Quake (6 page)

    'No guys, remember?'

    'Just do whatever you think is best,' Pete told her.

    An old green pickup truck was parked at the curb. Barbara positioned herself beside its driver's door. The others ducked out of sight by the front bumper. Seconds later, a white Honda rounded the corner. The woman behind its wheel was middle-aged, chubby, and wore rollers in her hair. Perfect. Barbara stepped away from the pickup's door, turned toward the driver, and waved her hands. 'Could you help me?' she called.

    The woman gave her a glance, then turned her head forward very fast. As if afraid she might be caught looking. It's the way people act with bums, Barbara thought. I'm not a bum! She supposed her hair might be a little messed up, but otherwise… She looked down at herself. Her short-sleeved white blouse was clean, neatly pressed, buttoned almost to her neck, and tucked into the waist of her pale blue shorts. She fingered the zipper of her shorts. It was shut, of course. So the driver hadn't been put off by an open fly. Her shorts were clean. They weren't skin-tight short-shorts, either, but baggy-legged things that reached almost down to her knees. Bending forward slightly, she inspected her socks and shoes. White crew socks, white athletic shoes. And a very nice tan between the tops of her socks and the hem of her shorts. look terrific, she thought. Maybe the creepo just doesn't like teenagers. Maybe she's afraid I'm a serial killer. Like maybe I've got a chainsaw in my purse. The next car to turn onto 15th Street was a Mercedes convertible driven by a man. His hair was mussed. He wore sunglasses, a blue sport shirt and a necktie. Barbara settled back against the door of the pickup. She folded her arms and gazed away. The Mercedes stopped.

    'Do you need a ride somewhere?' the driver asked.

    'No. Thanks, anyway.'

    'Are you sure? don't normally give people a lift, but under the circumstances…'

    'No, that's all fight. I'm waiting for someone.'

    'Is everything okay?'

    'Yes. Fine. Thank you for stopping.'

    He shrugged and drove on.

    He looked like a nice guy, she thought.

    Yeah, and so did Ted Bundy.

    'What's the matter with you?' Earl called from the hiding place.

    'I told you, no guys.'

    But the next two cars that passed were driven by women, and neither stopped.

    Earl yelled, 'Hey, got a great idea! Why don't you lay down in the road?'

***

    After trading seats with Mary and strapping himself in, Clint had reached out to turn on the radio. He'd needed news of the quake. And of traffic conditions. Where a radio should've been, there was an empty space in the instrument panel.

    'Where's your radio?' he'd asked.

    'Gone.'

    He had shaken his head and started driving.

    He'd really wanted to hear some news! The Valley had been hit hard, that was obvious. But what about the rest of Los Angeles? If the epicenter had been somewhere near here, maybe L.A. got off easy. Maybe at home there was nothing but a minor tremor, the sort of thing you might mistake for a big truck driving by the house. Maybe Sheila didn't know it was a quake until she saw the chandelier above the dining room table swinging. The chandelier, their home earthquake meter. Yep, that was a four-point-two on the Chandelier Scale.

    'It's the fourth,' Mary had said. 'What? What're you…?'

    'I've had four stolen. And they always break a window.' Oh. Car radios.

    'I even tried not locking the car at night. But they broke a window anyway. So just gave up. stopped buying new ones. After the fourth. They'd just get it, anyway. Why waste my time and money? Now don't have a radio, but my window got broken anyway.' She'd glanced at it, but looked away fast. 'I love this car,' she'd murmured. 'And people keep… hurting it. Why can't people be nice?'

    'People are fine,' Clint had said. 'Nine out of ten.' Two blocks ahead, the road had appeared to be jammed with traffic. Clint could avoid the mess with a detour. But which way to go? Probably right.

    'Trouble is,' he'd continued, 'nine out of ten adds up to ten in a hundred who are jerks. They foul up the works for everyone else. Which is why my car's locked away in a parking lot and why you don't have a radio. I'd really like to know what the hell is going on with this quake. I've got a wife and kid over in West L.A. I'd really like to know if there still is a West L.A., damn it!'

    He'd turned right.

    'Where are you going?' Mary had asked.

    'Laurel Canyon. hope. You wouldn't happen to know how we might get there from here?'

    'We need to get onto the Golden State, and…'

    'Not today.'

