Peter Hernon - 8.4

Ever since she’d heard about the quake, she’d been wondering if he’d made an incredibly lucky guess. Or, more troubling, was there something potentially valid in his data that needed to be examined?

Prable had predicted a major quake a few days either side of January 20. He’d missed it by about a week.

Holleran was inclined to think her old mentor had made a remarkably good guess partly based on a few scientifically solid details, including the rate of ground deformation. That’s what she wanted to talk over with Jacobs. If he’d even see her. She wasn’t so sure he’d have time to talk about Prable and his admittedly bizarre theories. She still remained highly skeptical, but at the very least, the quake had made her less inclined to write his work off quite as easily as before. She was willing to let someone else examine his data. She owed him that much.

She quickly regretted not taking the advice of the woman at the airport. She hadn’t gone six blocks before she hit her first detour. The facade of an old building had collapsed, spilling a deep pile of bricks into the street. Following a single lane of traffic around the obstructions, Holleran had to make a right turn and immediately ran into another detour. Most of the streetlights were out.

Holleran hunched over the steering wheel, straining to see the street signs. She had no idea where she was or in what direction she was going. Fewer cars were on the road. She suddenly realized she was in an inner-city neighborhood, block after block of single-story, low-rise apartment buildings, many with boarded windows. Dozens of people were walking in the street or milling on corners, mostly young men. A few had flashlights or ghetto blasters with the volume cranked up.

The car in front of her lurched to a stop and tried to turn around. Men swarmed around it, rocking the front end up and down.

Stunned, Holleran cut the wheel in a tight circle and floored the gas pedal. Something slammed against the roof. A hard metallic sound. They were throwing rocks at the car.

She turned up another dark, narrow side street. She still had no idea where she was and switched on the high beams. More public housing apartments loomed ahead. More people were out. It was a party atmosphere—blaring rap music, laughter, shouts. She saw someone carrying a torch.

Off to the left, the sky glowed a dull orange. A big fire. She started heading in that direction. There were bound to be firemen and police there. She was angry with herself for being so foolish. She should have listened to the woman at the car rental agency and not tried this at night.

She made sure the doors were locked. She had to slow down again when a car cut in front of her. A slender youth smiled at her from the sidewalk. He wore baggy pants and a baseball cap with the brim bent up. She passed two more men, wearing hooded sweatshirts. One of them gave her the finger.

Don’t panic, she told herself. Whatever happens, don’t get out of the car.

Something heavy banged against the front bumper of the Taurus and careened off to the side. They’d hurled a trash can at her. Holleran smashed through some more cans and kept going.

They were trying to close the street, lining up side by side and forming a human wall. She punched the accelerator and headed straight for them. A few had to dive out of the way. She heard their obscene shouts.

Gripping the wheel, she sped through an intersection. Missing a turn, she backed up and went down another street. She was trying to get closer to the fire. The flaming sky was brighter, but she was lost in a maze of side streets and cul-de-sacs.

She saw headlights up ahead. Two cars with their doors open were sideways in the street. Six or seven men and women were standing there, arguing. Holleran slowed down.

More rocks hit the car. A man put his grinning face up to the window and shouted, “Stop, bitch!”

Holleran banged up on the sidewalk. As she went around the stalled cars, more rocks rained down on the roof and hood. When she tried to turn back onto the street, the rear tires got hung up. They’d dropped into an open drain. The tires spun, burning rubber. She threw the gears into reverse and began rocking the car back and forth, trying to free the tires.

The man who’d screamed for her to stop had a brick in his hand. He tried to smash the driver’s window, hitting the glass again and again. It shattered but didn’t break. Holleran buried the gas pedal. The tires spun free, the car swerving as it roared back into the street.

There was more traffic up ahead. The street widened to four lanes. The vapor lights were working. A major intersection. Police cars were clustered on the parking lot of a convenience store. She pulled up next to them and turned off the engine. She sat there breathing deeply. Her hands were shaking.

She smelled smoke from the fire. She was very close to it.

A cop came around to her window.

“You all right?” he asked, stepping back to stare at the car. “Where did that happen?”

“Back there,” Holleran said as she got out and explained.

Looking surprised, the cop said, “That’s Melrose Gardens. You were lucky you got out of there in one piece tonight. Everybody’s out on the streets since the quake. We’re getting a lot of calls.”

“I didn’t see any police,” Holleran said.

“You got that right,” the cop said. “No way are we gonna go in there without lights and a lot of backup.”

Holleran looked at him more closely. He was young, maybe early twenties. He looked scared, and she realized what was frightening him. They’d come close to the collapse of law and order, the prospect of mobs roaming the streets.

“What’s on fire?” she asked, putting those troubling thoughts out of her mind. The wind had changed. The smell of smoke was very strong.

“An old meat-packing plant,” he said. “A couple blocks that way.” He pointed with a long-handled flashlight. “Gas line broke or something. It’s been running at five alarms all afternoon. They’re letting it burn itself out.”

Holleran looked at the convenience store. The plate-glass windows were shattered. She saw two cops with radios walking around to the back and headed that way without thinking much about it. She needed to walk, get control of her nerves.

She could imagine sitting in front of the fire with her dad and older sister back in Chicago. Her mom in the kitchen, getting dinner ready. “Let me tell you about Memphis. You won’t believe what it was like to drive there.” She’d describe her arrival in the city. Her father would shake his head and sip his Manhattan. He’d tell her she needed to get a handgun and learn how to use it. It had become gospel with him. He’d even offered to buy guns for Elizabeth and her sister, Mary. And pay for the shooting lessons. Before the day ended, he’d wind up raking over the Democrats and President Nathan Ross, all liberals, and the news media until her mom told him to calm down. Her father was Irish and weepy emotional. He’d cried openly the day she’d scored her first soccer goal. She was in first grade, and it was the last game of the season. Mary was a lawyer, who’d sailed through Duke law and was working for a small but good firm in L.A.

Elizabeth pictured telling them what had just happened and almost smiled at the prospect. It was so unreal.

“I wouldn’t go back there, miss,” the cop said, hurrying after her. “Couple kids were looting the place after the earthquake. When a cruiser pulled up, they bolted. One of ‘em didn’t make it out.”

Elizabeth went just far enough to look around the side of the building. Five or six cops were back there with flashlights pointed at a window. A heavyset teenager in a white wind-breaker was lying spread-eagled across the broken sash. He wasn’t moving.