China Lake (11 page)

Luke laughed and pushed against Jesse’s chest. Then his eyes rounded. ‘‘Wait. I have to show you my invention.’’ He ran to his room. As he broke contact Jesse’s energy seemed to dim, and I saw how tired he looked. He said, ‘‘I hope Brian realizes how completely goddamned lucky he is.’’

Just a moment later Sally Shimada phoned. ‘‘All right, I want to hear the rest of your story.’’

I perked up. ‘‘You found out what was wrong with Dr. Jorgensen.’’

‘‘No, I found out that no one knows what was wrong with him. They’re waiting for autopsy results. The coroner hasn’t determined the cause of death yet.’’

‘‘Your story said he died from massive head injuries. ’’

‘‘I may have drawn that conclusion prematurely,’’ she admitted gamely. ‘‘Apparently the medical examiner thinks otherwise. It wasn’t his injuries that killed him; it was something else. Something mysterious.’’

She sounded as if she had wandered into a Disney movie about a girl and her puppy solving the riddle of Spooky Gulch.

She said, ‘‘Want to hear the Remnant’s comment on your eyewitness account?’’

‘‘The venom of asps is under my lips.’’

‘‘Right! And I’m a media harlot, whelping false knowledge to the unsaved,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m thinking about putting it on my letterhead.’’

I decided that I was starting to like Sally.

‘‘Hey,’’ she said, ‘‘a little bird told me that you and Jesse Blackburn are an item. Think you can get him to comment on today’s story about the trial?’’

‘‘What story?’’

I hadn’t read anything in the paper except the article about Jorgensen. I found the local section, and there it was, top of page one. ‘‘Ferret Mauling Trial: Defense Attorney Has ‘Secret Agenda.’ ’’

‘‘I’ll call you back, Sally.’’

I hung up and looked at Jesse. Sardonic smile, weary eyes.

‘‘Damn,’’ I said.

‘‘What a jerk.’’ I tossed the paper down, thinking that Hinkel had proved more resourceful than me; he had come up with three ways to try the case: vermin, hysterics, and now defamation. ‘‘Judge Rodriguez should sanction him. She should fine his ass from here to Tuesday.’’

Jesse rubbed his eyes. ‘‘To Tuesday. Right. I’ll draft a motion requesting it.’’

Luke ran back into the room holding aloft an elaborate construction of string, LEGOs, and duct tape. ‘‘This is so radical. It’s a dispension.’’

Jesse held out his hands. ‘‘Sweet. What does it do?’’

‘‘It can be a sub or a jet. See, this part is the control panel.’’

‘‘Jesse—’’ I said, but his slashing glance shut me up. He began discussing the invention with Luke, treating it seriously, asking questions. I turned back to the paper. This was what had been eating at him all day.

He said to Luke, ‘‘What’s this?’’

‘‘I don’t know. It was on my bed.’’

‘‘Did one of your friends leave it here?’’ Any light-heartedness had left his voice.

I turned around. Luke was holding a small crown of thorns, the size of a bracelet, sculpted from shiny barbed wire. A metallic chill passed through me. I crossed the room and took it from him.

He said, ‘‘It’s sharp. Don’t let it poke you.’’

Hanging from it was a tag on which was written,
Let the children come unto me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven
.

Jesse and I exchanged a look. Carrying the crown, I walked to Luke’s room. It looked orderly. No, it looked impeccable—compulsively tidy, almost sanitized. My breathing quickened. Luke hadn’t done this. Someone had been in here. Then I noticed his bear, the teddy with the skull-and-dagger patch. It had a note pinned to its chest. Pinned like a voodoo doll, point stabbing inward. I picked it up.
For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.

I backed out of the room. Jesse was still talking to Luke about the dispension, keeping his voice even, trying not to betray alarm. I headed to my bedroom, flipped on the light, and nearly screamed. A humanoid form lay on my bed. I grabbed the doorpost and closed my eyes. After a few seconds I could hear Jesse calling my name.

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.

I picked up the phone and called the police.

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 to 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.