Free China Lake by Meg Gardiner Page A

heading for the flower beds, carrying a handful of LEGO astronauts and a croquet mallet.
    I phoned my brother again, this time reaching him at the base airfield. He answered the phone smartly. ‘‘Delaney.’’
    ‘‘Hi, bro.’’
    ‘‘Ev! Is my little man ready to move to China Lake?’’
    He started describing his new house, Luke’s room, the school, and telling me how the town had grown. We had lived in China Lake as teenagers, when our father was stationed at the naval base doing weapons research.
    ‘‘It’s cosmopolitan,’’ he said. ‘‘It has traffic lights. Bet you can’t wait to get back.’’
    ‘‘Don’t need to; I relive high school every time I open the oven.’’
    I would rather have pounded tacks into my tongue than tell him. But some things I do straight: drink, sex, bad news.
    ‘‘Brian—Tabitha’s in Santa Barbara. I’ve seen her, and she as much as said she wants Luke.’’
    Flat quiet on the line. ‘‘Not gonna happen. Next.’’ Another pause. ‘‘What else? You’re tweaked—I can hear it. Something’s squirrelly.’’
    ‘‘She’s got religion, and I mean in the worst way.’’
    Five seconds of silence. ‘‘Fuck me.’’
    I could hear men’s voices in the background, and the scratch of aircraft engines. ‘‘I’ll have to talk about this later. I have a briefing,’’ he said. ‘‘Listen. She doesn’t see him, she doesn’t speak to him, she doesn’t touch him. Understand?’’
    ‘‘Absolutely.’’
    ‘‘And, Evan . . .’’
    ‘‘Yeah?’’
    Loud talk behind him, as a jet took off. ‘‘How does she look?’’
    What could I expect? He had loved her a long time. I said, ‘‘She looks reborn.’’

4
    The book festival kicked off that Wednesday, under harlequin-bright banners fluttering on lampposts along State Street. The city cooed about it with restrained zest. Enthusiasm would have seemed crass to Santa Barbarans, who cultivate casualness as exactingly as the Japanese cultivate bonsai trees. Still, I expected the festival to be an antidote to my anxieties, a glass of emotional champagne. I was scheduled to read and sign copies of my novel at Beowulf’s Books, and let me tell you, applause makes me feel like a goddess. A mini Festival of Evan—bring it on.
    Beowulf’s lacked chain-store slickness. The staff favored berets and clogs, and the front counter was plastered with flyers promoting candlelight marches to save various outcast groups. ‘‘Liberate California’s Ferrets,’’ notably. The front window contained a crop of science-fiction titles, with a sign saying, MEET AUTHORS HERE.
    Inside the door, a table displayed copies of my book, Lithium Sunset . I stood admiring it. The cover showed the heroine’s strong face, a shattered landscape, and my name. I breathed in and felt famous.
    At the back of the store I saw Beowulf’s coffee bar, scene of the showdown between the ferrets and Priscilla Gaul. Observing me, an elderly woman approached. It was Anita Krebs, the owner.
    ‘‘The security firm wanted to install TV cameras to catch the thief. Orwellians. Completely unnecessary— Pip and Oliver caught that sneak red-handed. So to speak,’’ she said. ‘‘How are you, dear girl?’’
    Anita had a reputation as a peppery iconoclast. A leathery woman with a skullcap of white hair, she wore pendulous turquoise jewelry and an extravagance of fuchsia lipstick. She took my arm and led me toward some chairs set up for the reading.
    ‘‘I delved into your novel again last night. It really is marvelous. Your concept so intrigues me, that tyranny forces its opponents toward both tactical ingenuity and aesthetic rigidity.’’
    That sounded ostentatious, but I was pleased that she had looked beyond the plot, about the girl warrior who fights bug-eyed mutants.
    ‘‘And the male character’s eroticism—well! I quite fancied him.’’ She gestured to the chairs. ‘‘Good luck. Sell a lot of books.’’
    I was pumped, ready