last light - droppdf1.droppdf.com/files/waz3f/last-light-dean-koontz.pdf · 2015. 10. 2. ·...

LastLightisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitherareproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.

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PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyBantamBooks,animprintofRandomHouse,adivisionofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork.

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eBookISBN 9780804181167

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ContentsCoverTitlePageCopyright

Chapter1:LookbutDon’tTouch

Chapter2:DesperatetoEscapeHawaii

Chapter3:InsidetheBeautifulMan

Chapter4:TakingtheDrop

Chapter5:MoreAloneThanAnyGirlHasEverBeen

Chapter6:OntheDieChapter7:RoundOneChapter8:NamedfortheWind

Chapter9:Where,Oh,

WhereHasMyLittleDogGone?

Chapter10:YouDon’tFindLifebyFleeingfromIt

Chapter11:BeautySleepsChapter12:BeastAwakens

Chapter13:RoundTwoChapter14:ThunderCrusher

Chapter15:WhoAreWe

IfWeAreNotUs?Chapter16:RoundThree

Author’sNoteByDeanKoontzAbouttheAuthor

LookbutDon’tTouch

When Makani Hisoka-O’Brienmet themurderer,she thought he was a niceguy, perhaps just the one

withwhomshemightwanttoshareherlife.That warm Wednesday

in August, the SouthernCalifornia skywas aswideastheuniverse,asdeepasinfinity, as blue asMakani’s eyes, and shecould no more resist thecall of the ocean than shecould switch off hercompulsiontobreathe.Her mother, Kiku,

insisted that Makani hadbeen born in the ocean,eventhoughinfactshehadbeenbornon the islandofOahu, in a Honoluluhospital. What her sweetmahuakinemeantwasthatMakani had beenconceivedinthesea,inthegently breaking surf, on adeserted and moonlitbeach. Makani had piecedthis saucy truth together

fromaseriesoflittlethingsher parents had said overthe years and from looksthey exchanged andmeaningful smiles theyshared.AlthoughshewasanativeHawaiian,Kikuhadbeen taught reserve anddiscretion by hertraditionalist Japanesemother; she would notspeakoflovemakinginanybut the most oblique

fashion.Heedingthecallofthe surf, the bed of herconception, Makani droveher street rod, a glossyblack ’54ChevroletBelAirthathadbeenchoppedandshaved and peaked andfrenched and sparkled, toBalboaPeninsula, the landmass that shieldedNewport Harbor from theopen sea. The Chevypurred like a panther,

because she had droppedinto it a GM PerformanceParts high-output 383cismall-block V-8. Shewasn’tastreetracer,butifCalifornia was everplagued by road bandits,she would be able tooutrunthemall.She parked in a

residential neighborhoodhalf a block from thepeninsula-point park, in

the shade of an ancientpodocarpus.Hersurfboardhung in a custom sling inthe backseat, safer thanshe was in a driver’sshoulder harness. Shezippered open the vinyl,freedtheboard,andsetoffforthebeach.In a bikini, she was a

flamethatdrewyoungmenas surely as a porch lampat night enchantedmoths,

butthisdaywasnotaboutboys. This day was aboutthe sea and its power, itsbeauty, its challenge. Inmedium-lengthboardshorts, a sports bra,and a white T-shirt,Makani presented herselfas a dedicated boardhead,warning off thetestosteronecrowd.Oneof themost famous

surfing destinations in the

world was the Wedge,formedbyapristinebeachand the breakwater ofstacked boulders thatprotected the entrancechannel to NewportHarbor. On other days,when the waves werebehemoths, smoking infromaSouthPacificstormafewthousandmilesaway,surfers were in danger ofbeing driven onto the

rocks. Some had diedthere.Makani walked the wet,

compacted sand up-peninsula for about ahundred fifty yards, givingthe Wedge the respect itdeserved. The waves weremaybe eight to nine feet,glassy, pumping nicely, insets of four and five, withcalmerconditionsbetween.She waited for the sea to

slack off briefly before shepaddled out to the lineup.Other surfers straddledtheir boards, anticipatingthe next swell, all of themguysandgoodcitizenswhokept their distance fromone another and wereunlikely to snake someoneelse’s wave. One surfer,one wave was a naturallaw.Shehad towait through

two sets before her turncame with the third. Shecaught one of the largestswells she had yet seen,rising from two knees toone and then to her feet.She executed a floater offthe curling lip, and as sheslanteddown the face, sherealized the breaker wasbig enough and hadsufficient energy tohollowout.

Shewalked theboard ina crouch as the tubeformed around her, andshewasinthegreenhouse,the glasshouse, whichglowed with verdantsunlight fractured by theflowing lens of water intokaleidoscopicfragments.Riding the tube was the

greatest thrill in surfing.There could have been nobetter start to the session.

Asusuallyhappenedwhentheswellsformedhigh,shefound herself deep in thethrall of the Pacific, allsenseoftimewashedaway.As the hours passed, shespoke to no one,communed only with thesea, in a kind of pleasanttrance.On two different

occasions, she becameaware of a man standing

on the shore, beside hisboard,takingabreakfromthe action. Tall and tan,with sculptedmuscles anda thatch of sun-bleachedhair, he appeared asradiant as a demigod. Thefirsttimeshesawhim,shethought he might bewatching her. The secondtime, she was sure of it.But the sea proved morepowerfulandmorealluring

than a demigod, and sheforgot him as successiveswellsgraduallymovedherdown-peninsula towardtheWedge.When she considered

callingitaday,wadingoutof the foaming breakerswith her board, shechecked her GPS surfwatch, expecting the timetobeabout3:30,butitwas5:15.Her legs should have

beenaching,buttheywerenot.Nowearinessattendedher, though she wasfamished.Back at her ’54 Chevy,

the westering sun slantedthrough the limbs of thepodocarpus and projectedspiral galaxies of somberlight on the deep-spaceblackofthecar’shood.Shestowed her board in theslingbag.Becauseherhair

was wet and her clothesweredamp,sheretrievedabeach towel from thetrunk,intendingtodrapeitover the driver’s seat.Whensheclosed the lidofthetrunk,thedemigodwasstanding on the sidewalk,only a few feet away,watchingher.He said, “Hey, youwere

amazing out there. Totallystylin’.”

Close-up, the guy wasbeyond gorgeous, but hedidn’t play themoment asif he were a hunk. Hedidn’t use his physicalperfection. He had pulledon a T-shirt with theVolcom TRUE TO THISsloganandworeover itanunbuttonedHawaiianshirtwith a pattern of surfingpenguins. He had adisarmingboyishquality.

“Iwas just in the zone,”shesaid.“Ithappenseverygreatonceinawhile.”“Thatwasn’t just agood

day.Thatwasseriousskill.Youevercompete?”She smiled and shook

her head. “Only withmyself.”“You should maybe go

pro.You’drockit.”Hewasn’thertype.With

one exception, she hadfound that guys who wereknockout handsome wereso into themselves thattheir primary romancewould always be with amirror.She said, “Go pro and

have to travel the circuit?I’mhappyhere.”“What’snottolikeabout

Newport, huh? I’m RainerSparks.”

Whenhedidn’tofferhishand,shewasrelieved.Shedidn’t touch just anyone.Shehadherreasons.“I’mMakani.”“Gotta tell you, Makani,

this car is radical. A realbeauty.”“Builtitmyself.Well,me

and my guys. Myemployees.Ihaveacustomhot-rodshop.”

He grinned and shookhis head. Even his teethwere perfect. “So you ridethewaves likeKahaHuna,build hot rods, look thewayyoulook…”Kaha Huna was the

Hawaiian goddess ofsurfing.Makanilikedbeingcompared to Kaha Huna.She’d been desperate toescapeHawaii,butshewasproudofherheritage.

He said, “You shouldhave a reality TV show.Except you’re too real forthat.”Ifhewasmakingamove

on her—and he was—hehad an agreeable way ofdoingit.She wasn’t a virgin, but

she wasn’t easy. Shebelieved an ideal manexisted out theresomewhere, her destiny,

and the worst way to findhimwould be to try everybozo who winked at her.She had been alone formorethanayear,however,and “Lonely Surfer”definitely wasn’t herfavoritesong.“Hey, the way you were

slashing those waves, youmust’ve worked up amonster appetite.Maybe Icould takeyou todinner?”

When she hesitated, hesaid, “I know, I know, amillion guys must bealways hitting on you. Isympathize. Guys arealways hitting onme, too,andit’ssoboring.”Damn, he was also

amusing. “It’s not that,”she said. “I’m a mess andnot in amood to gohomeandprettify.”“Me, too,” he said,

though he looked as if hehad stepped out of aglamour spread in FoamSymmetry magazine. “Wejust go now, the way weare.YouknowSharkin’?”Sharkin’ was boardhead

lingoforsurfing,butitwasalso the name of a funkyrestaurantinthevicinityofthe nearer of thepeninsula’s two piers, acasual place where

barefoot customers inbeachwearwerewelcome.As the lyrics of “Lonely

Surfer” rose in memory,Makani could not justifysayingno,soshesaidyes.Rainer reacted as if he

were a teenage boy whocouldn’t believe his luck.Henoddedrepeatedly.“Allright,okay, cool, so then…see you at Sharkin’.” Andhe pumped one fist. “I’ll

leave now. I’ll get therefirst. Snare a table.” Hedashed across the narrowstreet to awhiteMercedesSUV, a big GL550, andcalled back to her, “Don’tstandmeup.I’dgetdrunkif you did, and throwmyself off the end of thepier.Tomydeath.”“Iwouldn’twantthat.”“No, you wouldn’t.

’CauseI’dhauntyou.”

She watched him driveaway before draping thebeach towel over thedriver’sseatofherChevy.The Mercedes had

helped her overcome anylingering doubt abouthaving dinner with him.She didn’t care all thatmuch about money,because she lived simplyand had a bit-more-than-modesttrustfundfromher

maternal grandfather,which she had come intowhen she turned twenty,almost six years earlier.Already, only five yearsafter she opened forbusiness, the customizedcars that came out of hershop were legendaryamong hot-rodders; shecould book as much workas she wanted. RainerSparks’s Mercedes SUV

mattered only because itseemedtobeproofthathewasn’t one of thoseboardheads who bunkedwith five other surf bumsin a dilapidated housetrailer, subsisting offgovernment disabilitypayments that hefraudulently obtained,living only to ride thewaves. Makani loved thesurfer culture, the

community, but it had itsshare of wankers, andfalling in love with one ofthemwouldbenolessself-destructivethangoingforalong swim in the coolingpond at a nuclear powerplant.Getting behind the

steeringwheel, pulling thedoor shut, starting theengine, she smiled at thememory of his boyish

reaction to her acceptanceof his invitation. He wastall, buffed, gorgeous,funny, sweet, andapparently successful.Maybe hewas, at last, theOne.Whentheyfirsttouched,

she might know in thatinstant whether RainerSparks was her future ornot.Whatelseshe learneduponmaking contact, skin

to skin, was the oneremaining cloud over alovelydinnerdate.

DesperatetoEscapeHawaii

Makani could have drivento the restaurant in three

minutes, but she took ten,winding through theresidential streets of thepeninsula point, doublingback on herself, thewindshield dappled withcontinuously changinglaceworks of sunlight andleaf shadows, while sherecalledherlifeinHawaii.After only six years,

those days and placesseemed like threads and

figurations ina tapestryofdreams:thetropicalforestsand the pineapple fieldsandthedormantvolcanoesthat were ancient godssleeping but aware, thesuddenrainsandthemanywaterfalls of the Ko’olaumountains, the refreshingtradewinds….Shemissedallofit.Now

and then she suffered along day of sadness when

sherealizedtoopoignantlyhow the paradise of herchildhoodandadolescencewasslowlyfadingfromthefabricofhersoul.Most of all, she missed

her mother and father.Great-Aunt Lokemele.Grandmother Kolokea.Uncle Pilipo, whopreferred to be called bythe English equivalent—Philip. Her sister, Janice.

Her brother, Robert, whoanswered only to hisHawaiianname—Lopaka.She longed for all the

others as well, both bloodkinandfriends,whomshehadleftbehind.Since she had been

sixteen, however, life hadgrown steadily moredifficultwhen livedamongsomanypeoplewhomsheloved.At that age, her gift

came upon her suddenlyand without explanation.The gift—or perhaps curse—was to discover, by themerest touch, otherpeople’sdarkestsecrets.Her family and friends

were good people,struggling to live withgrace and withconsideration for others.They were not angels,however, not a one of

them, but human beingswith weaknesses andfaults. Just like Makaniherself. Compared tooutrages that werecommitted by others inthis fallen world, thedesires of her loved ones,theirmomentsofenvy,andtheir less-than-nobleurgeswere almost innocent. Yetthat unwanted knowledgechanged how Makani

regarded each person; topreservetheimageofthemthat she had harboredbefore the power cameuponher,shefoundherselftaking their hands lessoften, kissing them hardlyat all, and even shrinkingfromtheirtouch.Her plight grew worse

year by year, because intime she became evenmore sensitive to the

current darkest secret ofanyone she knew toowell.With friends and family,thetouchnolongerneededto be skin to skin. A handplaced affectionately uponher shoulder wouldtransmit through herclothing the smolderingresentment or ignobledesire preoccupying thepersonatthatmoment.One day, having lost a

boy whose love she’dsought, Janice enviedMakani the blue eyesinherited from their Irishfather, and petulantlywished on her youngersistersomemisfortunethatwould robher of her goodlooks.Robert, who insisted on

being Lopaka, had oncebeen angered that acoworker had received an

unearned promotion. Hewished ardently that hecould think of a way toframe the man for sometransgression that wouldgethimfired.Janice’s envy would

pass.She lovedMakaninolessthanMakanilovedher.Neitherofthemwouldhurtthe other or rejoice in theother’s misery. Likewise,Robert was too morally

centered to act upon hisunworthydesire.IfMakanihadbeenable

to read entireminds or atleast to see a widerspectrum of a person’sthoughts, her strangetalent might have beenmore tolerable. When thetouch occurred, if thepersonwasnot in the gripofabitter resentmentorahatefulcoveting,oramost

violent urge, Makanireceived no psychic input.She was attuned solely tovile and intensely feltemotions and desires thatpeople would neverwillingly reveal. She wasmade aware of only themost low-minded, mostmean-spirited, wickedestsecret or unexpressedcraving.Asaconsequence,she found it increasingly

difficult to remain alwaysawarethattheglimpseshewas given into the other’sheart was not the sum ofthe person, not evenindicative of the true self,but only a minusculefraction of his or her realnature.To spare herself the

repeated traumas thatmight eventually havemade her cynical, that

mighthaveledtoadistrustof those she loved themost, she had self-exiledfrom glorious Oahu justafter her twentiethbirthday.She had made friends

here on themainland; butshewasn’tasclosetothemas she might have been.She engineeredrelationships that weremore formal than usual in

casualSouthernCalifornia,less touchy-feely.Inevitably, she spentmoretimealone than shewouldhavelikedto.Taking a lover involved

more emotional risk, agreater chance ofheartbreak,forherthanforpeople who were notburdened with herparanormal talent. Inmoments of the greatest

intimacy, when shesuccumbed topassion, sheseemed more psychicallyreceptivethanusual,andifher partner harboredexcessiveanimositytowardanyone or hid from theworld a repugnant desire,hemight disclose it in hisrapture.She had no intention of

taking Rainer Sparks intoher bed this day. Perhaps

never.But so far she likedhim. The mere possibilityof shared intimacy, ofaffection and friendshipthatmight grow into love,had lifted her spirits asmuch as had the hoursriding waves. So shedawdled now, windingthrough the streets of thepeninsulapoint,afraidthatthe prospect of a normalrelationship would be

snatched from her if shedaredtoreachforit.Finallysheparkedinthe

public lot near the pier.Shepulledona light long-sleeve wrap that matchedher boardshorts and stoodbesidehercarforaminuteor two, listening to theliquid booming of thebreakers pounding theshore, the sound ofeternity declaring itself—

and therefore the voice ofhope.She walked to Sharkin’,

the restaurant, whereRainer waited in a booth.How handsome he was.And how he seemed toadoreherwhenhesawherapproaching.

