Last Light
Author: Dean Koontz
Date: 2015-09-08 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Thriller; Fiction; Novella; Mystery; Fantasy; Short Stories; Mystery Thriller; Paranormal
Description: From bestselling author Dean Koontz comes an eBook original novella, the first of two tales that pave the way for Ashley Bell, his new novel of dark suspense! A woman with a good heart and a troubling gift. A man with a twisted soul and a terrifying talent. In this literal war of wills, only one can survive. With just a touch, Makani Hisoka-O’Brien can see the deepest secrets that others conceal—and it frightens her. There’s danger in the terrible knowledge that floods her mind and haunts her conscience. With just a touch, Rainer Sparks can learn the biggest problems that others bear—and it th
Publisher: Bantam

Last Light is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Bantam Books eBook Original

Copyright © 2015 by Dean Koontz

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

BANTAM BOOKS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

eBook ISBN 9780804181167

Cover design: Scott Biel

Cover image: Andreas Koeber/Shutterstock
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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1: Look but Don’t Touch

Chapter 2: Desperate to Escape Hawaii

Chapter 3: Inside the Beautiful Man

Chapter 4: Taking the Drop

Chapter 5: More Alone Than Any Girl Has Ever Been

Chapter 6: On the Die

Chapter 7: Round One

Chapter 8: Named for the Wind

Chapter 9: Where, Oh, Where Has My Little Dog Gone?

Chapter 10: You Don’t Find Life by Fleeing from It

Chapter 11: Beauty Sleeps

Chapter 12: Beast Awakens

Chapter 13: Round Two

Chapter 14: Thunder Crusher

Chapter 15: Who Are We If We Are Not Us?

Chapter 16: Round Three

Author’s Note

By Dean Koontz

About the Author

1

Look but Don’t Touch

When Makani Hisoka-O’Brien met the murderer, she thought he was a nice guy, perhaps just the one with whom she might want to share her life.

That warm Wednesday in August, the Southern California sky was as wide as the universe, as deep as infinity, as blue as Makani’s eyes, and she could no more resist the call of the ocean than she could switch off her compulsion to breathe.

Her mother, Kiku, insisted that Makani had been born in the ocean, even though in fact she had been born on the island of Oahu, in a Honolulu hospital. What her sweet mahuakine meant was that Makani had been conceived in the sea, in the gently breaking surf, on a deserted and moonlit beach. Makani had pieced this saucy truth together from a series of little things her parents had said over the years and from looks they exchanged and meaningful smiles they shared. Although she was a native Hawaiian, Kiku had been taught reserve and discretion by her traditionalist Japanese mother; she would not speak of lovemaking in any but the most oblique fashion. Heeding the call of the surf, the bed of her conception, Makani drove her street rod, a glossy black ’54 Chevrolet Bel Air that had been chopped and shaved and peaked and frenched and sparkled, to Balboa Peninsula, the land mass that shielded Newport Harbor from the open sea. The Chevy purred like a panther, because she had dropped into it a GM Performance Parts high-output 383ci small-block V-8. She wasn’t a street racer, but if California was ever plagued by road bandits, she would be able to outrun them all.

She parked in a residential neighborhood half a block from the peninsula-point park, in the shade of an ancient podocarpus. Her surfboard hung in a custom sling in the backseat, safer than she was in a driver’s shoulder harness. She zippered open the vinyl, freed the board, and set off for the beach.

In a bikini, she was a flame that drew young men as surely as a porch lamp at night enchanted moths, but this day was not about boys. This day was about the sea and its power, its beauty, its challenge. In medium-length boardshorts, a sports bra, and a white T-shirt, Makani presented herself as a dedicated boardhead, warning off the testosterone crowd.

One of the most famous surfing destinations in the world was the Wedge, formed by a pristine beach and the breakwater of stacked boulders that protected the entrance channel to Newport Harbor. On other days, when the waves were behemoths, smoking in from a South Pacific storm a few thousand miles away, surfers were in danger of being driven onto the rocks. Some had died there.

Makani walked the wet, compacted sand up-peninsula for about a hundred fifty yards, giving the Wedge the respect it deserved. The waves were maybe eight to nine feet, glassy, pumping nicely, in sets of four and five, with calmer conditions between. She waited for the sea to slack off briefly before she paddled out to the lineup. Other surfers straddled their boards, anticipating the next swell, all of them guys and good citizens who kept their distance from one another and were unlikely to snake someone else’s wave. One surfer, one wave was a natural law.

She had to wait through two sets before her turn came with the third. She caught one of the largest swells she had yet seen, rising from two knees to one and then to her feet. She executed a floater off the curling lip, and as she slanted down the face, she realized the breaker was big enough and had sufficient energy to hollow out.

She walked the board in a crouch as the tube formed around her, and she was in the greenhouse, the glasshouse, which glowed with verdant sunlight fractured by the flowing lens of water into kaleidoscopic fragments.

Riding the tube was the greatest thrill in surfing. There could have been no better start to the session. As usually happened when the swells formed high, she found herself deep in the thrall of the Pacific, all sense of time washed away. As the hours passed, she spoke to no one, communed only with the sea, in a kind of pleasant trance.

On two different occasions, she became aware of a man standing on the shore, beside his board, taking a break from the action. Tall and tan, with sculpted muscles and a thatch of sun-bleached hair, he appeared as radiant as a demigod. The first time she saw him, she thought he might be watching her. The second time, she was sure of it. But the sea proved more powerful and more alluring than a demigod, and she forgot him as successive swells gradually moved her down-peninsula toward the Wedge.

When she considered calling it a day, wading out of the foaming breakers with her board, she checked her GPS surf watch, expecting the time to be about 3:30, but it was 5:15. Her legs should have been aching, but they were not. No weariness attended her, though she was famished.

Back at her ’54 Chevy, the westering sun slanted through the limbs of the podocarpus and projected spiral galaxies of somber light on the deep-space black of the car’s hood. She stowed her board in the sling bag. Because her hair was wet and her clothes were damp, she retrieved a beach towel from the trunk, intending to drape it over the driver’s seat. When she closed the lid of the trunk, the demigod was standing on the sidewalk, only a few feet away, watching her.

He said, “Hey, you were amazing out there. Totally stylin’.”

Close-up, the guy was beyond gorgeous, but he didn’t play the moment as if he were a hunk. He didn’t use his physical perfection. He had pulled on a T-shirt with the Volcom TRUE TO THIS slogan and wore over it an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt with a pattern of surfing penguins. He had a disarming boyish quality.

“I was just in the zone,” she said. “It happens every great once in a while.”

“That wasn’t just a good day. That was serious skill. You ever compete?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Only with myself.”

“You should maybe go pro. You’d rock it.”

He wasn’t her type. With one exception, she had found that guys who were knockout handsome were so into themselves that their primary romance would always be with a mirror.

She said, “Go pro and have to travel the circuit? I’m happy here.”

“What’s not to like about Newport, huh? I’m Rainer Sparks.”

When he didn’t offer his hand, she was relieved. She didn’t touch just anyone. She had her reasons.

“I’m Makani.”

“Gotta tell you, Makani, this car is radical. A real beauty.”

“Built it myself. Well, me and my guys. My employees. I have a custom hot-rod shop.”

He grinned and shook his head. Even his teeth were perfect. “So you ride the waves like Kaha Huna, build hot rods, look the way you look…”

Kaha Huna was the Hawaiian goddess of surfing. Makani liked being compared to Kaha Huna. She’d been desperate to escape Hawaii, but she was proud of her heritage.

He said, “You should have a reality TV show. Except you’re too real for that.”

If he was making a move on her—and he was—he had an agreeable way of doing it.

She wasn’t a virgin, but she wasn’t easy. She believed an ideal man existed out there somewhere, her destiny, and the worst way to find him would be to try every bozo who winked at her. She had been alone for more than a year, however, and “Lonely Surfer” definitely wasn’t her favorite song.

“Hey, the way you were slashing those waves, you must’ve worked up a monster appetite. Maybe I could take you to dinner?” When she hesitated, he said, “I know, I know, a million guys must be always hitting on you. I sympathize. Guys are always hitting on me, too, and it’s so boring.”

Damn, he was also amusing. “It’s not that,” she said. “I’m a mess and not in a mood to go home and prettify.”

“Me, too,” he said, though he looked as if he had stepped out of a glamour spread in Foam Symmetry magazine. “We just go now, the way we are. You know Sharkin’?”

Sharkin’ was boardhead lingo for surfing, but it was also the name of a funky restaurant in the vicinity of the nearer of the peninsula’s two piers, a casual place where barefoot customers in beachwear were welcome.

As the lyrics of “Lonely Surfer” rose in memory, Makani could not justify saying no, so she said yes.

Rainer reacted as if he were a teenage boy who couldn’t believe his luck. He nodded repeatedly. “All right, okay, cool, so then…see you at Sharkin’.” And he pumped one fist. “I’ll leave now. I’ll get there first. Snare a table.” He dashed across the narrow street to a white Mercedes SUV, a big GL550, and called back to her, “Don’t stand me up. I’d get drunk if you did, and throw myself off the end of the pier. To my death.”

“I wouldn’t want that.”

“No, you wouldn’t. ’Cause I’d haunt you.”

She watched him drive away before draping the beach towel over the driver’s seat of her Chevy.

The Mercedes had helped her overcome any lingering doubt about having dinner with him. She didn’t care all that much about money, because she lived simply and had a bit-more-than-modest trust fund from her maternal grandfather, which she had come into when she turned twenty, almost six years earlier. Already, only five years after she opened for business, the customized cars that came out of her shop were legendary among hot-rodders; she could book as much work as she wanted. Rainer Sparks’s Mercedes SUV mattered only because it seemed to be proof that he wasn’t one of those boardheads who bunked with five other surf bums in a dilapidated house trailer, subsisting off government disability payments that he fraudulently obtained, living only to ride the waves. Makani loved the surfer culture, the community, but it had its share of wankers, and falling in love with one of them would be no less self-destructive than going for a long swim in the cooling pond at a nuclear power plant.

Getting behind the steering wheel, pulling the door shut, starting the engine, she smiled at the memory of his boyish reaction to her acceptance of his invitation. He was tall, buffed, gorgeous, funny, sweet, and apparently successful. Maybe he was, at last, the One.

When they first touched, she might know in that instant whether Rainer Sparks was her future or not. What else she learned upon making contact, skin to skin, was the one remaining cloud over a lovely dinner date.

2

Desperate to Escape Hawaii

Makani could have driven to the restaurant in three minutes, but she took ten, winding through the residential streets of the peninsula point, doubling back on herself, the windshield dappled with continuously changing laceworks of sunlight and leaf shadows, while she recalled her life in Hawaii.

After only six years, those days and places seemed like threads and figurations in a tapestry of dreams: the tropical forests and the pineapple fields and the dormant volcanoes that were ancient gods sleeping but aware, the sudden rains and the many waterfalls of the Ko’olau mountains, the refreshing trade winds….

She missed all of it. Now and then she suffered a long day of sadness when she realized too poignantly how the paradise of her childhood and adolescence was slowly fading from the fabric of her soul.

Most of all, she missed her mother and father. Great-Aunt Lokemele. Grandmother Kolokea. Uncle Pilipo, who preferred to be called by the English equivalent—Philip. Her sister, Janice. Her brother, Robert, who answered only to his Hawaiian name—Lopaka.

She longed for all the others as well, both blood kin and friends, whom she had left behind.

Since she had been sixteen, however, life had grown steadily more difficult when lived among so many people whom she loved. At that age, her gift came upon her suddenly and without explanation. The gift—or perhaps curse—was to discover, by the merest touch, other people’s darkest secrets.

Her family and friends were good people, struggling to live with grace and with consideration for others. They were not angels, however, not a one of them, but human beings with weaknesses and faults. Just like Makani herself. Compared to outrages that were committed by others in this fallen world, the desires of her loved ones, their moments of envy, and their less-than-noble urges were almost innocent. Yet that unwanted knowledge changed how Makani regarded each person; to preserve the image of them that she had harbored before the power came upon her, she found herself taking their hands less often, kissing them hardly at all, and even shrinking from their touch.

Her plight grew worse year by year, because in time she became even more sensitive to the current darkest secret of anyone she knew too well. With friends and family, the touch no longer needed to be skin to skin. A hand placed affectionately upon her shoulder would transmit through her clothing the smoldering resentment or ignoble desire preoccupying the person at that moment.

One day, having lost a boy whose love she’d sought, Janice envied Makani the blue eyes inherited from their Irish father, and petulantly wished on her younger sister some misfortune that would rob her of her good looks.

Robert, who insisted on being Lopaka, had once been angered that a coworker had received an unearned promotion. He wished ardently that he could think of a way to frame the man for some transgression that would get him fired.

Janice’s envy would pass. She loved Makani no less than Makani loved her. Neither of them would hurt the other or rejoice in the other’s misery. Likewise, Robert was too morally centered to act upon his unworthy desire.

If Makani had been able to read entire minds or at least to see a wider spectrum of a person’s thoughts, her strange talent might have been more tolerable. When the touch occurred, if the person was not in the grip of a bitter resentment or a hateful coveting, or a most violent urge, Makani received no psychic input. She was attuned solely to vile and intensely felt emotions and desires that people would never willingly reveal. She was made aware of only the most low-minded, most mean-spirited, wickedest secret or unexpressed craving. As a consequence, she found it increasingly difficult to remain always aware that the glimpse she was given into the other’s heart was not the sum of the person, not even indicative of the true self, but only a minuscule fraction of his or her real nature.

To spare herself the repeated traumas that might eventually have made her cynical, that might have led to a distrust of those she loved the most, she had self-exiled from glorious Oahu just after her twentieth birthday.

She had made friends here on the mainland; but she wasn’t as close to them as she might have been. She engineered relationships that were more formal than usual in casual Southern California, less touchy-feely. Inevitably, she spent more time alone than she would have liked to.

Taking a lover involved more emotional risk, a greater chance of heartbreak, for her than for people who were not burdened with her paranormal talent. In moments of the greatest intimacy, when she succumbed to passion, she seemed more psychically receptive than usual, and if her partner harbored excessive animosity toward anyone or hid from the world a repugnant desire, he might disclose it in his rapture.

