China Lake Read Online Free

Orange tongues of fire licked the hills. Black cracks rent the earth, swallowing the Hollywood sign, the U.S. Capitol, and a naval officer in dress blues.
    ‘‘Reconciliation is definitely not on her agenda,’’ he said. ‘‘What are you going to do?’’
    ‘‘Warn Brian, then track her down and find out what’s going on. Maybe she isn’t involved with the church. Maybe she drew the comic strip on commission.’’
    ‘‘You don’t believe that. Not with her background.’’
    Right again, Blackburn. I looked away, trying not to think about her real agenda. But he touched my wrist and said, ‘‘What if she’s come back for Luke?’’
    Luke, Brian and Tabitha’s son, was six. For eight months he had been living with me—ever since Tabitha walked out and Brian was deployed overseas.
    Jesse held up the flyer. ‘‘Evan, this is nasty stuff. I don’t mean fun nasty; I mean raving, psycho nasty.’’
    ‘‘You’d say that about church bingo.’’
    ‘‘Listen. If Tabitha has started believing this garbage—’’
    ‘‘I know, Luke.’’ I sighed. ‘‘I’ll find her.’’
    The guilt gene had caused a throbbing in my chest when my brother’s marriage collapsed, a dull pain that insisted, It’s my fault, my fault . Because I had introduced Brian to Tabitha.
    Tabitha Roebuck was twenty years old when I met her, a waitress at a café I frequented. Perky and enthusiastic, she was blessed with a curvy figure, auburn curls that fell languorously from her loose hair clip, and a ringing voice that always edged on loudness. At the time, I was practicing law and looking for a way to jump the fence. At the café I would hunch over a legal pad, scribbling fiction with an aspiration akin to craving. One night Tabitha lingered at my table. Hesitantly, as if telling me something shocking, she said, ‘‘I understand how you feel about writing. Really, because I’m an artist.’’
    She sat down. She told me she liked science fiction, since that was what I wrote, but she loved fantasy— tales featuring wizards, swordsmen, and beleaguered princesses. Leaning forward, she said, ‘‘Do your stories have dragons in them? Dragons are awesome.’’
    But if her fascination seemed childlike, it was because she was test-driving her imagination. She had grown up in a home where creativity and even whimsy had been suppressed by an anxious, astringent fundamentalism. No secular music had been permitted. No secular boyfriends. And no secular literature containing pagan mythological beasts. That equated to dabbling in the occult. To Tabitha’s mother, reading Le Morte d’Arthur was one step removed from conducting Black Masses around the kitchen table.
    My story had no dragons, but the next time I came into the café Tabitha rushed toward me, eyes shiny, hands clutching illustrations she had drawn for the piece. The pictures were wild and romantic—the hero standing defiant against a heavy wind. I loved them. I was taken with her. When my older brother came to visit, I introduced them.
    Everything about Brian stunned her: the raven hair and hot-coffee eyes, the cool-under-fire voice, and the confident, offhand manner. He was a fighter pilot and looked it, even out of uniform. She didn’t hesitate, not for a second.
    A new strand of her personality uncoiled itself: the minx Tabitha. In Brian’s presence she became pert, impudent, flirtatious. She emanated a wholesome sexiness, as if her plaid Gap skirt covered a leopard-skin garter belt. Brian termed her ‘‘vivacious.’’ But she also saddened easily, and hungered for clarity, security, and purpose. He decided to play the rescuer, imagining that at his side she would grow strong—and grateful to him. Her white knight.
    They married within six months, and they doted and clung to each other with a passion that was both pure and excruciatingly cute. Then Luke came along, a child like a jewel, the proof and seal of their fusion. It was perfect.
    And it all fell