The Influence(105)

“You have your own—”

He pulled back, looked into her eyes. “I’ll be here.”

She started crying again. “Thank you.”

His left arm still around her, he stretched out his right to shake hands with Dave. “Take care of her.”

“You know I will.”

“I won’t get there till late, but I’ll call tomorrow morning,” he told them.

“You be careful, Rossie,” Lita said.

“We’ll all be careful.”





THIRTY THREE




Two weeks had passed, though it seemed more like two days. Or maybe a month. Time was relative, and while it seemed impossible for so much to have happened in such a short period, the days themselves had flown by.

Jill’s own life had been mercifully free of complications since leaving Magdalena, but the drama in Ross’ life had shifted into overdrive. An attempt to visit his father in the hospital had somehow erupted into an all-out family feud, and his mother had not even allowed him to stay overnight at their house, forcing him into a motel. He had gone to the funeral of Lita’s mom, but no one else from his immediate family had, and their absence reflected on him and made him persona non grata with the other extended relations who showed up. Lita’s dad was still missing, and though the police were in on it now, no one had any idea what had happened to him.

Thank God for the new job. Ross had started work in his new position three days ago, and he seemed to like it. He wasn’t happy, exactly, not with everything else that was swirling around him, but he was in his element, and she knew that it had been the right move for him. She’d never stopped working, and between bouts of unpacking, she clocked in and made her calls. Quick research had shown her that San Diego had a thriving arts community, and while she’d left most of her paints and supplies back in Magdalena, she’d brought enough with her in the van to start working on some projects should the mood strike.

So far, it hadn’t.

Ross arrived home from work shortly before six, and, Ozzie and Harriet-style, she greeted him with a kiss as soon as he walked through the doorway. She’d just finished two solid hours of grueling soul-sucking hard sell and was desperate to get out of the house. Here at the end of the continent, it stayed light later—until the sun sank completely below the edge of the horizon—and that was one of the things she definitely intended to take advantage of. “Nice weather for a walk,” she hinted.

Laughing, he put down his briefcase. “Let me change my shoes.”

They strolled along the sidewalk at the edge of the beach, venturing onto the sand when the sidewalk ended. There were other walkers out, several joggers, and even some surfers in the water, though it wasn’t that warm. Jill missed the desert, but she had to admit that this was nice.

They watched the sunset, hand-in-hand, and it was so beautiful that she wished she’d brought a camera.

She hadn’t planned anything for dinner, so on the way back they stopped at a stand whose driftwood-inspired sign read, “Surfside Tacos.” She ordered three shrimp tacos, Ross three mahi-mahi, and they sat at a plastic table outside the small shack, sharing their food and drinking Coronas.

It should have been a perfect evening, but in back of everything was Magdalena, and when they walked home in the dark and a streetlight illuminated a statue of an angel in front of a nursery, she felt Ross’ grip on her hand tighten. Neither of them mentioned it, but they were silent the rest of the way to the house.

It was only when they were in bed and about to go to sleep that Ross said, “What do you think’s happening back there?”

“Maybe it’s over,” Jill said hopefully, but she didn’t believe it and neither did he, and no more was said as, individually, they drifted off.

She awoke in the middle of the night from a dream about Magdalena.

She had returned with her van to pick up the rest of her belongings, but all of the houses on her cul-de-sac had been burned to the ground. Most of the town was in ruins, and the only building that appeared to be untouched was the church. It was no longer a church, however, at least not any kind that she recognized, and although it had been broad daylight only seconds before, now it was night, and she saw eerie green light spilling out from the windows of the building, heard the sounds of raucous celebration from within. Walking over, she opened the front doors and peered inside. Townspeople, some she recognized and others she didn’t, were cavorting about the chapel in a bacchanalian frenzy, all of them naked, most of them covered in blood. On the altar was a giant black egg as big as a Volkswagen.

No.

The egg was not black. The thing inside it was black. The egg itself was clear, and as she tried to make out details of the folded creature encased within the transparent shell, a single red eye blinked open—and stared at her with hatred and complete understanding.