She had no intention of taking Rainer Sparks into her bed this day. Perhaps never. But so far she liked him. The mere possibility of shared intimacy, of affection and friendship that might grow into love, had lifted her spirits as much as had the hours riding waves. So she dawdled now, winding through the streets of the peninsula point, afraid that the prospect of a normal relationship would be snatched from her if she dared to reach for it.

Finally she parked in the public lot near the pier. She pulled on a light long-sleeve wrap that matched her boardshorts and stood beside her car for a minute or two, listening to the liquid booming of the breakers pounding the shore, the sound of eternity declaring itself—and therefore the voice of hope.

She walked to Sharkin’, the restaurant, where Rainer waited in a booth. How handsome he was. And how he seemed to adore her when he saw her approaching.

3

Inside the Beautiful Man

Suspended from the ceiling were life-size sharks that were not plastic replicas, but real specimens preserved by a taxidermist, as sinuous as they would have been when swimming, as if searching now for yet another meal. On the walls hung colorful custom surfboards and photographs of local surfing celebrities dating from the 1930s to the present. Slabs of koa for tabletops, red and lustrous and sensuously figured. Dick Dale and the Deltones, the Beach Boys, the Ventures, Santo & Johnny, the Chantays, Jan and Dean for nostalgic background music. Slices of lime garnishing the beer glasses. It might have seemed too theme-restaurant in style if the details hadn’t been right and real, and if the owners hadn’t been lifelong surfers.

After a long drink of ice-cold beer, while Rainer scanned the familiar menu, Makani said, “What do you do when you’re not watching girls on the beach?”

“I’ve been known to paddle out and take some waves myself.”

“I didn’t see you on the ride today.”

“You wouldn’t have, not as into it as you were.”

“I was into it,” she admitted.

“I suspect you’re always into it. I’ve never seen such concentration.” He put the menu aside. “So where’d you first learn to surf?”

“Oahu. I was born there.”

“Hamakuapoko?” he asked, naming a popular and sometimes difficult surfing location on Oahu.

“I learned some there. Here, there, and everywhere on the island, from when I was seven and only bodyboarding.”

“Nuumehalani?” he asked, and then he translated, perhaps to impress her with the fact that he knew more than just the name. “ ‘The heavenly site where you are alone.’ It means alone with the gods, no matter how many people might be there.”

“Sure. Went there so often, I maybe could have staked a claim to part of the beach.”

Something like delight enlivened his face. While he tipped his beer to his lips and drank, Makani waited to hear what amused him.

He licked the foam off his lips and put down the glass and said, “I saw you there once.”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t been in Oahu in more than five years.”

“This was ten years ago. I was a month short of my twenty-first birthday, in the islands on business, wanted to catch some waves. A weekday in October. You were with three girls, a couple of boys. You were wearing a yellow bikini.”

“Must be a million girls with yellow bikinis.”

“You were riding a Mayhem by Lost Boards,” he said.

Surprised, she said, “I loved that board. I broke it two months later when I bailed out on a big set.”

“Couldn’t be two girls in the world who looked like you, with those eyes, and riding a Mayhem.”

“You recognized me right away, out there today?”

“At first sight.”

“Get real.”

“It’s true.”

She was flattered, but also embarrassed. “I don’t remember you.”

“Why would you? You were with your crew, having a great time.”

That October, ten years earlier, the unwanted gift of psychic insight had not yet been given to her. She had been normal. Free.

“I admired you from a distance,” he said. “Almost approached you to say ’sup, or something just as stupid. Then I realized you must be the same age as the other kids, fifteen or sixteen. And I was almost twenty-one. Wouldn’t have been right.”

Makani didn’t blush easily, but she blushed now.

“That day,” Rainer said, “you were so radical, so live, the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.”

Flattery had always embarrassed her. Virtually from the cradle, her mother had taught her that humility was a virtue as important as honesty, just as she had been taught by her mother, Grandma Kolokea. Now Makani could respond to Rainer’s admiration only with gentle sarcasm: “What—were you blind until that day?”

“Well, I’m not blind now,” he said, compounding the flattery and her embarrassment.

To gain time to catch her breath, she said, “You were in Oahu on business that day? What business are you in?”

“I’m a facilitator,” he said, and sipped his beer, as if that one word should say it all.

“Facilitator? What do you facilitate?”

“Negotiations, transactions, financial arrangements.”

“Sounds important. You were doing all that when you were just twenty?”

He shrugged. “I like people. I’ve always had this ability to, you know, bring them together when all they want is to be arguing with each other. I can’t stand people fighting, always looking for a reason to be at each other’s throats.” A solemnity overcame him. An underlying pallor seemed to leach some of the glow out of his tan. He looked down at the table. “When I was a little kid, I saw enough of that. My old man, my mom. Too much drinking, so much anger. I couldn’t do a thing about…the brutality.” He looked up with repressed tears in his eyes. “We get only one life. We shouldn’t waste a day of it in anger.”

Because Makani knew too well the darker corners of the human heart, she sympathized with his childhood trauma and hoped that things might develop between them in such a way that she could be a comfort to him.

“You facilitate between businesses?” she asked. “In the surfing world?”

“Yeah, exactly. I did what every surf mongrel dreams of doing—found a way to make a living out of living the waves.”

She didn’t know the rules of poker, didn’t know how to read another player’s tells, but suddenly something about his smile or maybe a certain glint in his eyes, or the faintest hint of arrogance in the slight lifting of his chin, suggested to her that he might be lying about his work.

She must be wrong. He was such a big strong man, yet he didn’t use his size to intimidate. There he sat in his surfing-penguins shirt, like an overgrown boy, as sweet as anything. Her suspicion no doubt resulted from the uncounted times that her paranormal talent had revealed to her someone’s well-concealed deceit.

If she allowed unalloyed cynicism to settle in her heart, she would never trust anyone again. She’d have no hope of friendship, and certainly no chance of ever sharing her life with a man. The possibility of a life alone already gave her sleepless nights; the certainty of it would bring a depression that not even the consoling sea, with all its power and beauty, could relieve.

Pushing aside his half-finished beer, folding his hands on the table, leaning forward, Rainer said, “This is all a little awkward for me. I mean, I’ve thought about you for ten years, and never for a minute imagined I’d ever see you again. But here you are.”

“For real, now—you can’t have been thinking of me for ten years,” she said, though she wanted to believe that what he’d said was more true than not.

“Not every minute, ’course not. More often than you’d believe. When the waves were big and glassy and offshore and pumping, when it was a perfect day, then you kind of walked out of the back of my mind, as vivid as when I first saw you, as if you had to be there for it to really be a perfect day. Is it too much to believe that a man could see a woman across a crowded room or on the beach and be so drawn to her that he feels everything is about to change? But then, for whatever reason, he never has the chance to meet her, and so he’s haunted by that lost opportunity, by her, for years after? Do you think that sort of thing only happens in novels?”

Makani smiled knowingly, pushed her beer aside, folded her hands on the table, leaned forward as he had done, and took refuge in defensive sarcasm. “Haunted? Rainer, you seem to be a dear man, you really do. But what will you tell me next—that you’ve saved yourself for me all these years, that you’ve been as celibate as a monk? A guy who looks like you, a babe magnet?”

He regarded her with grave seriousness, met her eyes and did not look away. “Not at all. There have been women. I’ve been fond of all those girls, loved one. But never loved one enough. Never had that…electrifying moment, though I’ve hoped for it. I’ll promise you this—take me seriously, give me a chance, more dates than just this one, and I won’t pressure you to be intimate, not once, never. If that happens, it’ll be when you want it to. Whether it takes a year, longer, I don’t care. Your company, companionship, the sight of you—that’ll be enough for me until it’s not enough for you.”

He had rendered her speechless. Any guy she’d ever known would have delivered that pitch in such a way that insincerity would have dripped from every word. But from Rainer, it sounded as genuine as an innocent child’s pledge of fealty to a friend. When she found her voice, she said, “I’m not used to conversations like this, moving this fast. I’m not sure about the territory.”

“Makani, do you believe in hopena?”

“Destiny?” She thought of the unsought and burdensome gift that fate—or something in its guise—had bestowed upon her. “Have to say, I’ve had reason to wonder about it.”

“Have you?”

“Who hasn’t? Sometimes, it seems, things happen for no reason. You know? An effect without a cause. Crazy things.”

His right hand unfolded from his left. He reached across the table to her.

The moment had come. Skin to skin. All the dangers of a touch.

If she didn’t take his hand, he’d be stung by her rejection.

The possibility of a relationship was at stake.

Perhaps she had lied to herself. Perhaps she preferred to be alone. Her hesitation suggested as much.

No. She hadn’t been conceived in passion—and in the surf—only for a life of loneliness.

He would be either what he appeared to be or in some way a lesser man. She had nothing to lose. Except hope. Again.

She took his hand, and knew him for the monster that he was.

4

Taking the Drop

When a surfer came over the top of a wave, using its velocity to remain ahead of the curl, he was “taking the drop,” and ahead lay either a sweet ride or a wipeout, depending largely on his skill and on the steepness of the curved face of the wave, between its crest and trough. If the drop went wrong, rider and board could go into free fall down the face and either wipe out or recover just well enough to claim a tie with the ocean.

In a sense, Makani was taking the drop when she accepted Rainer’s hand, and the wave down which she plummeted in free fall was storm-dark and menacing and strange. In the few dreadful seconds that followed the touch, surging out of the darkness at the man’s core and into her mind were faces of women and men, of children, mouths open in silent screams, eyes wide with terror, plus treasured and well-remembered patterns of blood in the gallery of his memory, because blood was art to him, blood his passion, blood his money, too, and in his mind the images of spilling blood were confused with thick gouts of hundred-dollar bills gushing from the wounds of his victims, murder for money, murder for pleasure, murder for murder’s sake. She saw herself, too, an object of intense desire, imagined in multiple poses, naked and vulnerable and chillingly submissive. During this deluge of shocking images, she sensed as well that he was in some way like her, that by touch he discovered his victims and learned why he would profit by the killing of them.

The contact was far more intense than any she had previously experienced, as if she had grasped a cable through which surged a powerful current, so that she couldn’t easily let go. When she snatched her hand from his, the disconnection stung, produced a snapping-sizzling sound that arced within her head, by some route other than her ears.

His look of astonishment no doubt matched hers. But with a swiftness that suggested the mental reflexes of a perfect predator, his face was subtly reworked by cunning; and in his eyes—gray with green striations—the warmth of an enchanted would-be lover had given way to icy calculation.

He said, “I didn’t know there were others like me.”

She wasn’t like him in any way but one. She suffered with the psychic curse that was to this man a treasured gift. He had shaped himself into a nihilistic beast who believed all other lives were his to exploit, a creature with no morals and no limits.

Almost too late, Makani realized that he might not have seen into her as deeply as she had seen into him, that he might know nothing more of her than that she possessed a power similar to his. If she expressed loathing or fear, if she called him an abomination, he would at once be her enemy, and the calculation in his eyes would become venomous intent. If perhaps he thought she reveled in her wild talent, as he did, that she shared his contempt for ordinary humanity, she could buy time to think of some way to deal with—or escape—him.

He leaned back in the booth. “That’s why you rocked me so hard when I first saw you, aside from your obvious charms.”

Surveying the other customers, the busy waiters, Makani said, “Be careful what you say,” as if he and she were conspirators and never could be adversaries.

“Don’t worry about them,” he said. “I never have. Never will.”

“Be careful just the same,” she insisted, and she drained the last of her beer. Then she said what seemed to be something she would have said if indeed she had been a cold-blooded specimen like him. “No point in spooking the sheep. I need another round.”

No sooner had Makani spoken than their waitress appeared as if she had been commanded to attend them, and Rainer ordered two more bottles of Corona with fresh frosted glasses.

“When did the power first come to you?” he asked.

“I was sixteen. Two months after you saw me on the beach. How old were you when it happened?”

“Fourteen. Does anyone know?”

“Who would believe? Why would I tell? Have you told?”

“Hell, no. It’s like being an adult in a world of helpless children, except that if you pretend to be a child like them, you totally rule the playground.”

She glanced at nearby diners and said, “Quieter, okay? Maybe they’re children by comparison, but children can be as mean as snakes, and they way outnumber us.”

Adopting a stage whisper that probably carried as far as his normal voice, Rainer said, “I’ll be as discreet as a confessor.”

She glared at him. “I’m serious.”

“I know. It’s real cute.” Leaning forward, dropping the stage whisper, but speaking no more discreetly than before, he said, “What exactly does your touch bring you?”

She dared not say that she saw the wickedness in people, their darker and darkest secrets. Because she had read him so completely in mere seconds, she claimed that her gift was what she knew his to be. She spoke softly as she lied. “I see whatever their biggest problem is at the moment, what worries and frustrates them.”

“With that, you could make yourself everyone’s best friend.”

She smiled. “They think I’m way sensitive and caring.”

“You look the sensitive and caring type.”

“Screw them,” she said.

“You have a huge advantage in any relationship—especially if in fact you don’t give a shit about them. Sweet, isn’t it?”

“Sweet,” she agreed. She felt increasingly confident that he didn’t know how profoundly she had read him, and that he had not read her as deeply as he’d been read.

The waitress returned with two cold beers and frosted glasses. “Ready to order dinner yet?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Makani said. “Give us ten minutes.”

“Oh, sure, take your time.”

“And you?” Makani asked Rainer when the waitress had gone. “What comes to you with a touch?”

“Same as you. Their biggest problem, the thing obsessing them. Maybe she has a filthy-rich husband she despises, she needs him gone forever. Or maybe it’s the rich husband, he has this much younger wife who was a mistake, and she pumped out a baby he never wanted, and a divorce will cost too much. I’m their problem solver.” As he tipped his bottle and poured beer into the glass, he said, “What’s my biggest problem, Makani? What did you see when you took my hand?”

She told part of the truth now that it served her to do so. “You’re unique. You have no problem. At least I didn’t see anything that’s troubling or frustrating you.”

“And you saw that I have the power.”

“Felt it, knew it, more than saw it. Almost like an electrical shock. It would’ve knocked me down if I’d been standing. Like you, I always thought there was…only me.”

“Neither of us should ever have a problem, a frustration,” he said. “With the power, I’m king of the world. You’re a queen among billions of clueless commoners.” He leaned forward, regarding her with desire that earlier she had welcomed and that now sickened her. “Before you took my hand, before we touched, I asked if you believed in destiny. You said sometimes you wonder. Well, now you know. That we should meet, that we should want each other even before we knew we were alike…that’s the very definition of destiny.”

