THE CENTRE OF Sioux Crossing—if it could be called the centre—was a mile or so west of the hotel. Kate on the front desk offered to organise a cab for him, but he wanted to walk.
It was a nice day, but there was a chill in the air that reminded him he had dressed for the West Coast. The sky was blue and cloudless and almost derangingly huge. He kept to the verge, his shoes slipping on grass still damp with dew, and the cars rolled past him. Most of them seemed new, and many of them appeared to be carrying young families.
As he’d noted the previous evening, Main Street was modest to the point of being shy. A couple of dozen brick buildings, none of them more than three storeys tall. He looked at the fire station and the sheriff’s office and the post office. He made a note of the Telegraph Diner and a Starbucks and a department store called Stockmann. There was something not-quite-right about the scene, something too neat and clean.
He went into Stockmann, which turned out to go quite a way back from the street and seemed to contain pretty much everything a human being might consider useful for modern life. He dumped jeans and underwear and tee shirts and fleeces and a couple of Rosewater High sweatshirts into a trolley, found a warm jacket, and at the last moment added a pair of stout workboots.
At the checkout, an eye-hurtingly-neat young man with a badge which read JIM scanned his purchases through. The total was more than Alex had spent on clothes in the previous couple of years. He held out the phone he’d been given at the hotel, and Jim pointed a little black box about the size of a pack of cigarettes at it. There was a moment’s suspense, during which Alex became convinced that this was the point at which a film crew would leap out of hiding and inform him that he was the victim of a particularly involved practical joke, but then the till beeped and, yes, he now actually owned all these things.
“I can parcel these up and have them delivered to the hotel if you’d prefer, Mr Dolan,” Jim said brightly.
Alex supposed the phone had told him who he was and where he was staying, but it was still getting a bit eerie. “Yes,” he said, putting the phone away again. “That would be great. Thank you.”
Outside again, he wandered unhurriedly. Main Street was busy, but the demographic seemed wrong. Most of the people here were not what he thought of as farming types. He spotted a few large men in jeans and checked shirts and baseball caps—and a couple of old faded MAGA hats worn, he presumed, unironically—but the majority were young and multicultural, the kind of people you’d see on a university campus or at the headquarters of a tech startup. A lot of them had kids with them.
He stopped outside the Great North Bookshop and looked about him, wondering what was troubling him about Sioux Crossing. It wasn’t that everything was neat and clean, or that almost everyone he could see appeared to have been transplanted from elsewhere. It was something else, something that niggled at the edge of his attention.
A sign over the front of a building across the street proclaimed it to be the headquarters of the Rosewater County Banner. Alex thought about it for a few moments, then crossed over and opened the front door.
Inside was a smallish room with about half a dozen desks, piles of newspapers, file folders. A large potted palm was dying in a corner.
The only person in the room was an African-American woman in her mid-sixties, her grey hair in cornrows. She looked up as the door opened. “What.”
All of a sudden, Alex was unsure what had possessed him to come in here. “I’m new in town,” he said.
“Yes.” She got up and walked over to him. “I know who you are. What do you want?”
After the general Stepfordness of the town, it was kind of refreshing to meet someone who was straightforwardly grumpy. “I don’t really know,” he confessed.
The woman regarded him sourly over the top of her spectacles. “Come to see how the smalltown press works?” When Alex didn’t answer, she said, “What,” again.
“I just realised what’s wrong with this place,” he told her. “It looks brand new.”
She sighed. “I’m Dru Winslow,” she said. “Editor of the Banner. Let me buy you a cup of coffee, Mr Dolan.”
NOW HE SAW it, it was obvious. At most, Sioux Crossing looked about five years old. There were barely any signs of wear and tear. It was like a peculiarly detailed movie set. The interior of the Telegraph Diner was the same. The vinyl of its seats was unpatched and almost unworn, its counter polished and unchipped. Rhoda, the waitress who brought them coffee and slices of apple pie on plates that looked as if they had still been in the shop the previous day, was wearing a uniform so crisp and clean that it might have been delivered to her that morning. The pie was very good, though. And it came in normal human-sized portions.
“Long story short,” Dru told him, “they rebuilt the town.”
“Why?”
“Ah. That’s the long story.” She took a sip of coffee. “When Clayton’s people first started buying land round here, ten years or so ago, the place was on its knees. Farms were going bust, families were moving out. Half the storefronts were boarded up. It was pretty bad.”
“So I heard.”
“It was a lot worse than you heard. We had suicides. More than one.”
Alex stared.
She shrugged. “Anyway, Clayton wanted to build goodwill, win hearts and minds. So he started to endow public buildings. First thing he did was buy us a new firehouse. Just demolished the old one and built a brand new one on the site. New engines and ladders, new equipment, the whole thing.”
“Must have made him popular.”
“Most of us couldn’t see the point of it. Why build a new firehouse for a town that was going to be deserted in a couple of years?” She shrugged again. “Still, it was his money. Anyway, next it was a new post office. Then it was a new library. By then they’d started to build the Facility and suddenly there was a lot of work, money started to come into the county for the first time in… oh, Christ, I don’t know how long. People started to talk about it as if it was a miracle.”
