Wave (26 page)

Whatever the intention, Harper wasn’t showing it. Wilson stared at him for what seemed like a long time but was probably only a few seconds. The man simply went about his business as if he wasn’t being watched at all. Another old feeling of Wilson’s came to the surface—every day brought new surprises with this guy. Just when he thought he had him figured out, Bang!—something popped up that blew the formula to pieces.

Finally, Wilson broke the silence. “I’m sure the people of this community will continue looking to you for guidance, Chief,” he said somberly. “Remember how it was with Giuliani on 9/11? He was caught up in a scandal the day before, and the day after it was forgotten.”

Harper’s reply was a noncommittal murmur and a nod. He had picked up some document and was reading it carefully.

Wilson lingered for another moment, then retreated to Marie’s desk. He still couldn’t settle Harper’s comment in his mind. Even if it wasn’t meant as a sucker punch, it rattled him. He refocused on the task at hand in order to push it aside.

The notion that Harper had injected it into the conversation solely to steer away from the subject of how and when he would leave the island never occurred to Tom Wilson.

Karen didn’t like staring into the faces. She wished she could use her sun visor to block them out.

But she had no choice—as she zoomed over the Causeway, she had to keep an eye out for the Ericksons. That meant trying, at roughly sixty miles per hour, to identify every car she passed. They drove a white Taurus. She wasn’t sure of the year, but it was a newer model. It was a plain, unremarkable vehicle, matching their personalities in a way—subtle, low-key, almost invisible. It would be easy to miss. The fact that there were three lines of cars instead of the normal two didn’t help. She couldn’t really see anything in the line farthest from her. She could’ve passed them already. What the hell happened to that cop who was supposed to go over to their house?

She reached the peak of the bridge and began down the other side. At the bottom, where the eastbound road forked and became 9th Street, she saw more military personnel. There were four stout men in the same camouflage fatigues and shiny jack boots as her corporal friend. On the other side of the road, two of LBI’s finest were waving motorists along.

As she drew closer, all of them took note of her. Crazily she thought of the tagline in that old stockbroker TV commercial—“When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen.” It was as if the whole world stopped. She could imagine the thoughts racing through their minds.
Here comes that crazy bitch Moreland radioed us about.

As physical details became clearer she picked out the leader of the military clique—a man in his late fifties or early sixties with a rugged face, broad shoulders, and a barrel chest. Remarkable condition for his age. He had to be in charge, she thought. He was also the only one wearing a black beret. The rifle hooked to his arm looked as natural to his anatomy as the arm itself. The other three, all younger, were smiling and moving about restlessly in the way that younger people do. The black-beret guy, however, was rigid and expressionless. He watched Karen every inch of the way with a stare that could melt marble. For a moment her rage evaporated and fear took control again.
Please, God, please don’t let them stop me.

They didn’t; they just watched her go by. She swallowed into a dry throat as she passed. A quick and quite irresistible glance into the rearview mirror showed one of the subordinates stepping forward and saying something to the black beret. The guy’s face finally changed—a smile spawned on his straight-line frown. No doubt a cheap shot at her expense.

Rather than take 9th directly to Long Beach Boulevard, she made a right onto Central Avenue; Long Beach would be all but impenetrable right now. Central wasn’t much better, but at least the shoulder was clear. More people honking, more yelling all sorts of pleasant things. She had begun to cry without realizing it.
I’m falling apart emotionally
, she thought.
I
don’t even have control over it anymore.

As with any other time when she was stressed beyond her limits, Mike came to mind. She wished to God he was here. Would he even know what was happening? He was more in tune with world events than she was. He’d watch the news every night although he wasn’t particularly political. He just liked to know what was going on. But he was in California on a business trip and it was possible he wasn’t even awake yet. On the other hand he might already be in a meeting, sitting around a polished cherry table in a stuffy boardroom, crunching numbers or plotting strategies with a dozen other suited execs while she was trying to locate their children and outrace the first goddamn tsunami to hit New Jersey since time out of mind. Would he find out only after it was too late? Would he come out of that meeting to break for lunch and then, while sitting in some deli in an unfamiliar city, catch the report on CNN—“A tsunami, the result of a terrorist’s bomb, struck the coast of southern New Jersey today leaving hundreds dead….”

She wished she could at least talk to him, get some assurance and advice. They’d always made a great team, compensating for each other’s weaknesses while managing not to bruise one another’s egos.

She realized she was still holding the cell phone. It had become moist from the perspiration in her palm. She flipped it open and dialed with her thumb.

“Sorry, all lines are busy right now. Please try your call again later.”

“Oh, come on!”

As she reached the end of Central and made a left onto 28th, she tried again.

Same message.

“Dammit!”

She slammed the phone onto the passenger seat, wiped the tears from her eyes, and jammed the gas pedal. The engine roared, the car lurched forward. She doubted the cops would be issuing many speeding tickets today.

She reached Long Beach Boulevard and made a squealing right turn. As expected, she had to ride the shoulder again. More idiots honking, as if she was doing this for no good reason or had no idea which way she should really be going.

She checked her watch—just over forty minutes left, if their estimate’s correct.