She would have to kill him. She was shaken by the realization. Sickened. But she would not bed him, could not abide him. Seduction was quickening toward consummation. If her previous interest in him did not gain heat, even as his was going from embers to full flame, he would suspect that she was deceiving him. She didn’t have a gun. He was bigger than she was, stronger. When they were alone, while he still thought their kingdoms would combine, she would need a knife and a moment when he turned his back.

Makani was surprised that she could conjure a lascivious smile. “What will it be like, us two, all your power in all of mine?”

“We’ll shake the walls,” he said. “But one thing worries me. I have no problem, but you do. And your problem, as I saw it, is that you hate the power you’ve been given.”

“But I don’t,” she lied.

“But you do.” Sadness was not in his nature, so he had to craft a sad smile. “With the touch, I read you no less than you read me. I know what I saw. And I know what you saw. So many murders. And so many more to come—starting with you.”

5

More Alone Than Any Girl Has Ever Been

Having announced his intention to kill her in a conversational tone of voice, Rainer Sparks said, “Oh, should I have whispered such an incriminating threat? Have I endangered myself? Well, actually, no, I haven’t. Do you know why?”

She would not show fear. She said, “I’m sure you’ll tell me,” and took a sip of her beer.

“Pretty Makani, being so brave. You didn’t read as deep as you thought. For eleven years, I had only the power to see their problems with a touch. But five years ago, another trick sprouted from the first. Don’t know why or how. Don’t need to know. I can’t become invisible, none of that hokey H. G. Wells crap. But when I want people around me—in a room, on a street, in a park—to leave me alone, all I gotta do is think my disinterest at them. Then they become disinterested in me. It started on a beach. Two skanks were coming toward me, a pair of sevens on a scale of ten, neither of them up to my standards. Would’ve been tedious, getting rid of them without a scene. I thought, Just leave me alone, little bitches, and damn if they didn’t stop fifteen feet away, confused, looking around like they didn’t remember where the hell they’d been going, like they didn’t even see me anymore, and just wandered away. I’m totally good at it now.”

He wanted her to react.

When she didn’t, when she met his stare in silence, he said, “They don’t see me or hear me—except when I want them to. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say they see and hear but don’t compute what they see and hear. As if I’ve hacked their brains and edited the flow of sensory data. I can edit you out of their awareness, too, Makani, even lovely you, or anyone who’s with me. Would you like a demonstration?”

He had nothing to gain by lying. “I believe you.” She already grasped the greater threat that he now posed and was trying to anticipate what he might do next.

He gave her the demonstration that she didn’t need. Raising his voice, he said angrily, “You lied to me, you bitch, you’ve done nothing but lie to me!” As he spoke, he snatched up his half-empty glass and threw the remaining beer in her face.

Less because of the beer than because she thought he would throw the glass after it, Makani startled, flinched—then surveyed the restaurant. No one seemed to have heard Rainer’s outburst or to have seen what he had done. Conversations continued uninterrupted. Waiters glided through the room, carrying trays of drinks and food, as overhead the sharks hung unmoving in their hunting postures.

“They’re not like you and me,” said Rainer Sparks. “We’re deep, and they are not. We know, and they don’t. They’re pawns, and we’re power. We could have been so much to each other. Tragic that you find me so despicable.”

He wanted to see her shrink from him in fear, perhaps even bolt for the door, but she would not give him the satisfaction of her terror. She had ridden twelve-foot behemoths in Waikiki. She’d night-surfed quaking monoliths at Pipeline, a crazy-girl adventure with a storm coming and thunder at her back. She’d been in Newport Beach when a hurricane, tearing up the Mexican coast, had pushed ahead of it monster waves that perhaps ten percent of the surfers in the world would dare. She rode them and survived the Wedge. Maybe Rainer would kill her, maybe she had no hope, but she would never cower or beg for her life.

She picked up her napkin and blotted her face. Finished, she folded it neatly and returned it to the table before she said, “So will you kill me here and now?”

Whatever reaction Rainer expected, this was not it. He cocked his head, and his thick golden hair fell over one eyebrow. His grin was quizzical. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Sometimes I’ve wondered about that. When beaches have been closed ’cause there were great whites in the water, I’ve paddled out anyway, if there was even just barely decent wave action. I’ve surfed in thunderstorms when the sky was full of fire and the sea danced with its reflections, on lonely stretches of coast where no one would have been there to help if I’d been struck by lightning. But, no, it’s not a death wish. I figured that out a few years ago.”

“You did, huh?” He assumed that he was being played, but he was not sure of her game. “If it’s not a death wish, what is it?”

“Confidence. I belong here. I have this gift—this power, as you call it—for a reason. There’s a purpose I’m meant to fulfill before anything too bad will happen to me.”

He smirked, an expression that transformed him from a handsome man into a snarky adolescent. “What purpose would that be—building the coolest hot rod ever?”

“Maybe. But I’m pretty sure it’s way bigger than that.” She took a sip of beer. “Fact is, sometimes I think there’s someone important I’m meant to save. Like, maybe I’ll touch her and see her problem or her darkest secret, and I’ll know right away what to do. I’ll save her life or maybe turn her away from a destructive path, and she’ll go on to make a huge difference in the world.”

His soft laugh revealed less amusement than contempt. “You’re gonna save the world, are you?”

“No. Just maybe one person more important than me. You haven’t answered my question. Are you going to kill me here and now?”

“I’d love to. Except for the security cameras. I can’t work my mojo on them. Don’t know where the digital video is stored. And even if it’s on a recorder somewhere here, they probably back it up in the cloud. So it’ll be another time and place. Besides, half the fun is in the chase. And I want to pin you down and spread those pretty legs before I cut your throat.”

Makani wagged one finger at him, as if to say he was being a naughty boy. “Won’t happen. Instead, you’ll rot in Hell, and I’ll sing a little song of celebration over your grave.”

“You are refreshing. A spunky little thing. What next—gonna pretend you can go to the cops?”

“I could prove my gift just by touching them, reading them.”

“Then what kind of a life would you have? You’d be a freak. The mind reader who knows things nobody wants known. They might not stone you to death, but in time they’d be lining up to shoot you in the head. Face it—you’re more alone than any girl has ever been.”

She shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t need police. Don’t need anyone. Hasn’t it occurred to you? My first power might have sprouted another, just like yours did.”

“I would have seen it when I read you.”

“I didn’t see yours. Maybe you didn’t see mine.”

He studied her, looking for a tic or tremor that would reveal her bluff.

“Best be careful,” Makani said. “I’ve got the islands and the Irish in me. It’s a dangerous combination. Let me go my way, and I’ll let you go yours. The world’s big enough for two of us.”

Reaching across the table, he said, “Take my hand.”

She threw half a glass of beer in his face.

Startled, he gasped, inhaling some of the brew, and coughed explosively.

At nearby tables, diners turned to look. Rainer’s spell over them had been broken.

When he saw them staring, he got control of his coughing and wiped a hand over his dripping face. Everyone who’d been interested in him looked puzzled, frowned, turned their attention elsewhere, and seemed to lose interest in the lovers’ spat or whatever it had been.

As soon as she’d thrown the beer, Makani had slid out of the booth. She stood looking down at Rainer Sparks. “I won’t warn you again,” she said, and she walked out of the restaurant, under the torsional forms of the dead sharks swimming the air overhead.

6

On the Die

Outside of Sharkin’, where Rainer Sparks couldn’t see her, Makani broke into a run toward the pier and the parking lot that served it. Perhaps because of the dark nature of the encounter with Sparks, she expected night when she pushed through the door, but sunshine still ruled. At least an hour of the summer day remained before the sunset might brush the palette of a Maxfield Parrish painting across the western sky.

She had no second power, as she had claimed, no sprout that grew from the branch of her initial psychic gift. Maybe he believed that she, too, had another more formidable talent. Maybe he didn’t. In either case, he would not relent. Rainer Sparks was a narcissist, a megalomaniac who would abide no limits to his dominion, tolerate no one who denied him.

She didn’t start shaking until she was behind the wheel of her ’54 Chevy, the ring of keys jingling as she fumbled to get the right one into the ignition. She kept glancing toward the restaurant, sure that she would see him striding toward her, but for whatever reason, he chose to allow her a chance to escape.

Half the fun is in the chase.

He might even take time for dinner. He had no need to hurry. The only thing that could possibly defeat him was his perfect arrogance.

Leaving the parking lot, she turned left on Balboa Boulevard, heading toward the mainland and Pacific Coast Highway, three miles away. Traffic clotted the peninsula’s main artery, and though the jam-ups would inhibit Sparks as much as they did her, she expected to discover the white Mercedes SUV in the rearview mirror, weaving effortlessly among the swarm of jostling vehicles by virtue of some third power that the sonofabitch had not yet revealed.

When first her gift had come upon her almost a decade earlier, she had been frightened. In time, fear twined with consternation and dismay, as she began to understand how completely her life had been changed forever. She might have surrendered to enduring dread and depression if, without quite realizing it, she had not dealt with the fear of her psychic talent by testing—and strengthening—her courage in a long series of half-mad challenges to the sea and all the dangers that it offered. Already at sixteen, she had long been a bold surfer. So she became a reckless one. Surfing where beaches were closed due to a temporary abundance of large sharks spotted by shore-patrol choppers, straddling her board, feet dangling in the water, as she waited for the next set to roll toward her and offer her a ride, watching nervously for a dorsal fin and for a menacing shadow in the water, aware of the insane risk but intent on taking it, each wipeout an invitation to be dined upon. When others fled storms, she ran to them and launched her board into the raging sea, struggling out against the turbulence, hoping to find a few rideable liquid mountains among the mushy waves blown over by strong onshore winds, fearless of rip currents, tossed in churning white-water soup, spitting out foamy swash, struggling for breath, at risk of being caught inside a breaking wave and held down until she drowned, but at least without concern about sharks, because those predators had fled the storm-racked coast for deep-water calm.

After all these years, the sea inspired in Makani little fear but much respect. Considering Rainer Sparks’s ability to enshroud himself and his potential victim in a kind of invisibility, where he could do as he wished without fear of witnesses, and considering as well his enthusiasm—his thirst—for violent murder, only a fool would not be terrified of him.

Still no white Mercedes GL550 in the traffic behind her.

At the end of the peninsula, she crossed Coast Highway and drove as fast as she dared into Newport Heights, where she lived.

Her residence phone was unlisted; the street name and number were not in the phone directory. But her home address could be found with little effort. Sparks was many things, but he wasn’t stupid; within an hour, he would know where she lived.

She had to pack what she needed and get out fast.

When a wave is waning, it’s said to be “on the die.” In this case, Sparks was the wave, and he was not on the die, but swelling higher by the moment. On the die was also lingo for someone who was heading for a wipeout. Makani had given Sparks the slip; and in all other circumstances, she had long been confident of her ability to fend for herself. But now she felt intuitively that she was on the die, and she could not shake the feeling.

7

Round One

Her house was a modest Craftsman-style bungalow in the sunny highlands above Newport Harbor, shaded by queen palms and skirted with ferns. The land had more value than the structure, though the lot offered no view of anything except the larger houses on the farther side of the street. Hers was a cozy home, with a deep front porch, and Makani hoped that she wouldn’t have to leave it forever.

She parked in the driveway rather than in the garage, took the porch steps two at a time, keyed open the front door, and slammed it behind her. She stripped off her long-sleeve wrap and T-shirt and sports bra and boardshorts, discarding them as she hurried through the front rooms to the master bedroom at the back of the house.

Naked, she felt two things: vulnerable and the need for a shower to wash off the sea salt, though the first ruled out the second. She donned fresh underwear, jeans, a bra, a clean T-shirt.

After fetching an overnight bag from the walk-in closet and filling it with a change of clothes and a pre-packed travel kit of toiletries, she went into the kitchen. She kept twenty thousand dollars in a secret stash in the cabinet to the left of the refrigerator.

Although confident and practiced at concealing her difference from other people, Makani had never been able to free herself of a measure of paranoia. Rainer Sparks had been right when he suggested that anyone with the ability to read minds, even to a limited extent, would be feared and hated if her power were revealed. A public stoning would not be in the cards these days. But depending on who discovered that she could read them by a touch, a bullet to the head or a razor-sharp stiletto across the throat was not an unlikely fate. Therefore, she kept the getaway money in a metal lockbox in the kitchen.

She removed cook pots of various sizes, set them aside, lifted an inch-thick slab of Melamine that served as the false floor of the cabinet, and extracted the foot-square three-inch-deep box that contained stacks of twenty- and hundred-dollar bills tightly wrapped in plastic.

In the bedroom again, she transferred the cash to the overnight bag, wishing that her simmering paranoia had also induced her to buy a firearm. She didn’t like guns. She had never struck another human being in anger, and although she was not a pacifist, she had always found it difficult to imagine committing an act of significant violence. Until now. She didn’t like guns, yeah, okay, but she also didn’t like dentists’ drills, either, and yet she got her cavities filled when they were discovered. Now she thought that she’d been stupid when she’d considered guns evil. Revolvers, dental drills, pistols, hammers—they were tools, nothing more than tools, and evil was a word applicable only to people and their worst actions.

Rainer Sparks had promised to rape her and kill her. She had read enough of him, through one touch, to be certain that between the sexual assault and the murder, he would enjoy torturing her in ways that she, in her naïveté, could not imagine.

He was evil.

And she had no defense against him.

Makani latched the suitcase and stood staring at the bedside telephone, trying to think of someone she knew who was likely to have a firearm. She couldn’t bring a single name to mind. On the other hand, maybe everyone she knew was armed as if for imminent war. Maybe she’d wrongly assumed that the people she liked all shared her aversion to guns.

She longed for the sea, for the dependability of its rhythms, for the honesty of water in motion, which could be read reliably, for depths that concealed nothing worse than sharks. Oceans were the antithesis of the sea of humanity. Oceans killed, but without anger or intent. For all the poets who wrote of the soul of the ocean, the waters could not envy, neither could they hate. Oceans did not revel in their power, and the storms that afflicted them always passed, as the storms of the human heart never quite did. At night, in the dark of the moon and the faintness of stars, the rolling waters did not dream of blood.

Although she had changed clothes, she suddenly realized that the faint smell of spilled beer clung to her skin and hair. No time to wash even her face, and certainly not her hair.

