T. Parker - Summer Of Fear

"Still no numbered line," he said. "All we can get is area code, and it's here, it's our area code. I can't figure this out.

"He's using a scrambler," I said.

"We can override that with enough time. We had enough time. But we've still got no active number."

"He's not calling from damned nowhere, John."

"No. No, he's not. Shit, I just can't-"

"Patch me through to Dan."

Winters came on the line, told me that Parish and Wald were on conference with us.

"Ing says if we print the ID, he's going to be an extra-bad boy."

"We shouldn't let that happen," said Wald. "It's the wrong way to play this."

"You guys are out of your goddamned minds," said Parish.

Ten heated minutes later, we had our answer. Wald and I prevailed over Parish. Winters finally decided to pull the article identifying Ing, perhaps using it as leverage the next time Midnight Eye called.

"We gotta stop coddling this asshole," said Martin. "'We know what he looks like. We got a name. Christ in heaven, Dan. what else can we do?"

"We've got to stop him, period," said Wald. "You don’t do that by infuriating him. Not now, at least. There might be a time for that."

"Yeah? How many more people have to die?"

The choppers were still in the air an hour later when we left to go get Izzy. Laguna Canyon Road was blocked off again northbound. I could see the badges leaning keen-eyed toward the idling cars and T-shirted volunteers of the Citizens' Task Force with handfuls of fliers to give out-no pretense to a Sobriety Checkpoint tonight, just a flat-out blanket search for William Fredrick Ing.

There were news vans parked along the shoulder of the road, too, reporters getting man-on-the-street segments from canyon residents, police interviews, even a word with our mayor, whom I spotted squinting into the lights with an expression of shock and indignation on her face. Traffic was stopped all the way into town. Horns blared and radiators hissed and condensers dribbled and tape decks boomed and human limbs dangled from open windows and the heat gave no hint of abating as the sunset ended in a western sky so clear as to appear polished.

T Jefferson Parker

SUMMER of FEAR

Grace said she felt sorry for Billy Ing. I said to spend her mercies where the exchange rate was a little better. And that was all we said, the rest of the way down to San Juan Capistrano.

Half an hour later, we were led into the Sandoval living room by Joe, who stood aside, revealing Isabella sitting in her wheelchair, looking up at me, smiling. Her overnight bag sat packed and ready beside the chair. Her cane stood next to that. She was wearing a new outfit, involving an oversized T-shirt studded with mock gemstones and glitter. Her wig had been brushed and styled, her face made up, and her lips reddened with a bold lipstick. She blushed deeply when she saw me, an said, "Hi, baby."

"You," I said, and knelt down and wrapped my arm around her.

"I'm coming h-h-home tonight!"

"You've been away too long."

Behind me, I could hear Grace and Corrine introducing themselves to each other. It felt strange that my daughter had never met my in-laws.

"What a beautiful blouse," Grace said.

There was an awkward silence, finally broken by Joe "Tea, beer?"

"No," said Isabella. "No. We're… we're… we're gone!

"She started getting ready three hours ago," said Corrine "She was happy as a kid going to Disneyland."

Izzy shook her head and wheeled forward toward the door. "H-h-happier than Mom, that."

"She has a surprise for you tonight," said Joe, a little worriedly, I thought.

"Oh no," I said, a running joke from the days when Izz would heap home-improvement projects on me almost as fast as I could dodge them. Surprises, she called them.

"Oh yes," said Isabella. "But h-h-home first." She hugged Corrine and Joe long and dearly as a person saying good-bye forever. And with a chilling clarity, I saw in her face the fear that this was exactly what was happening. I looked away.

Home. She wheeled around the first floor, touching familiar objects, exclaiming in surprise, delight, satisfaction, wonder. She seemed bedazzled as one might have been at the Creation. She opened the refrigerator and itemized the contents.

"Who m-m-made the stew?"

"I did," said Grace. "Would you like some?"

