Water to Burn

  “No, not at all. Brittany and Cody there—” He nodded in the direction of the shivering boy, “—had gotten a few yards ahead of the rest of us, but only a few. The wave, well, it seemed to come out of nowhere, this great rush of water, like a green wall. Look, you can see the damp patch on the sand, over there to the south of us.”

  I looked and noted the darker sand, a stretch maybe twenty feet long and a good ten feet beyond the soaked firm sand of the tide line. Ari pulled out his cell phone and walked a couple of yards away to snap photos of it.

  “It pulled both children into the sea, I take it,” I said.

  Wilson nodded. “Cody managed to get out again. Brittany didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Wilson choked back a sob. “The oddest thing, though.” He glanced at the huddled group behind him, as if reassuring himself they were still safe. “The wave, it was like it had tentacles or hands. It was reaching for our kids, I swear it, with strands of seawater. I could feel a malignancy in that wave. Satan, I suppose, bent on murder.” He gave me an odd twisted smile, all pain and black humor. “The police think I’m crazy. Do you?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think it was Satan, but if you say you felt something malignant, you could be right. I don’t know yet, but I’m not dismissing what you say.”

  “Thanks.” He gulped for breath, then turned away. “It meant to take them. I swear it.”

  I let him go back to his flock. Ari rejoined me.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I said. “Let’s get out of everyone’s way.”

  We crossed the highway, but at the head of the path down, I glanced back at the ocean. I saw, just for a brief moment, the figure of an enormous woman standing on the sea. The fog wrapped her with gray mourning clothes, and a dead child lay across her outstretched arms. I knew then that the girl had drowned.

  CHAPTER 2

  BY THE TIME WE RETURNED TO OUR PARKED CAR, I was so cold that just getting into the driver’s seat felt like putting on a fur coat. I slid the keys into the ignition, then sat rubbing my icy hands to warm them up before I tried to drive.

  “That wasn’t a coincidence, was it?” Ari said.

  “What wasn’t?”

  “Our happening on this accident.”

  I contemplated the question while I buckled my seat belt. “I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s just luck that we were so close when the chopper went over. But something’s been prompting me to get down to the water all day.”

  Ari stared out the windshield for a moment. “I see,” he said. “You know, I’ve had quite enough of flat hunting.”

  “So have I. Let’s go over to Eileen’s. She won’t mind if we’re early.”

  “I need to go back to the apartment first and change.”

  “Why? You’re already wearing a suit. You look fine.”

  “That’s not it. I can’t keep this jacket on all evening to hide the shoulder holster. I need to get a smaller weapon.”

  Some men change their clothes to suit an occasion. Ari changes his gun.

  While Ari rummaged through his half-unpacked luggage, I checked my messages on both my landline and my cell phone, and a good thing I did. My sister Kathleen had called to tell me that I could bring Ari to the party on Sunday, since he was back in town. Either Eileen had called her, or we’d mentally overlapped. My immediate reaction: Party? What party? A frantic search of my memory turned up the data that Kathleen had, a couple of weeks before, when I was enmeshed in the most dangerous case of my career, invited me to a pool party. Kathleen has never been known for her good timing.

  I walked into the bedroom to see Ari putting his shoulder holster and semiautomatic pistol away in the bottom drawer of my dresser, where I kept my underwear.

  “Symbolism?” I said.

  He looked at me as if I’d spoken in Martian. “What?” he said. “This is the only drawer that locks.”

  “Just a joke,” I said. “Don’t let it bother you.”

  He had a tiny pistol that fit into a holster that slid under the waistband of his slacks. Before he stowed it, though, he held up the gun.

  “This is a Sig Sauer P232.” Ari sounded like a parent introducing a child. “It carries seven shots. Not many, but adequate in an emergency.”

  “Gosh, that makes me feel so much safer.”

  “No need for sarcasm! This holster’s specially made for the Israeli army.” He stroked the nasty little thing. “You should carry a weapon like this in your bag. I’ll get one for you.”