After setting the suitcase beside the front door, Makani hurried into the kitchen. She pulled open the knife drawer and considered the array of blades. No item of culinary cutlery would serve her as well as a dagger or a switchblade, but it would be better than nothing.

Rainer Sparks allowed her to be aware of him only when he thrust the handheld Taser against her neck and triggered it.

She fell.

Knees, elbows, and one side of her head rapped the mahogany floor, which seemed to distort and thrum beneath her, as if it were the stretched-tight membrane of a trampoline, though she did not rebound from the hardwood.

Pain was the least of it. The electric current traveled every byway of her peripheral nervous system, wreaking havoc with the messaging of both sensory and motor nerves. As she twitched and shuddered, a few words stuttered from her, although she didn’t intentionally speak and could not understand what she had said.

Sparks’s voice, however, was clear and coherent when, standing over her, he said, “Stupid bitch.”

Makani knew what was happening to her, fully understood the peril, bitterly railed at herself for not realizing that he could blind and deafen even her to his presence, just as he had done with all the “common” people in the restaurant. She and Sparks were alike in their great difference from others, but that didn’t mean she was immune to his spell-casting.

He bent down, his face a grinning moon—the beery odor was his—and this time the stun gun delivered the charge through her right arm.

She felt as if she were falling again. But she was already on the floor and couldn’t tumble through it.

Gagging, gasping, she spasmed like some beached fish, as if she did not belong—could not survive—in this realm of air. Her flesh felt stiff, her bones like jelly.

How strange that she could think with reasonable clarity, even while her brain confused her nervous system’s natural signals with the jigging static injected by the Taser and continued to be unable to control her body. Her condition seemed to argue that the mind was within the brain but in some fundamental way not subject to it, which was an odd bit of philosophy to have flashed upon her under the circumstances.

Rainer Sparks had pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and had turned it to face Makani. He sat down.

As the effects of the Tasering diminished, she lay prostrate, with her head turned to her right, watching him as a beaten dog might watch its abuser, with fear and smoldering resentment.

“I first saw you two days ago,” he said.

If she’d been sucking on a mineral pill, specifically a tablet of iron, that would have explained the taste of rust in her mouth.

“You were at a supermarket, carrying a bag of groceries to your cool car. You didn’t see me, but I recognized you right away, from that day so long ago on Oahu.”

Although she closed her eyes, wishing him gone, ghost images of the bastard seemed to float on the backs of her eyelids, perhaps an effect from the Tasering.

“I almost ran up to you then, but something held me back. Maybe intuition. I don’t know. But I was so jazzed, totally amped. I mean, one glance and I was erect, girl, same way you had me when you were just sixteen, so I could hardly walk.”

She opened her eyes. The knife drawer seemed to be a mile above her.

“Followed you home from the supermarket. Then yesterday, when you went to work with that dog of yours, I spent a few hours here in your crib. You need a good lock. Anyway, I got to know you better.”

Infuriated by her helplessness, Makani gathered herself into a sitting position, her back against the cabinets.

“You didn’t come home with the dog last night. Where is he?”

She didn’t answer him.

“Hey, gee, don’t be like that. We’re in this together, Makani. Talk to me,” he said in a pleasant voice that made his threat more terrible, “or I’ll smash this Taser against your lips and see if I can make ’em smoke.”

“I knew I’d go surfing today. I left my dog with a friend.”

“Bob. That’s the name on his food and water dishes.”

“Yeah, Bob.”

“What breed is he—a Labrador?”

“Yes.”

“Black as coal, old Bob. You love old Bob, do you?”

“He’s a good dog.”

“Maybe after I kill you, I’ll kill him. Especially if you dis me again, like you did in the restaurant. Still tingling?”

“No.”

“You feel able to get up and walk when I tell you to?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let me explain what just happened here. This was Round One. This is my favorite game. The outcome isn’t in doubt, but I still get a kick playing it. I like a three-round game. Any longer than that, it gets tedious. The mouse has three chances, for what they’re worth. You know who the mouse is?”

“Me.”

“That wasn’t too hard to figure, was it? You know who won the first round?”

“You did.”

“Me. The cat. You know how often the mouse wins?”

“Never.”

“Sad but true. But then I’ve never had a mouse with sharp teeth, like you.” He got up from the chair, approached her, closed the knife drawer. “Get up, sweet stuff. I’ll walk you to your car.”

For more than one reason, she was loath to be touched by him. She was relieved when he didn’t offer to help her to her feet.

In spite of what Sparks had said, Makani couldn’t quite believe that he would let her go.

With the Taser in his right hand, he accompanied her into the living room, where she had left her suitcase. She picked it up.

How long had he been in the house, watching her without her knowledge? Had he seen her transfer the money?

Without the twenty thousand cash, she’d have to resort to Visa and American Express—but she suspected that he would have a way to find her if she used the cards. Plastic money left a trail.

Sparks opened the door, Makani stepped onto the porch, and he followed. He walked her to her car in the driveway and watched her put the suitcase in the trunk.

Over the Pacific, feathery cirrus clouds embellished the sky, glowing crimson with the light of a low sun, mottled with purple, reminiscent of the patterns of blood and bruises that hung in the gallery of Rainer Sparks’s demented mind.

He opened the driver’s door, and when she got behind the wheel, he said, “Work up a clever plan, girl. Give me a run for my money. Go far, go fast. Make it fun. You have till tomorrow morning. Then it’s Round Two.”

She started the engine, and he closed the door.

When she backed out of the driveway, she saw his Mercedes SUV parked on the farther side of the street, half a block away.

As she shifted out of reverse, he climbed the porch steps and sat in one of the rocking chairs, as if her home were his. He waved at her and began to rock.

She was still looking at him when suddenly he disappeared. The chair kept rocking.

Although he worked his will upon her mind, editing himself from her awareness, she felt no presence in her head, no slightest touch.

On the porch, the apparently empty chair kept rocking. Rocking and rocking.

8

Named for the Wind

Two miles from her home, Makani pulled into the parking lot at a strip shopping center. She opened the Chevy’s trunk, and then the suitcase. The plastic-wrapped bricks of money were still where she had put them. If Sparks knew about the cash, he chose to let her keep it, which meant that he was confident of finding her regardless of how far away she fled.

She would probably be able to get farther than he imagined she could in what time he had given her. Speed was in her name. Her parents had intended to name her Makani ‘Olu‘olu, which meant fair wind, but after she’d been born and they had seen her, they called her Makani Miomio, which meant swift wind. Makani Miomio Hisoka-O’Brien, bearing both her mother’s maiden and married names, had been hard enough to catch when she was a crawler and then a toddler, but once she could walk, she was as fleet as a deer. She loved to run and won every race, 5Ks and marathons. Likewise, each time she caught a wave, she was promptly off her knees and onto her feet, nimble in the takeoff, quick with her maneuvers, arrowing up the face to snap-turn off the curling lip, then rocketing down again; always with bullet velocity she rode the hollow tube behind the cascading curl, shot into open air before she could be clamshelled by the collapsing wave.

Behind the wheel again, on Coast Highway, she headed south. She didn’t think she would go on the run, after all. There was no point to it. Besides, if she couldn’t have Hawaii and the extended family that she loved, Newport Beach was her next-best home, where she had put down roots and had cautiously made friendships for more than five years. If she were harried away from this place out of fear, there would never be another home for her, only a village here, a hamlet there, city after city en route to nowhere.

So she would leave Newport only temporarily and go no farther than Laguna Beach, the next town along the sparkling coast, where that magnificent canine specimen, Bob, was on a brief holiday with a friend of hers named Pogo. The friend’s official name, per his birth certificate and driver’s license, had three parts followed by a Roman numeral, but since childhood he had answered to nothing but Pogo, which was the only name by which most in the surfer community knew him. Except, he’d once said, for those who call me “loser” or “jackass,” which in Makani’s experience was no one.

She wouldn’t have trusted Bob to anyone else’s care. For all of Pogo’s carefully tended image as a slacker who lived only to surf and loaf and pursue the perfect case of melanoma, he was the epitome of responsibility. People trusted him with everything from their children to their money, and never with regret. He worked part-time in a surf shop named Pet the Cat, and lived with three other self-described surf bums in an apartment above a thrift shop in nearby Costa Mesa. Currently he was house-sitting a classic beachside “cottage” for an owner who so loved his jewel-box residence that he couldn’t go on vacation if he left the place unoccupied and, in his mind, vulnerable to countless catastrophes ranging from spontaneous combustion to an invasion by a gang of droogs straight out of A Clockwork Orange.

As the sun sank toward the horizon and briefly balanced there, as the long sunset spread faux fire across the shore and hills, the heavy summer traffic seemed to beget more of its kind, mile by mile, glasswork adance with reflections, paint and brightwork glimmering as if wet, a great mass of vehicles schooling south as if toward some spawning pool.

By the time Makani arrived in Laguna Beach, the sun had gone away to brighten another hemisphere, and the stars had come out, more numerous over the ocean than to the east, where the lights of human habitation dimmed them.

Because she had called ahead with her smartphone, Pogo was waiting for her in the open front door, good Bob at his side, the two of them rendered almost equally black by backlighting.

After parking at the curb and locking the car, Makani hurried along a walkway of herringbone-pattern brick. On the threshold, she hugged Pogo and kissed him on the cheek. Eager for his turn at the well of love, Bob cha-chaed backward in the foyer with unrestrained delight.

Makani loved Pogo, but most of the time she wouldn’t allow herself to think of it as being more than the paler shade of love called friendship. She had touched him often, and for the last two years, she had touched him always without apprehension. She’d never read in him a word of envy or conceit, never a line of ill will toward anyone, no truly dark secret that tormented him. His secrets were at their darkest pale gray. If he was not the only contented human being in the world, she had yet to find one of the others.

And if you liked lean, muscled types, he was so nice to touch, not as tall as Rainer Sparks, but every bit as well put together. If anything, he was even better looking than the murderer. Pogo was the one knockout-handsome guy that Makani had ever met who wasn’t into himself, who in fact seemed oblivious of the appeal he had to women, even though they signaled their interest so boldly that they might as well have announced their availability with megaphones.

Makani and Pogo had never gone to bed together, and she doubted they ever would. She didn’t believe that he could love her as more than a good friend. There was another girl, right here in Orange County, whom he adored far too much to put her second among women. Ironically, the object of his adoration was someone whom he could never have. And some said that Shakespeare had no contemporary relevance.

In the foyer, as Pogo closed the door, Makani dropped to her knees to assure Bob that he was the great love of her life. Four years old, no longer puppy enough to forget his manners and leap up to put his paws on her shoulders, he pressed his big head into her hands, whimpering with pleasure as she stroked his face and then rubbed behind his ears. She cooed to him and said his name—“Bob, my lovely Bob, sweet Bobby”—and took the forepaw he offered, squeezing it affectionately.

By touch, from this dog or any other, Makani received only a general—though sometimes intense—sense of its emotional state. At the moment, Bob overflowed with loving devotion and delight and relief that she hadn’t gone away forever.

“We’ve had an awesome time,” Pogo said.

“He’s got big energy. He can be crazy sometimes.”

“Not the Bobster. He’s a mellow dude.”

Wanting to smell her hair, Bob thrust his quivering black nose into it and sniffed noisily, probably because her hair was the best record of her day and was scented with the sea, the sun, beer, and God knew what else. To dogs, there were no bad smells.

Abruptly, the Labrador scampered out of the foyer and along the hall, toward the back of the house, most likely to retrieve one of his squeaky tennis balls and present it to her as a gift.

“Catch some good waves?” Pogo asked.

“There were more top-to-bottom barrels today than anyone could ride.”

“Sweet. You want a beer or somethin’?”

She was surprised to hear herself say, “Just so you don’t throw it in my face,” because that comment led inevitably to his question.

“Why would I throw it in your face?”

She was even more surprised to hear herself say, in a tremulous voice, “Man, I’m in really big trouble, I’m going over the falls, and I don’t know what to do,” because she had never spoken of her gift with him or with anyone but Rainer Sparks.

Putting a hand on her shoulder, he said, “There’s no trouble here, O’Brien. This is a safe zone. You want to talk?”

She was having second thoughts. “I don’t want to get you killed.”

“I thank you for that.”

“I’m serious, Pogo. It’s that bad.”

His eyes were a different shade of blue from hers, but meeting his stare, she felt somehow that she was looking into a reflection of herself. She knew that telling him everything would in no way damage their relationship or put her at risk.

When still Makani hesitated, Pogo said, “I won’t be as easy to kill as you seem to think, O’Brien. Whether you want to talk about it or not, I want to talk about it. So don’t make me force it out of you with thumbscrews and a cattle prod, okay?”

Her mouth trembled under the weight of a worried smile. “Okay.”

“Let’s go to the kitchen. I was having coffee and punishing myself with Kerouac. The coffee’s good and makes perfect sense.”

9

Where, Oh, Where Has My Little Dog Gone?

Rainer considered setting Makani’s house on fire.

She wouldn’t need a home anymore. She’d be dead soon.

She was fond of the bungalow.

He would enjoy telling her that he had burned it down.

Or save himself the trouble. Just claim to have torched it.

For sure, he would kill the dog in front of her.

She had thrown beer in his face. Defied him.

Her death would not be easy.

After she drove away, he went into the house. Looked in the refrigerator. Made a ham-and-cheese sandwich.

Eating at her kitchen table, watching the GPS map displayed on his smartphone, he followed the blinking dot that was her ’54 Chevy as she drove south on Coast Highway.

These days, you could buy a dog collar with a microminiature transponder in it, so your pooch could never be lost. Rainer had put one in her car.

She was his dog, after all. His little bitch.

She had been his since he first saw her ten years earlier. She just hadn’t known it.

He always got what he wanted. Sometimes it took a while.

The blinking dot stopped in Laguna Beach.

The GPS system provided an address.

He finished his dinner.

He gathered up the clothes that she had stripped off as she had gone from front door to bedroom, when she’d first come home.

The garments smelled of her. He liked the feel of them.

He put them under the pillow on her bed.

To refresh himself for what lay ahead, he needed some sleep.

After undressing, he slipped naked into her bed.

He never had trouble falling asleep. Insomnia was caused by anxiety. He had no anxiety. Nothing worried him. He led a perfect, beautiful life.

He slept between Makani’s sheets. With the intoxicating smell of her.

