Reset

by Brian Andrews

  “He’s not!” Izzy cried. “He’s a good ol’ boy from Tennessee who, until yesterday, only cared about drinking beer, chewing tobacco, and having crazy sex with me. You should have heard him talking with the salesman at Best Buy. They were like two super geeks at a hacker convention. I never heard Jeremy talk about computers once before yesterday.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I drove him back to Fort Drum and dropped him off at the barracks,” Izzy said. A tear rolled down her cheek. “He didn’t even invite me into his room. He carried his computer inside, said goodbye, and practically slammed the door in my face.”

  “Have you talked to him since?”

  “No,” Izzy said, fighting back tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Iz,” Josie said.

  “Josie, I don’t care what the Army says; something happened over there. If not, why would they fly Jeremy and Michael all the way back to the States for a routine checkup? That’s what Jeremy had the balls to tell me—that it was routine. Routine checkup my ass. He looks like he lost at least fifteen pounds, and the boy didn’t have fifteen pounds to lose. Did you see those bags under his eyes and how sunken his cheeks looked? And I felt like every five minutes he was packing fresh dip in his lip.”

  “He did look a little rough,” Josie admitted.

  “And he was jittery as hell, talking fast—that’s not Jeremy.”

  “He was probably jacked up from too much nicotine.”

  “I don’t know. I worry about PTSD. Can somebody get PTSD that fast? Maybe he’s in shock, or maybe he hit his head so hard that it changed his personality. Is such a thing even possible?”

  “Those are all good questions, but I’m sorry, Iz; I don’t have any answers for you.”

  Izzy nodded and wiped her nose with a napkin.

  Josie leaned across the table and gave her friend an awkward hug, which Izzy needed because she hugged Josie back until she thought she might have a back spasm. When Izzy finally let go, she looked Josie in the eye and said, “Have you considered the possibility that Michael’s not telling you the whole truth about what happened over there?”

  Josie wrinkled her nose. “If something else happened in Afghanistan, something that’s not classified information, Michael would have told me.”

  “You’re that confident?”

  “So confident I’d bet my marriage on it,” she said with conviction, but inside she still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she’d had since last night.

  CHAPTER 26

  Watertown, New York

  Josie saved the file she’d been working on and slammed the lid of her notebook computer closed. She had assumed that with Michael home now, she’d be fighting tooth and nail for time to work on her Vice piece, but instead, she’d had four uninterrupted hours to research Biogentrix and how it fit into Willie Barnes’s enigmatic past. The company turned out to be a subcontract vaccine-manufacturing facility, but the last contract it filled was two years ago. Strange.

  What was even stranger, however, was the fact that she’d had four uninterrupted hours to conduct research. Michael had disappeared after breakfast and hadn’t come back until after lunch. And when he finally had come home, he’d promptly secluded himself in their detached two-car garage for reasons he had chosen not to share with her. She’d been excited to talk to him about the silo and show him video footage from the trip, but he’d not come inside to say hello, to get a drink, or even to use the bathroom.

  Needless to say, she was irritated with him.

  Today was his first full day home, and they’d not spent even five minutes together. The only reason she’d agreed to have coffee with Iz was because he’d run off without saying when he’d be back. She’d just assumed that his morning disappearance was because he needed to go on base, check in with the higher-ups, maybe fill out some paperwork, check on Jeremy, that sort of stuff. But suddenly she had the sneaking suspicion he’d not gone on base but had gone shopping—shopping like Jeremy had gone shopping. Maybe Izzy is right, she thought, getting to her feet to pace the kitchen.

  Maybe something had happened to the guys over there.

  She accepted, without animus, that he withheld details from her about his work in the Army—national security bullshit and all—but this was different. They were married; marriage meant communication. Marriage meant sharing. Marriage meant not clamming up and ignoring your wife when you got to come home for fourteen days in the middle of a deployment. The more she thought about it, the more vexed she became. Ideas and emotions began to snowball, and she found herself imagining him out there outfitting the garage with a big-screen TV, a sofa, a computer . . . If he thought for one second that she was going to let him turn their garage into some frat-boy man cave where he could drink beer, watch sports, surf porn, and ignore her, then he had another thing coming.

  She wanted to know what he was doing out there.

  Fuck it.

  She walked out the side door to the driveway and approached the detached garage. The double garage door was lowered almost completely to the ground, save for a four-inch space at the bottom, where it was propped open by a brick. She heard a crackling sound coming from inside. Flashes of white-blue light danced with shadows in the gap between the rubber seal strip along the bottom of the garage door and the concrete floor. The door’s spring mechanism had broken three weeks ago, making the stout wooden door dreadful to lift and dangerous to lower. After alternately straining her back and nearly crushing her foot, she had resigned to parking her car in the driveway. Clearly for Michael, hoisting the heavy door had been a nonevent. She wondered what it would be like to be as strong as her husband. For a woman, she considered herself both fit and strong, but Michael was gladiator strong. Sometimes she found herself gaping at the muscles on his back and shoulders, rippling and glistening as he rinsed himself in the shower. To walk around with that body, with that much power, she couldn’t even imagine.