    South on the Golden State Freeway was Clint's usual route home. The Golden State south, then west on the Ventura Freeway to the Laurel Canyon Boulevard offramp - about a ten-minute drive on the freeways. Ten minutes to cover ten miles through smoothly moving traffic in the early afternoon. But the quake had struck at eight-twenty when the commuter rush was at its peak. Even without an earthquake, every freeway in the Los Angeles area was usually crowded at that time of the morning with bumper to bumper traffic that barely moved at all. The quake had probably turned the freeways into parking lots. Clint knew enough to stay clear of them. But he wasn't sure at all about which surface streets to take, so he'd picked his route at random - trying to avoid areas where the traffic appeared heavy, trying to keep a course that carried them south and west. Some of his choices worked fine. Others didn't.

    After swinging into a road that dead-ended, he turned the car around and asked, 'You aren't at all familiar with the streets around here?'

    'Not really,' she admitted. 'Do you have a map?' She shook her head. 'Are you sure?'

    What kind of person doesn't have a map! 'It's just that… don't normally go places when don't know where they are. I'm sorry.'

    'It's all right.'

    'Do you have maps?' she asked.

    'Sure, but they're in my car.' Where they belong, he thought. 'Do you think we should maybe go back and get them?' Clint shook his head.

    How long had he been driving? About ten minutes? It would take at least that long to return for the maps - if he could even manage to find the office building.

    'I don't think could find my way back if wanted to,' he said. 'Besides, it'd take too much time. Every minute…, no.'

    The minutes lost by backtracking might be the minutes that mattered, that delayed them just enough to make all the difference. For want of a minute… Clint had to get home. He had to be with Sheila, with Barbara. He had to see them with his own eyes, know they were all right, hold them in his arms. Any delay could mean arriving at an intersection after it'd jammed. They'd all be jammed soon. Most of them, anyway. Because the traffic signals were dead. People who believed in the rules would take turns crossing, but the few who were out for themselves would mess it up, trying to cross when they shouldn't. Every intersection that didn't have a cop directing traffic would soon be clogged, impassable. It had to be happening already. Five, ten more minutes, Clint thought. That's probably all we've got before the roads'll be totally screwed up. We've got to put some miles behind us while we can. As long as we're heading in the right general direction, that's the main thing. If we can just make it over the hills as far as Sunset… we could walk from there., maybe four miles, five at most. Easy. We could cover that in an hour or so. Mary'll still be a long way from home, but.,. Rounding a comer, he found the street ahead blocked by police cars and fire trucks. He braked to a halt. Halfway down the block, an enormous, two-story apartment complex was ablaze. Forty or fifty people stood around, watching: few men, mostly women and small kids. Many were dressed in nightgowns or robes. One man, hair still slicked down from a bath or shower, wore nothing except a blue towel wrapped around his waist.

    'Can you get around it?' Mary asked.

    'Doubt it.'

    Besides, a police officer was waving them off. Clint shoved the gearshift into reverse. He started to back away, then noticed the woman. She was calling to someone as she hurried into the street. Calling to us? Her arms were busy hugging a baby to her chest. Her hair was wrapped with a pink towel. She wore a long, paisley robe and pink slippers. Clint stepped on the brake.

    'What does she want?' Mary asked.

    'Guess we'll find out.'

    'Let's not. Let's get moving.'

    'We'd better wait and see what…'

    'She'll want us to take her somewhere. know it. We haven't got time. Every minute…'

    'Yeah' Lifting his foot off the pedal, he shook his head at the approaching woman and saw a look of despair crumple her face.

    'Wait!' she called. 'Don't go!'

    Mary squeezed his thigh. 'Do you want to get home to your wife and daughter or don't you?'

    Clint backed up and swung the rear of the BMW into the cross street, retracing his course. The woman was running, waving one arm, the baby jostling against her chest, the colorful robe open below its sash and flapping behind her. Her legs were very pale. Her pubic hair was a heavy black thicket, startling to see but not arousing. Disturbing, pathetic, and vaguely repulsive because somehow it reminded Clint of Holocaust pictures. 'No?' she yelled. 'Wait!'

    He didn't wait. He forced his eyes away from the woman and sped the car forward, leaving her behind. Then he muttered, 'Shit.'

    'Don't worry,' Mary said. 'It couldn't have been anything that urgent or she would've gone to the cops. That's what they're for, to help people.'

    Good point, Clint thought. It made him feel better. Though not much.

    'I just wish knew what she wanted.'

    'A ride. Either that or money. She would've given us some kind of a sob story and we'd still be sitting there listening to her.'

