The Midnight Tour

—miles of rough, rocky bluffs with patches of sandy beach down below, the ocean’s frothy rows of combers rolling in. The water was pale blue and glinting sunlight. Far off to the west, a bank of fog lay across the water like a mat of snow.

To the right, she could see densely wooded hillsides and cloudless sky.

This is the life, she thought.

If you don’t mind biding your life away in the bills with a monster.

She felt a quick flush of guilt.

He’s my kid, she told herself. He is my life.

He’s a monster.

But he’s mine and I love him. And what choice do I have, anyway ?

She knew the choices.

She’d thought about them many times.

Alone during her long drives into town, she rarely failed to think about the choices.

There were only two, really. Either continue hiding out with Eric, or leave him.

It’s not as if he really needs me anymore, she thought. He could get along just fine on his own.

Years ago, Eric had started chasing down and killing wild animals (and sometimes people) for his meals. He ate them where they fell, though he often brought back gifts of meat for Sandy to cook up for herself. Sure, he enjoyed special treats like pizza, popcorn, cake, chocolate chip cookies—but he didn’t need anything like that.

Didn’t need Sandy at all, really.

Sure, he’d miss me. He’d miss his mom. But he could get along just fine without me.

And I’d be free. I could have my own life.

Without him.

She felt hot and sick with guilt...and with a vast, overwhelming loneliness.

I couldn’t, she thought. I could never betray him like that. And God, I’d miss him. I just couldn’t.

But the alternative seemed almost as terrible.

To spend her whole life in that little cabin, all alone except for Eric. No lovers, no real children.

Real?

Again, guilt surged through her.

You know what I mean, she thought. I know he’s real. Do I ever! But my God, is it so awful to wish for a normal life? A husband and human kids?

It’s not that I don’t love Eric, but...

“Shit,” she said.

She hated thinking about these things.

Just then, the song came on. The song she liked best. The weird and spooky ballad about Roland, the headless Thompson gunner.

She sang along with it and tried not to think about such matters as Eric and freedom.

It was after ten o’clock by the time she drove over the bridge and entered town. At a public phone inside the Sea Breeze Cafe, she dropped in a quarter and tapped in a number that she knew by heart.

After two rings, a familiar voice asked, “May help you?”

“Hi, Blaze, it’s me.”

“Darrriing!”

“Could you use me today?”

“Could I? Of course! When could I not use you?”

Just thought I’d check. Make sure you’re not off on a cruise or something.”

“Oh, perish the thought! I may never go on a cruise again. I thought I’d die! Several people did! Ha!”

“Fun. Anyway, do you want me to come up to your place or should I meet you somewhere, or...?”

“Oh, come here first. If we decide on an outing, I’ll drive.”

“Okay. Great. See you in a white.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The Sea Breeze.”

“Ah. Then I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

“So long, Blaze,” she said, and hung up.

She drove down the main street of Fort Platt. The town had a bay with a wharf and plenty of boats, but she knew of no military installation in the area. Maybe they should’ve called it Port Platt.

It always reminded her of Malcasa Point. Not that the two towns had much in common. Fort Platt sure didn’t have any tacky attractions like Beast House. It wasn’t very big on bait shops, liquor stores or cheap souvenir shops like Malcasa, either. No way. Fort Platt was a class act Or so it seemed to fancy itself,

Like many other communities along the California coast, it had long ago acquired the reputation of being an “artist’s colony.” By the time Sandy had first ventured there, late in 1980, it had already mutated into a trendy vacation area.

The main road was lined with picturesque restaurants, boutiques selling candles and tea and handicrafts, bookstores that smelled of incense and carried books by environmentalists and obscure poets, and galleries featuring the works of local artists.

Such as Blaze O’Glory.

Just beyond the north end of town, Sandy turned right onto Buena Vista Parkway and headed inland. She followed the broad curvy road into the hills, turned onto Emerald Drive, then onto the narrow, twisty Crestline Lane. It led to the entrance of Blaze’s driveway.

Stopping at the bottom of the steep driveway, she shifted to first gear. Then she started forward. The front of her pickup tilted toward the sky and she felt her weight shift against the seatback.

At the top, her hood lowered. She felt as if she were coming in for a landing—on a runway in front of a fabulous house made of glass and weathered wood.

She left her car in a parking area near the garage, then walked past the front of the house and climbed a dozen slate stairs to the porch.

She pressed the doorbell button.

Inside the house, chimes rang out a tune. The one about wanting a gal just like the gal who married dear old Dad.

She chuckled and shook her head.

Blaze opened the door. “My dear!” he cried out and flung his arms wide.

Sandy stepped over the threshold.

He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her.

She gave his back a couple of pats. He was wearing a silk kimono. The fabric felt slick under her hands, and the heat of his skin radiated through it.

He eased her away and held her by the arms. “Look at you. Oh, just look at you. Gorgeous! Absolutely gorgeous! As ever. Never change, darling! Whatever you do, never change!”

“You look pretty good yourself, she said.

Oh, dear, I know. I know! Ha! I look totally fabulous, don’t I?”

“As ever.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you chose today to come by. You’ve absolutely made my day.” He swept her aside, then closed the front door and whirled around to face her. “Oh, I do miss you when you’re gone. You’re such a delight! I do wish you’d move in. I have oodles of room.”