Chapter 1
Relentless storms flooded Northern California. Highways buckled, trees fell, and hillsides collapsed. Creeks turned into rivers, threading through neighborhoods and roadways, creating a maze of detours and dead ends. The San Lorenzo River swept two young brothers into its thrashing arms, flinging them into its strong currents. Their small bodies raced alongside debris and broken branches and were delivered, dead as driftwood, into the maw of an indifferent sea.
As December seventh ended, the bay swirled into an angry froth, coughing tufts of foam along the sidewalk above the cliffs. Out of the waves’ reach stood a pale blue structure reminiscent of an oversized trailer home. Weathered awnings flapped like giant seabirds unable to take flight. Perched on the roof was a six-foot replica of a lighthouse, complete with revolving light.
Since the fifties, the Lighthouse, once a popular seafood and chowder diner, had transitioned into a full-blown nightclub. The establishment had a soda fountain vibe, with a red Formica bar countertop and chromelegged swivel stools. The retro-yet-original decor made it far easier to imagine lipsticked girls with rockabilly hairstyles and slim-fitting pants crooning Grease’s “Summer Nights” than Bob Dylan and Joan Baez wearing bellbottom cords and mohair sweaters singing “Blowing in the Wind,” even though that had happened here, too.
Now, an eclectic collection of bluegrass lovers, intellectual surfers, college students, and gray-haired hippies wearing tie-dyed t-shirts gathered at the bar, drinking Irish coffees and beer on tap. They bunched around café tables and squeezed into the powder-blue vinyl booths that lined the walls. The nightclub was humid, and the air smelled of damp clothing and cannabis. Rain-streaked windows shuddered in the storm.
Suspended from the ceiling was a vintage surfboard festooned with blinking Christmas lights. Surfing photos and a hodgepodge of old bumper stickers and posters (“Make Love Not War,” “Legalize Marijuana Now!”) were scattered along the walls between a mishmash of photos— Joni Mitchell, the Dead Kennedys, Leonard Cohen, and John Lennon wearing his signature round-rimmed eyeglasses with the inscription “Imagine.”
A red, green, and yellow poster of Bob Marley smoking a giant reefer faced a campaign placard of President Carter and Walter Mondale with toothy grins and the now-ironic caption: “We’ve earned your trust. Four more years! Carter-Mondale 1980!”
The lights dimmed, and the room grew quiet. Only footsteps tapping the linoleum floor could be heard against the roar of rain and surf. On a raised stage at one end of the club, spotlights shone on a woman whose pale skin, long red hair, and white crepe dress brought Botticelli’s Venus to mind—only this Venus was tiny, wore cowboy boots, went by the name of Viola, and was anything but serene.
With trembling legs and a rapid heart, Viola peered through a smoky haze at the glow of cigarettes—and several joints—snaking around the room. Breathing in and slowly exhaling, Viola said a silent prayer. Filling
her lungs, she started to sing “The Circle Game” accompanied by her violin when a powerful squall jolted the building, and the lights flickered and went out. Stunned, Viola stopped singing. Titters and laughter filled the darkness as red vases alive with candlelight were dispatched. Liam, the grumpy ex-pat bartender, set down a cordless cassette recorder on the stage. Viola, surrounded by an arc of flickering candles, called out in an almost-imperceptible Irish lilt courtesy of her Irish mum, “The sky is full of thunder! But we’re not going to let a wee tempest stop us! Let’s out-sing the storm!”
She continued, “Now I’d like to play my latest song, ‘Lavinia.’ For those who know me, be warned: it’s dark. And for those who don’t: it’s frickin’ dark. Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus—seismically more violent than all his tragedies combined inspired me. Lavinia was an innocent caught in the web of others’ evil wars, sadism, and vile vengeance. This song is dedicated to the courage of the nuns and charity workers who were beaten, raped, and murdered by El Salvadorian death squads. My dear friend Sophie Moreno, who happens to be an incredible mandolin player, will join me.”