    'You're probably right.'

    'I know I'm right.'

    But Clint wished he had waited, let the woman say her piece.

    It would not have been the smart thing to do; speeding away had been the smart thing. He hardly needed a total stranger to be robbing time from him - time that he owed Sheila and Barbara. Lose a minute listening to some distraught woman, and maybe you end up on the wrong side of a crash that blocked your road. Stupid. But he wished he had risked it. He wished he had stayed hear out the woman, then done whatever he could to help her. Not the smart thing to do, but the right thing. He felt a little bit sick inside.

    Ashamed. Not only ashamed of himself for fleeing from the stranger, but for allowing Mary to talk him out of doing what he knew was right. Was he so used to letting Sheila and Barbara have their ways that he'd forgotten how to stand up to a woman? Of course, mine're usually right about stuff. The thought made him start to smile, but a terrible sadness suddenly swept through him. If they're not okay…

***

    Stanley savored the job of uncovering Sheila. He took his time at it, scooping up double handfuls of debris, firing away a chunk of this, a slab of that, a broken beam, a section of fallen wall. Though he simply tossed the smaller obstacles aside, he lifted each large piece, carried it a few paces, and set it down carefully. Slow work. Exciting work. When Sheila had asked if he could go any faster, he'd explained, 'It's awfully precarious up here. don't want to start an avalanche.'

    'I know you're doing the best you can.'

    He was doing the best he could - to remove the material silently. Let Sheila think he was taking great care to prevent her from being injured by falling rubble; his actual purpose was to maintain the secrecy of his project. There would be awful clamor if he started hurling the big stuff aside. Though remnants of walls protected him from being seen by anyone who might pass in front of the house, loud noise might draw attention. The last thing he wanted was an intrusion - a nosy neighbor coming along to investigate or help. Sheila's mine. He had cleared away rubble all the way down to floor level before she began to appear. Low and out of reach. The bathtub had apparently dropped into the crawlspace underneath the house, just as Sheila had told him. The rim of the tub seemed to be about two feet lower than the floor. And she was lower still, at the bottom of the tub. Most of the scrap was jumbled atop the tub like a roof. As Stanley carried it away, she came into view a part at a time. First a foot, then a knee, next a shoulder.

    She was a wondrous jigsaw puzzle being assembled by Stanley, growing piece by piece as he removed the debris that concealed her. A thigh, a hand tucked between her legs, her chin, a breast partly covered by a forearm. Sunlit parts, dirty, powdered with dust, strewed with flakes and crumbs of wood and plaster. Stanley wondered why she hadn't brushed some of the litter off her skin. Maybe she appreciated the coating. Maybe it gave her the feeling that she wasn't totally naked. Only when he worked near the foot of the tub could he see her face. From every other location, it was hidden beneath a wooden four-by-eight beam that lay across the far end of the tub like a wide, thick shelf. He wondered how much she could see of him. When can't see her eyes, she can't see mine. Still, just to be on the safe side, he took only small glimpses of Sheila. He tried not to stare. And he made small talk. 'We'll have you out in a jiffy, now… That one was heavier than it looked… I'm getting a pretty good workout here.' Talking as if he hadn't particularly noticed - or didn't care - that she was sprawled out naked below him.

    She talked, too, as if unconcerned by her nudity. But she kept the hand between her legs and the arm across her breasts.

    Stanley needed both hands for his work, so he couldn't use one to hide the jutting front of his pajama bottoms. Most of the time, however, he was bent over or crouching. Maybe she hadn't noticed the bulge.

    She might have noticed, though. Maybe it turns her on. Stanley had a sudden urge to pop open the snaps of his fly. Give her a good look. No. She might start yelling, and maybe somebody would come along to investigate… Just keep it all normal and friendly, he told himself. Wait until just the right time.

    Soon, Sheila was clear. Except for the beams. Stanley had saved them for last, knowing they would give him the most trouble. Four-by-eights, both of them. He guessed they must be support beams that had broken and shifted under the house's floor. One lay across the far end of the tub, above Sheila's face. The other was jammed into the tub, braced up by the edge to her right, slanting downward and shoved tight against the left side. From its position, it looked as if it should've chopped off Sheila's left leg at the thigh. But she must have kicked upward in the nick of time. Flat on her back, she had the beam between her legs - on top of her right, under her left. The knuckles of the hand covering herself down there were less than half an inch from its rough wood surface. Stanley supposed he probably could lift or shove the beams out of the way. If he got down and stood on the rim of the tub and really worked at it. Moving them, however, might not be necessary. He got to his hands and knees above Sheila's right hip. From there, he had a pretty good view of her. He hunched down so that he could see more of her face - chin, lips, the tip of her nose.