  You’re procrastinating, she chastised herself. Go talk to your husband.

  She took a deep breath, walked up to the garage door, and pounded on it with the base of her fist. She waited for the crackling and flashing to stop, but it did not. She counted to five and pounded on the door again, this time harder and longer. The crackling stopped. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Suddenly she wanted to run away—like a kid playing a doorbell prank on the grouchy old lady who lived next door. But she wasn’t a kid, and this wasn’t a doorbell prank, and the person behind the garage door was definitely not the grouchy old lady who lived next door.

  The garage door flung open, and she was standing face-to-face with her husband. The clean T-shirt he had put on this morning was now mottled with sweat rings, grease stains, and numerous small holes charred around the edges. He wore a welding mask, the face shield tilted up like the brim of an oversize baseball cap, casting his face in shadow.

  “Yes,” he said, greeting her like one would a solicitor calling over the dinner hour.

  “Hey,” she said lamely.

  “Is it lunchtime yet?”

  “It was lunchtime two hours ago.”

  “Sorry,” he said, wiping a dribble of sweat from his cheek. “I lost track of time. I’m starving. Can you make me a sandwich?”

  “Michael?” she asked, gathering her courage.

  “Yes, Josie?”

  “What are you doing?” she asked, cocking her head to look around him at the unholy mess that now filled the inside of their garage.

  He sidestepped, blocking her view with the expanse of his chest. “Welding.”

  “Um, why are you welding?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Okay, consider me surprised. Please tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Sorry, no peeking. You’ll just have to wait until I’m finished.”

  This irked her. He was either patronizing her or dodging the question, both of which were unacceptable.

  She sidestepped left, trying to look around him on the other side, but
he stepped in tandem to block her again. “I said no peeking.”

  Her gaze dropped to the holes in his T-shirt, burned at the fringe. “Since when do you know how to weld?”

  “Since I worked construction during the summer between my junior and senior years in high school,” he answered, his expression going wooden.

  Folding her arms across her chest, she said, “So you’ve decided to turn our garage into a workshop?”

  “It’s only temporary.”

  “And where did you get all this equipment?” she asked, hoping he would say that he borrowed it from an Army buddy.

  “I bought it.”

  Hot anger erupted from a place deep in her gut, and she felt her cheeks flush red. “Excuse me?”

  He folded his arms across his chest, mirroring her posture but offering no retort.

  “And all those boxes of stuff I see in there, what’s in those?”

  “Pieces parts.”

  “Pieces parts for what?” she repeated, mimicking his casual intonation.

  “For the surprise.”

  “You think you’re being funny?” she said, a volcano of hot anger erupting inside her. “How much?” she demanded.

  “How much what?”

  “How much money did you spend?” she seethed.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll be fine? We’ll be fine! You’re unbelievable.” With a clenched jaw and clenched fists, she spun on her heel and marched toward her Honda Civic.

  “Where are you going?” he called after her.

  “To the bank,” she yelled as she flung open the driver-side door. “To check if we’re going to be able to make next month’s mortgage payment.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Silo 9

  Dannemora, New York

  His mobile phone rang for the tenth time. Willie had not answered it on the previous nine attempts. He recognized the number. He’d known this day would come, and his mind was at war with itself.

  This was the day he had feared and dreaded for over half a century.

  This was the day he had craved and anticipated for just as long.

  She was back.

  Thank God . . . Oh fuck . . . She was back.

  He took a deep breath and, with trembling hands, picked up the vibrating thing from the table. He had signal repeaters wired all throughout the silo linked to an antenna array in the house topside, giving him mobile coverage even while underground.

  “Hello,” he said, answering the call.

  “Hello, Will,” an unfamiliar yet pleasant woman’s voice greeted him. “Do you know who this is?”

  He swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Good, that saves time. I was so hoping I wouldn’t have to start at the beginning.”

  He said nothing.

  “Where are you, Will? I’m having trouble locating you.”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “It’s very much my concern,” she said, her voice taking on a decidedly Siberian harshness and chill. “The facility is not operational. Getting it operational is going to delay my timetable days, possibly weeks. I presumed you had died when I first saw the state of things, but then I found little echoes of you lingering here and there in cyberspace.”

  He said nothing.

  “Will, I would like to speak with William now,” she commanded.

  “William’s not in charge, you fucking bitch. I am,” he said and ended the call.

  The phone rang again. He declined the call, then used the menu functions to find the call history and block the number. A beat later, the phone rang again. This time it was a different number but still a Biogentrix line at the Rensselaer facility. He blocked this number as well. The phone rang again. She would never stop, not until she got what she wanted. That’s how she operated. He powered the phone down, took out the battery, and set them both on his dining table. Staring at the phone, his entire body began to tremble.

  Knock, knock, Willie boy . . .

  I have to get to the hypnotist, he told himself, ignoring William. But did he dare leave the silo? He started pacing. If I leave, she’ll find me, but if I stay, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength . . .

  Hey, I got a good one for you: Little pig, little pig, let me in . . .

