China Lake by Meg Gardiner Page A

evening Jesse and I took Luke out for tamales at Playa Azul and ice cream in Paseo Nuevo. Luke was gregarious, talking about school, and I ached at the thought of saying good-bye to this—to his classroom play-by-play, to the notes from his teacher that got squashed in the bottom of his backpack, to twenty other six-year-olds whose names I had never truly deciphered. Jesse listened, but seemed distant. When Luke was running up State Street ahead of us, rainbow sherbet dripping down his wrist, I asked what was bugging him.
    He shrugged. ‘‘Work, tooth decay, the dumbing down of America.’’
    ‘‘Pastor Pete?’’
    ‘‘Yeah, he’s a piece of work. Mr. Virtue and Purity, protecting his über-twirlers from me. He’s the kind who would have stoked the ovens at Buchenwald.’’
    ‘‘Sorry I convinced you to go up there with me.’’
    ‘‘Guilt—I knew it; you’re having an episode. Quick, go bang your head against that wall.’’
    I punched him on the arm. He said, ‘‘It could have been worse. He could have tried to heal me.’’
    I touched his shoulder, stopping him. He wasn’t an angry person, but with all the crap he had to contend with, the blues sometimes dogged him. Pastor Pete’s taunts had, I thought, been one knock too many. People ribboned around us on the sidewalk. Gold light spilled from a nearby café, and Latin music pulsed through the air, cocky and sinuous. I took his face in my hands and kissed him.
    ‘‘That’s better,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t worry about me. Feel culpable for something else. Ozone depletion.’’
    When we returned to my house, he helped Luke pack his backpack for school the next day. Asking him, ‘‘Is that everything? Homework?’’ ‘‘Yep.’’ Lunch? Yep. Dog biscuits? ‘‘We don’t have a dog at school.’’ ‘‘Right. Teacher biscuits?’’
    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.
    The attorney for the woman whose hand was bitten off by ferrets at Beowulf’s Bookstore claimed yesterday that defense lawyer Jesse Blackburn is ‘‘biased’’ against his client. Skip Hinkel says that Blackburn