  “I will not carry a firearm. Sorry. No way.”

  “I know you have another way to protect yourself, but—”

  “There are no buts. No guns.”

  He rolled his eyes, then picked up his suit coat. For a moment he frowned at it.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “Do you have a sewing kit?”

  “Uh, no. Why?”

  “The lining in my jacket’s torn again.” He held up the jacket and demonstrated by turning the left sleeve inside out. The lining had frayed badly right at the seam shared by the sleeve and shoulder.

  “I usually just take stuff like that to the seamstress at the dry cleaner’s,” I said.

  “I need to do it myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they always ask questions. The fraying’s from the hammer of the Beretta in the shoulder holster. It rubs. I don’t like to advertise that I carry a firearm.”

  “Oh. Well, when we’re at Aunt Eileen’s, ask her. She’ll mend it for you, and she’s good at keeping secrets.”

  “She’d have to be, in your family. Which reminds me. Does everyone in your family know about your real job?”

  “No, just the trustworthy ones. Eileen and Jim, obviously, and the two boys. And Sean and Al. Father Keith. I think Dan suspects.”

  “You trust Brian and Michael?”

  “Of course. Michael has plenty to hide himself, and Brian’s a closemouthed kid by nature as well as nurture. He knows better than to blab family secrets. We all learned that young.”

  “Good,” Ari said. “I should certainly hope you’ve not told Kathleen.”

  “I haven’t, no. She never makes sure her brain’s engaged before she puts her mouth in gear. And there’s no reason for Jack to know anything. Ditto Maureen and her kids.”

  “But you trust the Houlihans.”

  A slight edge to his tone of voice put me in warning mode. He was probing, I suddenly realized, though I didn’t know why or for what.

  “Sure,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I was just wondering how much I could say in front of them. They seem like the sort of people who can keep a secret, but I wanted to verify that.”

  “Okay. I wouldn’t tell them anything about your other job, though.”

  “I certainly wasn’t planning on it. No need to burden them. Oh, by the way, what does Jim do? I’d like to be able to chat with him.”

  “He works for the Muni, the bus system. He started out as a driver, but he’s a supervisor now. He’s a lot smarter than he acts, you know.”

  “I rather suspected that. Good. I know something about the underground and things of that sort from my time in London.”

  He smiled so blandly that my suspicions deepened. He had a logical reason to ask about the Houlihans, I supposed, but I changed the subject anyway. “Do you have something in that sample case of yours that measures radioactivity levels?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Why?”

  “Is it small enough to take along to Aunt Eileen’s? I’m worried about Michael sneaking through that world gate. He’s got a girlfriend over in the trashed version of the United States.”

  “The hooker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she’ll have sex with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I don’t need the rad counter.” Ari paused for a smile. “Of course he’s going over to see her. I’d be more worried about diseases than radiation. I’ll
talk to him about condoms.”

  “Good idea. Better you than me.” And damned if I didn’t blush.

  Aunt Eileen and her family, which now included my brother Michael, lived on the other side of the city, about halfway up the main hill of the Excelsior district, which slopes up from the outer reaches of Mission Street. It’s a neighborhood of single-family homes built on top of longago truck gardens and small farms. Eileen and Jim Houlihan’s house started life as a cottage on one of the farms, then expanded over the years with the neighborhood. Unlike most of the solid two-story stucco houses around it, it faced the street on a double lot and spread out in a weird formation. The north end had three stories, the south end, two, but the middle, the orginal construction, only one.

  Various neighbors had made snide comments over the years about this ramshackle, pulling-down-the-propertyvalues place, but little did they know just how peculiar a construction it was. Just as well, too. Knowing they lived next to a psychic gate to some other level of the universe wouldn’t have done much for their peace of mind.