    'Do you think you can work yourself out of there now?' he asked.

    'I'll try.'

    She raised her left leg off the beam. Keeping it high, she placed both hands on the beam. Her arms, nearly straight, pressed her breasts together. She pushed. Her skin suddenly writhed over flexing muscles and she slid toward the rear of the tub. But only a bit. An inch. Maybe two. Then the top of her head thumped the underside of the other beam. She winced. Her muscles unbunched and she let herself slide back down a bit.

    'You okay?' Stanley asked.

    'Yeah, it just…'

    'I should've warned you.'

    'I knew it was there. Just didn't think it was so close.' Tilting her head toward her right shoulder, she again pushed at the beam between her legs. Stanley watched the muscles come up in her arms and shoulders. She even had pecs that bulged near the tops of her breasts. A moan growled out of Stanley. A slip. But Sheila didn't react. Probably hadn't heard it through all the other noises. She twisted herself and raised her left leg even higher and swung her arm from the beam to shove at the edge of the tub. Though her right hand still thrust at the beam, Stanley could see past its wrist. Coils of golden hair. Pink, open flesh. 'Damn it!' Sheila cried out.

    Thinking he'd been caught, Stanley flinched and looked away fast. At once, he knew she hadn't seen where he'd been looking. She was too busy squirming, straining upward, twisting herself, trying to work her tilted head out from under the other beam. Her face was red, teeth gritted, lips peeled back. Abruptly, she quit that tactic. She flung both hands overhead and clutched the forward edge of the beam and thrust against it. Even as she shoved, her body made a quick slide toward the foot of the tub. She didn't get far in that direction before she was stopped by the lower beam. Stanley grimaced when he saw it mash her.

    She squeezed it between her thighs as if using it for a brace. Then she struggled like a trapped savage.

    Whether she was trying to force the beam out of her way or shove herself in front of it, Stanley couldn't tell. Either outcome would've worked. And she tried hard. Her whole body shuddered with the effort. Sweat poured, cutting skin-colored trails through her coating of powder and dust. Her muscles trembled. Her breasts shook. At last, she let go and sank down against the bottom of the tub, panting for air. Her arms lay limp by her sides. She shook her head. 'Can't. The beams…, not with…, them…'

    'They're sure in the wrong places, all right.’

    'I can't…, believe it,' she muttered.

    'Yeah,' Stanley said.

    If the beams had fallen differently, she might've been able to squirm free - or they might've crushed her. But the quake had rammed them into the perfect positions to trap her. If she were a few inches shorter, or the tub a bit deeper, she would be able to curl herself forward until her head cleared the four-by-eight that loomed above her face. Then, sitting up, she could slide clear of the beam between her legs. But she was too tall for that, the tub too shallow. It's almost like a miracle, Stanley thought. Everything had happened just so to pin Sheila naked and unhurt at the bottom of her bathtub. Just for me. She was put here for me. Does that mean I'm supposed to leave her down in the tub? It's not a question of supposed to, he told himself. She's like a gift. can do whatever want with her. Right now, it seemed like enough just to be with her - to look at her and talk to her.

    'Just relax for a while,' he said. 'We'll get you out, don't worry. '

    She nodded, took a very deep breath, then blew the air out through pursed lips. Her arms still rested by her sides. No more point in covering herself, Stanley realized. I've already seen what there is to see.

    Or maybe she's just too distracted to care. Thank you very much, my dear. Thank you oh so much.

    'It's really a miracle you weren't killed,' he said. 'If you hadn't been in the bathtub…'

    'I wasn't. Hadn't even started the water yet. But was in leaping distance.'

    'You leaped into the tub?'

    'More of a dive. It was very impressive. Wish Clint had been here to see it.' She smiled in the shadow cast by the beam. But the smile lasted only a moment, then trembled and vanished. 'I just wish he was here, at all.'

    'Clint's your husband?'

    'Yeah. He works in Glendale. God only knows how long it'll take him to get home. If he can get home.' Her chin started to tremble. She pressed her lips together in a tight, straight line.

    'I'm sure he's just fine,' Stanley said. 'Your girl, too.'

    'I just wish they were here.'

    'Yeah.'