He dreamed that she was under him. He saw her in ecstasy. And then he saw her torn and broken, which was his ecstasy.

10

You Don’t Find Life by Fleeing from It

In the pricey coastal towns of Southern California, if the house was near the beach and the real-estate ads referred to it as a cottage, you needed to put ironic quotation marks around the word—“cottage”—for it would cost upward of a couple million dollars and be a cottage only by imitation of that style. The one that Pogo was house-sitting encompassed more than 3,500 square feet, large enough to contain five real cottages within its walls. But it had gingerbread millwork and beadboard wainscoting and selected-mahogany floors and enough quaint details to fill a coffee-table book with photographs to engender seething envy in those who cherished the style.

In the big eat-in kitchen, an old and tattered trade-paperback edition of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road lay on the table beside a mug of coffee.

Bob was on his back, on the floor, with a dog toy, a floppy blue bunny rabbit with squeakers in each foot. He held it between his front paws, chewing on one of its ears, breathing rapidly and squirming with delight. If he had raced to the kitchen to fetch the rabbit and bring it to Makani as a gift, he had become enthralled with it and had forgotten his original intention.

“You spoiled him with a new toy,” she said.

“I want him to love his uncle Pogo.”

He brought her a mug of coffee, black, as she liked it, and she settled in a chair across the table from him.

When Pogo sat down to his own coffee and pushed aside the book, Makani said, “The thing is, I’m a witch or something.”

“I’ll get you a new broom for your birthday.”

“I said ‘or something.’ I’m not into pointy black hats and cauldrons and cats. But there’s this witchy thing I can do.”

“You sure can,” he said.

She reached out to him. “Hold my hand.”

He did as she asked.

“This is embarrassing,” she said.

“What—is hand-holding risque in Hawaii?”

“In my experience, anyway, this is as close as you’ve ever come to having a secret, something you’d be reluctant to express. You’re thinking that…I’m lovely but somehow damaged, and you wish you could fix me.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he said, “I am not.”

“Yes, you are. It makes you sad, but you think I’m broken. And in a way, I am.”

“If you say so, but I don’t see broken.”

“I can’t read continuously. What I get, when I get anything at all, are flashes.” She let go of him and reached out with her other hand. “Try this one.”

“Maybe we can levitate the table later,” he said, as he took her left hand in his right.

Giving voice to his unspoken judgment of her, Makani said, “You’re spooked by what I’m doing, but you think I’m just expressing what I’ve long believed you feel about me. You think I’m pretending to see fragments of your thoughts, so I have an excuse to discuss our relationship this bluntly.”

He did not look away from her. He was the most direct, least evasive person she had ever known. But he let go of her hand, and in his electric-blue eyes she saw what she could no longer perceive by touch: He had begun to believe that, at least to some limited extent, she was able to read his mind.

By turning to him for help, by revealing her own darkest secret, she had put their friendship at risk. He might well be offended that she had read him since first touch and had not until now revealed her gift. Though she believed that he was sufficiently comfortable with himself and too generous a soul to retreat into anger or fear, she also knew there was truth in what Rainer Sparks had said about anyone with her power being seen as a freak and a threat.

Pogo pushed his chair back from the table, got to his feet, carried his mug to the kitchen sink, and poured out his coffee.

“Pogo?”

“I’m thinking,” he said.

He returned to the table, took her mug, and poured that coffee down the drain as well.

Having lost interest in the blue bunny, Bob came to Makani’s side and laid his head in her lap. He rolled his eyes, following Pogo from sink to refrigerator.

Pogo took two bottles of beer from the fridge, opened them, and said, “Come on, let’s get some real air, where we can hear the surf,” and he opened the back door for her and Bob.

From the patio, the softly lighted lawn sloped gently to a stainless-steel-post-and-glass-panel fence along the bluff. On the right, at the corner of the property, a gate led to stairs that switchbacked down to the beach.

Near the gate stood a small white gazebo with decorative wood details and a peaked roof. Inside were a table and four chairs. She and Pogo took the two chairs that most directly faced the sea and the beach below, where the black water cast foaming surf, as white as bridal lace, onto the paler sand.

Bob stood with his head between two balusters of the railing that formed the low wall of the gazebo, the twenty-four muscles in his nose working the air as the four muscles in the human nose could never do. The sea was a rich source of subtle scents, and any dog’s sense of smell was its best tool for observing and understanding the world.

“You can really do it,” Pogo said.

“Yes.”

“Just by a touch.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t see everything.”

“Just flashes. I see what, at that moment, the other person is most concentrating on, most obsessed about…and wouldn’t want known.”

He was silent for a while.

They both stared out to sea.

Makani was grateful for the beer. At first, gripped in one trembling hand, the bottle clicked against her teeth when she took a drink, but then not.

Eventually, he said, “It’s something you wish with all your heart you couldn’t do.”

“God, yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

She spoke of being sixteen and burdened with this wild talent. Of friends and family suddenly too well known. Of leaving Hawaii before she became irrevocably estranged from those she loved.

When she began, the recently risen moon was too far in the east to paint the sea. By the time she got to Rainer Sparks, Pogo went into the house to fetch two more beers. When she finished, they sat in silence again, gazing at the frost of moonlight on the crests of the breakers and the distorted reflection of the lunar face drawn long across the vast waters.

She could bear the silence less well than Pogo could. She spoke first. “I shouldn’t have dumped this on you. There’s nothing you can do. And there’s nothing I can do but run.”

Stroking Bob’s head, which was resting on his left knee, Pogo said, “Don’t go Kerouac on me, O’Brien.”

“Which means?”

“When you called, I was trying to read On the Road for like the thousandth time. I’m not going to try again.”

Pogo came from a family of achievers. His older brother and sister were driven and successful in their different professions, just as were their parents. He wanted none of that, only the sun and the sea and the surfing community. He avoided college by crafting an image of intellectual vacuity and by maintaining a perfect 2.0 grade average throughout his school years, which made him unwelcome at institutions of higher learning. His parents had great affection for him, but also pitied him for what they imagined were his limitations. They had never seen him with a book, though he was a voracious reader.

“It’s not Kerouac’s gonzo style that’s off-putting,” Pogo said. “It’s those beat-generation ideas of what’s important in life, all the posturing and the recklessness in relationships. You aren’t going on the run again, O’Brien. That’s Kerouac. You don’t find life by fleeing from it.”

11

Beauty Sleeps

The owner of the house kept a pistol in his nightstand drawer. Pogo said that it was a .40-caliber Ruger P944 with a ten-round magazine. The mere sight of a handgun usually made Makani uneasy, but not this one, perhaps because Pogo meant to use it himself, if the need arose, and she trusted him to do the right thing.

The weapon lay on the kitchen table while they ate a dinner of salad and pizza.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said.

“Cheese and pepperoni? Cholesterol’s just a racket.”

“I mean, I’m putting you at risk.”

“We’re at risk when we’re born.”

“Are you as mellow as you seem?”

“Is there some law against it?”

“Really, I should go.”

“Don’t make me shoot you in the foot to keep you here.”

She smiled in spite of her fear and her sense of guilt.

Pogo carried the pistol when they took Bob into the backyard for his last toileting of the day.

As they waited for the dog, Makani said, “You really believe me about all this.”

“Totally. You proved you can read minds.”

“But Rainer Sparks and all that—it’s pretty far out.”

“A year or so ago, I saw some things.”

“What things?”

“Nothing like this. But since then the world looks different.”

“Different how?” she asked.

“Weirder than it used to. Mysterious.”

Under the ever-receding stars, the moon floated high and round, and farther down the night, its trembling ghost haunted the sea.

“Mysterious,” Makani agreed. “And so damn beautiful.”

“There may be nothing as enchanting,” Pogo said, “as a large black dog piddling in the moonlight.”

After he had retrieved Makani’s suitcase from her car, Pogo set the perimeter alarm.

Shortly after 9:00, together he and Makani shut the draperies and dressed the bed in the second of two guest rooms. The sheets had a high thread count and felt as soft as sleep itself.

“I’ll just lie awake,” she said.

“Try anyway. I’ll keep Bob with me. We’ll be on patrol. You’re safe here. This Sparks guy can’t know where you are.”

“He’ll find me somehow. There’s no way he won’t.” She didn’t like the fatalism in her voice, but she knew that it was also the truth.

“Even if he does, you’ve got some time to sleep. He said the next round would be in the morning.”

She remembered how the murderer, with mock courtliness, had opened the driver’s door of the Chevy for her. Work up a clever plan, girl. Give me a run for my money.

She had no plan. Unless she could count Pogo as a plan.

“But when does he think morning begins?” she wondered. “With the dawn—or just a few hours from now, at midnight?”

“Mellow out, O’Brien. Don’t worry too much about the future. The past is past. The future is an illusion. All we have is now, and we’ll get through it minute by minute.”

“Until we don’t.”

To Bob, Pogo said, “Did you hear me say ‘Mellow out’? I heard me say it. Your mistress isn’t deaf, is she, Bobby? No? I thought she wasn’t.” He looked at Makani. “Chill, gel, relax, fear not.”

He took Bob with him and closed the bedroom door behind them.

Makani wished he would have held her for a moment before he went. He had not touched her since he’d learned of her gift. She wondered if he would ever touch her again.

There were towels in the adjacent bathroom. She took the long hot shower that she’d not had time for when she’d fled from Rainer Sparks to her home in Newport Heights.

After she’d blown her hair dry, she put on clothes once more, dimmed the nightstand lamp, and lay down on the bed, atop the covers, certain that she would not sleep.

Sleep began to steal upon her sooner than she expected. Maybe the long day of sun and surfing had exhausted her more than she thought. Maybe the tension and terror of being stalked—and the Tasering—had taken a toll. Maybe the beers and hot shower had unwound her coiled nerves. But as she slid into a silken slumber, the last thing she saw in her mind’s eye was Pogo, and even in these circumstances, with his face came a sense of peace.

12

Beast Awakens

Rainer Sparks woke refreshed at midnight, having breathed the scent of Makani through all his dreams of her.

He withdrew her clothes from under the pillow. He fingered them in the dark. Draped selected items across his face. Breathed deeply.

Naked, he went into her study. Switched on a desk lamp. Fired up her computer.

He had decided not to set her house on fire.

He would set her on fire. After he was done using her.

Bringing forth the blood of his victims was an art. He had created many masterpieces.

Flames, however, were also a worthwhile medium.

Online, he accessed public records to determine who owned the house at the address in Laguna Beach that he had gotten from the GPS with which he’d tracked her.

Maybe she parked at that residence but didn’t enter. It was a place to start.

The city directory listed the owner as Oliver Bertram Watkins.

Ollie to his friends. A visit to Facebook produced a photo of Ollie. He was sixty-one.

He was a venture-capital executive. Liked antiques shopping. Fine wines. Playing competition bridge.

No more dangerous than a five-year-old girl.

Considering the expensive neighborhood, the house would have a security system.

Rainer was a most professional assassin. He didn’t rely solely on his paranormal powers.

He had long ago hacked Central Station, the alarm-reporting facility that served all the private security companies in the county. He’d built a back door for himself. Quick, easy access.

Ollie Watkins contracted with Worry Free Security. Competent company. But ignorant of the hyphen needed in their name.

For alarm purposes, the house had nine zones.

Three keypads. Front door. Back door. Side garage door. There were no cameras tied into the system.

Rainer exited Central Station.

He went to a celebrity gossip site. Just to see what was up.

It must be hard to be Tom Cruise.

He took a quick shower in Makani’s bathroom. Used her soap.

Her roll-on deodorant. Her toothbrush.

At 1:02 A.M. he set out for Laguna Beach.

13

Round Two

Pogo regretted drinking the beers earlier and chased them now with black Armenian coffee potent enough to keep a tree sloth in a frenzy. Mug in one hand, pistol in the other, dog dutifully at his side, he drank as he patrolled the house, listening for suspicious noises.

He had never met this Rainer Sparks, never heard of him until this evening, which meant the guy wasn’t tight with the local surf community. Sparks must have been a lone wolf since, at the age of fourteen, he had suddenly been different from everyone else, gifted and corrupted by his gift, living out his sick dreams, fulfilling his darkest desires, even in the bright and waking world.

A year ago, Pogo would have had a more difficult time believing that anyone could do the things Makani claimed Rainer could do. But then he’d been through an epic and life-changing experience with Beebs—Bibi Blair—his best friend ever and always, and Pax Thorpe, the guy she loved. Now he knew the world to be a fascinating place where what could never happen occasionally did.

Beebs was twenty-three, two years older than Pogo. He had known her nearly all his life. She taught him to surf, polished him from a clueless young goob into a credible waverider. He loved her and she loved him. They were tight. Nobody could have been tighter, but by the time either of them was old enough to give a thought to romance, their bond was so much like brother-sister that hooking up in an intimate sense would have been too creepy to contemplate.

He didn’t have to get along without women in his life. Women came after him. In fact, it was embarrassing sometimes. He couldn’t help the way he looked, and they couldn’t seem to help themselves. But he didn’t want it that way, as easy as all that. The world was full of users. He didn’t want to be one. He couldn’t use anyone, and when sex was easy, it felt like using. Anyway, the man-woman business could be a lot more than sex; it could be everything. He had learned that much from Bibi. He knew what it could be, and that was what he wanted. He didn’t have to get along without women, but for the most part, that’s the way it was—until the right one came along, if she ever did.

There were days when he thought Makani might be the one, and not just days but weeks at a time. Although sweet and smart and kind and more, she had always been…distant. Not cold. Not aloof. She held the world at arm’s length. There was an essential part of herself, the core of herself, that she wouldn’t share. Now he knew what and why. The thing is, I’m a witch or something. As he and Bob patrolled the house, Pogo wondered if the revelations she made would at last bring them together—or if the very fact of her psychic gift made intimacy too difficult.

* * *

All was quiet on the Laguna coast. The air was pleasantly cool and dead still. The trees without rustle, the night birds without song. The breaking surf only a whisper.

Rainer parked a block from Ollie Watkins’s house.

He was rested and on his game.

He walked the silent night. Past the ’54 Chevy, as black and shiny as a hearse that had been washed and waxed and made ready for a funeral.

Lights glowed in some rooms of the single-story house. The draperies were drawn at all the windows.

Makani and Ollie were probably waiting for him.

They might have a gun. Or guns.

No problem.

A hundred guns wouldn’t worry Rainer. He had no fear.

