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Sam saw the sight’s red laser cut through the darkness and candied flotsam. Then the boy found his target and squeezed the trigger.

Sam grunted as he was punched twice in the
belly, the impacts buckling his knees and sending him sliding on to his ass.

Gasping for breath on the floor, his heart thundering in his chest, Sam reached for the wound in his belly and felt a warm, sticky mess oozing over his shirt. When he lifted his hand, his fingers were covered in bright Day-Glo yellow paint.

Shit
, he thought as he tried to calm himself,
a bloody paint gun
.

Then a second, more alarming thought:
Ken!

He scrambled to his feet and rushed out of the store, screaming at the top of his lungs to warn his partner the intruders were only kids. His warnings were lost in metallic thunder as something meaty slammed into the exterior exit doors.

When Sam breathlessly reached Ken, the guard was standing rock still, his hands raised in surrender, five bright-yellow splotches of paint decorating his uniform from crotch to chin. His face was streaked with tears.

‘I–I thought I was a goner, Sam,’ he said shakily. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

Sam smiled, relieved he wasn’t the only useless member of mall security working tonight. He patted the young man’s shoulder.

‘You did exactly the right thing, Ken. You didn’t panic, and more importantly, you didn’t put a bullet into two stupid kids. Hell, you’re practically a hero.’

Ken smiled weakly. ‘Really?’

‘Why not? If you had pulled your gun, we both would have lost our jobs and those kids’ parents would have sued our asses off. And I, personally, have precious little ass left to sue.’

Ken pondered this information for a moment before adding, ‘I think I peed myself.’

Sam snorted with laughter and slapped him on the shoulder again. ‘You know something, I think I did, too.’

5

At the end of his shift, Sam unloaded and secured his gun inside its locked case, which he kept inside his locker, and hung up his heavy holster and belt.

He slipped out of thick-soled work shoes and changed his uniform for street clothes: comfortable, over-washed GWG jeans, plain black T-shirt that he bought in packs of three at Wal-Mart, a pair of black Reebok sneakers and an insulated, sleeveless Eddie Bauer vest to keep off the pre-summer chill.

Once dressed, he bundled his soiled uniform in a plastic shopping bag for the dry cleaner’s.

Before leaving the converted broom closet, shared by the six full-time and two part-time guards, Sam looked at himself in the full-length mirror and sucked in his stomach.

The face reflected back at him was still handsome. Not soap-star pretty, granted: more Clive Owen with a fuller face, slightly sharper nose,
Paul Newman eyes and thick black, close-cropped hair that could stand up to a tornado and barely move.

His mother once told him the hair, and his bone stubbornness, came from his great grandmother, the first black Mrs White. That mixing of the gene pools had also miraculously kept away the inevitable grey from his temples, at least for the moment. The same couldn’t be said of his beard, which he now preferred to keep cleanshaven.

At forty-two, he was too damn young to display grey hair.

Sam had moved his family to Portland from L.A. nearly ten months earlier on the promise of a steady acting gig on a new weekly TV series. As it turned out, the show, like so many others, didn’t get picked up beyond its pilot. When the series went under, his wife of fifteen years gave him an ultimatum: get a real job or leave your family behind.

Sam surprised himself by how quickly he agreed not to return to the lights of L.A., and instead settle down in his original home town. His wife had been good about it, too. She didn’t complain about the lousy wage his lack of useful skills earned, and she still encouraged him to audition for the occasional commercial, voice-over or small-budget movie that came to town.

His last gig had been just three weeks earlier: a thirty-second TV spot to kick-start excitement for
the Beavers’ new season of Triple-A ball. The two-day shoot, in which he played a face-painting fan magically transformed into the team’s furry mascot, gave him a newfound appreciation for the Sci-fi actors who had to wear elaborate masks every working day. It had taken him almost a week to remove all traces of the beaver make-up, rubber, clay and glue from his ears, nostrils and other crevices.

Sam couldn’t say he was happy with his new life, his failure to realize his acting dream still made him feel less than whole. But by removing himself from the constant rejection of L.A., he had to admit he felt closer to its embrace.

