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“Good, very good. Would you prefer they come to your office, or do you want to meet them outside, in the front?”

“Is the bank a good place to meet? Didn’t you once say there was a danger in that? Something about me being too closely associated with money?”

Wilson nodded. “I did worry about that at first, but I’ve changed my mind. Most of the people in this area are pretty conservative, even the Democrats. And everyone already knows you’re a bank president. If we try to hide that, it’ll make it
look
like we’re trying to hide it. That’ll suggest a crime where no crime exists.” He took a sip of coffee and waved his hand. “No, I’ve got a better idea. We’ll go ahead full-throttle with your image as a banker, but we’ll soften it. We’ll play up all the decent things you’ve done, all the high-risk loans you’ve given out, the late payments you’ve let slide. You’ve been a pretty fair and decent guy in a position where others have not. Let’s take advantage of that.”

There was a scream in the next room—a woman’s scream. Similar sounds quickly followed—gasps, cries, and “Oh my Gods.”

The two men exchanged a puzzled glance, then rose quickly and hurried from the table. The adjoining area was dominated by a long counter. The waiter on duty looked like the all-American boy working his way through college. He and some customers were trained on a television hanging from a high corner. On the screen, a woman from NJN was breaking the news of the oncoming disaster.

“…predict the tsunami will strike the coast in approximately two hours. Governor Mayfield immediately declared a state of emergency, and all residents of the Jersey Shore from Belmar to Cape May are urged to move inland at once. Again, if you’re just tuning in, all residents of….”

The restaurant cleared out at record speed. Keys jingled as they were pulled from pockets and handbags. The collective hum of group chatter rose to a meaningless cacophony as the herd migrated to the front exit. The waiter, apparently not loyal enough to go down with the ship, put one hand on the countertop and leapt out of his enclosure with graceful athleticism.

“Jesus Christ, Tom,” Davis said hollowly. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

He turned to his political advisor and, in one of the most unpredictable moments of his life, found him smiling.

“No, Elliot…not yet.”

Davis’s face crumpled with confusion. “What? What are you talking about? We’ve got less than two hours—we’ve got to go! I have to go home and get Helen. She’ll be—”

He turned to leave, but Wilson caught his arm and held him.

“This is your chance, Elliot. This is
it
.”

“What? I don’t—”

Wilson pointed to the screen.

“The people are going to be looking for a leader right now. They’re going to need someone strong, someone commanding. Harper’s credibility is shot, so they’ll be looking for someone else. Every major news channel is going to be on this, so you’ll get exposure from coast to coast. Just as Giuliani’s name will be forever linked with New York City and 9/11, your name will be linked with this. Don’t you see?”

Davis looked back at the screen. NJN had added the scrawl along the bottom—ALL RESIDENTS ALONG THE NEW JERSEY COASTLINE FROM BELMAR TO CAPE MAY ARE ORDERED TO LEAVE THEIR HOMES AT ONCE AND MOVE AT LEAST TWO MILES INLAND. COMMUNITIES TO THE NORTH AND SOUTH MAY ALSO BE AFFECTED BY THE TSUNAMI. NEW JERSEY GOVERNOR JIM MAYFIELD HAS DECLARED A STATE OF EMERGENCY….

Davis swallowed hard into a dry throat. Every muscle in his body seemed to have turned to stone. “Well, okay. What do I need to do?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

BethAnn
Mosley was happy.
Springer
had been a blast, an absolute blast. A group of teenage girls admitted they’d dabbled in prostitution in college—on campus, specifically, in order to make money for booze and drugs. Some of their former customers were there, too, waxing nostalgic about what an unforgettable time they’d had. What ol’ Jerry didn’t tell them, at least at first, was that all the girls’ fathers were also there, off-stage, listening to every word. Whenever the cameras went to the fathers, sitting there kneading their hands as they stockpiled homicidal thoughts, a charge went through Mosley. There was no word for it, no name for it, but she knew she was hopelessly addicted to it and always would be. When the fathers were inevitably released from their cages and the hunt began, Mosley actually clapped like a delighted child and jumped up and down on the couch. When the fathers began beating on the boys and the cameras swayed around crazily, she leaned forward so she wouldn’t miss anything. One of the boys ended up with a broken nose that bled like a burst pipe. Another lay on the glossy studio floor, just off the riser, and moaned as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It was glorious. When it was over, she felt spent, exhausted.