InsidetheBeautifulMan

Suspendedfromtheceilingwere life-size sharks that

were not plastic replicas,but real specimenspreservedbyataxidermist,as sinuous as they wouldhave been whenswimming, as if searchingnow for yet another meal.Onthewallshungcolorfulcustom surfboards andphotographs of localsurfing celebrities datingfrom the 1930s to thepresent. Slabs of koa for

tabletops,redandlustrousand sensuously figured.Dick Dale and theDeltones, the Beach Boys,the Ventures, Santo &Johnny, theChantays, Janand Dean for nostalgicbackground music. Slicesoflimegarnishingthebeerglasses. It might haveseemed too theme-restaurant in style if thedetails hadn’t been right

andreal,andiftheownershadn’t been lifelongsurfers.Afteralongdrinkofice-

cold beer, while Rainerscannedthefamiliarmenu,Makanisaid,“Whatdoyoudo when you’re notwatching girls on thebeach?”“I’ve been known to

paddle out and take somewavesmyself.”

“I didn’t see you on theridetoday.”“You wouldn’t have, not

asintoitasyouwere.”“I was into it,” she

admitted.“I suspect you’re always

intoit.I’veneverseensuchconcentration.”Heput themenu aside. “So where’dyoufirstlearntosurf?”“Oahu. I was born

there.”“Hamakuapoko?” he

asked, naming a popularand sometimes difficultsurfinglocationonOahu.“I learned some there.

Here, there, andeverywhere on the island,fromwhenIwassevenandonlybodyboarding.”“Nuumehalani?” he

asked, and then he

translated, perhaps toimpress her with the factthat he knew more thanjust the name. “ ‘Theheavenly site where youare alone.’ It means alonewith the gods, no matterhowmanypeoplemightbethere.”“Sure. Went there so

often, I maybe could havestaked a claim to part ofthebeach.”

Something like delightenlivened his face. Whilehe tipped his beer to hislips and drank, Makaniwaited to hear whatamusedhim.He licked the foam off

his lips and put down theglass and said, “I saw youthereonce.”“I don’t think so. I

haven’t been in Oahu inmorethanfiveyears.”

“Thiswas ten years ago.Iwasamonthshortofmytwenty-first birthday, inthe islands on business,wanted to catch somewaves. A weekday inOctober. You were withthree girls, a couple ofboys. You were wearing ayellowbikini.”“Must be a million girls

withyellowbikinis.”“You were riding a

Mayhem by Lost Boards,”hesaid.Surprised, she said, “I

lovedthatboard.Ibrokeittwo months later when Ibailedoutonabigset.”“Couldn’tbe twogirls in

the world who looked likeyou, with those eyes, andridingaMayhem.”“You recognized me

right away, out there

today?”“Atfirstsight.”“Getreal.”“It’strue.”She was flattered, but

also embarrassed. “I don’trememberyou.”“Why would you? You

were with your crew,havingagreattime.”That October, ten years

earlier, the unwanted gift

of psychic insight had notyet been given to her. Shehadbeennormal.Free.“I admired you from a

distance,”hesaid.“Almostapproached you to say’sup, or something just asstupid.ThenIrealizedyoumust be the same age asthe other kids, fifteen orsixteen. And I was almosttwenty-one.Wouldn’thavebeenright.”

Makani didn’t blusheasily, but she blushednow.“That day,” Rainer said,

“you were so radical, solive,themostbeautifulgirlI’deverseen.”Flattery had always

embarrassed her. Virtuallyfrom the cradle, hermotherhadtaughtherthathumility was a virtue asimportant as honesty, just

as she had been taught byher mother, GrandmaKolokea. Now Makanicould respond to Rainer’sadmiration only withgentle sarcasm: “What—were you blind until thatday?”“Well, I’m not blind

now,” he said,compounding the flatteryandherembarrassment.Togaintimetocatchher

breath,shesaid,“Youwerein Oahu on business thatday? What business areyouin?”“I’m a facilitator,” he

said, and sipped his beer,as if that oneword shouldsayitall.“Facilitator? What do

youfacilitate?”“Negotiations,

transactions, financial

arrangements.”“Sounds important. You

were doing all that whenyouwerejusttwenty?”He shrugged. “I like

people.I’vealwayshadthisability to, youknow, bringthem together when alltheywant is to be arguingwith each other. I can’tstand people fighting,alwayslookingforareasonto be at each other’s

throats.” A solemnityovercame him. Anunderlying pallor seemedto leach some of the glowout of his tan. He lookeddownatthetable.“WhenIwas a little kid, I sawenough of that. My oldman, mymom. Toomuchdrinking, somuchanger. Icouldn’tdoathingabout…the brutality.” He lookedup with repressed tears in

his eyes. “We get only onelife. We shouldn’t waste adayofitinanger.”Because Makani knew

toowellthedarkercornersof the human heart, shesympathized with hischildhood trauma andhoped that things mightdevelop between them insuch a way that she couldbeacomforttohim.“You facilitate between

businesses?”sheasked.“Inthesurfingworld?”“Yeah, exactly. I did

what every surf mongreldreams of doing—found awaytomakealivingoutoflivingthewaves.”She didn’t know the

rulesofpoker,didn’tknowhow to read anotherplayer’s tells,but suddenlysomething about his smileormaybeacertainglint in

his eyes, or the faintesthint of arrogance in theslight lifting of his chin,suggested to her that hemight be lying about hiswork.She must be wrong. He

wassuchabigstrongman,yethedidn’tusehissizetointimidate.Therehesat inhis surfing-penguins shirt,like an overgrown boy, assweet as anything. Her

suspicion no doubtresulted from theuncounted times that herparanormal talent hadrevealed to her someone’swell-concealeddeceit.If she allowedunalloyed

cynicism to settle in herheart, she would nevertrust anyone again. She’dhavenohopeoffriendship,and certainlyno chance ofeversharingherlifewitha

man. The possibility of alife alone already gave hersleepless nights; thecertainty of itwould bringadepression thatnot eventhe consoling sea, with allitspowerandbeauty,couldrelieve.Pushing aside his half-

finished beer, folding hishandsonthetable,leaningforward,Rainersaid,“Thisis all a little awkward for

me. I mean, I’ve thoughtabout you for ten years,and never for a minuteimagined I’d ever see youagain.Buthereyouare.”“Forreal,now—youcan’t

have been thinking of mefor ten years,” she said,though she wanted tobelievethatwhathe’dsaidwasmoretruethannot.“Not every minute,

’course not. More often

than you’d believe. Whenthe waves were big andglassy and offshore andpumping, when it was aperfect day, then you kindofwalkedoutofthebackofmymind,asvividaswhenI first saw you, as if youhad to be there for it toreallybeaperfectday.Isittoomuch to believe that aman could see a womanacross a crowded room or

on the beach and be sodrawn to her that he feelseverything is about tochange? But then, forwhatever reason, he neverhasthechancetomeether,andsohe’shauntedbythatlost opportunity, by her,for years after? Do youthink that sort of thingonlyhappensinnovels?”Makani smiled

knowingly, pushed her

beer aside, folded herhandson the table, leanedforward as he had done,and took refuge indefensive sarcasm.“Haunted? Rainer, youseemtobeadearman,youreallydo.Butwhatwillyoutell me next—that you’vesaved yourself for me allthese years, that you’vebeen as celibate as amonk? A guy who looks

likeyou,ababemagnet?”He regarded her with

grave seriousness,methereyesanddidnotlookaway.“Not at all. There havebeen women. I’ve beenfond of all those girls,lovedone.Butnever lovedone enough. Never hadthat…electrifying moment,thoughI’vehopedforit.I’llpromise you this—takemeseriously, give me a

chance, more dates thanjust this one, and I won’tpressure you to beintimate, not once, never.If that happens, it’ll bewhen you want it to.Whether it takes a year,longer, I don’t care. Yourcompany, companionship,the sight of you—that’ll beenoughformeuntilit’snotenoughforyou.”He had rendered her

speechless. Any guy she’dever known would havedeliveredthatpitchinsucha way that insinceritywould have dripped fromevery word. But fromRainer, it sounded asgenuine as an innocentchild’spledgeoffealtytoafriend. When she foundher voice, she said, “I’mnot used to conversationslike this, moving this fast.

I’m not sure about theterritory.”“Makani, do you believe

inhopena?”“Destiny?” She thought

of the unsought andburdensomegiftthatfate—orsomethingin itsguise—had bestowed upon her.“Have to say, I’ve hadreasontowonderaboutit.”“Haveyou?”

“Who hasn’t?Sometimes, it seems,things happen for noreason. You know? Aneffect without a cause.Crazythings.”His right hand unfolded

from his left. He reachedacrossthetabletoher.The moment had come.

Skin to skin. All thedangersofatouch.

If she didn’t take hishand,he’dbestungbyherrejection.The possibility of a

relationshipwasatstake.Perhaps she had lied to

herself. Perhaps shepreferred to be alone.Herhesitation suggested asmuch.No. She hadn’t been

conceived in passion—and

in the surf—only for a lifeofloneliness.Hewouldbeeitherwhat

he appeared to be or insome way a lesser man.She had nothing to lose.Excepthope.Again.She took his hand, and

knew him for themonsterthathewas.

TakingtheDrop

When a surfer came overthetopofawave,usingitsvelocitytoremainaheadofthecurl,hewas“takingthe

drop,”andaheadlayeithera sweet ride or a wipeout,depending largely on hisskill and on the steepnessof the curved face of thewave,betweenitscrestandtrough. If the drop wentwrong, rider and boardcouldgointofreefalldownthe face and either wipeout or recover just wellenough to claima tiewiththeocean.

In a sense, Makani wastaking the drop when sheaccepted Rainer’s hand,and the wave down whichsheplummeted in free fallwas storm-dark andmenacing and strange. Inthe few dreadful secondsthat followed the touch,surgingoutofthedarknessat theman’s core and intoher mind were faces ofwomen and men, of

children, mouths open insilent screams, eyes widewith terror, plus treasuredand well-rememberedpatterns of blood in thegallery of his memory,because blood was art tohim, blood his passion,blood hismoney, too, andin his mind the images ofspilling blood wereconfused with thick goutsof hundred-dollar bills

gushing from the woundsof his victims, murder formoney, murder forpleasure, murder formurder’s sake. She sawherself, too, an object ofintensedesire,imaginedinmultiple poses, naked andvulnerable and chillinglysubmissive. During thisdelugeofshockingimages,she sensed aswell that hewas in some way like her,

thatbytouchhediscoveredhis victims and learnedwhyhewouldprofitbythekillingofthem.Thecontactwasfarmore

intense than any she hadpreviously experienced, asif she had grasped a cablethrough which surged apowerful current, so thatshe couldn’t easily let go.When she snatched herhand from his, the

disconnection stung,produced a snapping-sizzling sound that arcedwithin her head, by somerouteotherthanherears.Hislookofastonishment

no doubt matched hers.But with a swiftness thatsuggested the mentalreflexes of a perfectpredator, his face wassubtly reworked bycunning; and in his eyes—

gray with green striations—the warmth of anenchanted would-be loverhad given way to icycalculation.He said, “I didn’t know

therewereotherslikeme.”She wasn’t like him in

any way but one. Shesuffered with the psychiccurse thatwas to thismana treasured gift. He hadshaped himself into a

nihilistic beast whobelieved all other liveswere his to exploit, acreature with no moralsandnolimits.Almost too late,Makani

realized that hemight nothave seen into her asdeeplyasshehadseenintohim, that he might knownothing more of her thanthatshepossessedapowersimilar to his. If she

expressed loathingor fear,if she called him anabomination, he would atoncebeherenemy,andthecalculation in his eyeswould become venomousintent. If perhaps hethought she reveled inherwild talent, ashedid, thatshe shared his contemptforordinaryhumanity,shecould buy time to think ofsomeway todealwith—or

escape—him.He leaned back in the

booth. “That’s why yourockedme sohardwhen Ifirst saw you, aside fromyourobviouscharms.”Surveying the other

customers, the busywaiters, Makani said, “Becarefulwhatyousay,”asifhe and she wereconspirators and nevercouldbeadversaries.

“Don’t worry aboutthem,” he said. “I neverhave.Neverwill.”“Be careful just the

same,” she insisted, andshedrained the last ofherbeer. Then she said whatseemed to be somethingshe would have said ifindeed she had been acold-bloodedspecimenlikehim.“Nopointinspookingthe sheep. I need another

round.”No sooner had Makani

spoken than theirwaitressappeared as if she hadbeencommandedtoattendthem, and Rainer orderedtwomorebottlesofCoronawithfreshfrostedglasses.“When did the power

first come to you?” heasked.“I was sixteen. Two

months after you saw meon the beach. How oldwere you when ithappened?”“Fourteen. Does anyone

know?”“Who would believe?

Why would I tell? Haveyoutold?”“Hell, no. It’s like being

an adult in a world ofhelpless children, except

that if youpretend tobeachildlikethem,youtotallyruletheplayground.”She glanced at nearby

diners and said, “Quieter,okay? Maybe they’rechildren by comparison,but children can be asmean as snakes, and theywayoutnumberus.”Adoptingastagewhisper

thatprobablycarriedasfarashisnormalvoice,Rainer

said,“I’llbeasdiscreetasaconfessor.”She glared at him. “I’m

serious.”“I know. It’s real cute.”

Leaningforward,droppingthe stage whisper, butspeaking no morediscreetly than before, hesaid, “What exactly doesyourtouchbringyou?”She dared not say that

she saw thewickedness inpeople, their darker anddarkest secrets. Becauseshe had read him socompletely in mereseconds, she claimed thathergiftwaswhatsheknewhis to be. She spoke softlyasshelied.“Iseewhatevertheir biggest problem is atthemoment, what worriesandfrustratesthem.”“With that, you could

make yourself everyone’sbestfriend.”She smiled. “They think

I’m way sensitive andcaring.”“You look the sensitive

andcaringtype.”“Screwthem,”shesaid.“You have a huge

advantage in anyrelationship—especially ifinfactyoudon’tgiveashit

about them. Sweet, isn’tit?”“Sweet,”sheagreed.She

felt increasingly confidentthat he didn’t know howprofoundly she had readhim, and that he had notread her as deeply as he’dbeenread.The waitress returned

with two cold beers andfrosted glasses. “Ready toorder dinner yet?” she

asked.“Not yet,” Makani said.

“Giveustenminutes.”“Oh, sure, take your

time.”“And you?” Makani

asked Rainer when thewaitress had gone. “Whatcomes to you with atouch?”“Same as you. Their

biggest problem, the thing

obsessingthem.Maybeshehas a filthy-rich husbandshe despises, she needshim gone forever. Ormaybe it’s the richhusband,hehasthismuchyounger wife who was amistake, and she pumpedout a baby he neverwanted, and a divorcewillcost too much. I’m theirproblem solver.” As hetipped his bottle and

pouredbeer intotheglass,he said, “What’s mybiggest problem, Makani?Whatdidyouseewhenyoutookmyhand?”Shetoldpartofthetruth

nowthatitservedhertodoso. “You’re unique. Youhavenoproblem.AtleastIdidn’t see anything that’stroubling or frustratingyou.”“AndyousawthatIhave

thepower.”“Felt it, knew it, more

thansawit.Almostlikeanelectrical shock. Itwould’ve knocked medown if I’d been standing.Likeyou, I always thoughttherewas…onlyme.”“Neither of us should

ever have a problem, afrustration,”hesaid.“Withthe power, I’m king of theworld. You’re a queen

among billions of cluelesscommoners.” He leanedforward, regarding herwithdesirethatearliershehad welcomed and thatnow sickened her. “Beforeyou took my hand, beforewe touched, I asked if youbelieved in destiny. Yousaid sometimes youwonder. Well, now youknow. That we shouldmeet, thatwe shouldwant

each other even beforeweknewwewerealike…that’sthe very definition ofdestiny.”She would have to kill

him. She was shaken bythe realization. Sickened.Butshewouldnotbedhim,could not abide him.Seduction was quickeningtoward consummation. Ifher previous interest inhimdidnotgainheat,even

as his was going fromembers to full flame, hewouldsuspectthatshewasdeceiving him. She didn’thavea gun.Hewasbiggerthan she was, stronger.When they were alone,whilehestill thought theirkingdoms would combine,shewouldneedaknifeandamomentwhenhe turnedhisback.Makani was surprised

that she could conjure alascivioussmile.“Whatwillit be like, us two, all yourpowerinallofmine?”“We’ll shake the walls,”

he said. “But one thingworries me. I have noproblem, but you do. Andyourproblem,asIsawit,isthat you hate the poweryou’vebeengiven.”“ButIdon’t,”shelied.