A privacy wall and a tall ficus hedge separated Ollie’s place from the house next door.

A wrought-iron gate with worked-iron privacy panels. No lock. Just a gravity latch. The hinges didn’t rasp or squeak.

Between the hedge and the garage wall, a narrow brick-paved walkway. A little moonglow, a lot of moonshadows.

The side door to the garage. No window in it. Neither the side door nor the roll-up doors for the cars were on the security system, which was standard procedure, for convenience coming and going.

Like most side garage doors, this one had no deadbolt. Rainer was able quickly to loid the simple lockset with a credit card.

He stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him.

Using a penlight, he navigated the three-car garage and located the connecting door to the house. Beside it was one of the three security-system keypads.

He wore a three-quarter-length khaki jacket. Epaulet straps on the shoulders. Faux-ivory buttons. Velcro cuff closures. Several bellows cargo pockets. Large interior pockets.

Cool. Stylin’.

And just the thing for carrying a burglar’s gear.

The lighted keypad featured four labeled indicator LEDs in the upper left corner: POWER, HOME, AWAY, STATUS. The first glowed yellow, the second red, and the other two were dark.

The system was set on HOME. So the perimeter was armed, door and window sensors, but not the motion detectors in hallways and public rooms, which would have been engaged if no one was at home or if the residents were in bed.

Someone must be moving around in there.

Good to know.

Of the fifteen lighted buttons on the keypad, ten bore numbers. Four others were labeled STATUS, MONITOR, A, and H. The fifth featured an asterisk.

If he entered the numerical code that would disarm the system, a tone would sound throughout the house as each button was pushed. The occupants would be alerted.

Not good.

Besides, Rainer didn’t have the code. It wasn’t known to Worry Free Security. So it couldn’t be obtained from their computer. Only the homeowner—and whomever he shared it with—knew the code.

With a small tool that was illegal in most jurisdictions, Rainer extracted the spanner screws securing the keypad faceplate.

From a cargo pocket, he removed an electronic device for which he’d had to kill a highly placed Homeland Security agent.

The agent was corrupt. Rainer could have paid the guy to get the device. Killing was cheaper. And more enjoyable.

The size of a pack of cigarettes, the instrument bore no name, no logo. Black plastic casing. An LED readout. Four control buttons.

The Homeland Security agent called it a “circuit bridger.” But he was an idiot and only half understood how the device worked.

His colleagues who were equally highly placed called it “hack in a pack” or “packhack.”

The only keypad offering that interested Rainer was STATUS.

A six-inch probe extruded from the packhack. The last inch and a half appeared to be a flattened copper wire, though it was highly flexible and break-resistant.

He worked the tip of the probe past the side of the snugly fitted STATUS button.

When contact with a live wire was made, green letters appeared on the LED readout: READY.

The good but hyphen-challenged folks at Worry Free Security would say it was impossible to follow an electric current along a wire from the keypad to the dedicated logic unit that served as the simple—therefore defenseless—brain of the alarm system, penetrate the integrated circuitry on the microchip, and read the programming.

They would be telling you the truth. The truth as they knew it. Once, they would have been correct. These days, they would be wrong.

On the packhack readout, four numbers appeared, followed by an asterisk. The disarming code.

Rainer pushed a button.

The code blinked off the screen, one number at a time, and the asterisk disappeared last.

The tiny red indicator lamp, signifying that the system was armed to HOME, went dark.

The five tones, which would have accompanied the manual use of the keypad, were not sounded.

Proof that Rainer was superior to all other men. It gave him a little rush.

* * *

Pogo stood at the French doors in the family room, adjacent to the kitchen, at the back of the house. He had not fully closed the draperies because, on his patrol, he wanted to be able to survey the patio and backyard.

Of course, according to Makani, if Rainer Sparks used his mojo, he would not be seen or heard when he arrived. The murderer might be standing on the other side of the door, inches from the glass, face-to-face with Pogo, and be as invisible as the power-mad man in H. G. Wells’s novel.

At Pogo’s side, Bob stared out at the night, and he seemed not in the least concerned, which suggested that no one stood there. Or could Sparks cast his spell over animals as easily as upon people?

Shivering, Pogo pulled shut the draperies.

* * *

The door between the garage and the residence featured a deadbolt lock.

Not to fret.

From an inner pocket of his stylish khaki coat, Rainer Sparks withdrew a LockAid lock-release gun, a device sold only to law-enforcement agencies.

It was amazing what an unauthorized citizen could obtain if he was willing to bribe and kill for it.

Rainer inserted the thin pick into the keyway, under the pin tumblers.

There would be a little noise. Not much. Unavoidable.

He pulled the trigger. The LockAid’s flat steel spring made the pick jump, lodging some of the pins at the shear line. Three more attempts were required to fully disengage the lock.

Beyond the door lay a shadowy laundry room, revealed only by the hallway light spilling through an inner door that stood open a few inches. Washer. Dryer. Scrub sink.

He stepped inside. Waited. Listened. Closed the door to the garage behind him.

Easy-peasy, sweet and neat.

* * *

In the family room, when Pogo drew shut the draperies at the French doors, Bob suddenly turned away and stiffened. The dog raised his big black head, turned it slowly left and right and left again, as the dish of a radar telescope might turn, seeking data from the stars. His ears were pricked as much as a Labrador could prick them, but it was his talented nose with which he sought information. The nostrils flared and quivered, and the double dozen muscles in his noble snoot worked vigorously.

Pogo whispered, “What is it, dude?”

The dog looked at him and seemed puzzled.

“What do you smell?”

Bob lifted his head higher and once more turned his attention to the air that was, for him, if not for Pogo, alive with a symphony of scents. He mewled softly, as if less alarmed than puzzled.

* * *

Standing in the archway, Rainer watched the man and dog at the farther end of the family room.

The man was not Ollie Watkins. He didn’t appear to be the kind who would play competition bridge and go antiques shopping.

The guy had a gun. He held it somewhat awkwardly. As if he had seldom—or never—used one.

The dog was intrigued. He had caught a scent. Of what, of whom, he seemed not to be certain.

Rainer, too, had a pistol. And a Taser. And an excellent knife.

He was tempted to let them see him for just a moment, the better to terrify them when he disappeared an instant later.

In the interest of winning the game, such impulses had to be controlled.

The dog lowered his head and sniffed the carpet, padding this way and that, clearly confused.

Neither man nor animal posed a threat.

Rainer returned to the hallway and went in search of Makani.

14

Thunder Crusher

Tail held high but not wagging, nose to the floor, Bob padded out of the family room, and Pogo followed.

The dog was intent on pursuing a scent, but he didn’t seem to be in the least distressed, as presumably he would be if an imminent threat existed. Curious, yes, and perhaps puzzled, he sniffed rapidly, deeply, sweat dripping from his black nose, which could gather and hold scents better when it was wet.

In the hallway, Bob paused, looked left, right, left, and then continued to the right, claws clicking on the wood floor. His snout was now so close to the mahogany that he left an almost continuous smear of nose sweat, like a snail trail.

The laundry-room door was ajar. As lithe as smoke drawn by a draft, the swivel-hipped dog squeezed through the narrow gap, into the dark room beyond. In the absence of a bark, Pogo trusted that no one waited behind the door, and he pushed it open. Bob pawed at the next door, the one to the garage, remembered that his surfing buddy was with him, and looked up beseechingly.

Wondering if he might be attributing the wrong motive to the Labrador’s urgency, Pogo said, “Hey, dude, you sure this isn’t just about taking a pee?”

Bob chuffed.

Choosing to interpret the chuff as a declaration of serious intent, Pogo opened the door. Bob dashed across the threshold, into the darkness, his sniffing amplified as it echoed off the cars and the garage walls.

Finding the switch and flipping on the fluorescent ceiling panels took maybe ten seconds, by which time Bob had wound among the three vehicles, which included Pogo’s thirty-year-old primer-gray pity-the-poor-boy Honda, and had begun to return to the laundry room. He was a canine on the hunt, no doubt about that. However, he continued to seem more excited and more puzzled than anxious, not in an obviously protective state of mind.

* * *

Makani slept in soft lamplight, fully dressed, on her back, atop the bedclothes. Head turned to her left. Arms at her sides. One palm turned up, the other flat to the blanket.

Standing bedside, gazing down at her, Rainer felt triumphant, powerful, indestructible.

The woman’s eyes moved rapidly behind their lids, a sign of dreaming.

No doubt she dreamed of him.

She feared him, but she wanted him.

She would never admit to the desire.

But he knew.

Power and sex were linked. People wanted both equally and more than anything else.

Likewise, power and death were two sides of the same card. The purpose of power was to control others. And to get rid of them if you couldn’t effect control.

Therefore sex and death were linked as well.

He had known women who wanted him to take them, by which they really meant kill them. And he had done both.

Rainer had thought about this a lot. He was a deep thinker. A philosopher. You knew you were a serious philosopher when you were always right, and he had never yet found himself to be wrong.

The bedroom door opened.

The not-Ollie and the dog entered.

* * *

When Bob sniffed and snorted along the main hallway, past the public rooms, toward the bedrooms, Pogo became alarmed even if the dog was not yet growling or making other sounds of distress. He dashed past the Labrador, reached the T intersection, and turned right into the guest-bedroom wing.

By the time Pogo opened the door to Makani’s room, the dog had caught up with him. Bob padded first across the threshold.

Lying asleep on the bed, the radiant daughter of Oahu reminded Pogo of a fairy-tale princess, bespelled and awaiting a kiss to free her from her dark enchantment. As a fantasy fan, he had read many such tales when he was a young boy, always secretly, so that his ambitious parents wouldn’t discover that his dyslexia and attention deficit disorder and problematic IQ were all pretense, all elements of a scam to ensure that he could escape higher education in favor of a life on the beach.

Although Pogo knew that Rainer Sparks, with the powers Makani had attributed to him, might be in the bedroom at this minute, it was hard to believe that the creepy wanker was indeed present. Makani hadn’t been assaulted. She looked as peaceful as she was beautiful. With whatever weapons Sparks possessed in addition to a Taser, he could already have shot Pogo, his position revealed by nothing but the muzzle flash a fraction of a second before the bullet found its target. If he had murdered as many people as Makani’s psychic vision had implied, as often as he had claimed, he wouldn’t hesitate to add one more to his scorecard.

In her sleep, the dear girl murmured and then sighed.

The dog seemed to have raveled up the last of whatever pursued scent had frenzied him. He stood at the foot of the bed, sniffing the blanket, the carpet, the air to his left, the air to his right, but with less enthusiasm than he had exhibited en route. He looked at Pogo as though to say, Pray thee, m’lord, what brought me here and has now steeped my senses in forgetfulness? Or perhaps only, Dude, wha’sup?

The comic quality of the dog’s bewilderment melted some of the ice in Pogo’s veins. He found it difficult to hold on to the sense of imminent peril that had brought him to the guest room in a rush. Near the window stood an armchair in which he could sit guard, the pistol ready in his lap, the dog at his feet. If he brewed another pot of Armenian coffee and chose a book other than On the Road, he could counter the tendency to doze off in a comfortable chair.

Just then, pleased by a turn of events in her sleep, Makani issued a sound of amusement softer than a laugh and more melodious than a chuckle, a charming childlike expression, and then sighed as if with gentle regret or gentler satisfaction.

It seemed to Pogo that a psychic, even one with limitations to her power, would not be able to lie in happy dreams if her would-be killer was near at hand. Besides, he began to feel that he had been too swept up in the dog’s excitement, that he had missed something along the way because of being thereby misdirected. When Bob began to wander from one corner of the room to another, in an evident state of perplexity, Pogo whispered to him, calling him to the door, and together they retreated into the hallway.

* * *

Other than violent sex and murder, nothing pleased Rainer Sparks quite as much as observing the inadequacies of lesser men when they were foiled by his power.

Clearly, Makani had told the not-Ollie that someone wished to do her harm.

He had chosen to be her guardian.

Hooray for the hero.

Perhaps Makani had broken her own rule of secrecy. Perhaps she had also told not-Ollie about her power.

And about Rainer’s as well.

The guardian’s behavior suggested a suspicion of things not seen.

Yet the fool had convinced himself of Makani’s safety.

In Rainer’s immediate presence, the dog could not see or hear or smell him. His power shrouded him completely.

Elsewhere in the house, however, Rainer had left spoor.

Spoor. The tiny particles of skin that people continuously shed. Loose hairs. Microdrops of perspiration. Atomized skin oil. With every breath were expelled particles of sinus secretions so minute as to be visible only under the highest magnification.

Each thing that spalled from Rainer bore his DNA signature.

Every dog’s sense of smell was thousands of times greater than that of any human being. In some breeds—tens of thousands of times greater.

Retrievers, like Labradors and goldens, had a highly refined olfactory sense.

Out of Rainer’s line of sight, beyond his power’s sphere of influence, the dog could smell the spoor.

This had never before exposed Rainer to danger.

It would not be a problem this time, either.

Bob was not smart enough to matter.

Although the dog might have been smarter than not-Ollie.

On the bed, in sleep, Makani groaned softly.

Rainer whispered a promise to her. “I’ll make you groan, little bitch, when you’re under me. And then I’ll make you scream.”

Gazing down on her, he wanted to cut off her face and feed it to her.

But this was only Round Two. The face-off would have to wait until Round Three.

Perhaps his whisper found its way into the world of her dream. She opened her eyes.

* * *

The moment that Bob left the bedroom, he was again electrified by some scent. He set off in urgent pursuit of its source, his paws digging frantically at the carpet runner, displacing it, so that it slid out from under him, curling against one wall, and sent him skidding along the hardwood floor.

As Pogo quietly closed the door behind him and saw the dog launch across the T intersection where the two hallways met, he thought he had made a grave mistake earlier. He’d been sure that Bob was following the scent to Makani’s room, and he’d raced ahead of him, leading the way. But there were two lengths to the bedroom wing, with guest quarters in one and the master suite in the other. Now it appeared that, left to his own devices, the dog would have turned left at the intersection, not right toward the guest bedrooms.

As Bob disappeared into the master suite, through a door that should have been closed but was not, Pogo followed, the pistol in a two-hand grip.

* * *

Makani did not see Rainer standing bedside.

He did not allow her to see him.

She yawned.

She turned her head to look at the digital clock in the fall of buttery light from the nightstand lamp.

