China Lake Read Free

you’ll end up as my chew toy. The reporter pushed his sunglasses up his nose and twitched his mustache, not sure whether this interruption would make good airplay.
    ‘‘ ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy,’ ’’ I said. ‘‘I just wanted you to remember that, Mr. Wyoming.’’
    He surveyed me with a stare that started at my feet, rode up my legs, and seemed to slide under my skirt and blouse. He appeared unimpressed by what folks called my tomboy figure—the sprinter’s legs, spartan chest, short, mussy hair the color of toffee. Still, by the time his eyes reached my face I felt flushed.
    The reporter said, ‘‘You seem upset about Pastor Wyoming’s presence, Miss . . .’’
    ‘‘Delaney. Evan Delaney.’’
    The cameraman swiveled to spot me in the lens of his minicam, but Wyoming jumped in. ‘‘Miss Delaney thinks I’m cruel, but Claudine Girard sent people to hell. Giving her a Christian funeral like a clean, decent woman is obscene.’’
    The reporter turned to me. ‘‘How do you feel about that?’’
    I gestured at Wyoming and his people. ‘‘I think we’re looking at the dictionary definition of ‘obscene,’ right here.’’
    ‘‘Will you listen to that?’’ Wyoming said. ‘‘She up and claims she’s an expert on obscenity. Like that’s something to be proud of.’’
    They each had a script: Snappy Fundamentalist Sound Bites and Lights, Camera, Emotion! I was irrelevant. Wearily I held up the flyer and said, ‘‘Tell your cartoonist that ‘millennium’ is spelled with two Ns.’’
    Sometimes I am too clever for my own good. The hip-shot quip can ricochet. As I walked away, Wyoming said, ‘‘Delaney, you said your name was? Tell the cartoonist yourself. You’re related to her.’’
    I couldn’t help it—I stopped dead and stared at the flyer. The grim and flashy cartoons suddenly looked familiar. It was the style, a cross between Spider-Man and Xena, Warrior Princess . I flipped to the back page, the final drawing, where she would sign it.
    Damn. In tiny letters, Tabitha Delaney . My brother’s wife.
    Blessed are the meek, for they keep their mouths shut in front of TV crews.
    At the graveside service Nikki stood as still as an icon, holding us, motionless and moved, straight through ‘‘Amen.’’ But inside I was guttering with anger. Tabitha Delaney. The name flared before me like a lighted match. I left the cemetery hastily, with few words to the other mourners.
    I headed to the Santa Barbara County Courthouse. Not because I needed a lawyer—I was a lawyer myself, though I had quit practicing to become a legal researcher and journalist, a pen for hire. I had also published a couple of novels, even had my new one, Lithium Sunset , in local bookstores. Tabitha’s actions, however, had led me to put my fiction writing into suspended animation. I headed to the courthouse because I needed to talk, and not to Nikki.
    I walked along the tiled hallway, scanning the judges’ names painted in calligraphy script on the wall outside each courtroom. The building abounds with such calculated quaintness. I half expected to see horses tied to a hitching post on the lush lawn, and Spanish dons strolling the grounds in silver-spurred boots.
    When I slipped into Judge Rodriguez’s courtroom, trial was in session. A young woman sat on the witness stand, glaring at the attorney who was cross-examining her. The court reporter’s typewriter clicked softly. At the defense table, Jesse Blackburn asked the next question.
    ‘‘You entered the premises that night without permission, didn’t you?’’
    ‘‘Nobody told me I couldn’t.’’ Beneath the high ceiling the witness appeared puny, her clothes and face beige and grim. Almost as grim as the Remnant protesters.
    I slouched in my seat, hearing the flyer rustle in my pocket. It sounded like the noise of approaching disruption. If Tabitha was drawing artwork for the Remnant, she was nearby. She was