“But you do.” Sadnesswasnotinhisnature,sohehad to craft a sad smile.“Withthetouch,Ireadyounolessthanyoureadme.Iknow what I saw. And Iknow what you saw. Somany murders. And somany more to come—startingwithyou.”

MoreAloneThanAnyGirlHasEverBeen

Having announced hisintention to kill her in aconversational tone ofvoice, Rainer Sparks said,“Oh, should I havewhispered such anincriminatingthreat?HaveIendangeredmyself?Well,actually, no, I haven’t. Doyouknowwhy?”Shewouldnotshowfear.

She said, “I’m sure you’lltellme,” and took a sip of

herbeer.“PrettyMakani,beingso

brave. You didn’t read asdeep as you thought. Forelevenyears,Ihadonlythepower to see theirproblemswithatouch.Butfive years ago, anothertrick sprouted from thefirst. Don’t know why orhow.Don’tneedtoknow.Ican’t become invisible,none of that hokey H. G.

Wells crap. But when Iwant people around me—inaroom,onastreet,inapark—toleavemealone,allI gotta do is think mydisinterest at them. Thenthey become disinterestedin me. It started on abeach. Two skanks werecoming toward me, a pairofsevensonascaleoften,neither of them up to mystandards. Would’ve been

tedious,gettingridofthemwithoutascene.Ithought,Just leave me alone, littlebitches, and damn if theydidn’t stop fifteen feetaway, confused, lookingaround like they didn’tremember where the hellthey’dbeengoing,liketheydidn’t even see meanymore, and justwanderedaway.I’mtotallygoodatitnow.”

Hewantedhertoreact.When she didn’t, when

shemethisstareinsilence,hesaid,“Theydon’tseemeorhearme—exceptwhenIwant them to. Or maybeit’s more accurate to saytheyseeandhearbutdon’tcomputewhattheyseeandhear.AsifI’vehackedtheirbrains and edited the flowof sensory data. I can edityououtoftheirawareness,

too, Makani, even lovelyyou, or anyonewho’swithme. Would you like ademonstration?”He had nothing to gain

by lying. “I believe you.”She already grasped thegreater threat that he nowposed and was trying toanticipate what he mightdonext.He gave her the

demonstration that she

didn’t need. Raising hisvoice,hesaidangrily,“Youlied to me, you bitch,you’vedonenothingbutlieto me!” As he spoke, hesnatcheduphishalf-emptyglass and threw theremainingbeerinherface.Lessbecauseof thebeer

than because she thoughthe would throw the glassafter it, Makani startled,flinched—then surveyed

the restaurant. No oneseemed to have heardRainer’s outburst or tohave seen what he haddone. Conversationscontinued uninterrupted.Waitersglidedthroughtheroom, carrying trays ofdrinks and food, asoverhead the sharks hungunmoving in theirhuntingpostures.“They’renotlikeyouand

me,” said Rainer Sparks.“We’re deep, and they arenot. We know, and theydon’t. They’re pawns, andwe’re power. We couldhavebeensomuchtoeachother.Tragic that you findmesodespicable.”He wanted to see her

shrink from him in fear,perhaps even bolt for thedoor, but she would notgivehimthesatisfactionof

her terror. Shehad riddentwelve-foot behemoths inWaikiki.She’dnight-surfedquaking monoliths atPipeline, a crazy-girladventure with a stormcomingandthunderatherback. She’d been inNewport Beach when ahurricane, tearing up theMexicancoast,hadpushedahead of itmonster wavesthatperhapstenpercentof

the surfers in the worldwoulddare.Sherodethemand survived the Wedge.Maybe Rainer would killher, maybe she had nohope,but shewouldnevercowerorbegforherlife.She picked up her

napkin and blotted herface.Finished,shefoldeditneatly and returned it tothe table before she said,“So will you kill me here

andnow?”Whatever reaction

Rainer expected, this wasnotit.Hecockedhishead,and his thick golden hairfell over one eyebrow. Hisgrinwasquizzical.“Doyouhaveadeathwish?”“Sometimes I’ve

wondered about that.When beaches have beenclosed ’cause there weregreat whites in the water,

I’vepaddledoutanyway,ifthere was even just barelydecent wave action. I’vesurfed in thunderstormswhen the sky was full offire and the sea dancedwith its reflections, onlonely stretches of coastwhere no one would havebeen there to help if I’dbeen struck by lightning.But, no, it’s not a deathwish. I figured that out a

fewyearsago.”“You did, huh?” He

assumedthathewasbeingplayed,buthewasnotsureof her game. “If it’s not adeathwish,whatisit?”“Confidence. I belong

here. I have this gift—thispower,asyoucall it—forareason. There’s a purposeI’mmeant to fulfill beforeanything too bad willhappentome.”

He smirked, anexpression thattransformed him from ahandsome man into asnarky adolescent. “Whatpurpose would that be—building the coolest hotrodever?”“Maybe. But I’m pretty

sure it’s way bigger thanthat.” She took a sip ofbeer. “Fact is, sometimesIthink there’s someone

important I’m meant tosave.Like,maybeI’lltouchherandseeherproblemorher darkest secret, and I’llknow right away what todo. I’ll save her life ormaybeturnherawayfroma destructive path, andshe’llgoontomakeahugedifferenceintheworld.”His soft laugh revealed

less amusement thancontempt. “You’re gonna

savetheworld,areyou?”“No. Just maybe one

person more importantthan me. You haven’tansweredmyquestion.Areyou going to kill me hereandnow?”“I’d love to. Except for

the security cameras. Ican’t work my mojo onthem. Don’t know wherethe digital video is stored.And even if it’s on a

recorder somewhere here,theyprobablybackitupinthe cloud. So it’ll beanother time and place.Besides, half the fun is inthe chase. And I want topin you down and spreadthose pretty legs before Icutyourthroat.”Makani wagged one

fingerathim,asiftosayhewas being a naughty boy.“Won’t happen. Instead,

you’ll rot in Hell, and I’llsing a little song ofcelebration over yourgrave.”“You are refreshing. A

spunky little thing. Whatnext—gonna pretend youcangotothecops?”“I could prove my gift

just by touching them,readingthem.”“Thenwhatkindofalife

would you have? You’d bea freak. The mind readerwho knows things nobodywants known. They mightnotstoneyoutodeath,butin timethey’dbe liningupto shoot you in the head.Face it—you’remore alonethan any girl has everbeen.”She shrugged. “Anyway,

I don’t need police. Don’tneed anyone. Hasn’t it

occurred to you? My firstpowermighthavesproutedanother, just like yoursdid.”“I would have seen it

whenIreadyou.”“I didn’t see yours.

Maybe you didn’t seemine.”He studied her, looking

for a tic or tremor thatwouldrevealherbluff.

“Best be careful,”Makani said. “I’ve got theislandsandtheIrishinme.It’s a dangerouscombination.Letmegomyway, and I’ll let you goyours. The world’s bigenoughfortwoofus.”Reaching across the

table, he said, “Take myhand.”Shethrewhalfaglassof

beerinhisface.

Startled, he gasped,inhalingsomeofthebrew,andcoughedexplosively.At nearby tables, diners

turned to look. Rainer’sspell over them had beenbroken.When he saw them

staring, he got control ofhis coughing and wiped ahand over his drippingface.Everyonewho’dbeeninterested in him looked

puzzled, frowned, turnedtheir attention elsewhere,andseemedtoloseinterestin the lovers’ spat orwhateverithadbeen.Assoonasshe’d thrown

the beer, Makani had slidoutofthebooth.Shestoodlooking down at RainerSparks. “I won’t warn youagain,” she said, and shewalked out of therestaurant, under the

torsionalformsofthedeadsharks swimming the airoverhead.

OntheDie

Outsideof Sharkin’,whereRainerSparkscouldn’t seeher, Makani broke into arun toward the pier andtheparking lot thatservedit. Perhaps because of the

dark nature of theencounterwithSparks,sheexpected night when shepushed through the door,butsunshinestillruled.Atleast an hour of thesummer day remainedbefore the sunset mightbrush the palette of aMaxfield Parrish paintingacrossthewesternsky.She had no second

power,asshehadclaimed,

no sprout that grew fromthe branch of her initialpsychic gift. Maybe hebelieved that she, too, hadanother more formidabletalent.Maybehedidn’t.Ineither case, he would notrelent.RainerSparkswasanarcissist,amegalomaniacwhowouldabideno limitsto his dominion, toleratenoonewhodeniedhim.She didn’t start shaking

until she was behind thewheelofher’54Chevy,theringofkeysjinglingasshefumbled to get the rightone into the ignition. Shekept glancing toward therestaurant, sure that shewould see him stridingtoward her, but forwhatever reason, he choseto allow her a chance toescape.Half the fun is in the

chase.Hemighteventaketime

fordinner.Hehadnoneedto hurry. The only thingthat could possibly defeathim was his perfectarrogance.Leaving the parking lot,

she turned left on BalboaBoulevard,headingtowardthe mainland and PacificCoastHighway,threemilesaway. Traffic clotted the

peninsula’s main artery,and though the jam-upswould inhibit Sparks asmuch as they did her, sheexpected to discover thewhiteMercedesSUVintherearview mirror, weavingeffortlessly among theswarm of jostling vehiclesby virtue of some thirdpowerthatthesonofabitchhadnotyetrevealed.When first her gift had

come upon her almost adecade earlier, she hadbeen frightened. In time,fear twined withconsternation and dismay,asshebegantounderstandhow completely her lifehad been changed forever.She might havesurrendered to enduringdread and depression if,without quite realizing it,shehadnot dealtwith the

fear of her psychic talentby testing—andstrengthening—hercourage in a long series ofhalf-mad challenges to theseaandallthedangersthatit offered. Already atsixteen, shehad longbeena bold surfer. So shebecame a reckless one.Surfing where beacheswere closed due to atemporary abundance of

large sharks spotted byshore-patrol choppers,straddling her board, feetdangling in the water, asshewaited for thenext settorolltowardherandofferher a ride, watchingnervously for a dorsal finandforamenacingshadowin the water, aware of theinsane risk but intent ontaking it, each wipeout aninvitation to be dined

upon. When others fledstorms, she ran to themand launched her boardinto the raging sea,struggling out against theturbulence, hoping to finda few rideable liquidmountains among themushy waves blown overby strong onshore winds,fearless of rip currents,tossed in churning white-water soup, spitting out

foamy swash, strugglingforbreath, at riskofbeingcaught inside a breakingwave and held down untilshe drowned, but at leastwithout concern aboutsharks, because thosepredators had fled thestorm-racked coast fordeep-watercalm.Afterall theseyears, the

sea inspired in Makanilittle fear but much

respect. ConsideringRainer Sparks’s ability toenshroud himself and hispotential victim in a kindof invisibility, where hecould do as he wishedwithout fear of witnesses,andconsideringaswellhisenthusiasm—histhirst—forviolentmurder,onlya foolwould not be terrified ofhim.Still no white Mercedes

GL550inthetrafficbehindher.At the end of the

peninsula, she crossedCoast Highway and droveas fast as she dared intoNewport Heights, whereshelived.Herresidencephonewas

unlisted; the street nameand number were not inthe phone directory. Butherhomeaddresscouldbe

found with little effort.Sparks was many things,but he wasn’t stupid;within an hour, he wouldknowwhereshelived.She had to pack what

she needed and get outfast.When awave iswaning,

it’ssaid tobe“onthedie.”Inthiscase,Sparkswasthewave, and he was not onthedie,butswellinghigher

bythemoment.Onthediewasalsolingoforsomeonewho was heading for awipeout.MakanihadgivenSparks the slip; and in allother circumstances, shehadlongbeenconfidentofher ability to fend forherself. But now she feltintuitively that shewas onthe die, and she could notshakethefeeling.

RoundOne

Her house was a modestCraftsman-style bungalowin the sunny highlandsabove Newport Harbor,shaded by queen palmsandskirtedwithferns.The

land had more value thanthe structure, though thelot offered no view ofanything except the largerhouses on the farther sideof the street. Hers was acozy home, with a deepfront porch, and Makanihoped that she wouldn’thavetoleaveitforever.She parked in the

drivewayratherthaninthegarage, took the porch

steps two at a time, keyedopen the front door, andslammeditbehindher.Shestrippedoffherlong-sleevewrap and T-shirt andsports bra andboardshorts, discardingthem as she hurriedthroughthefrontroomstothemasterbedroomatthebackofthehouse.Naked, she felt two

things: vulnerable and the

need for a shower towashoff theseasalt, thoughthefirst ruled out the second.She donned freshunderwear, jeans, a bra, acleanT-shirt.After fetching an

overnight bag from thewalk-inclosetandfillingitwith a change of clothesandapre-packedtravelkitof toiletries, shewent intothe kitchen. She kept

twentythousanddollars ina secret stash in thecabinet to the left of therefrigerator.Although confident and

practicedatconcealingherdifference from otherpeople, Makani had neverbeenabletofreeherselfofa measure of paranoia.Rainer Sparks had beenright when he suggestedthatanyonewiththeability

to read minds, even to alimited extent, would befeared and hated if herpower were revealed. Apublic stoning would notbe in thecards thesedays.But depending on whodiscovered that she couldread them by a touch, abullet to the head or arazor-sharp stiletto acrossthe throat was not anunlikely fate. Therefore,

she kept the getawaymoney in a metal lockboxinthekitchen.She removed cook pots

of various sizes, set themaside, lifted an inch-thickslab of Melamine thatservedas the false floorofthe cabinet, and extractedthefoot-squarethree-inch-deep box that containedstacks of twenty- andhundred-dollarbillstightly

wrappedinplastic.In the bedroom again,

shetransferredthecashtotheovernightbag,wishingthat her simmeringparanoia had also inducedher to buy a firearm. Shedidn’t like guns. She hadnever struck anotherhumanbeinginanger,andalthough she was not apacifist, she had alwaysfound it difficult to

imaginecommittinganactof significant violence.Until now. She didn’t likeguns, yeah, okay, but shealso didn’t like dentists’drills, either, and yet shegothercavitiesfilledwhentheywerediscovered.Nowshe thought that she’dbeen stupid when she’dconsidered guns evil.Revolvers, dental drills,pistols, hammers—they

were tools, nothing morethan tools, and evil was aword applicable only topeople and their worstactions.Rainer Sparks had

promised to rape her andkill her. She had readenough of him, throughone touch, to be certainthat between the sexualassaultandthemurder,hewould enjoy torturing her

in ways that she, in hernaïveté,couldnotimagine.Hewasevil.And she had no defense

againsthim.Makani latched the

suitcase and stood staringat the bedside telephone,trying to thinkofsomeonesheknewwhowaslikelytohave a firearm. Shecouldn’t bring a single

name to mind. On theother hand, maybeeveryone she knew wasarmed as if for imminentwar. Maybe she’d wronglyassumed that the peopleshe liked all shared heraversiontoguns.She longed for the sea,

for thedependabilityof itsrhythms,forthehonestyofwater in motion, whichcould be read reliably, for

depths that concealednothingworsethansharks.Oceanswere theantithesisof the sea of humanity.Oceans killed, but withoutangeror intent.Forall thepoetswhowroteofthesoulof the ocean, the waterscould not envy, neithercould they hate. Oceansdid not revel in theirpower,andthestormsthatafflicted them always

passed, as the storms ofthe human heart neverquite did. At night, in thedark of the moon and thefaintness of stars, therolling waters did notdreamofblood.Although she had

changed clothes, shesuddenly realized that thefaint smell of spilled beerclungtoherskinandhair.No time to wash even her

face, and certainly not herhair.Aftersettingthesuitcase

beside the front door,Makani hurried into thekitchen. She pulled openthe knife drawer andconsidered the array ofblades.Noitemofculinarycutlerywould serve her aswell as a dagger or aswitchblade, but it wouldbebetterthannothing.

