'He needs your help,' said Hood. 'And so do we.'
She gave them her password and the three of them sat on the couch and watched the laptop screen and waited for Ozburn to reply. After an hour and no message from her husband, Seliah asked them to leave. When Hood asked for the Piper registration number she wrote it hastily on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to him. She stared at the floor as they walked out, then shut the door behind them.
6
When they were gone Seliah put on shorts and a tank top and running shoes and drove down to the pier and parked on the street near the ocean. The tourists were gone by now and the beach was nearly empty. There were lights on in the pier restaurants and a few diners in the sidewalk cafes beside the railroad tracks.
She stretched, then set off north along the tracks, running the edges for a while, then running down the middle of them with the gravel shifting underfoot and the moon leading her on. Her heart felt like a weight inside her, a great, cumbersome anchor that was trying to drag her down. She tried to outrun it but couldn't and it spoke her to anyway: He murdered three men this morning. He murdered three men this morning. Did you, Sean? Gentle Sean, good Sean? Do I believe Charlie and Janet? Do I dare not to?
After the first mile she checked her wristwatch and, just as she suspected, she was faster than two days ago-already fifteen seconds off her last time. Even carrying a heart that felt like an anchor.
She tried to concentrate on her stride and her breathing but all she could think about were the last four weeks. Four weeks and so many strange things for Sean and for herself. First there were Sean's aches and pains and his crazy sexual appetite. Then a few days later he suddenly gets much stronger in the weight room, and his body is still aching and he hears things he shouldn't be able to hear, and his eyes hurt so bad in light that he buys news sunglasses. What causes those things? Flu? Steroids? Drugs? The common cold? The plague? Sean had thought flu at first, but after a few days the symptoms were far stronger and stranger. Then the symptoms would vanish for a day or two. He took no steroids, no prescription drugs, no recreational ones. And he began sounding extreme, almost crazy, in some of his e-mails.
And the extra-weird part, thought Seliah, was that a couple of weeks after Sean got stronger in the weight room, she started getting faster on her runs! And two weeks after Sean started hearing things loudly, even hearing things he shouldn't be able to hear, Seliah start hearing them, too. Just like what happened to Sean, all those near and distant sounds would blend in her brain at night into mysterious, flowing melodies. Some were lovely. And two weeks after all Sean's sensitivity to light and cold, she got those symptoms, too. And she'd become easily angered and provoked. Thoughts of violence came barging into her usually gentle soul. She was either too hot or too cold, and neither seemed to have anything to do with the temperature of where she was. And the insomnia and the sex and the terrifying dreams. My God, she thought, the sex was almost constant the last time we were together. That was two weeks ago, when they snuck a weekend in Las Vegas-snuck it from Sean's criminal partners, from ATF, from the world. Undercover agents did it all the time. She was fairly sure that Charlie Hood suspected but he said nothing. And Sean's crazy sex drive had all but killed me, thought Seliah. And now, now, two weeks later? I could do it again right now. I know I could. I'd love to, hour after hour after hour! And the brightness of the pool water in my eyes? And the roar of tiny noises at night and the pain in my legs and neck and back? All just as Sean had experienced, she thought.
She lengthened her stride and felt the strength in her legs and the amazing endurance that was now hers. She wasn't even breathing that hard. She wondered if all of this shared sensory overload was some kind of sympathetic thing with Sean, like when a man feels his wife's labor pains. Is there really such a thing? How can I feel what he feels? Am I just lonely and afraid? Am I just making all this up? Dr. Clements had taken her temperature and looked into her ears and nose and throat and pronounced flu. Rest, plenty of fluids. Would twenty- four hours of sex and a couple of gallons of sports drinks spiked with vodka count? And of course Sean wouldn't see a doctor if he was well enough to walk through the office door. He had never been sick a day in his life. Until now.
She continued north between the tracks. She remembered the dream she was having early this morning, at about the time that her husband was allegedly gunning down three young men for reasons unknown. In the dream she had been ravenously thirsty, but water was revolting to her and sports drinks and sodas and juices and beer were all sickening to her body and soul. But she found one thing that really hit the spot, and she had drunk so much blood out of Sean that he was white and blue-lipped. But he offered his neck so she could have more! What the hell has gotten into you, girl? Maybe time to cool it on the vampire books and movies and TV shows. Isn't there enough trouble in your life without feeding your inner devils? But why were those bloody and ridiculous stories so… delicious? So compelling? A few short weeks ago she was dreaming of having babies. Wholesome dreams of beautiful daughters, beautiful sons. Hers and Sean's. Soon, she had thought-it's almost time for that part of our lives. When the undercover mission was finally accomplished they would be ready. Now this. Maybe the thirst for sex and the baby were part of the same larger desire, she thought. One led to the other.
She was pouring sweat now and the sounds were condensing around her: the shuffle of the waves on the beach and the plane droning overhead and the resounding clash of the rocks under her shoes, and she heard the Coaster train coming up behind her while it was still miles away, long before the approach lights began flashing and the train sounded its deafening whistle.
She glanced over her shoulder just once and stayed between the dully shining tracks, and she heard the warning blast again, much closer this time; then she heard it again. She heard the engineer screaming at her, or believed she did. Then she veered to her left and jumped down the embankment, leaping across the boulders toward the beach as the train howled past. She could feel the pull of its slipstream. The roar was almost unbearable to her. She hit the sand and sprinted to keep up with the Coaster, and for a moment it looked like she could stay even with it but the passenger windows began to outdistance her slowly, then quickly. She cut down near the water, laughing, and continued north. When she got home she wrote an e-mail letter to her husband. It didn't have the rational, somber tone of her last one-the one suggested by Charlie and Janet. This one came straight from her heart. She told him of her passion, her loyalty, her love, her need of him. She pledged herself to him again, 'til death do us part, and she promised to find a way to help him on this strange and terrible thing he needed to do. If you needed to stop three professional killers, okay, Sean. It changes nothing in us. And if we have to manipulate ATF and Blowdown and our formerly true friend Charlie Hood, then so be it. I am yours and you are mine and together we are greater than two. We can do anything.
7
That evening Bradley Jones had sat through his first roll call as a sworn deputy of the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department. He was dark-haired and handsome, and seemed to be paying his usual half attention to things. He had turned twenty and a half years old the day before and was now eligible to work patrol. He was profoundly hungover from celebrating that milestone with his wife and some friends. This was his first shift working anywhere but the jail and he had an idea about how to make it special. Maybe even unforgettable. He stifled a yawn.
'Jones, you counting sheep?'
'Blessings, sir.'
'We can send you back to the jail day shift if you can't stay up this late.'
'I'm alert, sir.'
'Look the part. Okay, here's tonight's headline: ten-year-old boy kidnapped right out of his own living room in Cudahy this afternoon; shots fired but nobody hit. His name is Stevie Carrasco and here's what he looks like.'
The sergeant tapped his keyboard and a picture of the boy appeared on the briefing room monitor.
'This mug is already downloaded to the data terminals in the cars, so use the MDT if you think you see him. The kidnapping might be a gang thing because said ten-year-old is son of an Eme gangster with ties to some Mex cartel. And you know, these fuckin' cartel animals kidnap and murder each other's wives and kids like it's a sport. So…'