"Maybe l-l-Iater."

Izzy rode the lift up to the bedroom. The contraption did its usual screech-and-groan, a rather startling sound that I suddenly realized I'd been missing these last few days. She continued her tour. She stared for a while at our wedding picture; ran her hands over the polished wood of her piano; touched the hanging crystal hummingbird so it swung slowly. I could hear Grace downstairs, talking quietly on the phone.

"So h-h-hot," said Izzy.

"Over a hundred today. Welcome home, love."

"I love this h-h-house. I'll never run away from home anymore."

She reached back into the pack she kept tied between the handles of her wheelchair and came out with a small wad of shiny black material, which she held out to me. I took it and let it unfurl. It was a swimsuit.

"My surprise is y-y-you are taking me swimming. Then, t-t-t-tomorrow, the alteration."

Her face held a world of hope, another of fear, both of which were echoed by the hard, deep beating in my chest.

She smiled, steadying her eyes at mine. "I think it will be a good th-thing. B-b-but Russ, there's the ch-chance I could wake up being a s-s-spit-dribbling v-v-vegetarian. Even Dr. N n-nesson said so, but in different worlds… words. So I want to go sw-sw — swimming."

"Swimming? Where?"

"Ocean, silly."

"Gosh, baby-kind of rough out there."

"I c-c-called surf report. No s-s-swell, seventy-three in the water. I'm s-s-swimming."

She looked at me then without speaking, but volumes of emotion came through to me from her face. I understood the Izzy was more terrified of the operation than she would let or that if she awakened even more damaged tomorrow-or not at all-she would have had this final trip to her beloved ocean

"Can Grace come?" I asked.

She smiled. "Suretainly"

"Here, let's put on your suit."

"No. I w-w-want Grace to."

Grace was standing at the top of the stairs. "Never let man dress you if you can help it," she said. "Your husband would probably put your new suit on inside out."

We all laughed. I had, in fact, managed to do that once

The water broke coolly around my legs as I carried Isabella through the shore break at Main Beach. But the night was still hot and by the time I leaned forward to set her in, the water felt warm and welcoming. Izzy groaned as I placed her down in the waist-deep sea, the same groan-I recalled-that was often evoked by our lovemaking. She jerked abruptly when her head neared the water, grabbing my arm hard. Her legs, almost powerless, sank, then rose to the surface. Grace steadied her from the other side. For a moment, all three of us waited to see what Izzy's body would do. With my left hand under her head and my right hand under her butt, I eased her toward deeper water. I felt her grip release on my arm. She drew one hand through the water, up past her head. Then the other. Then, with a gently affirmative "ahhh," she brought them down together to her sides and I felt her glide ahead, self-powered. "Ohhh, yes!"

We floated out past the waves, which were small and occasional, nothing more than brief levitating humps that lolled through us without adamance, rose minimally, wavered, then crumbled as if with old age into faint suds that spread and flattened on the shore. With my right hand under the small of Isabella's back and my left pulling us forward, I could kick in a wide, strong scissor that gave us a delayed and subtle surge. Grace floated on the other side, her head close enough to Izzy's that her spreading black hair seemed to be shared by both of them. We progressed, under stars, westward. Then Grace rolled away and slipped under the water with an astonishing beauty, no visible means of locomotion, not even her scarred feet, which simply followed her down unmoving, then vanished. She surfaced ahead of us, pale, subaqueous arms in motion, hair shining in the moonlight. I guided Izzy forward and let go of her with a slow push. I felt her arms quicken, deepening their pull. I sidestroked alongside her, close as I could get without interfering, synchronizing my stroke with hers, watching her upturned profile, her face of concentration, her eyes wide and starward, the parted lips through which she breathed, her white smooth head moving through the water like that of a creature designed for water, her arms sure and unhurried and capable, the dead lower half of her only a faint suggestion within the dark ocean through which it trailed like some devolving superfluity that would diminish and disappear in a short few million years.