Rainer Sparks allowedhertobeawareofhimonlywhen he thrust thehandheldTaseragainstherneckandtriggeredit.Shefell.Knees, elbows, and one

sideofherheadrappedthemahogany floor, whichseemed to distort andthrumbeneathher,as if itwere the stretched-tightmembraneofatrampoline,

though she did notrebound from thehardwood.Pain was the least of it.

The electric currenttraveledeverybywayofherperipheralnervoussystem,wreaking havoc with themessaging of both sensoryand motor nerves. As shetwitchedand shuddered, afew words stuttered fromher, although she didn’t

intentionally speak andcouldnotunderstandwhatshehadsaid.Sparks’s voice, however,

was clear and coherentwhen, standing over her,hesaid,“Stupidbitch.”Makani knew what was

happening to her, fullyunderstood the peril,bitterlyrailedatherselffornot realizing that he couldblind and deafen even her

to his presence, just as hehad done with all the“common” people in therestaurant.SheandSparkswere alike in their greatdifferencefromothers,butthat didn’t mean she wasimmune to his spell-casting.Hebentdown,hisfacea

grinning moon—the beeryodor was his—and thistimethestungundelivered

the charge through herrightarm.She felt as if she were

falling again. But she wasalready on the floor andcouldn’ttumblethroughit.Gagging, gasping, she

spasmed like somebeached fish, as if she didnot belong—could notsurvive—in this realm ofair.Her flesh felt stiff, herboneslikejelly.

How strange that shecould think withreasonable clarity, evenwhile her brain confusedher nervous system’snatural signals with thejigging static injected bytheTaserandcontinuedtobe unable to control herbody. Her conditionseemed to argue that themindwaswithin thebrainbut in some fundamental

waynotsubjecttoit,whichwas an odd bit ofphilosophy tohave flashedupon her under thecircumstances.Rainer Sparks had

pulled a chair away fromthe kitchen table and hadturned it to face Makani.Hesatdown.As the effects of the

Tasering diminished, shelay prostrate, with her

head turned to her right,watching him as a beatendog might watch itsabuser, with fear andsmolderingresentment.“Ifirstsawyoutwodays

ago,”hesaid.If she’dbeensuckingon

amineralpill,specificallyatablet of iron, that wouldhaveexplainedthetasteofrustinhermouth.

“You were at asupermarket, carrying abag of groceries to yourcoolcar.Youdidn’tseeme,but I recognized you rightaway, from that day solongagoonOahu.”Although she closed her

eyes, wishing him gone,ghostimagesofthebastardseemed to float on thebacks of her eyelids,perhapsaneffect from the

Tasering.“I almost ran up to you

then, but something heldme back.Maybe intuition.Idon’tknow.But Iwassojazzed, totally amped. Imean,oneglanceandIwaserect, girl, same way youhadmewhenyouwerejustsixteen, so I could hardlywalk.”She opened her eyes.

The knife drawer seemed

tobeamileaboveher.“Followed you home

from the supermarket.Then yesterday, when youwenttoworkwiththatdogof yours, I spent a fewhours here in your crib.You need a good lock.Anyway,Igottoknowyoubetter.”Infuriated by her

helplessness, Makanigathered herself into a

sitting position, her backagainstthecabinets.“You didn’t come home

with the dog last night.Whereishe?”Shedidn’tanswerhim.“Hey, gee, don’t be like

that.We’reinthistogether,Makani. Talk to me,” hesaid in a pleasant voicethatmade his threatmoreterrible, “or I’ll smash this

Taseragainstyourlipsandsee if I can make ’emsmoke.”“I knew I’d go surfing

today. I leftmydogwithafriend.”“Bob.That’sthenameon

hisfoodandwaterdishes.”“Yeah,Bob.”“What breed is he—a

Labrador?”“Yes.”

“Black as coal, old Bob.YouloveoldBob,doyou?”“He’sagooddog.”“Maybe after I kill you,

I’ll kill him. Especially ifyou disme again, like youdid in the restaurant. Stilltingling?”“No.”“You feel able to get up

and walk when I tell youto?”

“Yes.”“Okay, let me explain

what just happened here.ThiswasRoundOne.Thisis my favorite game. Theoutcomeisn’tindoubt,butIstillgetakickplayingit.Ilike a three-round game.Any longer than that, itgets tedious. The mousehasthreechances,forwhatthey’re worth. You knowwhothemouseis?”

“Me.”“Thatwasn’t toohard to

figure, was it? You knowwhowonthefirstround?”“Youdid.”“Me. The cat. You know

how often the mousewins?”“Never.”“Sad but true. But then

I’ve never had a mousewithsharpteeth,likeyou.”

He got up from the chair,approachedher,closedtheknife drawer. “Get up,sweetstuff.I’llwalkyoutoyourcar.”For more than one

reason,shewasloathtobetouched by him. She wasrelieved when he didn’toffertohelphertoherfeet.In spite of what Sparks

had said, Makani couldn’tquitebelievethathewould

lethergo.With the Taser in his

right hand, heaccompanied her into thelivingroom,whereshehadleft her suitcase. Shepickeditup.Howlonghadhebeenin

the house, watching herwithout her knowledge?Had he seen her transferthemoney?

Without the twentythousand cash, she’d haveto resort to Visa andAmericanExpress—butshesuspected that he wouldhave a way to find her ifshe used the cards. Plasticmoneyleftatrail.Sparksopened thedoor,

Makani stepped onto theporch,andhefollowed.Hewalkedhertohercarinthedriveway and watched her

put the suitcase in thetrunk.OverthePacific,feathery

cirrus clouds embellishedthe sky, glowing crimsonwiththelightofalowsun,mottled with purple,reminiscentofthepatternsof blood and bruises thathung in the gallery ofRainer Sparks’s dementedmind.He opened the driver’s

door, and when she gotbehind thewheel, he said,“Work up a clever plan,girl.Givemea run formymoney. Go far, go fast.Make it fun. You have tilltomorrow morning. Thenit’sRoundTwo.”She started the engine,

andheclosedthedoor.When shebackedout of

the driveway, she saw hisMercedes SUV parked on

the farther side of thestreet,halfablockaway.As she shifted out of

reverse, he climbed theporchstepsandsat inoneof the rocking chairs, as ifher home were his. Hewavedatherandbegantorock.She was still looking at

him when suddenly hedisappeared. The chairkeptrocking.

Although he worked hiswilluponhermind,editinghimself from herawareness, she felt nopresence in her head, noslightesttouch.On the porch, the

apparently empty chairkept rocking. Rocking androcking.

NamedfortheWind

Twomiles fromherhome,Makani pulled into theparking lot at a stripshopping center. She

opened the Chevy’s trunk,and then the suitcase.Theplastic-wrapped bricks ofmoneywerestillwhereshehad put them. If Sparksknew about the cash, hechose to let her keep it,which meant that he wasconfident of finding herregardlessofhowfarawayshefled.She would probably be

able to get farther thanhe

imaginedshecouldinwhattime he had given her.Speed was in her name.Her parents had intendedto name her Makani‘Olu‘olu, whichmeant fairwind, but after she’d beenborn and they had seenher,theycalledherMakaniMiomio, which meantswift wind. MakaniMiomio Hisoka-O’Brien,bearing both her mother’s

maiden and marriednames, had been hardenough to catch when shewas a crawler and then atoddler,butonceshecouldwalk, shewas as fleet as adeer.She lovedtorunandwon every race, 5Ks andmarathons. Likewise, eachtime she caught a wave,she was promptly off herknees and onto her feet,nimbleinthetakeoff,quick

with her maneuvers,arrowing up the face tosnap-turn off the curlinglip, then rocketing downagain; always with bulletvelocity she rode thehollow tube behind thecascading curl, shot intoopen air before she couldbe clamshelled by thecollapsingwave.Behind the wheel again,

on Coast Highway, she

headed south. She didn’tthink shewould go on therun,afterall.Therewasnopoint to it. Besides, if shecouldn’t have Hawaii andthe extended family thatshe loved, Newport Beachwas her next-best home,where she had put downroots and had cautiouslymade friendships formorethanfiveyears.Ifshewereharried away from this

place out of fear, therewould never be anotherhomeforher,onlyavillagehere, a hamlet there, cityafter city en route tonowhere.So she would leave

Newport only temporarilyand go no farther thanLaguna Beach, the nexttown along the sparklingcoast, where thatmagnificent canine

specimen, Bob, was on abrief holidaywith a friendof hers named Pogo. Thefriend’s official name, perhis birth certificate anddriver’s license, had threepartsfollowedbyaRomannumeral, but sincechildhoodhehadansweredtonothingbutPogo,whichwas the only name bywhich most in the surfercommunity knew him.

Except, he’donce said, forthose who call me “loser”or “jackass,” which inMakani’s experience wasnoone.She wouldn’t have

trusted Bob to anyoneelse’scare.ForallofPogo’scarefullytendedimageasaslacker who lived only tosurf and loaf and pursuethe perfect case ofmelanoma, he was the

epitome of responsibility.People trusted him witheverything from theirchildren to their money,and never with regret. Heworkedpart-time ina surfshop named Pet the Cat,and lived with three otherself-describedsurfbumsinanapartmentaboveathriftshopinnearbyCostaMesa.Currently he was house-sitting a classic beachside

“cottage”foranownerwhoso loved his jewel-boxresidence that he couldn’tgoonvacationifhelefttheplace unoccupied and, inhis mind, vulnerable tocountless catastrophesranging from spontaneouscombustion to an invasionby a gang of droogsstraight out of AClockworkOrange.As the sun sank toward

the horizon and brieflybalancedthere,asthelongsunset spread faux fireacross the shore and hills,the heavy summer trafficseemedtobegetmoreofitskind, mile by mile,glasswork adance withreflections, paint andbrightwork glimmering asif wet, a great mass ofvehiclesschoolingsouthasif toward some spawning

pool.By the time Makani

arrived in Laguna Beach,the sun had gone away tobrighten anotherhemisphere, and the starshad come out, morenumerous over the oceanthantotheeast,wherethelightsofhumanhabitationdimmedthem.Because she had called

ahead with her

smartphone, Pogo waswaitingforherintheopenfrontdoor,goodBobathisside, the two of themrendered almost equallyblackbybacklighting.Afterparkingatthecurb

and locking the car,Makani hurried along awalkway of herringbone-pattern brick. On thethreshold, she huggedPogo and kissed him on

the cheek. Eager for histurn at the well of love,Bob cha-chaed backwardin the foyer withunrestraineddelight.Makani loved Pogo, but

most of the time shewouldn’t allow herself tothink of it as being morethan the paler shade oflove called friendship. Shehad touched him often,and for the last two years,

she had touched himalways withoutapprehension. She’d neverreadinhimawordofenvyor conceit, never a line ofill will toward anyone, notruly dark secret thattormentedhim.Hissecretswere at their darkest palegray.Ifhewasnottheonlycontented human being inthe world, she had yet tofindoneoftheothers.

And if you liked lean,muscled types, he was sonicetotouch,notastallasRainer Sparks, but everybit aswell put together. Ifanything, he was evenbetter looking than themurderer. Pogo was theone knockout-handsomeguy that Makani had evermet who wasn’t intohimself, who in factseemed oblivious of the

appeal he had to women,even though they signaledtheirinterestsoboldlythatthey might as well haveannounced theiravailability withmegaphones.Makani and Pogo had

nevergonetobedtogether,and shedoubted they everwould. She didn’t believethat he could love her asmore than a good friend.

There was another girl,right here in OrangeCounty, whom he adoredfar too much to put hersecond among women.Ironically,theobjectofhisadoration was someonewhomhecouldneverhave.And some said thatShakespeare had nocontemporaryrelevance.In the foyer, as Pogo

closed the door, Makani

dropped to her knees toassureBobthathewasthegreat love of her life. Fouryearsold,no longerpuppyenough to forget hismanners and leap up toput his paws on hershoulders, he pressed hisbig head into her hands,whimpering with pleasureasshestrokedhisfaceandthen rubbed behind hisears.Shecooedtohimand

said his name—“Bob, mylovelyBob,sweetBobby”—and took the forepaw heoffered, squeezing itaffectionately.By touch, from this dog

or any other, Makanireceived only a general—though sometimes intense—sense of its emotionalstate.At themoment,Boboverflowed with lovingdevotion and delight and

relief that she hadn’t goneawayforever.“We’ve had an awesome

time,”Pogosaid.“He’sgotbigenergy.He

canbecrazysometimes.”“Not theBobster.He’s a

mellowdude.”Wanting to smell her

hair, Bob thrust hisquiveringblacknoseintoitand sniffed noisily,

probably because her hairwas the best record of herday and was scented withthe sea, the sun,beer, andGod knew what else. Todogs, there were no badsmells.Abruptly, the Labrador

scamperedoutofthefoyerand along thehall, towardthebackofthehouse,mostlikelytoretrieveoneofhissqueaky tennis balls and

presentittoherasagift.“Catch some good

waves?”Pogoasked.“There were more top-

to-bottom barrels todaythananyonecouldride.”“Sweet.Youwantabeer

orsomethin’?”She was surprised to

hear herself say, “Just soyou don’t throw it in myface,” because that

comment led inevitably tohisquestion.“WhywouldIthrowitin

yourface?”She was even more

surprised to hear herselfsay, in a tremulous voice,“Man, I’m in really bigtrouble,I’mgoingoverthefalls, and I don’t knowwhat to do,” because shehad never spoken of hergift with him or with

anyonebutRainerSparks.Putting a hand on her

shoulder, he said, “There’sno trouble here, O’Brien.This is a safe zone. Youwanttotalk?”She was having second

thoughts. “I don’t want togetyoukilled.”“Ithankyouforthat.”“I’m serious, Pogo. It’s

thatbad.”

Hiseyeswereadifferentshade of blue from hers,but meeting his stare, shefelt somehow that shewaslooking intoa reflectionofherself. She knew thattelling him everythingwould in no way damagetheir relationship or putheratrisk.When still Makani

hesitated, Pogo said, “Iwon’t be as easy to kill as

youseemtothink,O’Brien.Whether you want to talkabout it or not, I want totalkaboutit.Sodon’tmakemeforceitoutofyouwiththumbscrews and a cattleprod,okay?”Her mouth trembled

under the weight of aworriedsmile.“Okay.”“Let’sgotothekitchen.I

was having coffee andpunishing myself with

Kerouac.Thecoffee’sgoodandmakesperfectsense.”

Where,Oh,WhereHasMyLittleDogGone?

Rainer considered settingMakani’shouseonfire.She wouldn’t need a

home anymore. She’d bedeadsoon.She was fond of the

bungalow.He would enjoy telling

her that he had burned itdown.Or save himself the

trouble.Justclaim tohave

torchedit.For sure, he would kill

thedoginfrontofher.She had thrown beer in

hisface.Defiedhim.Her death would not be

easy.Aftershedroveaway,he

went into the house.Looked in the refrigerator.Made a ham-and-cheesesandwich.

Eating at her kitchentable, watching the GPSmap displayed on hissmartphone, he followedthe blinking dot that washer ’54ChevyasshedrovesouthonCoastHighway.These days, you could

buy a dog collar with amicrominiaturetransponder in it, so yourpooch could never be lost.Rainer had put one in her

car.She was his dog, after

all.Hislittlebitch.She had been his since

he first saw her ten yearsearlier. She just hadn’tknownit.He always got what he

wanted.Sometimes it tookawhile.Theblinkingdotstopped

inLagunaBeach.

The GPS systemprovidedanaddress.Hefinishedhisdinner.He gathered up the

clothes that she hadstripped off as she hadgone from front door tobedroom, when she’d firstcomehome.Thegarmentssmelledof

her. He liked the feel ofthem.

He put them under thepillowonherbed.To refresh himself for

what layahead,heneededsomesleep.After undressing, he

slippednakedintoherbed.He never had trouble

falling asleep. Insomniawas caused by anxiety.Hehad no anxiety. Nothingworried him. He led a

perfect,beautifullife.He slept between

Makani’s sheets. With theintoxicatingsmellofher.He dreamed that she

wasunderhim.Hesawherinecstasy.Andthenhesawhertornandbroken,whichwashisecstasy.