He exhaled and watched his stomach roll out into the formative stages of a middle-age paunch. He needed to get back to the gym. After all, he told himself, one of these days, Hollywood might finally come callin’.

The door to the cramped locker room opened and Ken walked in. He had already changed out of his uniform. The kid was too shy to change in front of other people, and often disappeared at the end of the shift to some other closet somewhere. Sam never questioned him about it. He had his own quirks.

‘You left this upstairs.’ Ken handed Sam his red thermos.

‘Thanks. I must have put it on the bench when you called about those intruders.’

Ken opened his locker and grabbed an ugly
orange and black-striped leather jacket off the hook. He dug in the inside pocket. His hand reappeared with a DVD, complete with a custom-made label that showed Sam as the winking mascot. He handed it over.

Sam accepted it graciously, making sure he took a moment to look at the label.

‘Nice work. You do that?’

Ken beamed. ‘Yeah, on the computer. I like teaching myself new things, you know?’

There was a knock on the door and a gruff voice called out: ‘Are you night turds done in there? We gotta get changed.’

Sam slipped the disc and thermos into the plastic bag beside his uniform before opening the door. Two day-shift guards stood in the hallway, arms folded to pretend fat was muscle, with shit-eating grins creasing their ugly mugs.

‘We’re just leaving, ladies, keep your knickers on.’

Sam glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t like leaving Ken alone with the day-shifters. Too many people joined security as a way to flex their muscles without the restrictions of the police force. And no matter how much he may be part of the mall squad, Ken would always be easy prey for the bullies in their midst.

‘You ready?’

Ken snatched up his motorcycle helmet and followed Sam out.

6

In the mall parking lot, Sam climbed into the black vinyl and duct-taped driver’s seat of his navy blue ’81 Jeep CJ5 and started the engine. The lack of doors and flimsy soft-top made him glad for his insulated vest. Cold air blasted over his legs as the engine coughed into life and the Jeep began to purr.

Sam switched off the heater fan and reached into the pocket of his vest to dig out a tin pack of small Dominican Republic cigars. From the same pocket, he produced a gunmetal Zippo lighter adorned with The Who’s red, white and blue Mod target logo. After licking the chocolate-brown outer leaf to slow its burn, Sam stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth and touched it to flame.

As he exhaled the sweet, pungent smoke, he turned the fan back on low. Mild warmth began to fill the open interior of the rugged two-seater. If he restored it to its prime, Sam knew it could easily fetch several thousand dollars on the
collectors’ market. The catch, of course, being that he would first need several thousand dollars to fix it up.

As he put the Jeep in gear, Ken buzzed by on his orange and black Vespa scooter with matching bee-shaped helmet.

Chuckling, Sam took off across the deserted parking lot to wind his way home. The one benefit he found in his job – hell, the only benefit – was how quiet and peaceful the streets were at 6 a.m.

7

Zack Parker stared at the Willamette River, the neck of a whiskey bottle gripped so tight it should have turned blue.

His tailored silk suit hung from his bony frame, its shark-grey sheen streaked with ash and a confetti rash of ember burns. The knees of his trousers were smudged with grass stains, the once perfectly creased fabric stretched out of shape. The manicured lawn that had broken his fall had been smooth and soft and free of rocks, but that had been before Zack and the shattered remains of a pretty yellow house fell from the sky.

Less than a week ago, Zack would have been mortified by his appearance. He was a man for whom clothes advertised not only wealth and status, but also confidence and attention to detail. And although he didn’t like to admit it, dressing for success was necessary in a town where he had to bring an extra edge to his game if the porcelain
blondes and sun-kissed brunettes were to trust a black man with their skin.

Now, however, his appearance seemed so inconsequential as to make him wonder why it ever mattered at all.

Apart from two homeless men, the river path had remained deserted in the dark, silent hours leading up to dawn. The men had stumbled past on their way to find late-night shelter amid the dank concrete crannies and wide iron rafters under Burnside Bridge.

Their faltering footsteps as they caught sight of the bottle had gone unnoticed by Zack. As did a low growl from the throat of one, which made the other shake his head.