“It sounds like you don’t agree.”
Dru nodded. “Clayton couldn’t stop building; it was like he’d got a taste for it or something, and in a couple of years we had a brand new Main Street and coffeeshops and fast wi-fi and we were all properly grateful. Haven’t had a suicide in, oh, almost a decade, I guess.”
“I’d guess there are a lot of rural towns who’d give their right arms for an opportunity like that.”
She gave him that look over the rims of her spectacles again, as if she was trying to decide whether he was serious or just playing devil’s advocate. “I grew up here, and I’m old and cranky now and I don’t like the idea of being bought.”
“It strikes me as being more of a bribe.”
“I was going to retire,” she said. “The Banner’s circulation was down in the low three figures, ad revenue had tanked—you know the story, it’s happening everywhere. I was going to sell up and take a cruise.”
“But Stan came along with his magic fairydust.”
“We got a brand new building, new presses, new computer equipment. I got a nice fat loan to keep the paper going, and after a few years the scientists started to move in and circulation began to go up and now we’re ticking over very nicely, thank you, and I still owe Clayton that nice fat loan.”
“Why did you take the money? Why didn’t you do what you planned and take the cruise?”
She pulled a face. “I’d have gone out of my mind in the first couple of days. I’ve been in the business more than forty years. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do.” He looked round the diner. Here and there, fliers were stuck to the walls with the words VOTE HOFSTADTER and Danny’s face on them. He nodded at one. “He drove me from the airport last night.”
Dru half turned in her seat and looked. “Yup, he’s running for re-election in the spring. Not that anyone’s running against him yet, but I guess he wants to start early.”
“Re-election?”
“Yes, he’s the Mayor.” She smiled broadly at the look on his face. “Oh yes. And shall I blow your mind a little more? He owns the hotel where you’re staying.”
“Good lord.”
“The SCS has been very good to the Hofstadters. Did you ever hear of the Osage?”
He shook his head.
“Native American nation,” she said. “Back in the 1920s huge oil deposits were discovered under their land in Oklahoma and all of a sudden the Osage were the wealthiest people in the country.”
“And that’s you,” he said. “Everyone in the county.”
“Well, the story didn’t have a very happy ending for the Osage, but yeah, that’s us. We’re not the wealthiest people in the country, but we’re sure as hell the wealthiest people in Iowa.”
He thought about it. “That’s… quite something,” he said.
She drank some more coffee and regarded him steadily. “So, what’s your story?”
“Me? Very similar to the one you just told me, actually. I lost my job three years ago, been trying to freelance ever since. No money. One day out of the blue Stan comes along and does some rebuilding.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know yet. Why does everyone seem to know who I am?”
“Oh, we were told you were coming.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Big-shot journalist from out East, blowing into town and showing us how to do things.”
Alex found that he didn’t know how to feel about this, either. He said, “When did you get the word?”
Dru thought about it. “A week, maybe? Be easy to check; I’ve still got the memo at the office.”
Alex shook his head. “That’s okay.” A week ago was more or less when Stan had posted his letter. Long before Alex had seen it. “That’s a bit annoying, actually.”
“Isn’t it just?” Dru chuckled and forked some pie into her mouth. “Your basic offer-you-can’t-refuse.”
He looked around the diner. There were a couple of farmer-types on stools at the counter, but everyone else here seemed to be the younger, nerdy types he’d seen on the street. “Is everyone here a scientist?” he asked.
Dru looked about her. “Scientists, admin people, techs, support staff. Clayton was keen to bring young families into the county.”
And that was good, wasn’t it? Stan’s methods might have been unorthodox, but it sounded as if he really had single-handedly regenerated the entire county.
As if reading his mind, Dru said, “Even an asshole can do something good every once in a while, right? Well, I remain unconvinced, Mr Dolan.”
“Alex.”
“So. Alex. I presume you haven’t given Clayton a yes or a no yet.”
“Not yet, no. He wanted me to see the town and the Facility first, get a feel of the place, I suppose.”
Dru laid down her fork and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Look,” she said. “You seem a decent enough man. It sounds as if you’re already beholden to him; get out while you still can. Don’t let him own you.”
“It’s not that simple,” he said.
She looked at him a moment later, then folded her napkin and put it on her plate. “No,” she said. “It never is. I should interview you.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Big-shot journalist comes to our humble town, that’s news. I should run something about you.”
“Everyone already knows all about me, by the sound of it.”
“Don’t underestimate small-town gossip. You’re going to be the object of a lot of curiosity for a while; might be better to get it all over with in one go.”
Alex laughed. “You shouldn’t try that line on another journalist, Ms Winslow.”
“Dru.”
“Tell you what, if I do take the job I’ll think about it, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
“There is one thing you could help me with, though. Where’s East Walden Lane?”
“Three or four miles that way.” She pointed back in the direction of the hotel. “Why?”
“Something I have to go and look at.”
“Ah.” Dru smiled knowingly. “I think I can guess.”
“You can? Why are you smiling?”