  I found a spot to park the rental car right in front of the Houlihan house, or to be precise, at the foot of the steep slope that led up to the house. When we got out, I glanced across the street and saw a youngish man standing on the sidewalk and looking our way. One of the neighbors, or another Chaos spy? On the pretense of stretching, I sketched a Chaos ward and sent it sailing across the street. It hit him with absolutely no effect. Only one of the neighbors, then, idly curious. Dealing with Fish Guy had left me paranoid. If the Chaos forces could generate spies that looked like ordinary human beings, they could be lurking anywhere, in crowds, wandering down the street, standing around in grocery stores, anywhere.

  “What’s wrong?” Ari said. “You’ve gone a little pale.”

  “Just some evil thoughts. I’ll explain later.”

  As we climbed the brick steps up from the street, I could hear faint rock music leaking from the upper story of the house. When Aunt Eileen opened the front door, the music blasted out. She was wearing one of her typical outfits, a bright red circle skirt with a fuzzy poodle applique at the bottom, a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and leopardprint flats.

  “Both boys are home, huh?” I had to yell to be heard.

  “Yes,” she yelled back. “I’ll tell them to turn it down, not that they will—much.”

  “I’ll go do it,” Ari said in a too-brief pause in the music. “They’ll listen to me.”

  “It’s so nice having you back.” Eileen reached up and patted him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  The music cranked up again. Ari smiled at her fondly, then strode across the long white living room to head for the stairway up. The exchange of smiles bothered me. I took it as another stake in the picket fence of domesticity that the family kept trying to build around me. Still, the music upstairs stopped, suddenly and permanently after a single bellow from Ari.

  “He does have his uses,” I said.

  “I’d say so,” Aunt Eileen said. “Come into the kitchen, dear. I’m just putting the finishing touches on dinner.”

  “Okay. Ari wanted to talk to Mike about something, so they may not be down for a while.”

  “Oh, good! We can gossip.”

  We went into the kitchen. Aunt Eileen put on a yellow calico bib apron, then stood at the counter by the sink to fuss with the food. I sat down in one of the captain’s chairs at the round maple table, which she kept covered with a matching round of glass. She’d already set it for six with the family china, pale blue stoneware with green rims, and blue paper napkins.

  “I wanted to tell you,” Aunt Eileen said, “that I got a letter from Wally and Rose. They’re coming to San Francisco for a visit.”

  “Cool!” I said. “Are they traveling in their RV?”

  “Your aunt can’t really travel any other way these days, I gather. Her knees, you know, and now they’re talking about a hip replacement, too. Besides, she told me she has a special present for Kathleen.”

  “Oh, lord! Another damn dog.”

  “Oh, yes. A Russian wolfhound. And it’s pregnant.”

  I could barely visualize hefty Aunt Rose, her equally hefty second husband, and a pregnant wolfhound all crammed into a small RV. Well, small as RVs go, anyway.

  “Which reminds me,” I said. “Have you heard from Kathleen lately?”

  “Yes, she called me a couple of days ago.” Aunt Eileen looked into a glass bowl of tomatoes and frowned. “You know how she is. She talked mostly about her animals, but I got the impression that she and Jack were having problems.”

  “Oh, no! That marriage means so much to her.”

  “Yes, it worries me.” Aunt Eileen paused to pull a long knife from the butcher’s block stand. “We’ve really got to eat those tomatoes tonight. I’ll slice them for the salad. But, about Jack . . . He’s involved in a new business venture, and Kathleen doesn’t like his partner.”

  “Ah, I see. What kind of business?”

  “Well, it does sound kind of flaky.” Aunt Eileen brought out this piece of her childhood slang with a flourish. “It’s hunting for Drake’s treasure.”

  “Sir Francis?”

  “Him, yes, the pirate or privateer or whatever he was. He’s supposed to have had Spanish gold onboard when he landed up at Drake’s Bay. This fellow, the one Kathleen doesn’t like, has found some old documents or something. He thinks Drake might have buried some treasure along the coast somewhere.”

  “Well, there’s only a thousand miles or so of California coast. Good luck!”

  “Yes, it sounds like a really crazy idea.”