YouDon’tFindLifebyFleeingfromIt

Inthepriceycoastaltownsof Southern California, ifthe house was near thebeach and the real-estateads referred to it as acottage, youneeded toputironic quotation marksaround the word—“cottage”—for it wouldcost upward of a couplemillion dollars and be acottageonlybyimitationofthat style. The one that

Pogo was house-sittingencompassed more than3,500 square feet, largeenoughtocontainfiverealcottages within its walls.But it had gingerbreadmillwork and beadboardwainscoting and selected-mahogany floors andenoughquaintdetailstofilla coffee-table book withphotographs to engenderseethingenvyinthosewho

cherishedthestyle.Inthebigeat-inkitchen,

an old and tattered trade-paperback edition of JackKerouac’sOntheRoad layon the table beside amugofcoffee.Bobwasonhisback,on

thefloor,withadogtoy,afloppy blue bunny rabbitwith squeakers in eachfoot.Hehelditbetweenhisfrontpaws,chewingonone

of its ears, breathingrapidlyandsquirmingwithdelight. If he had raced tothe kitchen to fetch therabbit and bring it toMakani as a gift, he hadbecome enthralled with itand had forgotten hisoriginalintention.“You spoiled himwith a

newtoy,”shesaid.“I want him to love his

unclePogo.”

Hebroughtheramugofcoffee, black, as she likedit,andshesettledinachairacrossthetablefromhim.When Pogo sat down to

hisowncoffeeandpushedaside the book, Makanisaid, “The thing is, I’m awitchorsomething.”“I’llgetyouanewbroom

foryourbirthday.”“I said ‘or something.’

I’m not into pointy blackhats and cauldrons andcats.Butthere’sthiswitchythingIcando.”“Yousurecan,”hesaid.She reached out to him.

“Holdmyhand.”Hedidassheasked.“This is embarrassing,”

shesaid.“What—is hand-holding

risqueinHawaii?”

“In my experience,anyway, this is as close asyou’veevercometohavinga secret, something you’dbe reluctant to express.You’re thinking that…I’mlovely but somehowdamaged, and you wishyoucouldfixme.”His eyes widened

slightly,buthe said, “Iamnot.”“Yes, you are. It makes

yousad,butyou thinkI’mbroken. And in a way, Iam.”“Ifyousayso,butIdon’t

seebroken.”“I can’t read

continuously. What I get,when I get anythingat all,are flashes.” She let go ofhim and reached out withher other hand. “Try thisone.”

“Maybe we can levitatethetable later,”hesaid,ashetookherlefthandinhisright.Giving voice to his

unspokenjudgmentofher,Makani said, “You’respooked by what I’mdoing, but you think I’mjust expressing what I’velong believed you feelabout me. You think I’mpretending to see

fragments of yourthoughts, so I have anexcuse to discuss ourrelationshipthisbluntly.”He did not look away

fromher.Hewasthemostdirect,leastevasivepersonshe had ever known. Buthe let go of her hand, andinhiselectric-blueeyesshesaw what she could nolonger perceive by touch:He had begun to believe

that, at least to somelimited extent, she wasabletoreadhismind.By turning to him for

help,by revealingherowndarkestsecret,shehadputtheirfriendshipatrisk.Hemightwellbeoffendedthatshe had read him sincefirst touch and had notuntilnowrevealedhergift.Though she believed thathe was sufficiently

comfortable with himselfandtoogenerousasoul toretreat into anger or fear,she also knew there wastruth in what RainerSparks had said aboutanyone with her powerbeingseenasafreakandathreat.Pogo pushed his chair

back fromthe table,got tohisfeet,carriedhismugtothe kitchen sink, and

pouredouthiscoffee.“Pogo?”“I’mthinking,”hesaid.Hereturnedtothetable,

took hermug, and pouredthat coffeedown thedrainaswell.Having lost interest in

the blue bunny, Bob cameto Makani’s side and laidhis head in her lap. Herolled his eyes, following

Pogo from sink torefrigerator.Pogo took twobottlesof

beer from the fridge,opened them, and said,“Come on, let’s get somerealair,wherewecanhearthe surf,” and he openedthe back door for her andBob.From the patio, the

softly lighted lawn slopedgently to a stainless-steel-

post-and-glass-panel fencealong the bluff. On theright, at the corner of theproperty, a gate led tostairs that switchbackeddowntothebeach.Near the gate stood a

small white gazebo withdecorative wood detailsand a peaked roof. Insidewere a table and fourchairs. She and Pogo tookthe two chairs that most

directly faced the sea andthebeachbelow,wheretheblack water cast foamingsurf, as white as bridallace,ontothepalersand.Bob stoodwithhis head

between two balusters oftherailingthat formedthelowwallof thegazebo,thetwenty-fourmuscles inhisnoseworkingtheairasthefourmusclesinthehumannose could never do. The

sea was a rich source ofsubtle scents, and anydog’ssenseofsmellwasitsbesttoolforobservingandunderstandingtheworld.“You can really do it,”

Pogosaid.“Yes.”“Justbyatouch.”“Yes.”“But you don’t see

everything.”

“Justflashes.Iseewhat,at that moment, the otherperson is mostconcentrating on, mostobsessed about…andwouldn’twantknown.”Hewassilentforawhile.They both stared out to

sea.Makani was grateful for

the beer. At first, grippedinonetremblinghand,the

bottle clicked against herteeth when she took adrink,butthennot.Eventually, he said, “It’s

something you wish withall yourheart youcouldn’tdo.”“God,yes.”“Tellmeaboutit.”She spoke of being

sixteenandburdenedwiththiswild talent.Of friends

and family suddenly toowell known. Of leavingHawaii before she becameirrevocablyestrangedfromthosesheloved.When she began, the

recently risen moon wastoo far in theeast topaintthesea.Bythetimeshegotto Rainer Sparks, Pogowent into the house tofetch two more beers.When she finished, they

sat insilenceagain,gazingatthefrostofmoonlightonthe crests of the breakersandthedistortedreflectionof the lunar face drawnlongacrossthevastwaters.She could bear the

silence lesswell thanPogocould. She spoke first. “Ishouldn’t have dumpedthis on you. There’snothing you can do. Andthere’s nothing I can do

butrun.”Stroking Bob’s head,

which was resting on hisleftknee,Pogosaid,“Don’tgo Kerouac on me,O’Brien.”“Whichmeans?”“When you called, Iwas

tryingtoreadOntheRoadfor like the thousandthtime. I’m not going to tryagain.”

Pogocamefromafamilyof achievers. His olderbrother and sister weredriven and successful intheir different professions,just as were their parents.He wanted none of that,only the sun and the seaand the surfingcommunity. He avoidedcollege by crafting animage of intellectualvacuityandbymaintaining

aperfect2.0gradeaveragethroughout his schoolyears, which made himunwelcome at institutionsof higher learning. Hisparentshadgreataffectionforhim,butalsopitiedhimfor what they imaginedwere his limitations. Theyhadneverseenhimwithabook, though he was avoraciousreader.“It’snotKerouac’sgonzo

style that’s off-putting,”Pogosaid.“It’s thosebeat-generation ideas of what’simportant in life, all theposturing and therecklessness inrelationships. You aren’tgoing on the run again,O’Brien. That’s Kerouac.You don’t find life byfleeingfromit.”

BeautySleeps

The owner of the housekept a pistol in hisnightstand drawer. Pogosaid that it was a .40-

caliber Ruger P944 with aten-round magazine. Themere sight of a handgunusually made Makaniuneasy, but not this one,perhaps because Pogomeant to use it himself, ifthe need arose, and shetrustedhimtodotherightthing.The weapon lay on the

kitchentablewhiletheyateadinnerofsaladandpizza.

“I shouldn’t be doingthis,”shesaid.“Cheese and pepperoni?

Cholesterol’sjustaracket.”“Imean,I’mputtingyou

atrisk.”“We’re at risk when

we’reborn.”“Are you as mellow as

youseem?”“Is there some law

againstit?”

“Really,Ishouldgo.”“Don’t make me shoot

youinthefoottokeepyouhere.”She smiled in spite of

her fear and her sense ofguilt.Pogo carried the pistol

when they took Bob intothe backyard for his lasttoiletingoftheday.As they waited for the

dog, Makani said, “Youreally believeme about allthis.”“Totally.Youprovedyou

canreadminds.”“But Rainer Sparks and

allthat—it’sprettyfarout.”“A year or so ago, I saw

somethings.”“Whatthings?”“Nothing like this. But

since then theworld looks

different.”“Different how?” she

asked.“Weirderthanitusedto.

Mysterious.”Under the ever-receding

stars, the moon floatedhigh and round, andfartherdown thenight, itstrembling ghost hauntedthesea.“Mysterious,” Makani

agreed. “And so damnbeautiful.”“There may be nothing

as enchanting,” Pogo said,“as a large black dogpiddlinginthemoonlight.”After he had retrieved

Makani’ssuitcasefromhercar,Pogosettheperimeteralarm.Shortly after 9:00,

together he and Makani

shut the draperies anddressed the bed in thesecondoftwoguestrooms.The sheets had a highthread count and felt assoftassleepitself.“I’ll just lie awake,” she

said.“Try anyway. I’ll keep

Bob with me. We’ll be onpatrol. You’re safe here.ThisSparksguycan’tknowwhereyouare.”

“He’llfindmesomehow.There’s no way he won’t.”Shedidn’tlikethefatalisminher voice, but sheknewthatitwasalsothetruth.“Even if he does, you’ve

gotsometimetosleep.Hesaid the next roundwouldbeinthemorning.”She remembered how

the murderer, with mockcourtliness, had openedthe driver’s door of the

Chevy for her.Work up acleverplan,girl.Givemearunformymoney.Shehadnoplan.Unless

she could count Pogo as aplan.“Butwhendoeshethink

morning begins?” shewondered.“Withthedawn—or just a fewhours fromnow,atmidnight?”“Mellow out, O’Brien.

Don’t worry too muchabout the future. The pastis past. The future is anillusion. All we have isnow,andwe’llget throughitminutebyminute.”“Untilwedon’t.”To Bob, Pogo said, “Did

you hear me say ‘Mellowout’? I heard me say it.Yourmistress isn’tdeaf, isshe,Bobby?No?I thoughtshe wasn’t.” He looked at

Makani. “Chill, gel, relax,fearnot.”He took Bob with him

and closed the bedroomdoorbehindthem.Makaniwishedhewould

have held her for amoment before he went.He had not touched hersince he’d learned of hergift. She wondered if hewould ever touch heragain.

Thereweretowelsintheadjacent bathroom. Shetook the long hot showerthatshe’dnothadtimeforwhen she’d fled fromRainerSparkstoherhomeinNewportHeights.After she’d blown her

hairdry,sheputonclothesonce more, dimmed thenightstand lamp, and laydownon thebed, atop thecovers, certain that she

wouldnotsleep.Sleep began to steal

upon her sooner than sheexpected. Maybe the longdayofsunandsurfinghadexhausted her more thanshe thought. Maybe thetensionandterrorofbeingstalked—and the Tasering—had taken a toll. Maybethe beers and hot showerhad unwound her coilednerves.Butassheslidinto

a silken slumber, the lastthingshesawinhermind’seyewasPogo, andeven inthese circumstances, withhis face came a sense ofpeace.

BeastAwakens

Rainer Sparks wokerefreshed at midnight,having breathed the scentof Makani through all his

dreamsofher.Hewithdrewherclothes

from under the pillow.Hefingered them in thedark.Draped selected itemsacross his face. Breatheddeeply.Naked,hewent intoher

study. Switched on a desklamp. Fired up hercomputer.He had decided not to

setherhouseonfire.Hewouldsetheronfire.

After he was done usingher.Bringing forth theblood

of his victims was an art.He had created manymasterpieces.Flames, however, were

alsoaworthwhilemedium.Online, he accessed

public records to

determine who owned thehouse at the address inLaguna Beach that he hadgotten from the GPS withwhichhe’dtrackedher.Maybe she parked at

that residence but didn’tenter. It was a place tostart.The city directory listed

the owner as OliverBertramWatkins.

Ollie to his friends. AvisittoFacebookproduceda photo of Ollie. He wassixty-one.Hewasaventure-capital

executive. Liked antiquesshopping. Fine wines.Playing competitionbridge.Nomoredangerousthan

afive-year-oldgirl.Considering the

expensive neighborhood,the house would have asecuritysystem.Rainer was a most

professional assassin. Hedidn’t rely solely on hisparanormalpowers.Hehad long agohacked

CentralStation, thealarm-reporting facility thatserved all the privatesecurity companies in thecounty. He’d built a back

door for himself. Quick,easyaccess.OllieWatkinscontracted

with Worry Free Security.Competent company. Butignorant of the hyphenneededintheirname.For alarm purposes, the

househadninezones.Three keypads. Front

door. Back door. Sidegaragedoor.Therewereno

cameras tied into thesystem.Rainer exited Central

Station.He went to a celebrity

gossip site. Just to seewhatwasup.It must be hard to be

TomCruise.He took a quick shower

in Makani’s bathroom.Usedhersoap.

Her roll-on deodorant.Hertoothbrush.At 1:02 A.M. he set out

forLagunaBeach.

RoundTwo

Pogo regretted drinkingthe beers earlier andchased them now withblack Armenian coffeepotent enough to keep atreesloth ina frenzy.Mug

in one hand, pistol in theother, dog dutifully at hisside, he drank as hepatrolled the house,listening for suspiciousnoises.He had never met this

RainerSparks,neverheardof him until this evening,which meant the guywasn’t tight with the localsurf community. Sparksmusthavebeenalonewolf

since, at the age offourteen, he had suddenlybeen different fromeveryone else, gifted andcorruptedbyhisgift,livingout his sick dreams,fulfilling his darkestdesires, even in the brightandwakingworld.A year ago, Pogo would

have had a more difficulttimebelieving that anyonecoulddothethingsMakani

claimed Rainer could do.Butthenhe’dbeenthroughan epic and life-changingexperience with Beebs—Bibi Blair—his best friendever and always, and PaxThorpe, theguy she loved.Nowheknew theworld tobe a fascinating placewhere what could neverhappenoccasionallydid.Beebs was twenty-three,

twoyearsolderthanPogo.

He had known her nearlyallhis life.She taughthimto surf, polishedhim froma clueless young goob intoa credible waverider. Heloved her and she lovedhim. They were tight.Nobody could have beentighter, but by the timeeither of them was oldenoughtogiveathoughttoromance, their bond wassomuchlikebrother-sister

that hooking up in anintimate sensewouldhavebeen too creepy tocontemplate.He didn’t have to get

along without women inhislife.Womencameafterhim. In fact, it wasembarrassing sometimes.He couldn’t help the wayhe looked, and theycouldn’t seem to helpthemselves. But he didn’t

wantitthatway,aseasyasallthat.Theworldwasfullofusers.Hedidn’twanttobe one. He couldn’t useanyone, andwhensexwaseasy, it felt like using.Anyway, the man-womanbusiness could be a lotmore than sex; it could beeverything.Hehadlearnedthat much from Bibi. Heknewwhatitcouldbe,andthat was what he wanted.

Hedidn’thavetogetalongwithoutwomen,butforthemostpart,that’sthewayitwas—until the right onecamealong,ifsheeverdid.There were days when

he thought Makani mightbe the one, and not justdays but weeks at a time.Although sweet and smartand kind and more, shehad always been…distant.Not cold. Not aloof. She

held the world at arm’slength. There was anessential part of herself,thecoreofherself,thatshewouldn’t share. Now heknew what and why. Thething is, I’m a witch orsomething. Ashe andBobpatrolled the house, Pogowonderediftherevelationsshe made would at lastbring them together—or iftheveryfactofherpsychic

gift made intimacy toodifficult.

All was quiet on theLaguna coast. The air waspleasantly cool and deadstill. The trees withoutrustle, the night birdswithoutsong.Thebreakingsurfonlyawhisper.Rainer parked a block

from Ollie Watkins’shouse.Hewasrestedandonhis

game.He walked the silent

night. Past the ’54 Chevy,as black and shiny as ahearse that had beenwashed and waxed andmadereadyforafuneral.Lights glowed in some

rooms of the single-story

house. The draperies weredrawnatallthewindows.Makani and Ollie were

probablywaitingforhim.They might have a gun.