The fact that the tsunami’s arrival was now being measured in minutes rather than hours was truly terrifying. Her heart began pounding, her breathing became heavier. Doubts, cold and cruel, began creeping in—

What if I don’t find them? What if I get there and they’re gone? And how will
I
get back out?

They’ll end up without a mother. They’ll live the
rest of their lives knowing their mom came back to get them and died in the effort. What kind of scar would that leave? What seeds of guilt would that plant? God, why did this have to happen?!

There was still a little space between the gas pedal and the floor, so she took care of it. She was going almost eighty and climbing. She prayed that no one would step out between two cars onto the shoulder, or from behind a phone pole or something. She had no intention of stopping. She just wanted to find her boys and get the hell out of here.

If they’re there and we can’t make it back out, at least we’ll all die together, she thought out of nowhere. Then an image followed—her two boys, floating dead as the tidal waters receded.

Struggling to keep her eyes on the narrow path ahead, she leaned her head down and vomited onto the floor.

BethAnn’s car began smoking again.

“Dammit!” she squawked, pulling over so sharply that one tire ended up on the curb. The cars behind her immediately filled the void.

She scrambled out and slammed the door with all her might. She marched around to the front and threw the hood up. Steam hissed and billowed around her.

“Hey baby, wanna lift?” a voice asked.

She turned to see a guy leaning out of the passenger window of a brown van. He was maybe in his early thirties, with a Jesus beard and haircut. He looked skinny, almost to the point of malnourishment, and didn’t have a shirt on. She thought he bore a slight resemblance to Dennis Wilson, the Beach Boys’ late drummer, in his later years.

“What?”

“A ride? Need a ride? We got plenty of room in the back.” He motioned with his thumb. BethAnn caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of his forearm, but she couldn’t make out the design. She also saw the shadowy figure of the driver. No beard, and with hair that was all over the place, as if he’d just woken up. He had a long neck and a goofy knob of an Adam’s apple. He was smiling, she could see, but not really paying attention. This was probably his friend’s fifth or sixth attempt at a pickup today. For all she knew, three other girls were already in the back, gagged and handcuffed.

“No.” She turned her attention back to the radiator.

“Are you sure? Could be fun.”

The line of traffic kept moving; slowly they were passing her by.

“Up yours,” she said with a flick of the middle finger.

“Same to you, lard ass!” the weird beard yelled back as the van faded into the distance. She didn’t react.

She looked around for another open house. She’d parked in front of a new three-story model with a balcony on the top floor. She hustled her bulk up the brick steps and found the door unlocked.

The contrast between this environment and the one in her trailer was so severe it struck her like a fist in the face. The air was light and sweet, as if some type of subtle floral freshener was automatically sprayed from recessed nozzles every day. Sun rays reached through skylights, giving everything a natural, almost exotic feel. The owners either had a maid or the wife didn’t work, because everything was spotless—BethAnn took one awed look at the large tiles on the floor and was certain she could eat off them. The living room, immediately to the left, seemed to somehow capture the word “peace” in its furnishings and choice of colors—large and comfortable couches, as white as snow, combined with oak and glass tables and cabinets trimmed in gold. A bubble clock stood with silent dignity on an end table by a whitewashed fireplace, spinning out the hours. BethAnn had never even been in a home such as this, much less given any thought to someday owning one.

She ran up the brief flight of carpeted steps to the kitchen, which featured more oak cabinets, offset lighting, and an industrial-size, stainless-steel refrigerator. Everything was so perfect that she almost felt sorry the house would be destroyed in less than an hour. But the part of her that despised the wealthy and privileged suppressed any such sympathy. In fact a stronger part of her savored the idea with considerable delight. Bastards probably have maximum insurance anyway. Probably end up with an even nicer place.

She found another plastic container of milk in the fridge and emptied it. The chrome, hook-shaped spigot on the kitchen sink was so high she had to carefully “aim” the milk container under it. Once it was full, she turned and lumbered back out. On her way she noticed a wooden plaque in the distinct shape of a key hanging next to the cordless phone on the wall. Along the bottom was a series of brass hooks, and from two of them hung two sets of actual keys. I’ll bet their cars don’t have radiator problems, she thought bitterly.

As she re-emerged in the late-morning sunlight, she saw that the brown van containing her two hippie friends was much farther down. Good, at least the line is moving. She covered the radiator cap with the front of her shirt (she could still feel the heat of it underneath) and gave it a twist. A guttural wheeze came out as if the car were a living thing.

She poured until the fluid level reached the top, then waited for it to go back down to add some more. When the container was empty, she ran back inside to refill it. She did this three times before wondering why it wouldn’t stay full.
How many gallons of water does this thing need?
It wasn’t until that third try that she heard—really heard and registered—the sound of water spattering on the pavement.

Is that supposed to happen?

She thought at first it was simply runoff from her sloppiness—in her rush, she wasn’t going out of her way to pour neatly.

But it kept running, even when she wasn’t pouring.

She got down on all fours and peered underneath. Water was leaking not from one but three different places. Two of the leaks were steady but relatively minor; if they’d been the only ones, the car might have had a chance to make it up and over the bridge. But the third was a doozy—a steady stream about the width of a pencil, as if someone had shot a small-caliber bullet through the radiator shell. The damn thing looked like it was taking a piss.