“You’ll see. Well.” She stood up. “I have to get back to the office, but it’s been good meeting you, Alex. I hope I see you again.” They shook hands. “Or rather, I don’t.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Flee,” she said seriously. “Save yourself.”
HE SPENT HALF an hour wandering around the Great North Bookshop, then went back to the hotel via Carl’s MultiMart, where he bought a couple of bags of groceries. At the checkout, Carl—at least his nametag said he was a Carl—offered to have the groceries delivered, but by now, notwithstanding his conversation with Dru Winslow, Alex was starting to feel more than a little weirded out by the town and he was succumbing to the urge to run for cover.
Back at the New Rose, the lobby was still deserted, apart from Grace, who was back on the front desk. Through the half-open doors of the Prairie Dining Room he could hear the distant sound of an industrial vacuum cleaner. The gift shop was still shut. It occurred to Alex that apart from Grace and Kate and the waiter who had brought his sandwich the previous night—who was, he was half convinced, the same waiter who had taken his breakfast order that morning—he had not seen another living soul at the hotel.
Upstairs, his purchases from Stockmann had been delivered and were sitting in the suite’s hallway. He gathered up the bags and took everything into the kitchen, where he spent half an hour putting things in the fridge and cutting labels and price tags off pieces of clothing.
When that was done, he made himself a coffee, then dragged one of the armchairs across the living room and sat in front of the windows, looking out over the panorama of Rosewater County. It was quite a view—better than the one in San Francisco. At least there was no fog.
The problem, he thought, was that he had believed himself to be bombproof, that he was so good, so indispensable, that the catastrophe sweeping the newspaper industry would pass him by. So, unlike wiser heads, he hadn’t made any escape provisions. Looking back, he wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t. Maybe he’d been afraid that acknowledging the possibility would have made it come true. Maybe it was just a simple, and somewhat out of character, act of hubris. Whatever. He’d been wrong; he wasn’t indispensable, and when the first wave of layoffs went through the Globe’s newsroom he’d been left holding a severance notice and a redundancy cheque, not quite understanding what had just happened.
“You’ll be fine,” his editor told him, not quite able to look him in the eye. “You’re a good writer; you’ll find something else.”
But of course he hadn’t. He wasn’t prepared, and those who were snapped up the dwindling number of available staff jobs elsewhere. He scrabbled for whatever freelance gigs he could find. In the past three years, he hadn’t even come close to getting a full-time job.
And now… this. Sitting here with a mug of very good coffee cradled in his hands, looking out across the late-summer panorama of a new world. Out there, among the trees and the fields and the neat houses, was a brand new life. All he had to do to secure it was sell his soul to a man who, for all his amiable goodwill, basically got whatever he wanted by buying it, whether it was journalists or towns. It occurred to him that an outsider would find it hard to understand why he hadn’t chewed Stan’s hand off the moment he made the offer, but there were lots of things an outsider would have found hard to understand.
He took out his phone and scrolled down its contact list until he came to Stan’s number. He sat looking at it for quite some time. Then he put the phone away again.
Outside, the sun was beginning to make for the western horizon. Somewhere out there, a couple of timezones away, it was still only late afternoon in San Francisco. He wondered if the fog had cleared yet.
There was a knock on the door. Alex put his mug on the floor beside the
chair and made his way towards the hallway. About halfway there, the knock came again, and this time there seemed something wrong about it. There was a weird scrabbling quality to it that made him miss a step and then come to a stop a few feet from the door.
There was a soft thump on the other side of the door, then that weird knocking again. It sounded, he thought, inexpressibly weary. He took another step towards the door, then another, trying to tread as softly as possible. He bent slightly and, holding his breath, put his eye to the little viewer.
Outside was a fish-eye view of the lift vestibule. It appeared to be quite deserted. Alex reached for the handle of the door, intending to have a quick look outside, when something dark moved across his field of view and he started back.
Another knock.
He stood where he was, heart pounding. He was alone on this floor. He was, he was beginning to suspect, almost alone in the hotel. The door and its lock had seemed solid, but there was no way to be sure. He backed slowly away from the door until he was able to turn his back on it and go into the kitchen.
In one of the drawers was a roll of stout cloth tied with a tape. He undid the tape and unrolled the cloth on the worktop and regarded what seemed to be a full set of Sabatier kitchen knives. Ignoring them, he took out the sharpening steel, which was a lot heavier than it looked, had a satisfying heft and a sharp point, and posed little danger of him cutting off one of his own fingers.
Back at the door, he looked through the viewer again, but the vestibule still appeared to be empty. He took a shaky breath and called, “Hello?”
No answer.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
He put his ear against the door, but all he could hear was a distant low humming which was probably something to do with the hotel’s aircon. Straightening up, he cocked the sharpening steel up beside his ear and reached for the handle with his other hand. But he stopped before he touched it. For a fraction of a second—just a fraction—he thought he saw blue sparks on the metal. He blinked, and they were gone.
Okay.
He went back into the living room, picked up the house phone and dialled zero.
The Return of the Incredible Exploding Man Page 4