Orguns.Noproblem.A hundred guns

wouldn’tworryRainer.Hehadnofear.Aprivacywallanda tall

ficus hedge separated

Ollie’s place from thehousenextdoor.Awrought-irongatewith

worked-iron privacypanels. No lock. Just agravity latch. The hingesdidn’trasporsqueak.Between the hedge and

the garage wall, a narrowbrick-paved walkway. Alittle moonglow, a lot ofmoonshadows.

The side door to thegarage. No window in it.Neither the side door northe roll-up doors for thecars were on the securitysystem, which wasstandard procedure, forconvenience coming andgoing.Like most side garage

doors, this one had nodeadbolt. Rainer was ablequickly to loid the simple

locksetwithacreditcard.He stepped inside and

quietly closed the doorbehindhim.Using a penlight, he

navigated the three-cargarage and located theconnecting door to thehouse.Besideitwasoneofthe three security-systemkeypads.Heworeathree-quarter-

length khaki jacket.Epaulet straps on theshoulders. Faux-ivorybuttons. Velcro cuffclosures. Several bellowscargo pockets. Largeinteriorpockets.Cool.Stylin’.And just the thing for

carryingaburglar’sgear.The lighted keypad

featured four labeled

indicator LEDs in theupper left corner: POWER,HOME, AWAY, STATUS. Thefirst glowed yellow, thesecond red, and the othertwoweredark.The system was set on

HOME. So the perimeterwas armed, door andwindow sensors, but notthe motion detectors inhallwaysandpublicrooms,which would have been

engaged if no one was athome or if the residentswereinbed.Someone must be

movingaroundinthere.Goodtoknow.Of the fifteen lighted

buttonsonthekeypad,tenborenumbers.Fourotherswere labeled STATUS,MONITOR, A, and H. Thefifthfeaturedanasterisk.

If he entered thenumerical code thatwoulddisarm the system, a tonewould sound throughoutthe house as each buttonwaspushed.Theoccupantswouldbealerted.Notgood.Besides, Rainer didn’t

have the code. It wasn’tknown to Worry FreeSecurity. So it couldn’t beobtained from their

computer. Only thehomeowner—andwhomever he shared itwith—knewthecode.With a small tool that

was illegal in mostjurisdictions, Rainerextracted the spannerscrewssecuringthekeypadfaceplate.Froma cargopocket,he

removed an electronicdevice for which he’d had

to kill a highly placedHomelandSecurityagent.The agent was corrupt.

Rainercouldhavepaidtheguy to get the device.Killing was cheaper. Andmoreenjoyable.The size of a pack of

cigarettes, the instrumentbore no name, no logo.Black plastic casing. AnLEDreadout.Fourcontrolbuttons.

The Homeland Securityagent called it a “circuitbridger.” But he was anidiot and only halfunderstoodhowthedeviceworked.Hiscolleagueswhowere

equally highly placedcalledit“hackinapack”or“packhack.”Theonlykeypadoffering

that interested Rainer wasSTATUS.

A six-inch probeextruded from thepackhack. The last inchandahalfappearedtobeaflattened copper wire,though it was highlyflexible and break-resistant.Heworkedthetipofthe

probe past the side of thesnugly fitted STATUSbutton.Whencontactwithalive

wire was made, greenletters appeared on theLEDreadout:READY.The good but hyphen-

challenged folks at WorryFree Security would say itwasimpossibletofollowanelectric current along awire from the keypad tothe dedicated logic unitthatservedasthesimple—therefore defenseless—brain of the alarm system,

penetrate the integratedcircuitryon themicrochip,and read theprogramming.They would be telling

youthetruth.Thetruthasthey knew it. Once, theywould have been correct.These days, theywould bewrong.On the packhack

readout, four numbersappeared, followed by an

asterisk. The disarmingcode.Rainerpushedabutton.Thecodeblinkedoff the

screen, one number at atime, and the asteriskdisappearedlast.The tiny red indicator

lamp, signifying that thesystem was armed toHOME,wentdark.The five tones, which

would have accompaniedthe manual use of thekeypad,werenotsounded.Proof that Rainer was

superior to all other men.Itgavehimalittlerush.

Pogo stood at the Frenchdoors in the family room,adjacent to the kitchen, atthe back of the house. He

had not fully closed thedraperies because, on hispatrol, he wanted to beable to survey the patioandbackyard.Of course, according to

Makani, if Rainer Sparksused his mojo, he wouldnotbeseenorheardwhenhe arrived. The murderermight be standing on theother side of the door,inchesfromtheglass,face-

to-face with Pogo, and beas invisible as the power-madman inH. G.Wells’snovel.At Pogo’s side, Bob

staredoutatthenight,andhe seemednot in the leastconcerned, whichsuggested that no onestood there. Or couldSparks cast his spell overanimals as easily as uponpeople?

Shivering, Pogo pulledshutthedraperies.

The door between thegarage and the residencefeaturedadeadboltlock.Nottofret.Froman innerpocketof

his stylish khaki coat,Rainer Sparks withdrew aLockAid lock-release gun,

a device sold only to law-enforcementagencies.It was amazing what an

unauthorized citizen couldobtain if hewaswilling tobribeandkillforit.Rainer inserted the thin

pick into the keyway,underthepintumblers.There would be a little

noise. Not much.Unavoidable.

He pulled the trigger.The LockAid’s flat steelspringmadethepickjump,lodgingsomeofthepinsatthe shear line.Threemoreattempts were required tofullydisengagethelock.Beyond the door lay a

shadowy laundry room,revealed only by thehallway light spillingthroughaninnerdoorthatstood open a few inches.

Washer.Dryer.Scrubsink.He stepped inside.

Waited. Listened. Closedthe door to the garagebehindhim.Easy-peasy, sweet and

In the family room, whenPogo drew shut thedraperies at the French

doors, Bob suddenlyturnedawayandstiffened.The dog raised his bigblackhead,turneditslowlyleft and right and leftagain, as the dish of aradartelescopemightturn,seeking data from thestars. His ears werepricked as much as aLabradorcouldprickthem,butitwashistalentednosewith which he sought

information. The nostrilsflared and quivered, andthe double dozen musclesin his noble snoot workedvigorously.Pogo whispered, “What

isit,dude?”The dog looked at him

andseemedpuzzled.“Whatdoyousmell?”Bob lifted his head

higher and once more

turnedhis attention to theairthatwas,forhim,ifnotfor Pogo, alive with asymphony of scents. Hemewled softly, as if lessalarmedthanpuzzled.

Standing in the archway,Rainer watched the mananddogat the fartherendofthefamilyroom.

The man was not OllieWatkins.He didn’t appearto be the kind who wouldplay competition bridgeandgoantiquesshopping.The guy had a gun. He

held it somewhatawkwardly. As if he hadseldom—or never—usedone.The dog was intrigued.

He had caught a scent. Ofwhat,ofwhom,heseemed

nottobecertain.Rainer,too,hadapistol.

And a Taser. And anexcellentknife.He was tempted to let

them see him for just amoment, the better toterrify them when hedisappeared an instantlater.In the interest of

winning the game, such

impulses had to becontrolled.The dog lowered his

head and sniffed thecarpet, padding this wayandthat,clearlyconfused.Neithermannor animal

posedathreat.Rainer returned to the

hallwayandwentinsearchofMakani.

ThunderCrusher

Tail held high but notwagging,nose to the floor,Bob padded out of thefamily room, and Pogo

followed.The dog was intent on

pursuing a scent, but hedidn’t seem to be in theleast distressed, aspresumablyhewouldbe ifan imminent threatexisted. Curious, yes, andperhapspuzzled,hesniffedrapidly, deeply, sweatdripping from his blacknose, which could gatherand hold scents better

whenitwaswet.In the hallway, Bob

paused, looked left, right,left,andthencontinuedtotheright,clawsclickingonthe wood floor. His snoutwas now so close to themahogany that he left analmost continuous smearof nose sweat, like a snailtrail.The laundry-room door

wasajar.Aslitheassmoke

drawn by a draft, theswivel-hipped dogsqueezed through thenarrow gap, into the darkroom beyond. In theabsence of a bark, Pogotrusted thatnoonewaitedbehind the door, and hepusheditopen.Bobpawedatthenextdoor,theonetothe garage, rememberedthathissurfingbuddywaswith him, and looked up

beseechingly.Wondering if he might

be attributing the wrongmotive to the Labrador’surgency, Pogo said, “Hey,dude, you sure this isn’tjustabouttakingapee?”Bobchuffed.Choosingtointerpretthe

chuff as a declaration ofserious intent, Pogoopened the door. Bob

dashed across thethreshold, into thedarkness, his sniffingamplified as it echoed offthe cars and the garagewalls.Finding the switch and

flipping on the fluorescentceiling panels took maybetenseconds,bywhichtimeBobhadwoundamongthethree vehicles, whichincluded Pogo’s thirty-

year-old primer-gray pity-the-poor-boy Honda, andhadbeguntoreturntothelaundry room. He was acanine on the hunt, nodoubt about that.However, he continued toseem more excited andmore puzzled thananxious, not in anobviously protective stateofmind.

Makani slept in softlamplight,fullydressed,onher back, atop thebedclothes.Headturnedtoher left.Armsathersides.One palm turned up, theotherflattotheblanket.Standingbedside,gazing

down at her, Rainer felttriumphant, powerful,indestructible.

The woman’s eyesmovedrapidlybehindtheirlids,asignofdreaming.No doubt she dreamed

ofhim.She feared him, but she

wantedhim.She would never admit

tothedesire.Butheknew.Power and sex were

linked.Peoplewantedboth

equally and more thananythingelse.Likewise, power and

deathweretwosidesofthesamecard.Thepurposeofpower was to controlothers. And to get rid ofthem if you couldn’t effectcontrol.Therefore sex and death

werelinkedaswell.He had known women

who wanted him to takethem,bywhich they reallymeant kill them. And hehaddoneboth.Rainer had thought

about this a lot. He was adeep thinker. Aphilosopher.Youknewyouwereaseriousphilosopherwhen you were alwaysright,andhehadneveryetfoundhimselftobewrong.The bedroom door

opened.The not-Ollie and the

dogentered.

When Bob sniffed andsnorted along the mainhallway, past the publicrooms, toward thebedrooms, Pogo becamealarmed even if the dogwas not yet growling or

making other sounds ofdistress. He dashed pastthe Labrador, reached theT intersection, and turnedright into the guest-bedroomwing.BythetimePogoopened

thedoortoMakani’sroom,thedoghadcaughtupwithhim. Bob padded firstacrossthethreshold.Lyingasleepon thebed,

the radiant daughter of

Oahu reminded Pogo of afairy-tale princess,bespelled and awaiting akiss to free her from herdark enchantment. As afantasy fan, he had readmany such tales when hewas a young boy, alwayssecretly, so that hisambitious parentswouldn’t discover that hisdyslexia and attentiondeficit disorder and

problematic IQ were allpretense, all elements of ascam to ensure that hecould escape highereducation in favorofa lifeonthebeach.Although Pogo knew

that Rainer Sparks, withthe powers Makani hadattributedtohim,mightbein the bedroom at thisminute, it was hard tobelieve that the creepy

wanker was indeedpresent. Makani hadn’tbeenassaulted.Shelookedas peaceful as she wasbeautiful. With whateverweapons Sparks possessedin addition to a Taser, hecould already have shotPogo,hispositionrevealedby nothing but themuzzleflashafractionofasecondbefore the bullet found itstarget.Ifhehadmurdered

as many people asMakani’s psychic visionhadimplied,asoftenashehad claimed, he wouldn’thesitatetoaddonemoretohisscorecard.Inhersleep,thedeargirl

murmured and thensighed.Thedog seemed tohave

raveled up the last ofwhatever pursued scenthadfrenziedhim.Hestood

at the foot of the bed,sniffing the blanket, thecarpet, the air to his left,theairtohisright,butwithless enthusiasm than hehadexhibitedenroute.Helooked at Pogo as thoughto say, Pray thee, m’lord,whatbroughtmehereandhasnowsteepedmysensesin forgetfulness? Orperhaps only, Dude,wha’sup?

Thecomicqualityof thedog’sbewildermentmeltedsome of the ice in Pogo’sveins.He found it difficultto hold on to the sense ofimminent peril that hadbrought him to the guestroom in a rush. Near thewindowstoodanarmchairin which he could sitguard, the pistol ready inhis lap, thedogathis feet.Ifhebrewedanotherpotof

Armeniancoffeeandchosea book other than On theRoad,hecouldcounterthetendency to doze off in acomfortablechair.Just then, pleased by a

turnofeventsinhersleep,Makani issued a sound ofamusement softer than alaughandmoremelodiousthanachuckle,acharmingchildlike expression, andthen sighed as if with

gentle regret or gentlersatisfaction.ItseemedtoPogothata

psychic, even one withlimitations to her power,wouldnotbeable to lie inhappy dreams if herwould-bekillerwasnearathand.Besides,hebegantofeel that he had been tooswept up in the dog’sexcitement, that he hadmissed something along

the way because of beingtherebymisdirected.WhenBobbegantowanderfromone corner of the room toanother,inanevidentstateof perplexity, Pogowhispered to him, callinghim to the door, andtogether they retreatedintothehallway.

Otherthanviolentsexandmurder, nothing pleasedRainer Sparks quite asmuch as observing theinadequaciesoflessermenwhen they were foiled byhispower.Clearly,Makanihadtold

thenot-Olliethatsomeonewishedtodoherharm.Hehadchosentobeher

guardian.

Hoorayforthehero.Perhaps Makani had

broken her own rule ofsecrecy. Perhaps she hadalso told not-Ollie aboutherpower.And about Rainer’s as

well.The guardian’s behavior

suggested a suspicion ofthingsnotseen.Yet the fool had

convinced himself ofMakani’ssafety.In Rainer’s immediate

presence,thedogcouldnotsee or hear or smell him.His power shrouded himcompletely.Elsewhere in the house,

however, Rainer had leftspoor.Spoor.Thetinyparticles

of skin that people

continuously shed. Loosehairs. Microdrops ofperspiration. Atomizedskinoil.Witheverybreathwere expelled particles ofsinus secretions sominuteas tobe visibleonlyunderthehighestmagnification.Each thing that spalled

fromRainerborehisDNAsignature.Every dog’s sense of

smell was thousands of

times greater than that ofanyhumanbeing.Insomebreeds—tens of thousandsoftimesgreater.Retrievers, like

Labradors and goldens,had a highly refinedolfactorysense.Out of Rainer’s line of

sight, beyond his power’ssphere of influence, thedogcouldsmellthespoor.

This had never beforeexposedRainertodanger.It would not be a

problemthistime,either.Bob was not smart

enoughtomatter.Although the dog might

have been smarter thannot-Ollie.On the bed, in sleep,

Makanigroanedsoftly.Rainer whispered a

promise to her. “I’ll makeyou groan, little bitch,when you’re under me.And then I’ll make youscream.”Gazing down on her, he

wanted to cut off her faceandfeedittoher.ButthiswasonlyRound

Two. The face-off wouldhave to wait until RoundThree.

Perhaps his whisperfound its way into theworld of her dream. Sheopenedhereyes.

Themoment that Bob leftthebedroom,hewasagainelectrified by some scent.Hesetoffinurgentpursuitof its source, his pawsdigging frantically at the

carpet runner, displacingit, so that it slid out fromunderhim, curling againstone wall, and sent himskidding along thehardwoodfloor.As Pogo quietly closed

the door behind him andsaw the dog launch acrossthe T intersection wherethe two hallways met, hethought he had made agravemistakeearlier.He’d

been sure that Bob wasfollowing the scent toMakani’s room, and he’draced ahead of him,leading theway. But therewere two lengths to thebedroom wing, with guestquarters in one and themaster suite in the other.Now it appeared that, lefttohisowndevices,thedogwould have turned left atthe intersection, not right

toward the guestbedrooms.AsBobdisappeared into

themastersuite,throughadoorthatshouldhavebeenclosed but was not, Pogofollowed, the pistol in atwo-handgrip.

MakanididnotseeRainerstandingbedside.

He did not allow her toseehim.Sheyawned.She turned her head to

look at the digital clock inthe fall of buttery lightfromthenightstandlamp.How tender she was.

