Wave (29 page)

Tom Wilson set the phone back into its cradle after making his last call from this building. He knew that, too; he knew his work here was finished forever.

Harper was in his office, doors wide open just as they were in the old days. (Wilson couldn’t help but think of his time at Harper’s side as “the old days” even though, technically, they had ended less than a year ago.) Wilson rose and went in, hands in his pockets. Harper was seated at his desk, scribbling something. It looked like ordinary paperwork on an ordinary day.

Wilson checked his watch, then said, “I think it’s time to head out, Chief.”

“Huh? Oh, is it?” Harper checked his own watch, a gold Rolex. Wilson couldn’t help but wonder if he’d acquired it honestly.

“The damn thing will be here in less than a half an hour. We really should go.”

Harper got up, dropped his glasses on the desk, and rubbed his eyes with two fingers.

“Yeah, staying any longer would be cutting it a bit too close.”

Wilson noticed he didn’t specify who shouldn’t be staying any longer—him, or them. Words were crucial to a politician, he had learned through the years. Every syllable meant something. And not just the words themselves, but how they were delivered. Subtleties such as body language, inflection, rhythm—elements so minute that ordinary people wouldn’t be able to distinguish variations—became so definitive between politicos that they might just as well be transmitted with a bullhorn.

“Then let’s go,” Wilson said, forcing the issue. “You’ve done everything possible.”

Harper said, “I plan to, Tom, don’t worry about that. Not right at this moment, but I will.”

“I don’t understand….”

“I’ve got that chopper coming, remember? Gary’s sending it for me. It’s due to land in the lot in about twenty-five minutes.”

“That’s a bit of a gamble, don’t you think?”

Harper came around, clapped him on the shoulder. “I trust Gary to save me in time,” he said with a laugh. “He doesn’t owe me any money or anything.”

The next thing Wilson knew, he was being led back out. Classic handling; he’d seen his old boss do it a million times.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asked. It sounded whiney, but he couldn’t help it; the time for finesse was running out. He cursed himself for not checking up on the helicopter claim earlier. “If I know you, you’ll stay here and let the ocean sweep you away.” He paused, carefully considered whether or not he should actually say what came next in his mind, then decided to risk it. “I mean, what with everything that’s happened recently….”

To his surprise, Harper laughed again—that casual, boisterous guffaw (largely manufactured, Wilson felt) that sent the message,
Oh please, be serious.

“Tom, that kind of stuff only happens in books and movies. Besides, suicide isn’t my style. Now stop all the nonsense and get going. You’ve got less than thirty minutes to reach that bridge.”

He began leading again, his arm still firmly around Wilson’s shoulders.

“Besides, I’ve got to help coordinate the rescue efforts in the aftermath. Believe it or not, it looks like I’ll still be useful around here.” They reached the double doors that led outside.

“Of course you will. But—”

“Come on, get moving. No more bullshit. I’ll meet you on the other side.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewh—”

“No, Don. Where?”

Harper studied him for a moment, a look of uncertainty glimmering faintly in his aging brown eyes. Wilson knew he didn’t like to be cornered, didn’t like answers forced out of him. A politician to the core.

Then he smiled again, putting every ounce of charm he had into it.

“How about Howard Breidt’s office?”

“Breidt’s?”

“Uh-huh.”

Wilson appeared to consider it, as if it was a negotiable point. It wasn’t, of course.

“Okay.”

“Good, now get the hell out of here.”

Wilson paused briefly, wanting to say more, but didn’t. Harper returned to his office, slumped into his chair, and sighed heavily, running a hand through his carefully combed and sprayed hair. This made it stand up in spots, which looked ridiculous, but right now he couldn’t have cared less.

How in the name of God that guy read so deeply into him was always a mystery to Donald Harper. No one else had ever been able to do it—not Jane, not Marie, not anyone. Just Tom Wilson. It was as if he had been born with some kind of internal radio tuned to Harper’s bandwidth. Harper could still block him out at crucial moments, throw him off the airwaves when it was necessary. But he never felt like he could completely fool Wilson. There were times when the guy just knew.

This was one of them—he had sensed Harper’s inner conflict, picked it up like a dog picks up the scent of a soup bone or a shark smells blood from half a mile away. Wilson knew he couldn’t decide what was right—stay and hope for the best, or leave and hope for the best.

From a political standpoint, both options had their risks and their rewards. If you went down with the ship and survived, your heroism would be beyond question. Certainly all would be forgiven if that happened. Maybe he’d have trouble getting re-elected because the scandal would still be there, but at least the family name would be cleansed. The trick, of course, was getting through a tsunami in one piece. Harper knew the odds were against it, but there just might be a way.

The second option—wait until the last possible moment and get the hell out of town—was obviously the safer bet. Unless his friend’s helicopter crashed on the way down, his survival was all but assured. Would this cast him in a cowardly light? Probably, in some people’s eyes. But many would appreciate the fact that he’d stayed until there was virtually no time left. In Wilson’s words, they would know he had done everything possible.

On the other hand, considering that he was already embroiled in a scandal, if he survived while other residents perished it would be impossible to overcome that politically. The mere fact that he’d be flying away to safety on some sort of “private ride”—furnished through a personal favor, no less—as other residents drowned below, would be regarded in many quarters as nothing short of a sin. Harper would valiantly coordinate all emergency efforts, but once things began getting back to normal, his career would wash out with the tide along with the rest of the corpses.

Making decisions, he knew, was what leadership was all about. And up until now he’d never had any trouble. But this one was the toughest of his life. Not just his career—his life. Because that was exactly what would be on the line.

He stared blankly into space, hoping the answer would appear out of nowhere…and soon.

