Hideaway

the past several weeks. The first time she had been in a wheelchair, weeping and laughing simultaneously.
    Again, he searched his memory, but he could not recall her face among those he had ever seen outside of dreams. He wondered who she was and why she visited him when he slept.
    Outside, night fell. He sensed it coming down. A great black drape that gave the world a preview of death at the end of every bright and shining day.
    He dressed and left his hideaway.
     
    ----
     
    By seven o'clock that early-spring night, Lindsey and Hatch were at Zov's, a small but busy restaurant in Tustin. The decor was mainly black and white, with lots of big windows and mirrors. The staff, unfailingly friendly and efficient, were dressed in black and white to complement the long room. The food they served was such a perfect sensual experience that the monochromatic bistro seemed ablaze with color.
    The noise level was congenial rather than annoying. They did not have to raise their voices to hear each other, and felt as if the background buzz provided a screen of privacy from nearby tables.
    Through the first two courses—calamari; black-bean soup—they spoke of trivial things. But when the main course was served—swordfish for both of them—Lindsey could no longer contain herself.
    She said, “Okay, all right, we've had all day to brood about it. We haven't colored each other's opinions. So what do you think of Regina?”
    “What do you think of Regina?”
    “You first.”
    “Why me?”
    Lindsey said, “Why not?”
    He took a deep breath, hesitated. “I'm crazy about the kid.”
    Lindsey felt like leaping up and doing a little dance, the way a cartoon character might express uncontainable delight, because her joy and excitement were brighter and bolder than things were supposed to be in real life. She had hoped for just that reaction from him, but she hadn't known what he would say, really hadn't had a clue, because the meeting had been … well, one apt word would be “daunting.”
    “Oh, God, I love her,” Lindsey said. “She's so sweet.”
    “She's a tough cookie.”
    “That's an act.”
    “She was putting on an act for us, yeah, but she's tough just the same. She's had to be tough. Life didn't give her a choice.”
    “But it's a good tough.”
    “It's a great tough,” he agreed. “I'm not saying it put me off. I admired it, I loved her.”
    “She's so bright.”
    “Struggling so hard to make herself unappealing,” Hatch said, “and that only made her more appealing.”
    “The poor kid. Afraid of being rejected again, so she took the offensive.”
    “When I heard her coming down the hall, I thought it was—”
    “Godzilla!” Lindsey said.
    “At least. And how'd you like Binky the talking goldfish?”
    “Shit on the mayonnaise!” Lindsey said.
    They both laughed, and people around them turned to look, either because of their laughter or because some of what Lindsey said was overheard, which only made them laugh harder.
    “She's going to be a handful,” Hatch said.
    “She'll be a dream.”
    “Nothing's that easy.”
    “She will be.”
    “One problem.”
    “What's that?”
    He hesitated. “What if she doesn't want to come with us?”
    Lindsey's smile froze. “She will. She'll come.”
    “Maybe not.”
    “Don't be negative.”
    “I'm only saying we've got to be prepared for disappointment.”
    Lindsey shook her head adamantly. “No. It's going to work out. It has to. We've had more than our share of bad luck, bad times. We deserve better. The wheel has turned. We're going to put a family together again. Life is going to be good, it's going to be so fine. The worst is behind us now.”

3
    That Thursday night, Vassago enjoyed the conveniences of a motel room.
    Usually he used one of the fields behind the abandoned amusement park as a toilet. He also washed each evening with bottled water and liquid soap. He shaved with a straight razor, an aerosol can of lather, and a piece of a broken mirror that he had found in a corner of the park.
    When rain fell at night, he liked to bathe in the open, letting the downpour sluice over him. If lightning accompanied the storm, he sought the highest point on the paved midway, hoping that he was about to receive the grace of Satan and be recalled to the land of the dead by one scintillant bolt of electricity. But the rainy season in southern California was over now, and most likely would not come around again until December. If he earned his way back