Page 74 of The Grave Artist

That would not—could not—last. After war had been officially declared, death always followed swiftly.

Chapter 36

Doing the Garage one better, there was only asingledecoration on the wall of Jake’s month-to-month rental in Venice Beach, south of downtown LA.

It was a poster of the movieThe Matrix. Extremely faded. It had come with the place, ironically, given his career.

The movie, Jake maintained, had consummate style and great tension but a plot that not a soul on earth had adequately described to him.

But there the poster hung, slightly askew, on one of the yellow-painted walls in the eight-hundred-square-foot place.

He was presently at his impromptu desk—from IKEA and built with only three pieces of hardware left over. It was solid enough. Before him, on one of the laptops, was Sanchez’s after-action report. He added to it before firing it off to her, Williamson and Destiny Baker.

After what Sanchez had told him about their boss’s trip, he wasn’t surprised to get one of those out-of-office replies. The report had still gone to him, though, and he was sure Williamson would read it promptly.

He stood and stretched. Jake’s space was cluttered with clothes in gym bags, toiletries in boxes and shopping bags, Mountain Dew twelve-packs, chip bags. And, as always, hovering around him like planets around a red star, computers and components and allied systems were present. Cords too. Many, many cords in all different thickness, colors and lengths.

One would think he aspired like the rest of the world to go wireless, but that was not the case. Hacking airborne signals was infinitely easier than hacking copper wires, so Jake skewed to the early-twentieth-century technology in this one instance.

He glanced at his screen and noted the time. Midnight was creeping close. A long, exhausting day. He pulled his jacket off and tossed it on Pile Number Two, the Mount Everest of clothing.

Despite the clutter, or maybe because of it, his place had a certain appeal. It featured a small deck offering a pleasant view of the palms and the sand and the Pacific Ocean, which guests might enjoy.

If he were ever to entertain guests.

As for Jake himself, well, placid scenery appealed no more than the drama of Alcatraz and the turbulent San Francisco Bay outside his window at home.

More to his liking, this place was not far from I-squared.

Or from Carmen Sanchez’s house.

He showered and then collapsed in bed. Thinking yet again he had been meaning to get a new set of springs and mattress.

Jake also knew he would forget about that mission by the time he’d woken and then would have the thought again tomorrow night.

Anyone else might enjoy the sounds of lively inhabitants of Venice at midnight. And, later, when the town dozed at three or so, the sound of the ocean coaxed to gentle hushing with tides and a delicate wind.

Not him.

But therewasa soundtrack looping through his mind. One as indelible as the sound of midnight waves to a surfer impatient for the first breaker in the morning.

A voice.

From more than twenty years ago.

Clear as could be.

The ethereal woman in yet another of those Amish teacher dresses flits about the bedroom, waking up a ten-year-old Jake and atwelve-year-old Rudy. “It’s a big day,” his mother says. “Come help me, gentlemen!”

And, after a high five between brothers, and morning bathroom visits, they walk from the room they share into the living room, where a wrapped present sits on the unsteady coffee table, and the aroma of cooking coming from the kitchen, where Lydia Heron is hard at work, fills the suburban split-level house.

Thin, a slip of a thing, her voice soft, she is nonetheless a force to be reckoned with in the kitchen. Jake wonders what the smells represent.

A birthday feast.

Jake turned two digits at midnight.

Unable to wait, Rudy gives him his present early. It’s a graphic novel Jake had mentioned he’d like. Money is tight in the Heron household. But Rudy has done some extra yardwork and saved up. Jake hugs him.