Howsucculent.She sat up. Swung her

legs off the bed. Perchedontheedge.

Suchalithegirl.Yetfull-figured.Provocative.Those vivid blue eyes.

Blindtohim.As she stood up, he

Taseredher.All grace abandoned the

maiden. Her body jerked,arms flailed, head tossedback to expose her throat,which he Tasered,triggeringoneshock,two.

Palsied, wild-eyed, teethclacking together, handsscrabbling uselessly atherself,asiftopeeloffandthrow away the aliencurrent that jigged alongher nerve paths, she triedto scream, but gagged outonlyathrottledsound.Pocketing the stun gun

with his left hand, Rainerseized her dark hair withhis right, twisted it in his

fist, turned her, andpressedherdownontothebed.When he fell upon her,

twice her weight, she wasas effectively pinned as adead butterfly to aspecimenboard.He forced her face into

the pillows. Familiarizedher with the fear ofsuffocation.

Lying atop her, his facenexttohers,he letherseehim.Her left eye bulged like

thatofafrightenedhorse.She struggled to suck in

air,gotinsteadthetasteofa cotton pillowcase,perhaps the faintest flavoroffeathers.He was reading her,

savoring the panic that

overwhelmedhermind.She was reading him,

too, terrified not only ofsuffocating,butalsoof theimagesofhismanyvictimswithalltheindignitiesandwounds that he hadinflictedonthem.Into her exquisitely

shaped ear, Rainerwhispered, “The cat winsRoundTwo.”

He licked the lobe, thecurveofhelix.“Betterrun,littlemouse.

Farandfast.”Helickedagain.“Round Three comes

latertoday,”hewhispered.“Afterthelastlight.”His hot breath flushed

back to him out of thedelicateshellofherear.“Enjoy your final

sunset.”Heclamberedoffher,to

his feet, still jamming herfaceintothepillow.To leave her with a

reminder of his greatstrength, he lifted her offthebedbythetwistofhairand by the belt that heldherjeans,andhethrewheraside as if she weighednothing and were of noconsequence.

Pogo followed as theexcited Labrador touredthemaster suite, bedroomand bath and walk-incloset, snout to the floor,sneezing to refresh hisnasal passages, nowwhimpering as somequality of the spoordisturbedhim.Earlier, when Makani

first arrived,Bobhadwithgreat interest sniffed hershoes, her jeans, her hair.He would have madehimself familiar withRainer Sparks’s scent,which Makani carried onher from the encounterthat she’d had with thesonofabitchinherhouse.But was that the scent

troubling him now? Andhow would Sparks have

foundhersoquickly?Howcould he have gotten intothe house without settingoffthealarm?Moments ago, leaving

Makani in the guestbedroom, Pogo hadwonderedifhehadbeensocaught up in the dog’sexcited searching that hehad missed somethingalongtheway.Suddenlyheknew what had not

registeredwithhim.Thealarmwassetinthe

at-homemode.Sensorsonall perimeter doors andwindows were activated,but not any of the interiormotion detectors. Thegaragedoorswereomittedfrom the system, so thatOllieWatkinswouldn’t setoffthealarmeverytimehedrove home and wouldn’thave to make a mad dash

to thecontrolpad toenterthe disarming code.However, the doorbetweenthegarageandthelaundryroomwasincludedwhen thealarmwas set ineither the at-home modeor the away-from-homemode. Pogo had forgottenthat detail. When he hadopenedthatdoortoletBobcontinue the search intothe garage, the alarm had

notsounded.Someone had turned it

off without triggering thethrough-house tones thataccompanied every entrymade in any security-systemkeypad.Having made his way

throughthehousefromthelaundry room, and havingfound the bedroom wing,Sparks might have gonefirst to the master

bedroom. Maybe the doghad wanted to follow thespoor path as it had beenlaiddown.But Sparks had not

found his quarry here. Hewouldnotbeinthemastersuitenow.He would be in the

second of two guestbedrooms.WithMakani.“Bob,let’sgo!”

Berating himself for infact being the dimwit thathe’d long pretended to be,Pogo sprinted into thehallway and back to theroom that he had left twominutes earlier. He threwopen thedoorandcrossedthe threshold with thepistol in a two-hand grip,just in time to seeMakanilevitate inexplicably fromthe bed and seemingly

fling herself six or eightfeet across the room,whereshehitthefloorandtumbled against thearmchair.Rainer Sparkswas here,

asinvisibleasapoltergeist.Pogodidn’tknowwheretoaim,andhedidn’twant tosqueeze off a spray ofbullets,forfearthatoneofthem—directly or byricochet—might hit

Makani, also for fear thathewouldusealltenroundswithout nailing Sparks,andthenbeweaponless.The Taser resolved his

dilemma.Thepositive andnegative poles—two coldsteelpegs—pressedagainsthis neck, and meancentipedes skitteredthrough him, theircenturies of legs pluckingchaos from his nerve

fibers. The gun fell fromhis hands, and a secondjolt from the Taserstaggered him backwardeven ashis knees buckled.Ink spilled through hisvision when he hit thefloor, but he blinked itaway, leaving nopermanent stain, andlooked up just as anunseen man, seeming tospeak directly above him,

said, “Welcome to thegame,youhopelessfeeb.”The bedroom door that

Pogo had flung open amomentagonowslammedshut, as if thrown by afierce draft. Moving awaythrough the house, likesome overgrown anddemented child, RainerSparks sang, “Two blindmice, two blind mice. Seehowtheyrun,seehowthey

run.Eachof’emraninfearofitslife,butIcutouttheirguts with a big freakin’knife.Twoblindmice.”Therewasagnarlywave

that some surfers called a“thunder crusher” andotherscalleda“dumper,”awave both steep and thickthat broke straight downfrom the top and hit youlikeawallofwetconcrete,leaving youwipedout and

your board broken. Pogofelt as if he had just beenhammeredbyone.Crawling to the pistol,

holding fast to it,struggling to his feet, heaskedMakaniifshewasallright. She said she wasokay,andwhenheopenedthe door, she begged himnot to go afterSparks, buthewent.Hewasstillinthemain hallway when the

frontdoorcrashedshut.Bythe time Pogo made hisway through the livingroom and across the foyerand outside to the frontwalkway,Sparkswaseitherstillworkinghismojoorhewasgone.Pogo waited in the

growing blackness of thesetting moon until anengine started fartherdown the street. Crisp

whiteheadlightsdrilledthedarkness. A whiteMercedes SUVapproached, picking upspeed.Asitroaredpastthecottage,Pogocouldn’tgetaclearviewofthedriver,buthe could see that the guywas big, hulking over thesteering wheel as thoughhemightbeatrollthathadimmigrated to Californiafrom some sulfurous

underworld.

WhoAreWeIfWeAreNotUs?

Havingbeenprosecutedbythe sea more often than

she could count,clamshelled and creamedand stacked on the rocks,Makani Miomio Hisoka-O’Brienwasaccustomedtoaches and pains. Thosebruisesandabrasionswithwhich Rainer Sparks hadleft her were not worthcomplaining about, andthey certainly were notsufficient to rob her ofcourage.

Afterwashingdown twoTylenolwithbeer,sittingatthe kitchen table, holdingan ice-pack on her leftwrist,whichhadsufferedamild sprain, she said,“Anyway, there’s nowheretorun.”Although four years

younger than Makani,Pogo had been biffed anddumped and quashed andrinse-cycledasoftenasany

surfer his age. As he satacross the table fromMakani, holding an icepack to the back of hisneck, he said, “What’s thefreak expect—that we’llslide away to Kansas,forget there’s such a thingas an ocean, hide out in atornadocellar?”“That’s not me,” she

said.“It’snotme,either.”

“Not that there’sanything wrong withKansas.”“Wild Bill Hickock was

fromKansas.”“That alone justifies it,”

shesaid.“Sparks is abigbastard,

though.”“Andinvisible.”“There’s got tobe away

aroundthat.”

“Whatway?”Bob the Labrador, who

had been sitting besideMakani,hischininherlap,raisedhisheadandsniffedthe plate on the table thathadbeensetasideforhim.It contained chunks ofroast beef that were hisreward for being the firstto realize that RainerSparkswasinthehouse.After Makani gave him

onecubeofmeatandthenanother, he made a thinsoundofentreaty,andshesaid,“Youshouldn’tgobblethem all at once, sweetie.Learn to savor, Bobby.Life’sallaboutsavoring.”The dog lowered his big

black head and rested hischin on her thigh oncemore.“I’m not changing my

name and getting false ID

and moving to Mexico,”Makanisaid.After a long pull at his

beer, Pogo said, “There issome killer surf in Baja.DowntoTodosSantosandScorpion Bay, even all thewaytoMazatlán.”“You changing your

name,then?”“Hell,no.Nothingwould

beaseasy to rememberas

Pogo.”“IlikePogo.”“IlikeMakani.”“I don’t mean just the

name.”“I don’t mean just the

name,either.”They smiled at each

other.Bobraisedhishead.“Screw it,”Makani said.

“Gobbleawayifyouwant.”

And she put the plate ofbeefonthefloor.“It’swhoBobbyis,”Pogo

said.“Bobby’sagobbler.”“Who are we if we are

notus?”shesaid.“Thenwe’dbenobody.”“Well, I’m not nobody,

andyou’renotnobody,andBobbyissomebody,too.”Apauseforbeer.Pogo reminded her,

“Sparksisonebigbastard.”“Andinvisible,”shesaid.“There’s got tobe away

aroundthat.”“Youthinkofityet?”“Ihaveakindofidea.”Theyhadpreparationsto

make, shopping to do,second thoughts toconsider, and a lot ofmutual encouragement toperform. Being of high

spirits most of the time,Bob didn’t needencouragement, but hewent with them to thehardware store, which heenjoyed, not least of allbecause the owner alwaysbrought his Labrador,Gracie,towork.By noon, they were

ready.Or as ready as theycouldbe.Over a lunch of

sandwiches, eaten on thepatio, Makani said, “It’sgoodnottobealone.”Pogo nodded. “I never

havebeen.”“Well, I have been for

almosttenyears.”“Where do you see this

going?”“Youmean if he doesn’t

killus?”“Exactly.”

“He will probably killus.”“Probably.”“Butifhedoesn’t,Idon’t

see us plunging intothings.”Pogo nodded. “Nothing

worthwhile happensovernight.”“You really feel that

way?”“I’ve got to get used to

beingreadallthetime.”“And I’ve got to figure

how I cope with youknowing that you’re beingread.”“Maybe I’ll learnhow to

hidemydarkerthoughts.”“What darker thoughts?

I’ve known you two years,andI’veneverseenone.”“Right now, I’m

planningtokillaman.”

“Oh, that,” she said.“That’snotasdarkaswhatI’dliketodotohim.”Under the table, where

he was lying in the shadeand summer heat, Bobgrumbledhisagreement.Pogowantedtonapfora

few hours, to be sure hishead was clear whensunsetcame.Although they didn’t

expect Sparks to show upsooner than he hadpromised,Makani insistedon sitting ina chair in thesecond guest room, thepistol in her lap, whilePogo slept in the nearbybed. She kept Bob at herside,hopingheunderstoodthat he was their early-warningsystem.In all her conversations

withPogo,shehadtriedto

matchhislighttone,whichwasnaturaltohimbecauseit was a reflection of hisconfident and buoyantspirit. In truth, however,she expected to die thisevening, and she hopedonly that Pogo wouldsurviveandthatshewouldnothavebeenthecauseofhisdeath.

RoundThree

Twohoursbeforesunset.Having returned to

Makani’s bungalow tosleep in her bed with the

scent of her, eat her food,shower with her soap andher loofah sponge, andagain use her toothbrush,Rainer was rested andprimed for the encounterahead.When he checked the

GPSforthelocationofher’54Chevy,hefoundthat itremained at the house ofOliverWatkins.Hewasnotsurprised.

There were people whoran like the frightenedmice they were. Hedestroyedthem.Then there were people

who would not run andwho thought they wereclever enough to outwithim.Intheend,theydied,too.Makani most likely

believed that her powermade her a harder target

than ordinary people. Buther power was ordinarywhen compared toRainer’s.Anyway, Rainer had

analyzedthesituationfromevery angle. He wasconfident that she had noadvantage thatwould saveher or the pretty-boy feebwho imagined he was herguardian.One of the many things

at which Rainer excelledwas analysis. Of data. Ofsituations.Ofpeople.He would have become

the winningest chessplayer in history if he hadbeen interested enough tolearntherulesofthegame.Chess looked boring. Tooslow,nosex,nokilling.

PogoandMakanisatatthetableinthegazebotoenjoythe sunset. The ropelighting under theencircling handrail andaround the perimeter ofthe ceiling was hardlynoticeable at themoment,butwithnightfall, itwouldcast a warm glow overthem,sothattheirlocationwouldbeobvious.On the table stood two

bottles of Corona. Theyhad not drunk any beer,and they would not untilthis was over. The gazebowas a stage. The bottleswereprops.They intendedthat Rainer Sparks shouldinterpret their demeanoras either recklessconfidence or fatalisticindifference, though itwasneither.Bob paced around the

gazebo, pausing now andthen to stick his snoutbetween balusters andsample the thousands ofscentsthattheseaandthecity offered him. He wasnotaprop.Partofthedayhadbeen

spent encouraging theLabrador to smell thethreshold at the side doorto the garage, by whichSparks had evidently

gained entry, the alarmkeypadoutsidethelaundryroom, which he hadsomehow overridden, thecarpet of the guestbedroom, the blanket andsheets,andtheclothesthatMakani had been wearingwhen he had forced herfacedownontothebedandhadlainatopher,pressingher into the smotheringpillow. Initially, Bob

wagged and capered andgrinned, seeming to thinkthat they were teachinghimanewgame,but soonhe began to take theinstruction seriously. Heapparently found Sparks’sscent complex, disturbing,andendlesslyfascinating.A spectacular sunset

required scattered cloudsto provide reflection, andthe day’s end was

furnished with a perfectmix.Feathery cirrus at the

highest altitude.Cirrostratus farther down.And nearest the sea, aprocession of puffystratocumulus clouds, likeunsheared sheep,wandered slowlynorthward.Notsureiftheywereyet

under observation by the

murderer, Makanipretended to take a sip ofher beer and then said,“When this is over, weneed to do somethingspecialforBob.”“We’llgivehimaspecial

day,”Pogo said. “Start outcutting up a couplefrankfurtersinhismorningkibble.”“A long walk in Corona

del Mar, the Village. He

loves all the smells there,the other dogs outwalking.”“SomeFrisbeeatthedog

park.”“Lunch at a restaurant

that takes dogs on thepatio.”“Goover toMuttropolis,

buysomecoolnewtoys.”“The dog beach. A long

nap on a blanket, in the

sun.”“Get him on the board.

He’smoreaninlanderthana surf mongrel, but he’sgame.”“Shutyourface,”Makani

said. “He’s no inlander.He’s born to thrash thewaves.”“If you say so. I haven’t

seen him channelingKahunayet.”

The sinking sun phasedfrom lemon-yellow toorange, and the lowerclouds caught fire first,though soon the blazeladdered up to higherelevations.Makani said, “I’m

afraid.”“Whowouldn’tbe?”“Youseemwaycool.”Pogo said, “I’ve been

thinking I might need anadultdiaper.”

Theheavenswereasfulloffire as Hell when Rainerparked three blocks fromtheWatkinshouse.HewaitedintheGL550,

listeningtomusic,asnightcrept in from the east andthe sun went to its daily

death and thebloody lightdrained down the sky tothehorizon.Currently, he was

sampling symphonicmusic.Wagner.His life was so eventful,

so epic, that he felt itneeded theme music. Hewas a demigod, anddemigods didn’t stridethroughtheirdayswithoutasoundtrack.

He had tried gangstarap, but it didn’t seemimportantenough.Beethoven was too

spiritual. Glenn Miller tooebullient.The movie soundtrack

for The Terminator hadpossibilities, asdid certaintunes from that old TVshowTwinPeaks.Wagner was the closest

tobeingright,butitwasn’tideal.Rainer had begun to

think he would have towrite his own music. Hehad never written musicbefore,buthewas surehecoulddoit.When the sunset had

diminished to a thin redwound along the horizon,hegotoutoftheMercedes.

