Whispers
Whispers
PART ONE
The Living and The Dead
The forces that affect our lives, the influences that
mold and shape us, are often like whispers in a
distant room, teasingly indistinct, apprehended
only with difficulty.
–Charles Dickens
One
TUESDAY AT DAWN, Los Angeles trembled. Windows rattled in their frames. Patio wind chimes tinkled merrily even though there was no wind. In some houses, dishes fell off shelves.
At the start of the morning rush hour, KFWB, all-news radio, used the earthquake as its lead story. The tremor had registered 4.8 on the Richter Scale. By the end of the rush hour, KFWB demoted the story to third place behind a report of terrorist bombings in Rome and an account of a five-car accident on the Santa Monica Freeway. After all, no buildings had fallen. By noon, only a handful of Angelenos (mostly those who had moved west within the past year) found the event worthy of even a minute’s conversation over lunch.
***
The man in the smoke-gray Dodge van didn’t even feel the earth move. He was at the northwest edge of the city, driving south on the San Diego Freeway, when the quake struck. Because it is difficult to feel any but the strongest tremors while in a moving vehicle, he wasn’t aware of the shaking until he stopped for breakfast at a diner and heard one of the other customers talking about it.
He knew at once that the earthquake was a sign meant just for him. It had been sent either to assure him that his mission in Los Angeles would be a success–or to warn him that he would fail. But which message was he supposed to perceive in this sign?
He brooded over that question while he ate. He was a big strong man–six-foot-four, two hundred and thirty pounds, all muscle–and he took more than an hour and a half to finish his meal. He started with two eggs, bacon, cottage fries, toast and a glass of milk. He chewed slowly, methodically, his eyes focused on his food as if he were entranced by it. When he finished his first plateful, he asked for a tall stack of pancakes and more milk. After the pancakes, he ate a cheese omelet with three pieces of Canadian bacon on the side, another serving of toast, and orange juice.
By the time he ordered the third breakfast, he was the chief topic of conversation in the kitchen. His waitress was a giggly redhead named Helen, but each of the other waitresses found an excuse to pass by his table and get a better look at him. He was aware of their interest, but he didn’t care.
When he finally asked Helen for the check, she said, “You must be a lumberjack or something.”
He looked up at her and smiled woodenly. Although this was the first time he had been in the diner, although he had met Helen only ninety minutes ago, he knew exactly what she was going to say. He had heard it all a hundred times before.
She giggled self-consciously, but her blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on his. “I mean, you eat enough for three men.”
“I guess I do.”
She stood beside the booth, one hip against the edge of the table, leaning slightly forward, not-so-subtly letting him know that she might be available. “But with all that food … you don’t have an ounce of fat on you.”
Still smiling, he wondered what she’d be like in bed. He pictured himself taking hold of her, thrusting into her–and then he pictured his hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, until her face slowly turned purple and her eyes bulged out of their sockets.
She stared at him speculatively, as if wondering whether he satisfied all of his appetites with such single-minded devotion as he had shown toward the food. “Must get a lot of exercise.”
“I lift weights,” he said.
“Like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“Yeah.”
She had a graceful, delicate neck. He knew he could break it as if it were a dry twig, and the thought of doing that made him feel warm and happy.
“You sure do have a set of big arms,” she said, softly, appreciatively. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and she touched his bare forearm with one finger. “I guess, with all that pumping iron, no matter how much you eat, it just turns into more muscle.”