A tall, willowy woman with hair flat as a horse’s mane, wearing tight black jeans, a t-shirt, and Doc Martens wove through the crowd, mandolin in tow. Even in heavy boots, she sprinted onto the stage with amazing grace. The storm softened as the duo performed a sad and haunting melody. When it ended, the storm surged, and the audience rose en masse and clapped as hard as the driving rain.
After singing two encores, Viola addressed her listeners. “Our truly last song is dedicated to my father, Eli, who, like many of us, was devastated on election day. You all know it, so please join in.”
Viola played the melancholy intro, Sophie accompanied her with hand cymbals, and everyone sang: “Long as I remember, the rain’s been comin’ down. Clouds of mystery pourin’ confusion on the ground…”
When the song ended, Sophie and Viola held hands and raised their instruments. Applause joined the thunder that rattled the flimsy structure.
When the noise stopped, Viola called out, “Thank you, Sophie, and thank you all for braving this storm. Godspeed and safe passage home!”
While the others buttoned and zipped their jackets, anxious to get home, Sophie, with her latest boyfriend at her side, hugged Viola, saying, “That was great fun!”
Her boyfriend nodded enthusiastically and said, “You two nailed it!”
Viola leaned into Sophie and whispered “Tomorrow, tea? I have something I want to tell you.” She needed to tell her—then she’d work up the courage to tell Miranda.
After Sophie left, their godmother, Emily Singer, glided up to her. The older woman’s appearance, voice, and twinkly eyes reminded Viola of Lauren Bacall. Now in her mid-sixties, she had the poise of a ballet dancer and wore her coarse, silver hair tied in an elegant knot. Throughout their lives, Viola and her identical twin, Miranda, had angled for their godmother Emily’s attention and weren’t happy unless she sat wedged between them like a precious book.
Emily’s gray eyes shone with excitement as she said, “You had me spellbound.” Then she stood back, hands resting on each of Viola’s shoulders, and asked, “Where is Miranda?”
“Dissertation deadline.”
“Dissertation be damned. She should be here. She missed an extraordinary performance. Hug her severely, and happy birthday to the two of you. Twenty-five—it’s a wonderful age, enjoy the hell out of it.” They hugged goodbye, and Emily exited straight-backed, her stylish black raincoat unfurling behind her.
Viola collapsed onto a barstool and cradled her head in her arms. Maybe Emily’s appearance was a good sign. But she feared that a million good omens couldn’t undo the ruin she’d made of her life. The evil she’d known previously had been peripheral—death squads, the Shakespearian villains her professor father loved to write about, and the killers Miranda studied. But now evil had entered her life, and she feared it would devour her.
Hunching over the bar, his face uncomfortably close, Liam said, “I loved ‘Lavinia.’ So dark and gripping.” The Irish accent reminded Viola of her mother, but his praise felt calculated.
Lifting her head, Viola forced a smile and snagged the twenty he held out to her. She shoved the bill into her pocket to join a hefty wad of singles from her tip jar.
Her heart quickened, sounding the alarm, as Preston Kane slid in beside her. He was wearing his signature tank top in the dead of winter, showing off the one thing he had going for him, his tattoos—brilliantly realized renderings of a serpent and a dragon.
Kane thumped her on the back with a dragon-clawed hand and said, “Viola, that was bitchen.” She hated that word and didn’t respond.
Even in the dim lighting, his eyes were two blue pools with large black drains in their centers. Sweat washed down his face. Viola’s knotted stomach pressed against her throat, and she struggled for air. Panic and bile rising, she shot off her stool, careening into Randall Ramsay. Frozen and shocked by his sudden appearance—she’d looked into the audience and hadn’t seen him—and dwarfed by the man’s height, Viola bristled as Ramsay’s long, wiry arms engulfed her.
Ramsay whispered, “Viola, you were fantastic!”
Her breath out of sync and the taste of bile burning, Viola ducked out of her mentor’s grasp, wishing she could disappear. Ramsay sat regally beside Kane and pronounced with the authority of the folk rock star he was, “Seriously, student of mine, ‘Lavina’ is a masterpiece, pitch perfect.”
