“Kitty, are you all right?”
Yes. Well, no, but not because of the quake. I needed half a second to answer, which probably worried her. “Yeah, Mom, I’m fine—what about you and Dad? Cheryl?”
“Oh, thank goodness. Can you believe it? A real earthquake, here? Your father says to check your roof and foundation. Check the whole house for cracks, you might not see any damage right away, but the house might not be safe.”
I wasn’t even thinking about that. “Yeah, Mom, I’ll do that—?
?
“Nicky and Jeffy were crying when I called Cheryl. I can hardly blame them, this is just terrifying—”
“But you’re all okay?”
“Yes, we’re fine.”
“I think I need to get off the phone, Mom. I’ve got about a million messages coming in, we should probably free up the lines for real emergencies. You heard about the gas thing—you guys have any gas leaks?”
Her voice went distant as she lowered the phone and shouted at my father, “Jim, do you smell gas? Is there a gas leak?”
He called back, “Do you smell gas? Is there gas?”
“I don’t know, I’m asking!”
“I don’t know—”
“Mom,” I interrupted. “Just stay alert and be careful, okay? I’ll call you back later.”
“Okay, Kitty. Be careful. I love you.”
Ben fielded a call from his own mother—much briefer than my talk with my mom. Ellen O’Farrell was happy with a simple yes, we’re fine—and then the lines got overloaded and the calls dropped off.
“I can’t get hold of Cormac,” Ben said after trying half a dozen times to reach his cousin. I thought of his run-down apartment building, built of concrete a few long decades ago, and tried not to worry. Nothing in this town was made to withstand earthquakes.
“He’s fine,” I said, willing it to be so. He was smart, strong; he could handle himself. Not being able to reach him didn’t mean anything.
After dressing, we migrated to the kitchen, where we turned on the TV and started the coffeemaker.
The local news channels were in breaking-story heaven. Every geologist in Denver was getting fifteen minutes of fame. Some neighborhoods lost power, some buildings had been evacuated. I gave silent thanks that ours hadn’t, allowing us to have coffee. I desperately needed coffee.
Eventually, I sat on the sofa, hot mug grasped in both hands, watching the TV screen intently and not hearing a word. The images were enough—a ramshackle warehouse in Wheat Ridge had collapsed. A small bridge in Littleton had cracked in two. A fire had started in a house where a gas main had indeed broken.
Angelo had said they—Roman, his followers, the demon, whoever—would destroy Denver if I didn’t leave.
Maybe he hadn’t been talking metaphorically.
The doorbell rang, and I snarled. I about sprouted claws right there, because I was just so sick of dealing with crap.
Ben made a calming gesture—I really must have looked like a crazy thing—and went to get the door. A moment later I heard, “Kitty? It’s for you.”
He didn’t sound nervous, angry, or confrontational. Instead he sounded nonplussed. My nose flared, testing the air … Ben wasn’t angry because the smell was familiar.
I arrived just as Ben stepped aside to let our new visitor in. He was either a weathered young man or a vibrant middle-aged one, with a craggy face, close-cropped hair, and gray eyes. He wore a trench coat over slacks and a dress shirt, making him look dapper and poised.
Odysseus Grant.
“Hello,” he said, with a hint of a smile.
I hesitated just a moment before wrapping him in a hug, to give him a chance to escape, but he didn’t, handling my enthusiastic greeting with patience.