How tender she was. How succulent.

She sat up. Swung her legs off the bed. Perched on the edge.

Such a lithe girl. Yet full-figured. Provocative.

Those vivid blue eyes. Blind to him.

As she stood up, he Tasered her.

All grace abandoned the maiden. Her body jerked, arms flailed, head tossed back to expose her throat, which he Tasered, triggering one shock, two.

Palsied, wild-eyed, teeth clacking together, hands scrabbling uselessly at herself, as if to peel off and throw away the alien current that jigged along her nerve paths, she tried to scream, but gagged out only a throttled sound.

Pocketing the stun gun with his left hand, Rainer seized her dark hair with his right, twisted it in his fist, turned her, and pressed her down onto the bed.

When he fell upon her, twice her weight, she was as effectively pinned as a dead butterfly to a specimen board.

He forced her face into the pillows. Familiarized her with the fear of suffocation.

Lying atop her, his face next to hers, he let her see him.

Her left eye bulged like that of a frightened horse.

She struggled to suck in air, got instead the taste of a cotton pillowcase, perhaps the faintest flavor of feathers.

He was reading her, savoring the panic that overwhelmed her mind.

She was reading him, too, terrified not only of suffocating, but also of the images of his many victims with all the indignities and wounds that he had inflicted on them.

Into her exquisitely shaped ear, Rainer whispered, “The cat wins Round Two.”

He licked the lobe, the curve of helix.

“Better run, little mouse. Far and fast.”

He licked again.

“Round Three comes later today,” he whispered. “After the last light.”

His hot breath flushed back to him out of the delicate shell of her ear.

“Enjoy your final sunset.”

He clambered off her, to his feet, still jamming her face into the pillow.

To leave her with a reminder of his great strength, he lifted her off the bed by the twist of hair and by the belt that held her jeans, and he threw her aside as if she weighed nothing and were of no consequence.

* * *

Pogo followed as the excited Labrador toured the master suite, bedroom and bath and walk-in closet, snout to the floor, sneezing to refresh his nasal passages, now whimpering as some quality of the spoor disturbed him.

Earlier, when Makani first arrived, Bob had with great interest sniffed her shoes, her jeans, her hair. He would have made himself familiar with Rainer Sparks’s scent, which Makani carried on her from the encounter that she’d had with the sonofabitch in her house.

But was that the scent troubling him now? And how would Sparks have found her so quickly? How could he have gotten into the house without setting off the alarm?

Moments ago, leaving Makani in the guest bedroom, Pogo had wondered if he had been so caught up in the dog’s excited searching that he had missed something along the way. Suddenly he knew what had not registered with him.

The alarm was set in the at-home mode. Sensors on all perimeter doors and windows were activated, but not any of the interior motion detectors. The garage doors were omitted from the system, so that Ollie Watkins wouldn’t set off the alarm every time he drove home and wouldn’t have to make a mad dash to the control pad to enter the disarming code. However, the door between the garage and the laundry room was included when the alarm was set in either the at-home mode or the away-from-home mode. Pogo had forgotten that detail. When he had opened that door to let Bob continue the search into the garage, the alarm had not sounded.

Someone had turned it off without triggering the through-house tones that accompanied every entry made in any security-system keypad.

Having made his way through the house from the laundry room, and having found the bedroom wing, Sparks might have gone first to the master bedroom. Maybe the dog had wanted to follow the spoor path as it had been laid down.

But Sparks had not found his quarry here. He would not be in the master suite now.

He would be in the second of two guest bedrooms. With Makani.

“Bob, let’s go!”

Berating himself for in fact being the dimwit that he’d long pretended to be, Pogo sprinted into the hallway and back to the room that he had left two minutes earlier. He threw open the door and crossed the threshold with the pistol in a two-hand grip, just in time to see Makani levitate inexplicably from the bed and seemingly fling herself six or eight feet across the room, where she hit the floor and tumbled against the armchair.

Rainer Sparks was here, as invisible as a poltergeist. Pogo didn’t know where to aim, and he didn’t want to squeeze off a spray of bullets, for fear that one of them—directly or by ricochet—might hit Makani, also for fear that he would use all ten rounds without nailing Sparks, and then be weaponless.

The Taser resolved his dilemma. The positive and negative poles—two cold steel pegs—pressed against his neck, and mean centipedes skittered through him, their centuries of legs plucking chaos from his nerve fibers. The gun fell from his hands, and a second jolt from the Taser staggered him backward even as his knees buckled. Ink spilled through his vision when he hit the floor, but he blinked it away, leaving no permanent stain, and looked up just as an unseen man, seeming to speak directly above him, said, “Welcome to the game, you hopeless feeb.”

The bedroom door that Pogo had flung open a moment ago now slammed shut, as if thrown by a fierce draft. Moving away through the house, like some overgrown and demented child, Rainer Sparks sang, “Two blind mice, two blind mice. See how they run, see how they run. Each of ’em ran in fear of its life, but I cut out their guts with a big freakin’ knife. Two blind mice.”

There was a gnarly wave that some surfers called a “thunder crusher” and others called a “dumper,” a wave both steep and thick that broke straight down from the top and hit you like a wall of wet concrete, leaving you wiped out and your board broken. Pogo felt as if he had just been hammered by one.

Crawling to the pistol, holding fast to it, struggling to his feet, he asked Makani if she was all right. She said she was okay, and when he opened the door, she begged him not to go after Sparks, but he went. He was still in the main hallway when the front door crashed shut. By the time Pogo made his way through the living room and across the foyer and outside to the front walkway, Sparks was either still working his mojo or he was gone.

Pogo waited in the growing blackness of the setting moon until an engine started farther down the street. Crisp white headlights drilled the darkness. A white Mercedes SUV approached, picking up speed. As it roared past the cottage, Pogo couldn’t get a clear view of the driver, but he could see that the guy was big, hulking over the steering wheel as though he might be a troll that had immigrated to California from some sulfurous underworld.

15

Who Are We If We Are Not Us?

Having been prosecuted by the sea more often than she could count, clamshelled and creamed and stacked on the rocks, Makani Miomio Hisoka-O’Brien was accustomed to aches and pains. Those bruises and abrasions with which Rainer Sparks had left her were not worth complaining about, and they certainly were not sufficient to rob her of courage.

After washing down two Tylenol with beer, sitting at the kitchen table, holding an ice-pack on her left wrist, which had suffered a mild sprain, she said, “Anyway, there’s nowhere to run.”

Although four years younger than Makani, Pogo had been biffed and dumped and quashed and rinse-cycled as often as any surfer his age. As he sat across the table from Makani, holding an ice pack to the back of his neck, he said, “What’s the freak expect—that we’ll slide away to Kansas, forget there’s such a thing as an ocean, hide out in a tornado cellar?”

“That’s not me,” she said.

“It’s not me, either.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with Kansas.”

“Wild Bill Hickock was from Kansas.”

“That alone justifies it,” she said.

“Sparks is a big bastard, though.”

“And invisible.”

“There’s got to be a way around that.”

“What way?”

Bob the Labrador, who had been sitting beside Makani, his chin in her lap, raised his head and sniffed the plate on the table that had been set aside for him. It contained chunks of roast beef that were his reward for being the first to realize that Rainer Sparks was in the house.

After Makani gave him one cube of meat and then another, he made a thin sound of entreaty, and she said, “You shouldn’t gobble them all at once, sweetie. Learn to savor, Bobby. Life’s all about savoring.”

The dog lowered his big black head and rested his chin on her thigh once more.

“I’m not changing my name and getting false ID and moving to Mexico,” Makani said.

After a long pull at his beer, Pogo said, “There is some killer surf in Baja. Down to Todos Santos and Scorpion Bay, even all the way to Mazatlán.”

“You changing your name, then?”

“Hell, no. Nothing would be as easy to remember as Pogo.”

“I like Pogo.”

“I like Makani.”

“I don’t mean just the name.”

“I don’t mean just the name, either.”

They smiled at each other.

Bob raised his head.

“Screw it,” Makani said. “Gobble away if you want.” And she put the plate of beef on the floor.

“It’s who Bobby is,” Pogo said. “Bobby’s a gobbler.”

“Who are we if we are not us?” she said.

“Then we’d be nobody.”

“Well, I’m not nobody, and you’re not nobody, and Bobby is somebody, too.”

A pause for beer.

Pogo reminded her, “Sparks is one big bastard.”

“And invisible,” she said.

“There’s got to be a way around that.”

“You think of it yet?”

“I have a kind of idea.”

They had preparations to make, shopping to do, second thoughts to consider, and a lot of mutual encouragement to perform. Being of high spirits most of the time, Bob didn’t need encouragement, but he went with them to the hardware store, which he enjoyed, not least of all because the owner always brought his Labrador, Gracie, to work.

By noon, they were ready. Or as ready as they could be.

Over a lunch of sandwiches, eaten on the patio, Makani said, “It’s good not to be alone.”

Pogo nodded. “I never have been.”

“Well, I have been for almost ten years.”

“Where do you see this going?”

“You mean if he doesn’t kill us?”

“Exactly.”

“He will probably kill us.”

“Probably.”

“But if he doesn’t, I don’t see us plunging into things.”

Pogo nodded. “Nothing worthwhile happens overnight.”

“You really feel that way?”

“I’ve got to get used to being read all the time.”

“And I’ve got to figure how I cope with you knowing that you’re being read.”

“Maybe I’ll learn how to hide my darker thoughts.”

“What darker thoughts? I’ve known you two years, and I’ve never seen one.”

“Right now, I’m planning to kill a man.”

“Oh, that,” she said. “That’s not as dark as what I’d like to do to him.”

Under the table, where he was lying in the shade and summer heat, Bob grumbled his agreement.

Pogo wanted to nap for a few hours, to be sure his head was clear when sunset came.

Although they didn’t expect Sparks to show up sooner than he had promised, Makani insisted on sitting in a chair in the second guest room, the pistol in her lap, while Pogo slept in the nearby bed. She kept Bob at her side, hoping he understood that he was their early-warning system.

In all her conversations with Pogo, she had tried to match his light tone, which was natural to him because it was a reflection of his confident and buoyant spirit. In truth, however, she expected to die this evening, and she hoped only that Pogo would survive and that she would not have been the cause of his death.

16

Round Three

Two hours before sunset.

Having returned to Makani’s bungalow to sleep in her bed with the scent of her, eat her food, shower with her soap and her loofah sponge, and again use her toothbrush, Rainer was rested and primed for the encounter ahead.

When he checked the GPS for the location of her ’54 Chevy, he found that it remained at the house of Oliver Watkins.

He was not surprised.

There were people who ran like the frightened mice they were. He destroyed them.

Then there were people who would not run and who thought they were clever enough to outwit him. In the end, they died, too.

Makani most likely believed that her power made her a harder target than ordinary people. But her power was ordinary when compared to Rainer’s.

Anyway, Rainer had analyzed the situation from every angle. He was confident that she had no advantage that would save her or the pretty-boy feeb who imagined he was her guardian.

One of the many things at which Rainer excelled was analysis. Of data. Of situations. Of people.

He would have become the winningest chess player in history if he had been interested enough to learn the rules of the game. Chess looked boring. Too slow, no sex, no killing.

* * *

Pogo and Makani sat at the table in the gazebo to enjoy the sunset. The rope lighting under the encircling handrail and around the perimeter of the ceiling was hardly noticeable at the moment, but with nightfall, it would cast a warm glow over them, so that their location would be obvious.

On the table stood two bottles of Corona. They had not drunk any beer, and they would not until this was over. The gazebo was a stage. The bottles were props. They intended that Rainer Sparks should interpret their demeanor as either reckless confidence or fatalistic indifference, though it was neither.

Bob paced around the gazebo, pausing now and then to stick his snout between balusters and sample the thousands of scents that the sea and the city offered him. He was not a prop.

Part of the day had been spent encouraging the Labrador to smell the threshold at the side door to the garage, by which Sparks had evidently gained entry, the alarm keypad outside the laundry room, which he had somehow overridden, the carpet of the guest bedroom, the blanket and sheets, and the clothes that Makani had been wearing when he had forced her facedown onto the bed and had lain atop her, pressing her into the smothering pillow. Initially, Bob wagged and capered and grinned, seeming to think that they were teaching him a new game, but soon he began to take the instruction seriously. He apparently found Sparks’s scent complex, disturbing, and endlessly fascinating.

A spectacular sunset required scattered clouds to provide reflection, and the day’s end was furnished with a perfect mix.

Feathery cirrus at the highest altitude. Cirrostratus farther down. And nearest the sea, a procession of puffy stratocumulus clouds, like unsheared sheep, wandered slowly northward.

Not sure if they were yet under observation by the murderer, Makani pretended to take a sip of her beer and then said, “When this is over, we need to do something special for Bob.”

“We’ll give him a special day,” Pogo said. “Start out cutting up a couple frankfurters in his morning kibble.”

“A long walk in Corona del Mar, the Village. He loves all the smells there, the other dogs out walking.”

“Some Frisbee at the dog park.”

“Lunch at a restaurant that takes dogs on the patio.”

“Go over to Muttropolis, buy some cool new toys.”

“The dog beach. A long nap on a blanket, in the sun.”

“Get him on the board. He’s more an inlander than a surf mongrel, but he’s game.”

“Shut your face,” Makani said. “He’s no inlander. He’s born to thrash the waves.”

“If you say so. I haven’t seen him channeling Kahuna yet.”

The sinking sun phased from lemon-yellow to orange, and the lower clouds caught fire first, though soon the blaze laddered up to higher elevations.

Makani said, “I’m afraid.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“You seem way cool.”

Pogo said, “I’ve been thinking I might need an adult diaper.”

* * *

The heavens were as full of fire as Hell when Rainer parked three blocks from the Watkins house.

He waited in the GL550, listening to music, as night crept in from the east and the sun went to its daily death and the bloody light drained down the sky to the horizon.

Currently, he was sampling symphonic music. Wagner.

His life was so eventful, so epic, that he felt it needed theme music. He was a demigod, and demigods didn’t stride through their days without a soundtrack.

He had tried gangsta rap, but it didn’t seem important enough.

Beethoven was too spiritual. Glenn Miller too ebullient.

The movie soundtrack for The Terminator had possibilities, as did certain tunes from that old TV show Twin Peaks.

Wagner was the closest to being right, but it wasn’t ideal.