There was a commercial break—a top-of-the-hour commercial break, and that meant nearly ten free minutes. In spite of her undying devotion to television, she hated commercials; she didn’t have any money, so what good were they?

She got up and ambled into the kitchen. Time for a snack. There was a frying pan in the sink from last night submerged in the basin. The water was skim-milk cloudy, and bits of something-or-other from the previous meal floated on the surface like pond scum.

She “washed” the pan by holding it under a stream of cold water for a second, then shook it dry. The remaining moisture sizzled when she set it on the glowing coil. She smeared a blob of butter over the scoured teflon surface, then set down four slices of Taylor pork roll, which had been involuntarily donated by Acme.

The TV sang—a single note sustained for about ten seconds. She glanced over with only partial interest while she ate, standing at the sink so the crumbs wouldn’t fall onto the floor. A message crawled across the bottom of the screen. She didn’t bother reading it, for she’d seen them, and heard the familiar beep, a million times. A storm warning of some kind. Thunderheads rolling in, maybe a rising tide. By pure luck, this mobile-home park had been built in a low-risk flood zone, and her particular unit had been propped on four rows of cinder blocks. The unit originally had been set on only one row, but Kenny had insisted on spending a small fortune to install three more. It would dramatically reduce the risk of flood damage, he claimed, while increasing the property’s value when it came time to sell it. BethAnn had argued with him about the expenditure, not because it didn’t make sense, but simply because she enjoyed arguing about things. But he’d been right—in the eight years she’d lived here, there had been no water damage. A few close calls, but the increased height made all the difference. She’d hated the fact that he’d been right and punished him for it in small ways. After he reached his emotional breaking point and left her for good, she decided to hate him in a more complete way. The fact that he was a good guy at heart and that she was the reason he wasn’t around any longer only served to enrich this hatred.

Little things like storm warnings made her think about him. As she munched her way toward an early heart attack, and the mid-morning breeze made the curtains over the sink dance and sway, she wondered if he was still “out west.” That’s where he had said he was headed. She knew he’d been ambiguous on purpose. She saw him only once after that, when they signed the divorce papers in his lawyer’s office. She thought about getting a lawyer of her own, just to give him a hard time. But they didn’t have any children or savings, and he’d already decided to give her the trailer and all its contents. What would she fight for? All he wanted was his freedom, and she knew why.

She finished the sandwich, wiped her hands on her T-shirt, and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. The fart she ripped as she slid her sweatpants down sounded like a dry towel being slowly torn in half.

As she sat reading a rippled copy of
Alfred Hitch
cock’s Mystery Magazine
, the TV sang again, this time followed by a garbled announcement. Somewhere in the back of her mind she noted that an actual voice message was unusual, even for the shore—

This is an emergency broadcast from the National Weather Service. All residents along the New Jersey coastline from Belmar to Cape May are required to leave their homes at once and move at least two miles
inland. Again, all residents along the New Jersey
coastline from Belmar to Cape May are required to leave their homes and move at least two miles inland. A tidal wave has been detected roughly six hundred miles offshore and will strike the coastline in approximately two hours.

