Dennis turned, looked out at the ocean. A lone sailboat was heading toward Long Beach, and beyond that, silhouetted by a thin layer of white smog, he could see the blocky shape of a cargo ship waiting to dock at the port. A few days ago, there'd been a story on the news about illegal Chinese immigrants who'd been smuggled in the hold of one of these cargo ships but captured upon inspection. Although there wasn't as much resentment toward Asian illegals as there seemed to be toward those from Mexico-who weren't even granted the status of human but were referred to as aliens-darker races still seemed to provoke the ire of white America. There never seemed to be much of an outcry against immigrants from Caucasian countries.
He thought of that professor from Denver and the housewife from Oregon who had believed so strongly that retribution was necessary, violence justified, against the descendants of those who had persecuted their people. It was an insane and untenable position, the type of attitude that had led to wars and instances of ethnic strife throughout the world.
And yet ...
And yet he could see their point.
He thought of the looting and lawlessness that inevitably followed large-scale disasters. The veneer of civilization was thin. Anger and violence were always near the surface, even in seemingly peaceful rational individuals.
He recalled that giant... thing ... he'd seen towering over the plain.
Sometimes it was only outside intervention that saved people from themselves.
'"Scuse me." A dark squat man carrying a fishing pole, a tackle box and a bucket pushed past him to stake out a spot by the pier's railing.
Dennis started walking slowly back toward shore, enjoying the feel of the offshore breeze against his face. He looked up at the clock tower on top of the police substation. It was getting close to lunch. Already he could smell Mexican food from Taco Surf, and as he drew closer the scent of baked goods came to him from the bakery.
Maybe he'd take his mother and sister out to lunch. His mom moaned and complained if they ate anything other than Chinese food, but this was his chance to try and broaden her horizons.
From somewhere far off came the sound of a train whistle, and Dennis stopped in his tracks, heart pounding, the hairs bristling on the back of his neck. For a moment, he was frozen, his breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide with fear. But then he forced himself to exhale, forced his eyes to blink, forced his feet to walk forward, and within a few seconds he was back to normal. Glancing up at the slightly smog-tinged sky, he took a deep breath. Once again, he thought of the-spirit-that he'd seen looming over Promontory Point. What had really happened there? What exactly had they prevented? Was it all over for good?
Or were the professor and the housewife, along with other Chinese Americans throughout the country, resuming their blood rituals in hopes of once again raising the dead?
He didn't want to think about it.
And he wouldn't.
Dennis reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number of his apartment. After three rings, his sister answered, and he told her to stop whatever she was doing, grab their mother and meet him at Taco Surf in ten minutes.
"Is that Mexican food? You know Mom won't-"
"Hey, this is California."
He could almost hear his sister's smile over the phone. "And if we're both going to be living here, she'd better get used to it."
"Exactly." He gave her directions on how to reach the restaurant from his apartment.
"We'll be there," Cathy said.
Feeling happy, feeling good, Dennis closed the phone, put it in his pocket and strode off the pier onto the sidewalk. Instead of walking up the left side of Main Street to the restaurant, he started up the right side toward the liquor store.
He wanted to get a lottery ticket and a newspaper before his mother and sister arrived.
Bear Flats, California
It was not where she'd expected to be, not even where she was sure she wanted to be, but Jolene found herself working for the Bear Flats Police Department as an adjunct officer, a position created for her until she could find the time to undergo training, pass the test and become official. With her background, a career in law enforcement might have seemed a natural, but the truth was that she'd never considered such a move until Ned brought it up to her a week after the charred ruins of the Williams house had been razed. The police chief hired her, she supposed, because he knew that she could function well under extreme pressure. And because he needed her. There'd been one death and two defections, and the loss of even one person in a department this small had major repercussions. It was no more than the usual turnover, Ned tried to reassure everyone, but they all knew that wasn't the case.
The Williams place might have burned to the ground, but its influence lingered.
She needed the money and was happy to be employed. Leslie had offered to find her something to do at the restaurant, but that would have been a make-work pity position, and she would have accepted it only as a last resort. Her mother had said she and Skylar could remain at her place indefinitely-and the three of them had been getting along extremely well, particularly with the moratorium on drinking-but the quarters were still too close, the situation too stressful, and she needed to assert her independence and try to start a new life.
It was Ned's wife who'd found a place for her and Skylar to live. Lottie Tanner was in real estate, and though Jolene hadn't said anything to her, Ned must have, and she located a cabin for rent just down the road from Leslie's place. There was only one bedroom, but the cabin was furnished and the sofa in the living room folded out into a bed. Rent was cheap. It was not someplace where they could live permanently, but in the interim, while she decided what came next, they had a roof over their heads.
Even more important than her finding a place of their own, the divorce had become finalized.
It should have been messy, should have been complicated-she and Frank had a son together, after all-but Frank had been neither as intransigent nor as vindictive as she'd expected him to be, and they'd been able to do it all through lawyers, without meeting face-to-face. He'd even agreed to pay child support and waive all visitation rights, although this was not something she'd shared with Skylar. Jolene suspected he had someone else on the line already, and in a way she was glad. It took his focus off them, left them free to move on.
The truth was, Jolene hadn't discussed much of anything with Skylar since ... since everything had happened. Her son had always been somewhat close-mouthed and reserved, keeping his emotions to himself, but she'd prided herself on the way she shared everything with him, kept him in the loop, maintained a close relationship despite the circumstances of their lives and his natural disposition. In the wake of their experience at the Williams house, however, she'd found it easier to avoid certain subjects, to not talk about what they really should talk about. She felt guilty about that, but she still couldn't bring herself to break the pattern.
Three o'clock rolled around. Jolene got off work, picked up Skylar at school, and the two of them stopped by her mother's for a moment to say hi and pick up some hamburger casserole for dinner before heading home. Inside, the cabin was quiet, too quiet, and Jolene quickly turned on the
television so they'd have some background noise.
Skylar shut it off.
She looked at him in surprise.
"Mom ..." He started to say something, then changed his mind, looked down at the floor.
"What is it?" she prodded gently.
"It's ... I just ..." He shook his head.
Jolene walked over, put a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me."