Rainer had begun to think he would have to write his own music. He had never written music before, but he was sure he could do it.

When the sunset had diminished to a thin red wound along the horizon, he got out of the Mercedes.

He walked without haste to the Watkins house and the pleasures that the night held for him.

As before, he wore his stylish and practical khaki coat with cargo pockets.

Makani and her guy had probably figured out by what route he had previously entered the house. It didn’t matter if they were waiting for him.

He was unstoppable.

Nevertheless, this time he went directly to the front door.

It would have been amusing to ring the bell, but he did not.

A deadbolt. The LockAid released the pin tumblers in less than half a minute.

With a pistol in hand, he entered the foyer fast, in a half crouch, but no one waited to greet him.

Since he was invisible to them, he didn’t expect to be fired upon. Just in case, he was wearing a bulletproof Kevlar vest under his coat, a custom model to which had been added short sleeves.

The house was quiet.

A few lamps were lit, dialed low.

In the family room, through the French doors, he saw the dark patio, the dark yard, and the lighted gazebo toward the end of the property.

Makani and her guy were sitting in the gazebo. Downlighted.

“What game is this?” he wondered aloud.

Makani lifted a bottle to her mouth. Maybe a beer bottle.

Not-Ollie lifted a bottle to his mouth, too.

Who were they trying to kid? After he had kicked their ass in Round Two, less than twenty-four hours earlier, they weren’t lying back, relaxed, and getting juiced.

It looked like a trap of some kind.

Now and then, other people had tried to set a trap for him. Idiots, all of them.

If he opened a patio door and stepped outside, they wouldn’t see him, but they might see the door open.

So he’d go out by way of the side garage door.

He hesitated, watching them.

The gazebo was near the gate in the glass-panel fence. A gate on a bluff meant there must be stairs leading down to the shore.

Maybe they expected him to come at them from the beach.

Maybe they figured that at the first sound of him on those stairs, they’d step through the gate and shoot down on him.

Did they think he was a loser?

Rainer wasn’t a loser.

They were the losers.

Maybe they thought he wouldn’t attack them if they were in the open, under the gazebo lights, visible to neighbors if anyone in a second-floor room or sitting on an upper deck of the flanking houses happened to look this way.

Stupid.

He could simply push out his mojo to affect the neighbors as well. They’d never see him or hear the targets’ screams any more than the other diners in Sharkin’, the previous day, had seen him throw beer in Makani’s face or heard him curse her out.

And his pistol was fitted with a silencer. It would make only a soft, sensuous sucking sound when he shot not-Ollie in the head.

Rainer was ready to be done with that guy. Eager to get started with Makani.

He left the family room, followed the main hall to the laundry room, crossed the garage, and opened the side door.

The moon hung too low to brighten the narrow walkway between the residence and the property wall.

Rainer moved toward the back of the property.

* * *

Snout between two balusters, facing the house, Bob became agitated. He growled low in his throat, whimpered, growled again, and turned to look at Makani and Pogo.

“Our guest has arrived,” Pogo said.

Makani said, “I’m going to be sick.”

“You’re not going to be sick. You might wind up dead, but you won’t embarrass yourself.”

“I think maybe you’re right. Which amazes me.”

When the last light had faded from the sky, they had turned their chairs away from the view, angled them more toward the house.

Earlier, they had turned off the landscape-lighting timer. The yard lay in deep darkness. They could not see Rainer coming. Or hear him. But he could not see much, either, except the glowing gazebo and Makani radiant within it.

The previous night, in the guest room, when Bob couldn’t see or hear Rainer, but only smell him, he had become confused. Now, in the night, the dog could not expect to see him, and therefore should not as easily become disarmed by puzzlement. Besides, that afternoon they had spent two hours sensitizing the Labrador to the murderer’s scent.

Bob became increasingly agitated, which suggested that Rainer was crossing the yard, approaching the gazebo. Pogo held in his hand a switch he’d bought that afternoon. A black extension cord ran from the switch, around the yard, to the control box for the lawn sprinklers. The trick was not to activate them too soon, out of fear. He had to wait for the cowbell.

* * *

As Rainer approached the gazebo, he heard in his mind’s ear a stirring passage from Richard Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung.

It was Hitler’s favorite music.

Now that Rainer was in action, Wagner’s composition proved to be the perfect accompaniment for the violence to come. It made him feel ten feet tall. It almost brought him to tears.

Shoot the idiot pretty-boy in the face.

Shoot the dog.

Drag the bitch into the house and teach her the beauty of pain as she had never known it.

In his nearly blind rush, he came to a wire, maybe five or six inches off the ground, stretched taut across the width of the yard.

As he tripped and fell, a cowbell rang.

* * *

Still in the thrall of the killer’s power, Pogo didn’t hear him fall, but the cowbell was a thing apart from Sparks, and it clanged when the wire was violated.

The scent of the murderer excited Bob beyond his ability to control himself. He would have sprung out of the gazebo and dashed into the yard if Makani hadn’t been holding his leash with both hands.

Pogo flicked the switch. After a hesitation while relays worked and valves opened, the lawn sprinklers showered the grass with an abundance of water, thanks to the higher-flow heads that he and Makani had installed earlier.

* * *

Furious that he had fallen, that he had been embarrassed by the likes of those two losers in the gazebo, Rainer gasped when a veritable storm erupted from the pop-up lawn sprinklers.

What did these morons think they were doing?

Did they imagine they could humiliate him to death?

He struggled to kick loose of the wire.

His efforts made the cowbell clang louder.

He would feed the pretty-boy his severed manhood before he fed the bitch her face.

Wagner was booming in his mind’s ear.

* * *

The length of half-inch insulated cable lying on the floor by Pogo’s chair was wired at one end into the junction box that served the gazebo. When he picked it up after activating the lawn sprinklers, he was careful to keep his hand well back from the bare copper wires at the end from which he had stripped the insulation.

As Bob strained at his leash and Makani held him safe, Pogo stood up and threw the cable between two of the balusters, onto the sodden grass.

He expected Sparks to scream. The murderer wouldn’t be able to maintain the spell that he cast over them, surely not in his death throes. According to Makani, when she had thrown beer in his face, in the restaurant, he had for a moment lost control, and others had suddenly become aware of him in his embarrassment.

The scream didn’t come. Still didn’t come.

Pogo told himself to stay cool, stay cool, but a fine sweat broke out on his brow.

* * *

Rainer thought he was free of the wire, but when he clambered halfway to his feet, he discovered that he was still entangled, and he fell again, face-first, into something disgusting, of which he got a choking mouthful. He didn’t have to wonder what it was, he knew instantly what it was, and he was furious—outraged—that they had been so busy setting their trap, they hadn’t remembered to pick up after the dog.

Had he been standing, the rubber soles of his shoes would have insulated him and, in spite of the electricity arcing through the heavy spray, might have saved him.

Prostrate on the lawn, he never heard the end of the heroic passage from Wagner that boomed through his mind, though an instant before eternal darkness blacked out the last light in his brain, he realized that he was listening to the fourth of the composer’s famous tetralogy, which was Götterdämmerung, otherwise known as The Twilight of the Gods.

* * *

After counting to twenty, when he still hadn’t heard a scream, Pogo counted to twenty again before he reached to the junction box and threw the little breaker in it. He detached the cable from the box, reeled it in from the yard, and coiled it on the floor of the gazebo.

During Pogo’s recovery of the cable, Makani let go of Bob’s leash and used the jerry-rigged switch to turn off the Niagara hissing from the lawn sprinklers.

The grass squished under their shoes and water splashed their ankles as they went in search of the murderer. With the moon still low in the east, they could not see Rainer Sparks until they were almost on top of him.

He was visible in death.

“That was radical,” Makani said.

Pogo agreed. “Totally live.”

“Should we check for a pulse?”

“This isn’t a movie.”

“So the monster doesn’t keep coming back.”

“Exactly.”

As far as Pogo could tell, no neighbors were at second-floor windows or lounging on upper decks. The privacy walls prevented anyone on the ground floors of the flanking houses from having a view of recent events. The darkness would shroud what needed to be done next, and there had been no gunshots to draw attention, only a cowbell, which was one of the decorative objects that Ollie Watkins had distributed through his “cottage” to make it feel authentic.

Bob rolled around in the puddled grass, kicking his feet in the air, as if celebrating Rainer’s end, although of course he was just being a dog.

They dragged the corpse across the backyard, alongside the house, through the side door that Rainer had left open, and into the garage, where they saw why the murderer hadn’t screamed.

“Cosmic justice,” Pogo said, and Bob looked on with pride.

While Pogo moved his primer-gray thirty-year-old Honda from the garage and parked it in the street, Makani searched the many pockets in the khaki coat until she found the keys to the Mercedes GL550. Because he had parked it three blocks away, she needed ten minutes to find it and pull it into the garage stall that Pogo had vacated.

Getting more than two hundred pounds of dead weight off the garage floor and through the tailgate of the Mercedes was a challenge.

“That was gnarly,” Makani said.

“It gnarled,” Pogo agreed.

Bob didn’t like being left behind in the laundry room.

“You’re wet, Bobby,” Makani explained, “and you’ve done your part already. You’ve been a good, good, good boy, Mommy’s best boy ever, little Bobby baby.”

As the Labrador wiggled his butt, delighting in the praise, Pogo assured him that they would be back soon.

“You drive, O’Brien,” Pogo said. “You look more reputable. No cop would ever pull you over—except to ask for a date.”

As they drove away from the house, he entered Rainer Sparks’s street address into the vehicle’s navigator. Earlier in the day, they had gone online and, in public records, discovered that he was a property owner.

Killing for money, Sparks had done well for himself. The house was large, in a good neighborhood.

They assumed that he lived alone, that he didn’t have a wife and kids, especially since the bride of Frankenstein had been dead for many years. Their assumption proved true.

In Sparks’s garage, they had to do the gnarly thing again, get him out of the SUV without dropping him and leaving the corpse with an inexplicable injury. He was still a big dude, but he didn’t look so formidable anymore.

Pogo said, “It’s almost as if he’s…fourteen again.”

Getting Sparks upstairs, stripping him naked, drawing a hot bath for him, and sliding him into the bathtub would be something they would remember for the rest of their lives.

“It was a bonding experience,” Makani said.

“Something to tell our grandkids.”

“If we ever get married.”

“If we ever do.”

“If we ever even go to bed together.”

“If we ever do.”

She said, “Don’t you come on to me until I’m ready.”

“I was just sayin’.”

From Oliver Watkins’s cottage, they’d brought a Bakelite radio, a yellow-and-red Fada, from the Art Deco period, which Ollie had restored as a conversation piece. After wiping his prints off the Fada with a towel, Pogo plugged it in, switched it on, set it on the edge of the tub, and pushed it into the water.

They placed the contents of Sparks’s many coat pockets on the dresser in his bedroom, but left all his clothes in his laundry room, where the garments would probably dry out before anyone found his corpse.

On the way out of the house, they wiped down everything they could remember touching.

“This worries me,” Makani said.

“What—you think we missed something?”

“No. What worries me is we’re so good at this.”

“It was self-defense. That’s no crime.”

“It feels like a crime.”

“Nah. It’s more like a Batman thing.”

They walked seven blocks to a tavern, where they drank one beer each. Then Pogo called Uber, and they were driven to Laguna by Pedro Alvarez, a most pleasant young man who might have been a tad naïve, as he seemed to believe their pretend inebriation was real.

Bob the Labrador was ecstatic to see them.

“I’m quashed,” Makani said.

“I’m totally thrashed,” Pogo agreed.

They slept in separate guest rooms. He dreamed of her. The next morning, he wanted to ask if she had dreamed of him, but he held his tongue.

He cut up two frankfurters and added them to Bob’s morning kibble. They dressed for a walk in the Village, and they took the Frisbee for the dog park.

Sparks’s body wasn’t found for three days.

On his computer, police discovered a large collection of photos of murdered men, women, and children, with Sparks’s detailed account of how he had felt as he’d taken the life from each of them.

The authorities weren’t disposed to spend public funds to investigate whether the accident with the antique radio was in fact an accident. The coroner allowed the possibility of suicide.

For Makani and Pogo and Bob, order returned to their world, at least for a while. As bizarre and frightening as it had been, the affair seemed to be the start of a beautiful friendship, if not something even better.

Author’s Note

Although my forthcoming novel, Ashley Bell, is set largely in Newport Beach, California, Makani Hisoka-O’Brien and Bob the dog and Rainer Sparks are not characters in that story. Pogo does have a significant supporting role in Ashley Bell, however, as does his primer-gray thirty-year-old Honda. Makani and Pogo and Bob will return in another novella, Final Hour, available as an e-single on October 27, 2015. As for Ashley Bell, I have seldom had such enormous pleasure writing a book, rank it in my top five, and hope you’ll let me know what you think of it after it is published on December 8, 2015. In the meantime, stay mellow and don’t be a goob.

BY DEAN KOONTZ

The City • Innocence • 77 Shadow Street • What the Night Knows • Breathless • Relentless • Your Heart Belongs to Me • The Darkest Evening of the Year • The Good Guy • The Husband • Velocity • Life Expectancy • The Taking • The Face • By the Light of the Moon • One Door Away From Heaven • From the Corner of His Eye • False Memory • Seize the Night • Fear Nothing • Mr. Murder • Dragon Tears • Hideaway • Cold Fire • The Bad Place • Midnight • Lightning • Watchers • Strangers • Twilight Eyes • Darkfall • Phantoms • Whispers • The Mask • The Vision • The Face of Fear • Night Chills • Shattered • The Voice of the Night • The Servants of Twilight • The House of Thunder • The Key to Midnight • The Eyes of Darkness • Shadowfires • Winter Moon • The Door to December • Dark Rivers of the Heart • Icebound • Strange Highways • Intensity • Sole Survivor • Ticktock • The Funhouse • Demon Seed

ODD THOMAS

Odd Thomas • Forever Odd • Brother Odd • Odd Hours • Odd Interlude • Odd Apocalypse • Deeply Odd • Saint Odd

FRANKENSTEIN

Prodigal Son • City of Night • Dead and Alive • Lost Souls • The Dead Town

A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog Named Trixie

About the Author

DEAN KOONTZ, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.

deankoontz.com

Facebook.com/DeanKoontzOfficial

@deankoontz

Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:

Dean Koontz

P.O. Box 9529

Newport Beach, California 92658