Viola’s body had turned to cement and she didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Liam chimed in, “Viola, love, your birthday and your lights out performance must be celebrated.”
“I wish I could stay, but I need to go home.”
“Come on,” said Liam.
“I’m buying,” said Ramsay, slapping a twenty on the bar.
“Not tonight.” Viola said with her mouth clenched. She fetched her coat and violin. She needed to go home and make peace with Miranda.
Liam, now tetchy, took her cue. He punched his arms into the sleeves of his rain slicker and snapped it closed. Viola buttoned the black wool
jacket she’d nicked from her father and spun an aquamarine scarf tightly around her neck. When her father had seen her in this get-up, complete with boots and fishnets, he’d complimented her pixie punk look.
Viola exited into the night with Liam close behind. Hailstones stung her cheeks as they leapt over puddles and rivulets on their way to her VW bug. Liam held Viola’s instrument case, while her frozen hands groped with the key. She wrenched the door open, put the violin in the back, and wiped away the hail piling on her seat.
Hailstones plinking off him, Liam just stood beside the open door, rocking on his heels, waiting for something. Then without preamble, he leaned in and kissed her on the lips, licked her face, and said, “Happy Birthday and safe travels.”
Disgusted, Viola slammed the door without a thank you or goodbye and drove into the storm. Just another man who took from her without asking.
This momentous birthday had gotten off to a bad start. Viola had been cruel to Miranda. Hoping to make amends, she’d stopped by a local bakery and bought Miranda date bars, her favorite treat. Now their fruity smell filled the steamy car and made her sick. Not wanting to forget them, Viola reached for the bag of desserts and dropped them in her coat pocket.
Driving through the downpour, Viola stared feebly through fogged windows. This car was no match for the weather: its wipers were shot, and the defroster had died years ago.
Houses, usually decked with colorful Christmas lights, were darkened by the power outage. Only a few solitary candles shone through the stormy blackness, adding to her sense of foreboding.
Suddenly the car sputtered and jerked.
“Shit!”
That morning she’d asked Miranda to fill the tank on her way back from the library. They shared the car, and Miranda was usually reliable, especially about gas, toilet paper, and tea, but ever since Miranda had started her dissertation, she’d been scatterbrained. Maybe she’d forgotten because Nestrick, her advisor, had given her a deadline so extreme she’d
had to miss tonight’s concert—the only concert her sister had ever missed, except when she and Ramsay had played the Blondie gig at the Civic a few years ago. Miranda’s absence tonight was another bad omen.
Viola angled the jerking vehicle onto Murray, but it stalled just before the bridge. Bloody hell. She coasted into the only turnout, a tight, muddy spot opposite the boat harbor, where the car rolled to a stop.
Masts from the moored boats tilted like erratic pendulums. Giant eucalyptus trees reeled above her, their bark splitting off and twisting down the street. Heart pounding, Viola weighed her options. Go out into the storm or stay put and pray that the eucalyptus trees held their ground.
Lightning tore through the liquid darkness, and then a blast of thunder shook the little car. Amid the turmoil, Viola thought she heard a car engine but couldn’t see any headlights. Icy panic seized her. Her heart rushed, and her mind froze. Then the door ripped open. She thought it was the wind, until a gloved hand clamped over her mouth and nose.
Gritty fingers scratched her cheeks, and a thick cloth was pressed against her face. Its stinging vapor caught in her nose and numbed her brain. A knee heavy as a boulder pinned her. She tried to kick free, but her legs flailed against the dashboard as all energy drained from her. The silent assailant blindfolded her, bound her, and taped her mouth. She was yanked out of the car and into the downpour. Seconds later, she felt her cheek crack against cold metal. Her mind drifting, Viola wilted into sleep. The last sound she heard was the crunch of the door, shutting out the rain and hope as the vehicle lurched into the storm.