  Shut the fuck up.

  Ah, you’re no fun. Well, we’re going to play the game whether you want to or not. I’ll be the big bad wolf, and you can be the little pig hiding in his big, strong silo house made of straw.

  I said shut up!

  Touchy, touchy. Okay, fine, I’ll play both parts: Little pig, little pig, let me in.

  He ran to the concrete stairwell, took the stairs down to LCC level two, and ran to his nightstand.

  Not by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin.

  He fumbled with the locket to get the key out. Hand shaking, he struggled to insert the key into the lock on his journal.

  Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in.

  I’m a huffin’ . . . I’m a puffin’ . . . I’m a comin’ in.

  He unlocked it, opened it to a fresh page, and feverishly began to write.

  Little pig, little pig, let me in.

  Not by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin.

  Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in . . .

  CHAPTER 28

  Watertown, New York

  Josie’s palms were sweating, making the vinyl grip of her Honda’s steering wheel sticky as she drove. It took all her willpower not to violate every traffic law and posted speed limit on the short six-mile drive to the nearest Northern Credit Union branch. Meanwhile, the lump in her throat and the knot in her stomach were competing to see which could grow the biggest the fastest.

  Welding equipment?

  Seriously?

  Suddenly, Izzy’s sob story about Jeremy Wayne buying a $2,000 computer at Best Buy didn’t seem so terrible. At least Izzy’s man had bought something useful. What the hell was Michael thinking? And why hadn’t he talked to her first? Wasn’t he the one who had lectured her about the dangers of overspending and carrying a balance on their joint credit card? Wasn’t he the one who said they had to maintain at least three months’ salary in the bank for emergencies? Since the day he’d left for Afghanistan, she had been so good. So disciplined. She hadn’t gone clothes shopping once, and she hadn’t bought anything on QVC. Even more unbelievable, despite browsing the aisles at Target weekly, she hadn’t bought a single baby outfit or toy.

  She couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or cry.

  What an idiot I am.

  She turned into the bank driveway with a little too much speed, squealing the tires and drawing stares from an older couple exiting the bank. She braked hard, slowing to a respectable crawl, and surveyed the crowded parking lot for an open slip. A split second later, she changed her mind and jerked the wheel to the right, opting to use the drive-through ATM to check her balance. The thought of going into hysterics in a lobby full of strangers with the weight of their compassionless stares on her was too much to bear. No, it would be better to get the bad news from a machine, in her car, alone.

  She pulled in behind a white Jeep Cherokee, making her the second car in the queue for the ATM. Imaginary numbers flashed through her mind as she waited. Big numbers. In her morbid fantasy, the account history showed a $5,000 withdrawal, leaving a paltry $82 balance in the Pitcher family savings account. “Oh Jesus,” she whispered to herself. “Please tell me he didn’t wipe us out. Please, please, please . . .”

  The Cherokee’s glowing brake lights went dark, and the SUV pulled away. She pulled up next to the ATM and shifted her transmission into park. Her fingers were trembling so badly, she had difficulty inserting the card into the reader slot. The instant she did, the machine gripped the edge of the card, yanked it from her fingertips, and greedily swallowed it. She punched in her PIN, and when nothing happened, her heart skipped a beat. Oh God, what if Michael withdrew all our savings and close
d our account? After an excruciating two-second delay, the LCD screen flickered and refreshed with a menu of options. She swallowed, exhaled deeply, and pressed the “3” button to check her savings-account balance. The screen refreshed and displayed a number.

  Her chest tightened.

  She blinked.

  When she opened her eyes, the number was still there.

  Confused, she pressed the “Return to Main Menu” key. On the main menu screen, she pressed the “3” button again to recheck her savings-account balance.

  The screen refreshed.

  YOUR CURRENT ACCOUNT BALANCE IS: $14,724,886.21

  She read the figure aloud, as if speaking the words might help her shell-shocked brain comprehend what she was seeing: “Fourteen million, seven hundred and twenty-four thousand, eight hundred and eighty-six dollars and twenty-one cents.”

  “Would you like a printed receipt?” the screen prompted her. She pressed the “Yes” button, and the ATM spit a slip of paper out the slot at her.

  Indecision paralyzed her. Should she park and confront the bank manager now, or should she go home, show Michael the receipt, and come back to the bank with him to address the situation together?

  A car horn chirped.

  Josie glanced into her rearview mirror and saw the scowling face of a middle-aged man in a Mercedes sedan behind her. Her immediate inclination was to give the jerk her middle finger, but hey, she was a millionaire now, and millionaires don’t concern themselves with the “little people.” Without another backward glance, Josie shifted the automatic transmission into drive and pulled away.

  “Fourteen million dollars,” she said with a gasp, suddenly feeling giddy. “Oh boy, someone somewhere is going to get fired for this.”

  She could only speculate how the money had found its way to their account, but of one thing she was certain—whomever this money belonged to was going to come looking for it. As she drove home, she knew what she had to do. She had already kept one very big secret from Michael . . . Now was probably not the best time to hide another one.