Fatalis

Chapter Eighteen

The two luminescent eyes watched the long, deserted roadway from low on the gusty promontory. Moist and dark, like large oily pearls, the eyes shifted and widened almost imperceptibly at every movement a hundred feet below. They roamed among the dim lights and deep shadows, the tall waves of the sea beyond, the dark beach, the large sea animals that broke the surface in the distance, the night birds that soared and hovered above the rocks, the flat clouds, the misty raindrops, the signposts rattling in the wind.

Most of these things were familiar; a few were not. But new or old, it was a world of constant movement, a world where any motion could be enemy or prey. Which was why the eyes missed nothing. Nor did the ears, which were shaped like gold tulip petals. They stood high and faced the front or the sides, wherever they heard a disturbance. Nor did the light-brown nose, its finely cobbled surface flexing restlessly in the wind. And then-

It froze as the scent came suddenly, from the north. Unlike many of the smells, this one was familiar and welcome. Prey from the sea. A moment later, when it grew stronger, the head turned back. The black eyes were met by other black eyes and they all began to move, though not in the same direction.

Quickly and silently they slid through the brush and stones, causing mice to flee and rattlesnakes to freeze and commanding the foothills simply by moving through them. The color of the prey was different, the speed was greater than they had seen, but the size was familiar.

They knew just what to do.

Glen Grey was a happy man.

Ten years before, when be was an eighteen-year-old high school graduate-and just barely-the Pacific Palisades native was a beach bum. He sold himself to volleyballers who wanted a good game or a championship; he gave surfing tips for pay; and he held spots close to the water, then sold them to late comers for a twenty. When there were no gigs to be had, he grilled burgers and hotdogs at Ma's and Paz on the corner of Via de la Paz. Grey slept on the beach or crashed with friends or found an open car door and dropped on the backseat. When there was nowhere else to go he went home. Actually, where he went was "house" since it wasn't really a home. Not with his unemployed actor dad who toked-up or coked-up and took out his frustrations on his only son, and his entertainment lawyer mom who was never home even when she wasn't on a case.

Things changed for Grey when his friend Bartok broke his leg on a new board. While Grey sat with him waiting for the ambulance, Bartok complained that he was dead shit. He drove a refrigerator truck from the Santa Barbara marina down the coast to Los Angeles with fresh fish for over two-dozen restaurants. How was be going to drive with a broken leg?

Grey offered to do it for him. He agreed to take only half the salary and tips, which was way above what he was making at Ma's. Bartok agreed.

Grey ended up loving the job. He would spend the entire afternoon on the beach, charging his batteries. Then he would drive south after midnight with the day's catch. He'd make the rounds, leaving it with early-rising chefs or in outdoor freezers, come back after dawn, and sleep in the truck or in an open boat at the marina until after noon.

The owner of the company, Caroline Bennett, also loved Grey. He was easygoing, reliable, and obeyed the speed limit and parking laws. When Bartok returned, the boss asked the young man to stay on. Grey agreed, and nine years later he was still here, taking rockfish, red snapper, yellow-tail, whitefish, and sculpin on what he called "Their last trip along the coast."

Grey especially loved cool, rainy nights like these. Windows open, leather gloves snug on his hands, feeling cool. Doing the reverse commute at this hour, traffic was sparse. Especially here, on the fringe of Santa Barbara County. When the weather was bad, as it had been these past weeks, even the locals stayed off the coastal roads. It was mostly tourists who had no choice. They were here and they had to see Santa Barbara now.

The silence was sublime and the solitude was absolute. There was usually just Glen Grey, his ocean, and the growl of the diesel engine. Sometimes he talked to the "once and future-sushi" lying in barrels and lockers in the back-depending on whether they needed to be in ice or in saltwater-and sometimes he just listened to his groovily smoky Audra McDonald and Debbie Gravitte CDs. Sometimes, like now, he just enjoyed the quiet-

The bump startled him.

It was a hollow sound, like something had landed on the roof-maybe a falling branch or a rock or something from an airplane. The Santa Barbara airport wasn't far away. Grey slowed immediately and looked out the side mirror. If something had bounced onto the road he wanted to move it or call the highway patrol and set out a flare.

Nothing was out there. He looked toward the side. There were rows of grassy foothills leading up to a sandy slope and a two-hundred-foot-high promontory. Not much could have hit him from there. He wondered if a gull might have come down for some reason. Maybe it had been attracted by the smell of the fish. Those birds could be pretty aggressive. Grey once had a seagull land on a picnic table and snatch away the slice of sausage pizza he'd bought at the marina. The entire slice, for God's sake-

There was a second thump, much closer to the front of the truck. It was followed almost immediately by a third sound, more like a bang, directly on top of the cab.

"Friggin' what?"

Grey needed to stop. He looked out the passenger's-side window. If things were bouncing off the hills and onto the road he wanted to pull over on the ocean-side part of the highway.

As the young man turned, something banged on the windshield. He turned face-front just as the window blew in, showering Grey and cab with particles of glass. The drizzle and wind momentarily blinded him; he jammed on the brakes and shifted gears. Rubber screamed and burned and the cab twisted. Grey dragged the sides of his right glove across his eyes. As he did, the lids filled with motes of glass that had caught on his lashes.

"Fuck!" he screamed, wide-eyed. "Shit, god, god!"

Points of pain drove him mad and forced his eyes to open wide. He released the wheel and picked at his lids, trying to pull them down, as awful pinpicks danced on all sides of his eyeball.

The truck skidded on the wet highway. Grey screamed as the sharp edges stabbed the insides of his eyelids. Shrieking with pain, he squinted into the weather as he tried to regain control of the vehicle.

Suddenly, the darkness turned gold, then red. Pain flooded his body from neck to thighs.

A moment after that he went numb. And his eyes, which had been so anguished, shut for good.