Into the Fire(13)
As Max edged forward, he spotted the back of a woman’s head poking up over an armchair facing the flat-screen.
The lights were off in the bungalow. The flicker of the screen and the strobing flames behind him had an unsettling effect, the walls fluid and alive, the foundation no longer fixed.
“Hello? Lorraine?”
Max stepped across the threshold into the chill of the house.
“Lorraine? I’m sorry to barge in—” The words died in his throat.
Her head was cocked at an odd angle. As he circled the chair, the noise of the television predominated—Pat Sajak smarmy in syndication, praying for that big money, big money. Max knew that something was terribly wrong, but his legs wouldn’t stop carrying him onward. The game show was wanting for reception, the contestants’ words fuzzed at the edges. Despite the chill, sweat trickled down his ribs.
The sight of Lorraine Lennox inched into view, her throat bared, her head tilted back from the violence of the gunshot. Her tight black hair gave way to a thumb-size hole in her crown, the ebony skin jagged at the edges like torn rubber.
It seemed to be pulsing, the hole, and then he realized that the TV reception wasn’t weak at all, that the buzzing he was hearing was flies.
His stomach lurched. A few quick strides brought him to the kitchen sink barely in time. Gripping the Formica counter, he emptied his stomach.
He didn’t remember backing out of the house, but his calves struck the fire pit and he felt the breath of the flames against his shoulder blades.
Another blip of lost time and then the sound of the gate latch clacking behind him.
Then he was driving out of the Ravine, making turn after turn, sweat running into his eyes. He skirted the edge of Chinatown, red lanterns bobbing on strings, diners pouring from restaurants. As he came up Alameda Street, his arms started shaking and his chest tightened up. His windpipe cinched until he was sure he’d die right there behind the wheel.
He tugged the truck to the curb and got out, the fresh night air sweeping some of the fog from his brain. His fingertips were tingling, his mouth bone dry.
Overhead a sign glowed in the night: PHILIPPE THE ORIGINAL, the words rendered in a baseball-pennant scroll. He staggered inside, sawdust kicking up around his shoes, the hum of conversation enveloping him. Along cafeteria-style tables, diners dug into French-dip sandwiches.
His knees buckled, his vision spotting, and he went for the nearest empty seat. He collapsed into a chair and placed his palms on the tabletop, wanting to feel something solid. He couldn’t get the smell of the bungalow out of his nose.
To his side, someone was ordering at the counter. “I want a slice of cheesecake please and thank you but no cherry drizzle on it ’cuz cherries are red and I don’t eat red stuff and a glass of orange juice but not with a blue straw just a clear one.”
Max still couldn’t look up from his hands, but he sensed the man’s shadow beside him a moment later.
“Excuse me, sir … um … um, it’s cafeteria-style here so the dining norms are different, and … um … um, it’s supposed to be okay to ask, so can I sit with you?”
Max’s throat was still spasming, so he nodded a few times fiercely without raising his head.
The man sat down and ate for a time, humming softly as he chewed. Max’s hands trembled, the pads of his fingers rasping against the surface of the tabletop. He thought about the hole in Lennox’s head, how it vibrated with movement. The buzzing. The stench.
The man’s next words came at him as if from far away. “Are you upset, sir?”
“No, no.” Max’s voice sounded scratchy and detached even to him. “I’m … fine.”
“’Cuz your breathing went from thirty-two breaths per minute to forty per minute, and your … um … um, your face is red, and that’s a social cue that you’re upset.”
“… not upset…’kay?”
“Okay.” The man leaned to take another slurp through his clear straw. “’Cuz if you were,” he said, “I know who’d be able to help you.”
8
Complicated
Making a floating bed was a pain in the ass.
There were no wobbles—the electromagnetic-suspension technology was sufficiently powerful to fix the slab in place. But without a headboard or footboard to pin the sheets, addressing wrinkles became a challenge.
Evan hated wrinkles.
His Original S.W.A.T. boots added another variable. Given the protective steel shanks between the insoles and outsoles, he had to keep his feet well back from the bed’s magnetic field or risk getting sucked into the void.
Leaning forward, he tugged down the top sheet only to see the faintest ridge lift on the far side, pronounced in the early-morning light. Grimacing, he circled the bed and smoothed the ridge with his palm. Now the faintest fan appeared in the fabric at the opposite corner.
He told himself to let it go.
He told himself that it wasn’t life-or-death.
That it was just a fucking bedsheet.
Then he rounded the slab once more and yanked the sheet flat.
That caused the hem beneath the pillows to shift to a slight diagonal.
He glared at it with enmity.
Perfection had been ingrained in his bones, a mission-essential trait on which his survival depended. Knowing where it should stop was a challenge. That meant that his life hung in the balance of every last detail, that his very existence— Suddenly he was airborne, his boot ripped out from under him. He slammed down on his back next to the bed, his right foot twisted up, the boot magnetically adhered to the bottom of the slab.