Fear Nothing

the drab concrete vault that might have once been an airlock, we found my father's suitcase. The one that I had put down in the hospital garage before hiding under the hearse, that had been gone when I'd come out of the cold-holding room.
        It had not, of course, been here when we had passed through five minutes ago.
        I stepped around the suitcase, into the room beyond the vault, and swept that space with the light. No one was there.
        Orson waited diligently at the suitcase, and I returned to his side.
        When I lifted the bag, it was so light that I thought it must be empty.
        Then I heard something tumble softly inside.
        As I was releasing the latches, my heart clutched at the thought that I might find another pair of eyeballs the bag. To counter this hideous image, I conjured Sasha's lovely face in my mind, which started my heart beating again.
        When I opened the lid, the suitcase appeared to contain only air. Dad's clothes, toiletries, paperback books, and other effects were gone.
        Then I saw the photograph in one corner of the bag. It was the snapshot of my mother that I had promised would be cremated with my father's body.
        I held the picture under the flashlight. She was lovely. And such fierce intelligence shone from her eyes.
        In her face, I saw certain aspects of my own countenance that made me understand why Sasha could, after all, look favorably on me. My mother was smiling in this picture, and her smile was so like mine.
        Orson seemed to want to look at the photograph, so I turned it toward him. For long seconds his gaze traveled the image. His thin whine, when he looked away from her face, was the essence of sadness.
        We are brothers, Orson and I. I am the fruit of Wisteria's heart and womb. Orson is the fruit of her mind. He and I share no blood, but we share things more important than blood.
        When Orson whined again, I firmly said, “Dead and gone,” with that ruthless focus on the future that gets me through the day.
        Forgoing one more look at the photograph, I tucked it into my shirt pocket.
        No grief. No despair. No self-pity.
        Anyway, my mother is not entirely dead. She lives in me and in Orson and perhaps in others like Orson.
        Regardless of any crimes against humanity of which my mother might stand accused by others, she is alive in us, alive in the Elephant Man and his freak dog. And with all due humility, I think the world is better for us being in it. We are not the bad guys.
        As we left the vault, I said “Thank you” to whoever had left the photograph for me, though I didn't know if they could hear and though I was only assuming that their intentions had been kind.
        Above ground, outside the hangar, my bicycle was where I'd left it. The stars were where I'd left them, too.
        I cycled back through the edge of Dead Town and toward Moonlight Bay, where the fog - and more - waited for me.

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    Five
        

    NEAR DAWN

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    30
        
        The Nantucket-style house, with dark wood-shingle siding and deep white porches, seems to have slid three thousand miles during an unnoticed tipping of the continent, coming to rest here in the California hills above the Pacific. Looking more suitable to the landscape than logic says it should, sitting toward the front of the one-acre lot, shaded by stone pines, the residence exudes the charm, grace, and warmth of the loving family that lives within its walls.
        All the windows were dark, but before long, light would appear in a few of them. Rosalina Ramirez would rise early to prepare a lavish breakfast for her son, Manuel, who would soon return from a double shift of police work - assuming he wouldn't be delayed by the extensive paperwork associated with Chief Stevenson's immolation. As he was a better cook than his mother, Manuel would prefer to make his own breakfast, but he would eat what she gave him and praise it. Rosalina was still sleeping; she had the large bedroom that had once belonged to her son, a room he'd not used since his wife died giving birth to Toby.
        Beyond a deep backyard, shingled to match the house and with windows flanked by white shutters, stands a small barn with a gambrel roof Because the property is at the extreme southern end of town it offers access to riding trails and the open hills; the original owner had stabled horses in the barn. Now the