    'That's the worst part. Not knowing if they're okay. don't mind the rest so much. You know? The house… As long as they're okay.' Her smile came back. 'Not that I'd mind getting out of this tub.'

    'We'll get you out.'

    'Maybe you could go and find some help,' Sheila suggested.

    'Let's see if can't move one of these beams out of the way for you.'

    'It's no use. couldn't budge them. They don't seem to have any give at all. think they're wedged in, somehow.'

    'Well, could give it a try.'

    'No.' She shook her head. 'Don't. You might hurt yourself. Or fall or something. Really, there's no point.'

    'We might both try one together,' Stanley suggested.

    'I doubt… Do you know what would work? A saw. don't think even two or three people could manage to budge either of these beams, but…, you could saw right through one. It'd be easy.'

    'That sounds like a really good idea.'

    'We've got saws in the garage.'

    'Your garage went down. I'm sure can find a saw somewhere, though. Might take a few minutes, but…'

    'Before you go, can you take a look around? I'd like to have something, you know…, to cover myself with.'

    'I'm afraid already checked,' he lied. 'While was clearing the stuff away. All the clothes must be buried under…'

    She shook her head. 'What about curtains? Or a towel? A bedsheet. Maybe a pillowcase?'

    'Unless you want a plank of wood…'

    She let out a small, quiet laugh. 'No, that's all right. When you go for the saw, though, maybe you can find me something?'

    'Sure,' he said.

    When Hell freezes over, he thought. He was glad he'd taken off his pajama shirt earlier. If Sheila had known about it, he would've had to toss it down to her as soon as she'd come into view. Either that, or risk making her suspicious. But nobody could be expected to give up his pajama pants. She hadn't asked for them, and she would think he was weird if he even offered to let her have them.

    'Anything'll be fine,' she added. 'Just so can…, make myself decent. Even an old sack or a rug.'

    'I'll find something.' He frowned. 'I just hate to leave you alone down there.'

    'I'll be okay.'

    'Yeah. It's just…' He stopped his voice.

    'What?'

    'Never mind. It's all right. The chances of someone coming along while I'm gone are pretty remote. And if anybody does find you, it probably won't be… anyone to worry about. It's just that you're so vulnerable down there. If the wrong sort of person…

    She smiled. A game smile, only a trifle nervous. 'Trying to cheer me up, are you?'

    'Sorry. The thing is, noticed a couple of strange characters over near where that house is on fire. They looked…unsavory, you know?'

    'Terrific.'

    'I didn't mean to worry you.'

    'It's all right. How's that fire doing, anyway?'

    Stanley glanced over his shoulder, but couldn't see much. In the way, near his back and about five feet high, was the remnant of an interior wall. 'Just a second,' he said. He crawled backward so Sheila couldn't watch him stand. On his feet, he turned around. Off in the distance, beyond the low, ragged corner of Sheila's house, a column of smoke still surged into the sky.

    'It doesn't look like it's spreading,' he said.

    'Is the fire department there yet?'

    'No,' he answered. 'No police, either.' He was guessing. The ruins of Sheila's house blocked his view of the street, and he wasn't about to climb a pile of rubble just to inspect the situation. 'There's hardly any breeze. don't think we need to worry about the fire getting here.'

    'So, as long as we don't have one of our own… don't smell any gas. Can you smell gas?' she asked.

    Stanley sniffed. The hot air made his nostrils sting. He smelled a faint aroma of smoke, a dry odor that might have been concrete or plaster dust, and a scent of suntan lotion that quickened his heartbeat and filled his head with images of beaches, surf, girls in bikinis, Sheila stretched out on her lounger.

    Her lounger had smelled that way. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and moaned with pleasure.

    'Stanley?'

    How wonderful to hear his name spoken by that sweet voice.

    'I can't smell any gas.'

    'Maybe you should turn it off at the main valve, anyway. It's what you're supposed to do after a big quake. And there almost has to be leaks.'

    'Okay. I'll take care of that. Do you know where the shutoff is?'

    'It's outside the house.'

    'Okay.'

    'It's near the chimney, on the outside wall. There ought to be a special wrench attached. All you've gotta do is turn the wrench. '

    'I'll find it.' He stepped close to the edge of the floor, leaned forward and looked down at Sheila. 'I'll turn off the gas, then go and find a saw…, and something for your decency.'

    'That'll be great, Stan. Thank God you found me.'

    'I'll second that.'

    'Hurry back, okay?'