bounded off. He waited and didn’t see the soldiers. He moved on.
Fifteen minutes later, Waylon found himself rounding a small point that stuck out into a little inlet. On the other side, not even a quarter mile away, was a brightly lit marina thronged with sail-boats. Beside the docks was a steak and fish restaurant.
He followed the curve of a gravelly beach to the marina. As he passed below the surf-and-turf place, he heard people on the restaurant’s deck, which extended over the water under strings of twinkling lightbulbs, talking and drinking as they waited for a table. Someone was speculating about what was supposed to have crashed into the bay.
“I heard it was a small plane,” a woman said.
He almost felt like telling them—telling
someone
—what he had seen, telling them about the chopper and the unnatural soldiers who’d harried him through the brush.
But he was too tired to be laughed at.
He trudged up a boat ramp to the road, stuck out his thumb, and got a ride back to Quiebra with some drunk college students who made fun of the bramble welts on his face.
Thinking to himself,
Of course they were after you, dude. Ever since
the terrorists flew those planes into the World Trade Center and the
Pentagon, the fucking military’s been even more paranoid, ready to nail
anybody who sni fs around. If that wasn’t a crashed UFO, it was probably
a spy satellite. Some sort of top secret shit. What did you expect? The
Shadow Government will track your ass down if you get in its way.
When Waylon got home to the condo, his mom was asleep on the couch, snoring loudly, with the TV on but the sound off. The Shopping Channel. She liked to look at the chintzy things they hawked, but she never bought anything. Her long curly bottle-blond hair was straggling over her open mouth. Wine coolers were lined up on the coffee table, and cigarette butts were spilling out of the ashtrays.
She was still wearing the dark blue dress suit she wore for her paralegal job; she was about forty pounds overweight, and spilling out of it. He pulled her shoes off and drew her long wool coat over her like a blanket.
Then he turned off the TV and went to take a shower.
November 24, midmorning
Lacey Cummings stood on her porch, looking at the eight-foot-high bird-of-paradise plant that nodded in the smoggy breeze like some otherworldly bird. She looked at the sky, blue overhead and gray-brown above the eastern horizon. Then she looked at her packed bags on the doormat and thought,
Am I ready to go or not? Have I got
everything?
She was on the front porch of her rented L.A. bungalow, waiting for the cab—thinking it was crazy to take a cab in L.A. If you weren’t part of the limo set, you bought a car. But she had sold her car; she was going to the train station, for the Coast Starlight to Berkeley.
She wondered if she should call Roger. But since when were you obligated to tell your ex-husband where you were moving? She’d kept his surname because she liked the sound of it better, but she barely stayed in touch. Still, it bothered her not to tell him she was moving out of town. Not that he’d really give a damn. He was more interested in hearing from his agent about his new spec script.
She decided she just wanted to go. To Quiebra, of all places: to see sister Suze and niece Adair and nephew Cal and just forget her life here. So she took out her cell phone, put her finger on the button, about to switch it off—and of course that’s when it rang.
She sighed. Hesitated—and answered. “Herrrre’s Lacey,” she said into the cell phone.
“Lacey, you still in town?” It was Chuck Fong, her editor at the L.A. Times.
“Can’t talk, Chuck, gotta catch a train to Berkeley.”
“Come on, you can give me a minute. We’re talking about your career here, Lacey. You’ve been with us eight years, and I’ve always backed you up. One time, one time only, I couldn’t do it and—”
“Chuck, my mind’s made up. I
Fifteen minutes later, Waylon found himself rounding a small point that stuck out into a little inlet. On the other side, not even a quarter mile away, was a brightly lit marina thronged with sail-boats. Beside the docks was a steak and fish restaurant.
He followed the curve of a gravelly beach to the marina. As he passed below the surf-and-turf place, he heard people on the restaurant’s deck, which extended over the water under strings of twinkling lightbulbs, talking and drinking as they waited for a table. Someone was speculating about what was supposed to have crashed into the bay.
“I heard it was a small plane,” a woman said.
He almost felt like telling them—telling
someone
—what he had seen, telling them about the chopper and the unnatural soldiers who’d harried him through the brush.
But he was too tired to be laughed at.
He trudged up a boat ramp to the road, stuck out his thumb, and got a ride back to Quiebra with some drunk college students who made fun of the bramble welts on his face.
Thinking to himself,
Of course they were after you, dude. Ever since
the terrorists flew those planes into the World Trade Center and the
Pentagon, the fucking military’s been even more paranoid, ready to nail
anybody who sni fs around. If that wasn’t a crashed UFO, it was probably
a spy satellite. Some sort of top secret shit. What did you expect? The
Shadow Government will track your ass down if you get in its way.
When Waylon got home to the condo, his mom was asleep on the couch, snoring loudly, with the TV on but the sound off. The Shopping Channel. She liked to look at the chintzy things they hawked, but she never bought anything. Her long curly bottle-blond hair was straggling over her open mouth. Wine coolers were lined up on the coffee table, and cigarette butts were spilling out of the ashtrays.
She was still wearing the dark blue dress suit she wore for her paralegal job; she was about forty pounds overweight, and spilling out of it. He pulled her shoes off and drew her long wool coat over her like a blanket.
Then he turned off the TV and went to take a shower.
November 24, midmorning
Lacey Cummings stood on her porch, looking at the eight-foot-high bird-of-paradise plant that nodded in the smoggy breeze like some otherworldly bird. She looked at the sky, blue overhead and gray-brown above the eastern horizon. Then she looked at her packed bags on the doormat and thought,
Am I ready to go or not? Have I got
everything?
She was on the front porch of her rented L.A. bungalow, waiting for the cab—thinking it was crazy to take a cab in L.A. If you weren’t part of the limo set, you bought a car. But she had sold her car; she was going to the train station, for the Coast Starlight to Berkeley.
She wondered if she should call Roger. But since when were you obligated to tell your ex-husband where you were moving? She’d kept his surname because she liked the sound of it better, but she barely stayed in touch. Still, it bothered her not to tell him she was moving out of town. Not that he’d really give a damn. He was more interested in hearing from his agent about his new spec script.
She decided she just wanted to go. To Quiebra, of all places: to see sister Suze and niece Adair and nephew Cal and just forget her life here. So she took out her cell phone, put her finger on the button, about to switch it off—and of course that’s when it rang.
She sighed. Hesitated—and answered. “Herrrre’s Lacey,” she said into the cell phone.
“Lacey, you still in town?” It was Chuck Fong, her editor at the L.A. Times.
“Can’t talk, Chuck, gotta catch a train to Berkeley.”
“Come on, you can give me a minute. We’re talking about your career here, Lacey. You’ve been with us eight years, and I’ve always backed you up. One time, one time only, I couldn’t do it and—”
“Chuck, my mind’s made up. I
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