Blackmail Earth

by Bill Evans

  “No, Jenna, it wasn’t. Only a few minor cuts and bruises. I’d say that Little Rock rode this one out in style.”

  Jenna, still standing on the weather set, casually introduced the country’s chief meteorologist, whose face filled the screen and whose practical advice about thunderstorms filled the air. Cindy Clark’s perky visage was quickly replaced by the flat affect of Sondar Hammerson, the Little Rock Orchestra’s conductor, who was so boring that Marv was immediately in Jenna’s ear saying “Wrap it ASAP. I’m hearing crickets”—millions of viewers clicking their remotes to change channels. “Switch to the roof.”

  Jenna cut off Hammerson at the first opening and ushered viewers to the rooftop camera as if that had been planned all along, stifling her own surprise when she saw the sky filled with massively thick clouds. They’d moved into the city far faster than she’d ever seen before, although extreme weather events were beginning to feel routine.

  “This is the view from our rooftop garden, and if you think those are thunder clouds that we’re seeing, you’re right. There’s a whopper of a storm brewing out there. Here,” she pointed to the right side of the screen, “you can see the classic anvil shapes of thunderheads. So, New York, get ready, because this monster is marching right at us. We’re already seeing rain on our Doppler. So far it’s evaporating before it hits the ground, but that’s not going to last long. Florida, Texas, California, we’ve got your back, too. Andrea?”

  Hanson thanked her and teased Lilton’s imminent appearance as the show’s theme music signaled the first commercial break. Jenna hurried over to Dafoe. Catching his grimace as he looked up from his iPhone, she guessed that he still hadn’t reached Forensia. She hoped the young woman was all right.

  Dafoe managed a smile, though, and a whispered compliment: “You were great.”

  Viewers could not possibly have heard him—TMS was off the air—but she shushed him anyway: no unnecessary talk anywhere near the set. A moment later she violated her own dictum: “There he is,” she said softly as Lilton loped toward Andrea. The lean sixty-two-year-old—a runner—always presented an effortlessly fit image, which in politico speak translated into “readiness.” And he sported his never-changing attire: dark blue suit, white shirt, red tie. Nothing subtle about the underdog’s campaign duds. Every candidate had a stump speech, but Lilton also had a stump suit.

  “Twenty seconds,” the floor director snapped. Andrea shook Lilton’s hand and gave him her familiar smile. Boom mikes hovered over the two of them as they sat down.

  “And in five, four, three…”

  The commercials ended and the cameras went live. Andrea flipped aside her luscious mane of dark hair, warmly welcomed viewers back, and introduced Lilton. The candidate nodded genially as Hanson leaned forward, gesturing directly at him. Her manner reminded Jenna why Hanson’s numbers had dominated morning television for five straight years: The host could switch from the sweetness of an ingénue to the toughness of a federal prosecutor faster than most people could exhale.

  “That witch is haunting you, isn’t she, Senator Lilton?”

  “I’m glad you brought that up, Andrea, because the president has been trying to make it appear that someone I knew forty years ago—”

  “In the biblical sense.” Andrea conjured her most impish smile.

  “I was involved with her forty years ago and—”

  Andrea interrupted again: “How did you two end up so much in sync? That’s what everyone wants to know. You called the Presidential Task Force on Climate Change a ‘dog-and-pony show’ two days after GreenSpirit used those exact words.”

  “I’d like your viewers to think about something, Andrea. If I’d been in touch with Linda Pareles, as the president suggests—”

  “Linda Pareles? You won’t even use her chosen name: GreenSpirit?”

  “I knew her as Linda Pareles. As I was saying, if I’d actually been in touch with Pareles, why would I quote her and open myself up to the ridiculous accusation that I’ve got a witch as a consultant?”

  “Nancy Reagan had an astrologist.”

  “I’ve never consulted with a witch or an astrologer, and I never will. More than three decades of public service informs my decisions, and my campaign has attracted first-rate foreign and domestic policy advisers because they know that in a few days voters will be making the most critical choice in our nation’s history. The American people are not going to let themselves get sidetracked by this sideshow.”

  “Voters are sure paying attention to the YouTube video of you and GreenSpirit saying the same exact words. That’s got a lot of traction.”

