Free China Lake by Meg Gardiner Page B

to go, and after she introduced me I read the scene where heroine meets hero. They’re in a seedy tavern; she’s a disillusioned guerrilla, he’s a member of the resistance. She rebuffs him. He suffers brutal injury saving her life. The scene had heat, in the form of sexual tension and homicide, and I gave it all I had.
    The audience liked it. Bookworms, fans of the genre, and my neighbors, they clustered afterward at a table where I sat to sign their copies. I acted charming and witty, and as other purchasers came along I floated through the afternoon in an expanding bubble of self-regard. When Nikki walked in, I thought it was the exclamation point on the day. She had on chartreuse maternity overalls, bright camouflage for her grief, yet she raised a camera and started snapping flash photos, saying, ‘‘Lord, oh, Lord, it’s really you. Evan Delaney. I want to have your baby. After this one, I mean—this one belongs to Stephen King.’’
    I felt cool .
    It was just after she left, however, that the line formed. A young woman wearing fatigue shorts, a tank top, and a daisy in her hair—Lara Croft meets Joan Baez—came forward clutching Lithium Sunset to her breast.
    She said, ‘‘I don’t know how you did it. It’s like Rowan’’—the heroine—‘‘is me. It’s like you know my heart and my entire life.’’
    This far exceeded the praise I’d been getting. I hoped she meant the heroine’s can-do spirit, not her psychokinetic powers or her training in explosives. ‘‘Thanks.’’
    She said, ‘‘I mean, I’m freaking. I totally, totally love this book. You’re writing a sequel, right? Because Rowan rescues her lover, I know it. She has to.’’
    The woman behind her, wearing shorts and a rude sunburn, said, ‘‘I want to know what planet the story takes place on.’’
    ‘‘Kansas,’’ I said.
    Daisy-hair turned to the woman. ‘‘What planet ? Do you even know what the novel is about?’’
    ‘‘The back cover says, right here,’’ Sunburn said. ‘‘ ‘For Rowan Larkin, surrender couldn’t end the war.’ ’’
    ‘‘No, it’s about the ways society punishes people who don’t conform. Why do you think Rowan gets banished for refusing to become a collaborator?’’
    A man in a Dodgers cap said, ‘‘Hey. Some of us haven’t read the book yet.’’
    ‘‘Come on, let me sign that for you.’’ I agreed with her comments but wanted her to quiet down. ‘‘What’s your name?’’
    ‘‘It’s Glory.’’ To the sunburned woman she said, ‘‘I mean, why else do you think Rowan kills the rebel commander?’’
    The man threw up his hands and walked away. ‘‘That’s it. I want a refund.’’
    I said, ‘‘No!’’ He kept walking.
    A new voice said, ‘‘It’s about staying true to your cause in the face of temptation. Right?’’
    Her cowboy hat was baby blue. Her small gray eyes were expressionless. Her analysis was off-kilter, and I knew, staring at the clay-colored braid hanging down her back, that she wasn’t going to shut up about it. It was Chenille Wyoming.
    To the crowd in general I said, ‘‘I’m glad you all liked the novel. But if you give away the ending I won’t sign your books.’’
    ‘‘I ain’t giving nothing away. I’m letting everyone know you all got it wrong.’’
    I had signed Glory’s copy, and Chenille put her hand on the book to keep me from handing it to the girl. She told her, ‘‘Truck’s out back. Go on.’’ Without a word, Glory walked away. Others followed, Remnant members who had quietly positioned themselves around the bookstore. Chenille remained in front of me. Above the hanging moon of her double chin, her expression was placid. Her eyes were the lusterless gray of slate, small and stony.
    My anger rose more quickly than my guard, and I took the bait. ‘‘Wrong. How’s that?’’
    ‘‘Well.’’ She whipped open a little spiral-bound notebook. ‘‘Let’s start with that book on the best-seller table,