The Mercedes’ powerful engine had grown cold while Zack sat on the hood, his back against the windshield, oblivious to the icy fog rising off the slow-moving river. He had been waiting for the sun to rise, to fill the eastern skyline with a taunting blood-red glow. And when it did, he raised the near-empty bottle to his lips in salute.

Zack didn’t want to be a burden, although to whom he was no longer sure. He needed the alcohol to short-circuit his hard-wired instinct for survival, to make it easier to walk to the river’s edge, fire a bullet into his brain and be washed out to sea. But all the whiskey seemed to do was numb his legs and churn his anger.

He rubbed his eyes, tilted the bottle to his lips once more, and drained the last of the amber liquid.

His body swayed unsteadily as he cocked his arm and threw the empty bottle in a high arc that soared over the low embankment. He lost sight of the bottle before it struck the water.

His head began to spin and he slid off the car and on to the ground, landing on his back. Cursing his own ineptitude, he struggled to rise once again, but the effort was too much and the damp grass felt oddly comforting.

He closed his eyes, meaning to rest for just a moment, and sank into welcoming blackness.

8

Sam was stopped one block from his house by a single police cruiser parked in the middle of the road. Its blinding bar of red and blue flashed in a slow, silent pulse.

In front of the car, one hand held up flat and rigid, the other hooked casually in his gun belt, a lone uniformed officer barely out of his teens waved him down.

As Sam pulled to a stop, he could see a commotion of cars and lights further down the block very near his own home.

‘What’s going on, officer?’

Sam unclasped his seatbelt to lean out of the Jeep.

‘I’m afraid this area is closed off, sir.’ The officer had a voice deeper than his age would imply. ‘You’ll need to drive around.’

‘I live here,’ Sam said. ‘Just down the block, actually.’

He grabbed the edge of the windshield and
swung out of his seat to stand on the lip of the doorwell. From this heightened vantage point, he could see over the roofs of the neighbours’ parked cars. The ambulance, fire and police lights looked to be practically in front of his house, although the street-lights were off and it was difficult to be sure.

‘What’s going on down there?’

‘There’s been an accident, sir. I’m afraid I can’t let you through.’

Something cold and slippery uncoiled in his belly. ‘What kind of accident?’

‘A gas explosion of some kind.’

‘Was anyone hurt? I live at one ninety-two.’

Sam saw it cross the rookie officer’s face: a flinch followed by a short intake of breath.

‘Was it my house?’ Fear filled his chest. ‘Hannah! MaryAnn! Are they OK?’

‘Sir, if you would like to wait in your vehicle, I can contact my supervisor. I’m sure’

‘ARE THEY OK?’ Sam shouted.

The officer flinched again and took a backwards step, reaching for his radio.

Sam dropped into his seat and floored the gas. Before the officer could react, the Jeep swerved around the parked cruiser, crunched over a portable safety light, and tore down the street.

When Sam screeched to a halt near a cluster of official vehicles, no one seemed to be moving. It
was as if by tearing through the barrier, he had also stopped time.

Blind with panic, he pushed through the police and firemen, knocking away outstretched arms, unable to stop his own perpetual motion until he hit the immovable object – his house.

Only, it wasn’t his house.

It was a smoldering hole filled with charred timbers, discarded bricks and misshapen steel. Nothing was recognizable as anything he owned. The smoking pit was more like something shown on TV on Veterans Day:
Scenes from the London Blitz
.

Sam looked to either side. The neighbours’ homes still stood. The walls were scorched and large strips of vinyl siding had melted away to expose cheap, particle-board sheathing underneath. Fireproof glass-block bathroom windows had cracked and blackened, but the houses themselves remained unbreached.

This hole was where his home should have been.

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out except for a slippery hissing exhalation, which roiled across his tongue and vanished like mist through his lips. He inhaled and felt cold air climbing into his brain, numbing it further. It slid into his lungs, constricting them and making it harder to breathe.

He peed himself again, warmth trickling down his leg. But even that sensation lasted for only
a short moment before the cold reclaimed it.

There were voices all around him, hands trying to pull him back from the edge of the hole where his house had stood, but no one could move him. His feet were part of the ground.