  We paused while Aunt Eileen ran the knife through the screeching electric sharpener. Eileen’s knowledge of history tended to be more than a little flaky itself. As far as I knew, Drake’s treasure had gone safely back to England for queen and country. If he had withheld some of it for himself, as some people thought, why would he have buried it on the other side of the world from his home base?

  As for Jack, I wasn’t surprised that the idea would appeal to him. His filthy-rich family had left him with no need for a real job. He lived with the constant danger of being bored. Treasure hunting would have sounded exciting as well as potentially profitable.

  When the knife was sharp enough to suit her, Aunt Eileen wiped it clean on a checked dish towel, then went on talking while she lined the tomatoes up on a wooden cutting board shaped into the silhouette of a pig.

  “Jack met this person through some of his other business contacts,” Eileen said. “His name’s Caleb something—I’m not sure if Kathleen told me his whole name or if she even knows it.”

  “Caleb? That’s not a name you hear real often.”

  “Kathleen thinks he’s from New England because he sounds like the Kennedys to her, the politician ones, I mean, not our cousins. Anyway, she says he smells funny, and the dogs don’t like him. I don’t know how much weight to put on that.”

  “I’d trust it,” I said. “Kathleen’s sense of smell isn’t what you’d call normal.”

  “Well, that’s certainly true. At first Caleb wanted to rent Jack’s boat to go out deep-sea fishing.”

  “Since when does Jack rent out his boat?”

  “He hardly needs to with his family’s money, no, but I suppose Caleb didn’t know that. But they did go fishing, and they became friends, and this other business came up.”

  “The buried treasure bit sounds all wrong to me.”

  “Yes, I agree.” Eileen began slicing tomatoes with the vicious precision of a pirate. Juice ran on the cutting board.

  I felt the odd trembling sensation in my hands that I occasionally get when I’ve heard something important. It’s as if my fingers want to reach out and grab the information physically. Whoever Caleb was, he would bear keeping in mind. I would have asked more, but I heard Uncle Jim’s truck come trundling up the steep driveway. In a minute, Jim himself came in, a tall man, not truly fat, but big all over, with gray hair streaked with its orig
inal red. He’d slung the jacket of his gray suit over one shoulder. A blue tie dangled out of one trouser pocket.

  “How was your day?” Aunt Eileen reached up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Lousy,” Jim said with a shrug. “One of the old L Taravals got stuck in the damned tunnel, and we had to run diesel feeder lines. I got it all cleared up okay eventually.” He glanced my way and smiled. “Hi, honey. Where are the boys?”

  “Upstairs with Ari,” I said. “Talking, I guess.”

  In a few minutes, though, they all came down. Aunt Eileen had finished the salad, and Uncle Jim had just poured himself a juice glass full of whiskey when I heard them pounding down the back stairs, the ones that led right into the kitchen. Michael and Brian walked in first, a pair of cousins, though they looked enough alike to be brothers, with their dark blue eyes and straight black hair. Brian, however, stood a good head taller.

  Ari shook hands with Jim, declined his offer of whiskey, and sat down next to me at the table. He leaned toward me and murmured.

  “Interesting information from Mike. Remind me to tell you if I forget.”

  For dinner that night, Aunt Eileen had cooked her killer pot roast with potatoes and carrots. At least she served it with a salad, something I could eat in quantity. I did take a slice of meat and some carrots. Ari pointedly slopped the mushroom gravy on both of them before I could protest. I held him off before he added a potato chunk. For some minutes no one spoke, merely ate, led by two voracious teen boys. Eventually, Uncle Jim turned in his chair and waved a fork at me.

  “Wanted to ask you,” he said. “What about that damned gate to wherever it is?”

  “Still no word on what the government wants done to it,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’ve been bugging my contact about it at regular intervals.”

  “Well, you can tell them this. If they don’t do something soon, I’m going to fill that damned room with concrete. That’ll put an end to it.”

  Michael’s head jerked up. He stared at Uncle Jim nervously, then tried to cover his slip by reaching for the platter of pot roast.