Hewalkedwithouthasteto the Watkins house andthepleasuresthatthenightheldforhim.As before, he wore his

stylish and practical khakicoatwithcargopockets.Makaniandherguyhad

probably figured out bywhat route he hadpreviously entered thehouse. It didn’t matter iftheywerewaitingforhim.

Hewasunstoppable.Nevertheless, this time

he went directly to thefrontdoor.It would have been

amusing to ring the bell,buthedidnot.Adeadbolt.TheLockAid

released the pin tumblersinlessthanhalfaminute.Withapistolinhand,he

entered the foyer fast, ina

half crouch, but no onewaitedtogreethim.Sincehewas invisibleto

them, he didn’t expect tobefiredupon.Justincase,he was wearing abulletproof Kevlar vestunder his coat, a custommodel to which had beenaddedshortsleeves.Thehousewasquiet.A few lamps were lit,

dialedlow.In the family room,

through the French doors,he saw the dark patio, thedark yard, and the lightedgazebo toward the end oftheproperty.Makani and her guy

were sitting in the gazebo.Downlighted.“What game is this?” he

wonderedaloud.

Makani liftedabottle toher mouth. Maybe a beerbottle.Not-Ollie lifted a bottle

tohismouth,too.Whowere they trying to

kid? After he had kickedtheir ass in Round Two,less than twenty-fourhours earlier, they weren’tlying back, relaxed, andgettingjuiced.

It looked like a trap ofsomekind.Now and then, other

people had tried to set atrap for him. Idiots, all ofthem.Ifheopenedapatiodoor

and stepped outside, theywouldn’t seehim,but theymightseethedooropen.Sohe’dgooutbywayof

thesidegaragedoor.

He hesitated, watchingthem.Thegazebowasnearthe

gate in the glass-panelfence. A gate on a bluffmeanttheremustbestairsleadingdowntotheshore.Maybe they expected

him tocomeat them fromthebeach.Maybe they figured that

atthefirstsoundofhimon

those stairs, they’d stepthroughthegateandshootdownonhim.Did they think hewas a

loser?Rainerwasn’taloser.Theywerethelosers.Maybe they thought he

wouldn’t attack them ifthey were in the open,under the gazebo lights,visible to neighbors if

anyone in a second-floorroom or sitting on anupperdeck of the flankinghouses happened to lookthisway.Stupid.He could simply push

out his mojo to affect theneighbors as well. They’dnever see him or hear thetargets’ screams any morethan the other diners inSharkin’, thepreviousday,

hadseenhimthrowbeerinMakani’sfaceorheardhimcurseherout.Andhispistolwas fitted

with a silencer. It wouldmakeonlyasoft,sensuoussucking sound when heshotnot-Ollieinthehead.Rainer was ready to be

done with that guy. EagertogetstartedwithMakani.He left the family room,

followed the main hall tothe laundry room, crossedthegarage,andopenedthesidedoor.Themoon hung too low

to brighten the narrowwalkway between theresidenceandthepropertywall.Rainer moved toward

thebackoftheproperty.

Snout between twobalusters,facingthehouse,Bob became agitated. Hegrowled low in his throat,whimpered,growledagain,and turned to look atMakaniandPogo.“Our guest has arrived,”

Pogosaid.Makani said, “I’m going

tobesick.”“You’re not going to be

sick. You might wind updead, but you won’tembarrassyourself.”“I think maybe you’re

right.Whichamazesme.”When the last light had

faded from the sky, theyhad turned their chairsawayfromtheview,angledthem more toward thehouse.Earlier, they had turned

off the landscape-lightingtimer.Theyardlayindeepdarkness. They could notseeRainercoming.Orhearhim. But he could not seemuch, either, except theglowing gazebo andMakaniradiantwithinit.The previous night, in

the guest room,whenBobcouldn’t see or hearRainer,butonlysmellhim,he had become confused.

Now, in thenight, thedogcould not expect to seehim, and therefore shouldnot as easily becomedisarmed by puzzlement.Besides, that afternoonthey had spent two hourssensitizingtheLabradortothemurderer’sscent.Bobbecameincreasingly

agitated, which suggestedthat Rainer was crossingthe yard, approaching the

gazebo. Pogo held in hishand a switchhe’d boughtthat afternoon. A blackextension cord ran fromthe switch, around theyard,tothecontrolboxforthe lawn sprinklers. Thetrick was not to activatethemtoosoon,outof fear.He had to wait for thecowbell.

As Rainer approached thegazebo, he heard in hismind’s ear a stirringpassage from RichardWagner’s The Ring of theNibelung.It was Hitler’s favorite

music.Now that Rainer was in

action, Wagner’scomposition proved to betheperfectaccompanimentfortheviolencetocome.It

madehimfeeltenfeettall.It almost brought him totears.Shoot the idiot pretty-

boyintheface.Shootthedog.Drag the bitch into the

house and teach her thebeauty of pain as she hadneverknownit.Inhisnearlyblind rush,

he came to a wire, maybe

five or six inches off theground, stretched tautacross the width of theyard.Ashe trippedand fell, a

cowbellrang.

Still in the thrall of thekiller’s power, Pogo didn’thear him fall, but thecowbell was a thing apart

from Sparks, and itclangedwhenthewirewasviolated.The scent of the

murderer excited Bobbeyond his ability tocontrol himself. He wouldhave sprung out of thegazeboanddashedintotheyardifMakanihadn’tbeenholdinghisleashwithbothhands.Pogo flicked the switch.

After a hesitation whilerelays worked and valvesopened, the lawnsprinklers showered thegrasswithanabundanceofwater, thanks to thehigher-flow heads that heand Makani had installedearlier.

Furious thathehad fallen,

that he had beenembarrassedbythelikesofthose two losers in thegazebo, Rainer gaspedwhen a veritable stormerupted from the pop-uplawnsprinklers.What did these morons

thinktheyweredoing?Did they imagine they

could humiliate him todeath?

He struggled to kicklooseofthewire.His efforts made the

cowbellclanglouder.He would feed the

pretty-boy his severedmanhoodbeforehefedthebitchherface.Wagnerwasbooming in

hismind’sear.

The length of half-inchinsulatedcablelyingonthefloor by Pogo’s chair waswired at one end into thejunction box that servedthe gazebo. When hepickeditupafteractivatingthelawnsprinklers,hewascareful to keep his handwell back from the barecopper wires at the endfrom which he hadstrippedtheinsulation.

As Bob strained at hisleashandMakaniheldhimsafe, Pogo stood up andthrew the cable betweentwo of the balusters, ontothesoddengrass.He expected Sparks to

scream. The murdererwouldn’t be able tomaintain the spell that hecast over them, surely notin his death throes.According to Makani,

whenshehad thrownbeerin his face, in therestaurant, he had for amoment lost control, andothers had suddenlybecomeawareofhiminhisembarrassment.Thescreamdidn’tcome.

Stilldidn’tcome.Pogotoldhimselftostay

cool, stay cool, but a finesweat broke out on hisbrow.

Rainerthoughthewasfreeof the wire, but when heclambered halfway to hisfeet, hediscovered that hewasstillentangled,andhefell again, face-first, intosomething disgusting, ofwhich he got a chokingmouthful. He didn’t haveto wonder what it was, heknewinstantlywhatitwas,

and he was furious—outraged—that they hadbeen so busy setting theirtrap, they hadn’tremembered to pick upafterthedog.Had he been standing,

the rubber soles of hisshoeswouldhaveinsulatedhim and, in spite of theelectricity arcing throughthe heavy spray, mighthavesavedhim.

Prostrateonthelawn,heneverheard theendof theheroic passage fromWagner that boomedthrough his mind, thoughan instant before eternaldarkness blacked out thelast light in his brain, herealized that he waslistening to the fourth ofthe composer’s famoustetralogy, which wasGötterdämmerung,

otherwise known as TheTwilightoftheGods.

After counting to twenty,when he still hadn’t hearda scream,Pogo counted totwenty again before hereachedtothejunctionboxandthrewthelittlebreakerinit.Hedetachedthecablefrom the box, reeled it in

fromtheyard,andcoileditonthefloorofthegazebo.During Pogo’s recovery

of thecable,Makani letgoofBob’sleashandusedthejerry-rigged switch to turnoff the Niagara hissingfromthelawnsprinklers.The grass squished

under their shoes andwatersplashedtheiranklesas they went in search ofthe murderer. With the

moon still low in the east,they could not see RainerSparks until they werealmostontopofhim.Hewasvisibleindeath.“That was radical,”

Makanisaid.Pogo agreed. “Totally

live.”“Should we check for a

pulse?”“Thisisn’tamovie.”

“So themonster doesn’tkeepcomingback.”“Exactly.”AsfarasPogocouldtell,

no neighbors were atsecond-floor windows orlounging on upper decks.The privacy wallsprevented anyone on theground floors of theflanking houses fromhaving a view of recentevents. The darkness

wouldshroudwhatneededtobedonenext, and therehad been no gunshots todraw attention, only acowbell, which was one ofthe decorative objects thatOllie Watkins haddistributed through his“cottage” to make it feelauthentic.Bobrolledaroundinthe

puddled grass, kicking hisfeet in the air, as if

celebrating Rainer’s end,although of course he wasjustbeingadog.Theydraggedthecorpse

across the backyard,alongside the house,through the sidedoor thatRainer had left open, andintothegarage,wheretheysaw why the murdererhadn’tscreamed.“Cosmic justice,” Pogo

said, and Bob looked on

withpride.While Pogo moved his

primer-graythirty-year-oldHonda from the garageandparkedit inthestreet,Makanisearchedthemanypockets in the khaki coatuntilshefoundthekeystothe Mercedes GL550.Because he had parked itthree blocks away, sheneededtenminutestofindit and pull it into the

garage stall that Pogo hadvacated.Getting more than two

hundred pounds of deadweight off the garage floorandthroughthetailgateofthe Mercedes was achallenge.“That was gnarly,”

Makanisaid.“It gnarled,” Pogo

agreed.

Bobdidn’tlikebeingleftbehind in the laundryroom.“You’re wet, Bobby,”

Makani explained, “andyou’ve done your partalready. You’ve been agood, good, good boy,Mommy’s best boy ever,littleBobbybaby.”As theLabradorwiggled

his butt, delighting in thepraise, Pogo assured him

that they would be backsoon.“You drive, O’Brien,”

Pogo said. “You lookmorereputable. No cop wouldever pull you over—excepttoaskforadate.”Astheydroveawayfrom

the house, he enteredRainer Sparks’s streetaddress into the vehicle’snavigator. Earlier in theday, they had gone online

and, in public records,discovered that he was apropertyowner.Killing for money,

Sparks had done well forhimself. The house waslarge, in a goodneighborhood.They assumed that he

lived alone, that he didn’thave a wife and kids,especiallysincethebrideofFrankenstein had been

deadformanyyears.Theirassumptionprovedtrue.In Sparks’s garage, they

had to do the gnarly thingagain, get him out of theSUVwithoutdroppinghimandleavingthecorpsewithan inexplicable injury. Hewasstillabigdude,buthedidn’t look so formidableanymore.Pogosaid,“It’salmostas

ifhe’s…fourteenagain.”

Getting Sparks upstairs,stripping him naked,drawingahotbathforhim,and sliding him into thebathtub would besomething they wouldremember for the rest oftheirlives.“It was a bonding

experience,”Makanisaid.“Something to tell our

grandkids.”

“Ifweevergetmarried.”“Ifweeverdo.”“If we ever even go to

bedtogether.”“Ifweeverdo.”She said, “Don’t you

come on to me until I’mready.”“Iwasjustsayin’.”From Oliver Watkins’s

cottage, they’d brought aBakelite radio, a yellow-

and-redFada,fromtheArtDeco period, which Olliehad restored as aconversation piece. Afterwiping his prints off theFada with a towel, Pogoplugged it in, switched iton,setitontheedgeofthetub,andpusheditintothewater.Theyplacedthecontents

of Sparks’s many coatpockets on the dresser in

hisbedroom,butleftallhisclothes in his laundryroom,where the garmentswould probably dry outbefore anyone found hiscorpse.On the way out of the

house, they wiped downeverything they couldremembertouching.“This worries me,”

Makanisaid.

“What—you think wemissedsomething?”“No.Whatworriesmeis

we’resogoodatthis.”“It was self-defense.

That’snocrime.”“Itfeelslikeacrime.”“Nah. It’s more like a

Batmanthing.”They walked seven

blocks to a tavern, wherethey drank one beer each.

Then Pogo called Uber,and they were driven toLagunabyPedroAlvarez,amost pleasant young manwhomighthavebeenatadnaïve, as he seemed tobelieve their pretendinebriationwasreal.Bob the Labrador was

ecstatictoseethem.“I’m quashed,” Makani

“I’m totally thrashed,”Pogoagreed.They slept in separate

guest rooms. He dreamedof her. The next morning,hewantedtoaskifshehaddreamed of him, but heheldhistongue.He cut up two

frankfurters and addedthem to Bob’s morningkibble. They dressed for awalk in the Village, and

they took the Frisbee forthedogpark.Sparks’s body wasn’t

foundforthreedays.On his computer, police

discovered a largecollection of photos ofmurdered men, women,andchildren,withSparks’sdetailedaccountofhowhehad felt as he’d taken thelifefromeachofthem.

The authorities weren’tdisposed to spend publicfunds to investigatewhether the accident withthe antique radio was infact an accident. Thecoroner allowed thepossibilityofsuicide.For Makani and Pogo

andBob,orderreturnedtotheir world, at least for awhile. As bizarre andfrightening as it hadbeen,

theaffairseemedtobethestart of a beautifulfriendship, if notsomethingevenbetter.

Author’sNoteAlthough my forthcomingnovel, Ashley Bell, is setlargely in Newport Beach,California,MakaniHisoka-O’Brien and Bob the dogandRainer Sparks arenotcharacters in that story.Pogo does have asignificant supporting role

inAshleyBell,however,asdoes his primer-graythirty-year-old Honda.MakaniandPogoandBobwill return in anothernovella, Final Hour,available as an e-single onOctober 27, 2015. As forAshleyBell, I have seldomhad such enormouspleasure writing a book,rank it inmy top five,andhope you’ll let me know

whatyouthinkofitafteritis published on December8, 2015. In the meantime,staymellowanddon’tbeagoob.

BYDEANKOONTZ

TheCity•Innocence•77ShadowStreet•WhattheNightKnows•Breathless•Relentless•YourHeartBelongstoMe•The

DarkestEveningoftheYear•TheGoodGuy•TheHusband•Velocity•LifeExpectancy•TheTaking•

TheFace•BytheLightoftheMoon•OneDoorAwayFromHeaven•FromtheCornerofHisEye•FalseMemory•SeizetheNight•FearNothing•Mr.Murder•

DragonTears•Hideaway•ColdFire•TheBadPlace•Midnight•Lightning•Watchers•Strangers•TwilightEyes•Darkfall•Phantoms•Whispers•

TheMask•TheVision•TheFaceofFear•NightChills•Shattered•TheVoiceoftheNight•TheServantsofTwilight•TheHouseofThunder•TheKeytoMidnight•TheEyesofDarkness•

Shadowfires•WinterMoon•TheDoorto

December•DarkRiversoftheHeart•Icebound•StrangeHighways•

Intensity•SoleSurvivor•Ticktock•TheFunhouse•

DemonSeed

ODDTHOMASOddThomas•ForeverOdd•BrotherOdd•OddHours•OddInterlude•OddApocalypse•Deeply

Odd•SaintOdd

FRANKENSTEINProdigalSon•Cityof

Night•DeadandAlive•LostSouls•TheDead

ABigLittleLife:AMemoirofaJoyfulDogNamed

Trixie

AbouttheAuthor

DEAN KOONTZ, the authorof many #1 New YorkTimes bestsellers, lives inSouthern California withhis wife, Gerda, theirgoldenretriever,Anna,andtheenduringspiritoftheir

golden,Trixie.

deankoontz.comFacebook.com/DeanKoontzOfficial

@deankoontz

Correspondence for theauthor should beaddressedto:DeanKoontzP.O.Box9529Newport Beach,

California92658

last light - droppdf1.droppdf.com/files/waz3f/last-light-dean-koontz.pdf · 2015. 10. 2. ·...

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