Gathering Lies

“Well, I guess I’ll get started,” Amelia said, pulling a thin sheaf of white paper from a needlepoint briefcase.

I stifled a sigh. Here we go again. More cutoff breasts and blood gushing from women’s vaginas into male-dominated ground. God save me from the political ones.

Amelia’s latest was indeed another politically driven, and—to give it credit—probably award-winning piece. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was listening, while in truth I was working on my own book in my head.

I felt a jolt, and my eyes flew open.

“Did anybody else feel that?” Grace asked.

Amelia looked up from her paper and frowned. “Feel what?”

Grace rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know…I thought I felt something.”

“You did,” I confirmed. “I felt it, too.”

“Probably a gust of wind,” Dana added. “Coming from the kitchen. Lucy’s got the door open back there.”

Amelia returned to her reading.

“Damn, there it goes again!” Grace jumped to her feet.

Her words were barely out before the room shook violently.

“Earthquake!” Dana cried, her mouth forming a startled O. She grabbed the sides of her heavy armchair as it slid like dollhouse furniture along the hard-wood floor, striking the fireplace and throwing Dana into the hard stone facing. She screamed. Grace staggered and fell several feet across the room, hitting a coffee table with her knees and falling into a bookcase. Blood spurted from her nose. The bookcase pitched forward, burying her beneath it. I rose and stumbled for balance, grabbing Amelia, who looked so pale I thought she might faint. There was nowhere to go, however. Nowhere to hide.

All around us, windows shattered. Glass rained down. The tiny panes of the French doors were sharp slivers. I felt a stab on my cheek as figurines, now projectiles, flew from the fireplace mantel and shelves. Mini-blinds rattled and broke, falling to the floor with a clatter. The deep rolling motion went on and on, seemingly forever, and the piercing screech of Thornberry’s house alarm filled the night.

When the rolling and pitching was over, we were all in various positions on the floor. Dana lay against the hearth, blood dripping from her arm. Grace, still buried by the bookcase, groaned, but pushed at its weight and crawled out from under. Her nose was bleeding, and Amelia, next to me, looked dazed, her mouth drooping open.

I struggled to my feet, holding onto an end table. Heading across the room to Dana, I felt the warmth of blood trickling down my cheek. The living room was cluttered with debris; plaster had fallen from the ceiling, and glass crackled under my feet as I gingerly moved first one heavy beam, then another that had fallen from the ceiling. Sliding on a pile of books that had landed in the middle of the floor, I fell to a knee and yelped as a sliver of glass cut through my skin. Red flowed through my khaki pants.

Kneeling cautiously next to Dana, I checked her injured arm. The cut was four inches long and covered with plaster dust. That helped to staunch the bleeding, but the dirt and dust of years that had fallen with it weren’t good news.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Dana said shakily, wincing at my light touch. “I think we lucked out. Sarah, your face is cut.”

Grace spoke from behind us, her tone sharp. “We can’t stay in here. There’ll be aftershocks.”

“Dana’s arm has to be cleaned,” I said, helping her up, then repeated, “It needs to be cleaned.”

I was on automatic, operating out of shock as my mind searched frantically to remember what I’d learned in all the earthquake preparedness meetings at the Justice building. I knew we had to get out of the house, but nothing made sense at the moment except to clean Dana’s wound. The fact that my own face was bleeding had no effect on me whatsoever.

“You, too, Grace,” I said. “Your nose is bleeding.”

Holding Dana’s good arm, I began to move cautiously with her over the shattered glass toward the downstairs bathroom. The ground started to pitch again.

“Damn it, we’ll be buried alive in here!” Grace yelled, grabbing Amelia and running for the front door.

Dana and I swung around toward the door, but none of us made it. The aftershock felt even more violent than the first tremor, and this time we were thrown to the floor right where we stood. A board with nails in it barely missed my chin. Dana cried out, her face twisting in pain.

Screams issued from the kitchen.

“Timmy!” Amelia cried. “She’s hurt!”

The center stairway from foyer to the upstairs level came crashing down, the spokes below the banister popping free and shooting in every direction like a bundle of Lincoln Logs hurled by an angry child.

Amelia’s voice rose to an hysterical pitch. “Timmy! I’m coming!” She began to crawl toward the rubble of stairs, now a huge pile that rose halfway to the second floor.

“No!” Grace yelled, pulling her back just in time to save her from a flying stair tread full of nails. “You can’t get through that way!”

She gave Amelia a hard shove through the front door, which was hanging by one hinge. The woman landed on her knees in the grass, crying out.

Dana and I made it to our feet and followed. Grace was the last one out, glancing toward the blocked-off kitchen before she stumbled through the doorway. She turned and looked up, on her face an expression of horror. I followed her gaze as the two upstairs levels of the farmhouse slid toward us like the top layers of a wedding cake.

We all turned and ran. From a safe distance we watched in disbelief as the entire mass shuddered, then thundered to a heap on the ground.

When the dust had settled, we staggered numbly to the debris and stared into its mass—boards, pipes, plaster, furniture, clothes and bathroom sinks. The huge chimney had fallen, and though parts of the farmhouse living room walls remained upright, there was no longer a ceiling or a roof. Nothing was left but a pile of rubble and bricks.

It was Dana who pointed out that the ground was no longer shaking. “Do you feel that? It’s stopped.”

We stared at each other, a mixture of relief and fear in each face.

“It’ll start again,” Grace said. “When it’s this big, there are hundreds of aftershocks.”

“She’s right,” I agreed.

I didn’t want to admit how frightened I was. Authorities in Seattle had been warning for years that the Big One was coming, and if this was it, there would be hundreds, perhaps thousands of aftershocks, and possibly even tidal waves, the dreaded tsunamis. I wondered how close the epicenter was.

My gaze swung to the kitchen wing, which was new and one-storied. It was still standing, though windows had popped out and parts of the roof had caved in.

“Listen,” I said.

Grace looked in that direction, her voice sharp. “To what?”

“It’s too quiet in there.”

Everyone turned that way.

“Oh, my God, Timmy!” Amelia cried. She swung around to Grace. “You should have let me go to her!”

“I saved your ass, old lady,” Grace shot back, hands on her hips. “You could be under that rubble with them.”

Amelia flushed, her face red and tear-streaked, hands shaking. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

I broke in. “Stop it, both of you! For God’s sake!”

“It doesn’t look all that bad,” Dana said softly. “They could be okay. But what about Jane and Kim?”

A wave of fear swept over me. Had they—had anyone else—survived?