SLEEP IS A WONDERFUL RESTORATIVE.
Except for one occasion when a dream proved to be prophetic, my dreams are of human things. My parents, my brother, my niece, my life before the becoming. I'm always happy in my dreams. I'm always human.
When I awake this morning, the glow of having spent time with those I love lingers.
Then confusion as I try to zero in on my surroundings. This isn't my bed. This isn't my room. The impersonal, artificial coziness of a hotel room with its heavy blackout curtains, disinfectant smell and sterile, generic furniture comes sharply into focus as I look around.
The reason I'm here floods back, replacing peace with aggravation. It was two a.m. when I arrived back at the cottage. They were waiting for me. TV reporters from every local station. All wanting to interview the hero of the Ralphs supermarket shooting.
The hero. Me.
Luckily, I spied the reporters perched like vultures on the seawall in front of my place before they spotted me. I've been down this path before and Williams' recriminations came back to haunt me. I did it again. I exposed my true nature to mortals. That time, my predicament was self-made. This time, I had no choice.
I drove to a nearby motel and checked in under a false name. It's useful to have a couple of bogus licenses at times like these-illegal as hell but useful. Also useful to keep an extra jacket in the car. The camos I'm wearing are dust covered and bloodstained. I pulled on an old jacket to cover the worst of it and paid cash for a single night. The guy at the desk looked at me with raised eyebrows but took my money.
Once settled in the room, I reviewed my options. I need to have a story ready in case I get ambushed by the press tomorrow.
I think I can use the adrenaline story I told Harris. If a mother can lift a car off a baby, why couldn't a woman cross fifty feet of floor and get the drop on a gunman in the blink of an eye?
And by tomorrow, the story may have been relegated from the front page to the police blotter. Who knows what might happen during the night?
Satisfied with the story, I hadn't bothered to get undressed, just threw myself across the bed. No reason to get undressed when you have no clean clothes to change into. It was amazing how quickly I fell asleep.
So now it's a quick face wash, a call down to the front desk to let them know I'm checking out and I'm headed for home.
I can't wait to get home, take a shower. Forget about the events of the last twenty-four hours.
I park on Mission Boulevard and hoof it into the cottage, using the alley in back. I could have pulled right into my garage. If there are any reporters still around, they are keeping a very low profile. Once inside, I don't check voice mail, don't turn on my cell. I want only to get into a hot shower and clean clothes. Enjoy a cup of my own coffee on my own deck.
It's what I want.
What I find when I step into the living room scuttles those plans.
He's sitting on my couch, feet up on the coffee table, looking for all the world like he belongs.
He's even helped himself to coffee and is reading my paper.
Son of a bitch.
It's Chael.
