‘‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Wyoming.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Law also says we got to put my Peter in a state-approved cemetery, with that casket set inside a cement vault down in the grave, so no body fluids or putridity can seep out. Like they think his sweet incorruptible flesh could damage the dirt.’’

  I swallowed. Why on earth had I thought I could interrogate this woman about her husband’s murder?

  Her gaze cut away from me, toward the kitchen. Tabitha stood by the stove dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, speaking quietly to Paxton. Chenille called to her. Sniffling, squeezing the hankie, Tabitha came into the room.

  Chenille looked down at her hands resting on the frosted expanse of her lap. ‘‘Y
ou know I don’t hold it against you, bringing Brian Delaney into our midst. You didn’t know what he planned to do. You didn’t intend to cause this catastrophe.’’

  Tabitha’s head dropped.

  ‘‘But we’re entering a time when we can’t afford fatal errors anymore. Even though you’re forgiven, we got to maintain discipline.’’ She smoothed her buck-skin skirt. ‘‘Half rations. One week.’’

  Incredibly, Tabitha nodded. Her jaw tightened, and hot red patches rose on her cheeks, but she said nothing. Chenille twitched her Stetson and Tabitha fled to the kitchen, dismissed. Then the snowy hat clocked toward me.

  ‘‘Now. I want you to hear what I got to say. Even though it soils me to be in the same room with you, I want you to witness, then go back and tell them they ain’t winning.’’

  I didn’t dare interrupt to ask her who they were.

  ‘‘They think this clears the way. They think with Peter gone, the beast has clear sailing to power. They’re mistaken.’’ Her eyes had a dark, hot-coal heat. ‘‘We ain’t even started to fight. Ain’t even cocked a fist yet.’’

  She stood up. Slowly she reached down into her right boot and drew out a hunting knife. Looking straight at me, she said, ‘‘Shiloh.’’

  The girl scurried forward.

  Chenille said, ‘‘My hat.’’

  Shiloh lifted it from Chenille’s head delicately, as though removing a bride’s veil, or carrying a bomb away for disposal. My pulse jumped in my neck. Chenille slid a hand across the length of her long clay-toned braid.

  ‘‘Scripture tells us hair is a woman’s pride. She wears it long to glorify her husband and his authority over her.’’

  She looked at my short ’do. The purity of her loathing pierced me.

  ‘‘But my man is gone. So today I’m telling you we forsake our bodily glory. We go forth shorn, ready for battle.’’

  Smoothly, she swung the knife and sliced off the braid.

  ‘‘Go tell Satan’s lackeys we are combat-ready. Here, show ’em I ain’t messing around.’’

  Rattlesnake-quick, she threw the amputated braid at me. Reflexively I caught it. Its warmth and hefty smoothness took me by surprise, and I dropped it with a shudder.