At first she thought she’d misheard it, similar to the way a song on a radio sounds slightly different if you’re far away from it. She jumped up and hurried out, still clutching the digest-sized magazine with her thumb acting as a bookmark. There was another long beep, followed by a repeat of the recorded message, which would obviously replay hundreds of times this day. The scrawl at the bottom of the screen, an amateurish superimposition but no less effective, was almost identical—

…>> URGENT <<…ALL RESIDENTS OF THE BEACH AREA FROM BELMAR TO CAPE MAY ARE REQUIRED TO LEAVE THEIR HOMES IMMEDIATELY AND MOVE AT LEAST TWO MILES INLAND. A TIDAL WAVE WILL STRIKE THE COASTLINE IN APPROXIMATELY TWO HOURS…>> URGENT <<…

“Holy
shi
t
!”

She grabbed the remote and switched around for more information. The same message was running on every channel, originating from the local cable company. It occurred to Mosley that there was a small chance this was some kind of error or maybe even a practical joke; perhaps a recently released employee (“disgruntled” was the word that entered her mind) had set it up to run automatically, long after he or she had hightailed it out of there.

Then she landed on CNN, where two reporters—one male and one female—were sitting at the news desk, looking grave and earnest. The BREAKING NEWS banner under them alternated between “Commercial Airliner Goes Down in Atlantic Ocean. Onboard Bomb Detonates.” and “Tsunami Approaching Southern New Jersey Coast. Tidal Wave Expected to Strike in Less Than Two Hours.” As they spoke, the screen switched to a generic map of the state, and in the light blue area that represented the water was a series of concentric circles in pulsing red, representing the radiating movement of the tsunami.

At that moment it became real to her. The fact that the best known news channel in the world had picked up the story made it impossible to deny. It wasn’t April Fool’s Day.

This was really happening.

Tarrance-Smith wasn’t the largest real estate company on the Jersey Shore, but it was one of the oldest. Started in 1919 by Samuel Tarrance and his business partner, Neil Smith, the company grew slowly but steadily, amassing a loyal customer base through four generations, two world wars, and nearly a full century. There were eight offices, all within the Garden State. The one in Manahawkin on Route 72, where Karen Thompson worked, was the smallest.

She sat in a long, brightly lit room with five colleagues, each with their own desk but without walls or dividers. It was vaguely reminiscent of the secretarial pools from the 1950s. Only Scott Tarrance, great-grandson of Samuel, had an enclosed office with an actual door.

Karen made a point of keeping her workspace neat and tidy. On a practical level she found it easier to keep track of everything that way. From an emotional standpoint it made her feel more organized. And in terms of PR value it was priceless—a customer considering the purchase of a beachfront home that might cost anywhere from a half to five million dollars wouldn’t want to deal with a salesperson who couldn’t find a Post-It or a paper clip.

She kept all of her pens and pencils in a Tarrance-Smith coffee mug on the left side, which was within easy reach as she was left-handed. Next to it was a stapler and a tape dispenser. On the right was a tray containing the day’s files, which she always prepared at the end of the previous day. At the back was a little desk lamp, and flanking it on either side was an ever-growing population of framed family photos. It looked like a miniature city, with the lamp acting as some sort of peculiar centerpiece to the downtown area. There were numerous shots of Patrick and Michael—some with their father, some with their mother, some with both, some neither. One picture showed them playing their first round of miniature golf at Thundering Surf, in Beach Haven, another had them eating Italian ices at Bay Village. With the exception of Karen and Mike’s formal wedding shot (the happy couple standing alongside their silver Rolls-Royce limousine) all the photos were of the boys.

She looked at these pictures often and drew strength from them. Most importantly she drew motivation. Each time she saw their round, smiling faces, fresh pangs of guilt would alight in her stomach. She cursed herself for not being able to spend more time with them,
all
of her time with them. She worked because she had to work, because just about all mothers had to work now. It was part and parcel of the modern age—both parents worked, and someone who had absolutely nothing to do with the children’s organic existence raised them. She hated this, hated it so much that it sometimes made her mildly ill. She only worked part-time—four days a week, about seven hours a day—but she hated every moment. The fact that the Tarrance family treated her well and that Nancy was the greatest babysitter in the world didn’t make a difference in the final sum of things—nothing erased the pain of being apart from her kids.