Bud hurried down the slope of the backyard as quickly as his arthritic legs would carry him. This section of his property was enclosed by a stockade fence that had been installed the previous year. The unpainted and unstained pickets still had a new look to them. In one corner, the lawn gave way to a serpentine line of bricks that acted as a border between the grass and a tasteful ground scape of small, glassy stones and larger, rough-hewn patio stones. The latter were arranged in a quaint footstep pattern leading down to a gate, which Bud pulled back. The step-stones continued a short way to the very edge of the property, where it met the waters of Little Egg Harbor Bay. There, tied to a piling, bobbing quietly in its homemade skirt on this otherwise postcard-perfect day, was Bud’s 120 Impact Boston Whaler.

He’d had it for two years, used it only for fishing, and kept it in immaculate condition because he planned to resell it and upgrade. It was just over eleven feet long and five feet wide, with a Mercury outboard motor, a white canvas sun top, a cushioned aft bench with underneath storage, and a self-bailing cockpit sole. Bridge clearance was two feet ten inches, fuel capacity fourteen gallons, and it was rated to carry four adults.

As he jumped into it, the shock in his knees was like a heat explosion and he almost screamed on impact. As the pain subsided he got behind the console and fished the key from his pocket; it was attached to an orange floating-buoy key chain with a tiny waterproof compartment that held one dose of his pain medication. He jiggled it into the ignition, and the Merc roared to life without hesitation.

Whether the boat would start or not wasn’t what concerned him—he was more interested in the fuel gauge. The needle wavered for a moment, then settled a hair above “E.” That was what he thought—he wasn’t planning on taking the boys out until tomorrow, when he could get down to Jingles’ Bait and Tackle and get some fresh night crawlers. He also needed to mix a fresh batch of gasoline and two-cycle oil.

He would have to do it now.

He turned the motor off and climbed back out. He could hear the joints popping and feel the ligaments pulling and stretching in his knees. He ran up and across the yard again, trying to ignore the fact that the beautiful landscaping he and Nancy had worked on for so many years would be gone shortly. It all seemed so surreal.

He went into the garage and flicked on the light. The worktable was to his immediate right, against the back wall, and the red plastic gas container was on the shelf underneath. Thank God I keep things organized, he thought, and remembered a guy he knew in high school named Artie. Most disorganized sonofabitch Bud had ever known. He once blew an afternoon helping the guy search for his wallet. What would he be doing if he was stuck in this situation? “Sorry, kids, we won’t be able to get off the island in time. I have no idea where I left the gas container, so I can’t fill the boat….”

The container—a five-gallon job—was about half full. He hefted it onto the table and unscrewed the cap. A number of stubby cans of two-cycle oil stood neatly on the shelf overhead, lined up like soldiers. He took two down, peeled off the aluminum lids, and poured in their black, syrupy contents. Then the gas cap went back on, and he took the container out. His knees were screaming as he made his way back to the boat, lugging the heavy, sloshing container with both hands. He tried not to think about it, thought instead about those two boys inside—with so much to look forward to, so much of life left to live.

Once the engine was filled, he restarted it. This time he would leave it running; they’d be ready to go at a moment’s notice. He checked his watch—11:10. About twenty minutes left.

He hustled back to the house and went inside. The boys were sitting on the living room couch, watching television, their backpacks on the floor at their feet. For the moment they looked content. They had their windbreakers on and were watching the Cartoon Network. Wile E. Coyote was riding a rocket—which was, of course, completely out of control—in his interminable efforts to catch the Roadrunner.

“Well?” Nancy asked, standing in the kitchen.

He was so out of breath he could barely speak. “We’ll take the boat,” he said. “I just started it up and put some gas in it.”

“Are you sure that’s the best way, Bud?” she asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, definitely. We’ll cut across Little Egg Harbor Bay right to Tuckerton. It should take about ten minutes. Once we’re there, we’ll have to beg a ride. I don’t see any other way. If we try to drive out of here, we’ll hit all those cars trying to get over the Causeway, and we’ll be at the back of the line. As time runs out, people’ll start getting nastier—there’ll probably be accidents and fighting. And the first car that stalls or stops, everyone behind him will be screwed. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s already happened.”

It was a dark, pessimistic prediction, and one that, years ago, Nancy would’ve dismissed as her husband’s natural cynicism. But, as with all good marriages, the couple had learned from each other, and one thing she learned from him was that sometimes—sometimes—human beings really were prone to doing horrible things to one another. Not everybody was good and decent deep down inside. Some people were just plain bad.

“Did you get hold of Karen?”

“I tried again, but I still can’t get through.”

“Okay, keep trying. We can’t leave until she gets here.” He paused, thought about the inevitability of the forthcoming disaster. “At least not until the last possible moment. How are the boys doing?”

“They’re okay. I think Patrick is feeling a little frightened. He keeps looking at me like he knows something’s up. Michael doesn’t suspect a thing.”

She paused, then said, “Oh, Bud” and slipped her arms around him.

He returned the hug and kissed her on the temple. “Okay, okay. Take it easy. We’re going to get through this. What’s important here is that we survive. You, me, and those two little boys out there. The insurance will take care of the property. There’s nothing here we can’t replace.”

“There are some things,” she countered in a choked voice. “Some things can’t be replaced.”

“I know, I know, but even if we had more time we couldn’t bring any of it. The boat only holds four adults, so when Karen shows up we won’t have any room to spare.”

They separated but still held each other. “Do you think she will?” Nancy asked, a tear running down her cheek. “Do you think she’ll make it in time?”

Before he had the chance to answer, his wife buried her face under his chin, trying to mute her sobs so the boys wouldn’t hear.