  “And if you were to do a simple Internet search, you’d find that dozens of bloggers also called the task force a dog-and-pony show. Look, in plain English, I consider GreenSpirit to be a wacko. I’ve had no contact with her in thirty-eight years.” Now Lilton leaned forward. “Andrea, the real issue—”

  “Is how you’re going to get rid of your witch problem long enough to win this election? Your numbers are tanking.”

  “My numbers are strong. We’re gaining momentum in all the swing states. As for Linda Pareles, I’m addressing that issue head-on. I think the American people are too smart to fall for any more of the president’s cheap, diversionary tactics. Reynolds has failed to recognize, much less address, the very real danger that climate change presents to the vital national security of our great country. We need to have leadership that can assert itself on the world stage. There are real issues facing the American people…”

  As Lilton launched into political boilerplate, Jenna guided Dafoe away from the set. Marv was no doubt barking at Hanson to end the interview as fast as she could: The “witch haunting” had been the “gotcha” question, and now it was history.

  Jenna and Dafoe hurried to her office. She closed the door, turned to him, and put her arms around his neck.

  “We have about sixty seconds,” she told him. “Smudge me. Please.”

  * * *

  Rain splatters the packed earth, pouring down so hard that the fat drops ping when they strike the brittle branches, muffling the panicky footfalls of a murderous chase. They strike her face. She tries to blink them away, but can’t.

  Ping, ping, ping.

  The rain blurs her vision. Tree limbs tear her skin, rip her clothes. Shredded strips hang from prickly snags. Dense dead woods. She can’t see ten feet. Doesn’t dare look back. Not anymore. Run, she screams at herself. Don’t fucking stop.

  * * *

  He checks his watch. Half an hour’s gone by. She’s getting tired, can’t keep it up much longer. He can hear her horror, even from here. It’s clawing at her throat. She wants to find a nice little hidey-hole, but he’s not going to let that happen. And the crying sounds so good, like the kind of fear you can’t stop.

  A storm like this can wipe away her trail. Probably what she was hoping for when she started running. But she can’t outrun him, and the rain’s washing away his tracks, too. They’ll be floating all the way down to the Hudson and halfway around the world, like ghost prints. You can’t see them, but they’ll be there. He’s already fleeing the scene of the crime and the real fun’s not even begun. The perfect murder.

  What’s she going to do? Get on a broomstick and fly away? This is easy. Every step’s taking her right where he wants her.

  Yippie-yi-yo-ki-yay. Herding time. Heading to a nice cozy cabin. She’ll slam the door and lock it (he’s been there, so he knows, he knows), and he’ll laugh, ’cause there’s no keeping him out. A door doesn’t say, “Stay out.” It says, “Come on in and take your fun. It’s waiting right here for you, all roasty warm.” Still, when she slams it, he’ll take a breath. Long as there aren’t any other witches around, he’ll have all the time he needs for all the vengeance he wants. She doesn’t have a phone. He’s seen this before. If she had a phone, she’d have it out by now. Her hands are empty. But not her heart. It’s filled with fear, and she’s earned every bit of it. She just didn’t know when to s
top, did she? You don’t do what she did to him.

  He pulls a swatch of purple fabric off a branch. Look at that, will you? There she goes again. She just can’t keep ’em on.

  Now she’s less than a hundred feet away. So tired she’s bent over. Wet, torn clothes clinging to her, showing off lots of everything. She’s trying to stand straight so she can look back this way. Hasn’t done that in a while. Got herself all chesty now, sticking them out, rising up and down. Big breaths.

  There’s someone in the woods and he’s coming after you. There’s someone in the woods … Talking to himself as he steps out from behind a tree, waving both arms in the air. Her eyes go as big as pinecones. She starts to back away, falls, drags herself to her feet.

  There’s someone in the woods … He’s running hard enough to pound the earth to death.… And he’s coming after you.

  CHAPTER 10

  Jenna appeared on The Morning Show four more times in the next hour and a half as the thunderheads drenched the thirsty city, overwhelming storm drains and New York’s beleaguered sewer system, which sent what was flushed out of toilets right into the Hudson and East rivers. Lots of “brown trout” this morning. All 840 miles of the subway system also shut down after water rushed over the third rail. And the downpour sent scores of kids into the flooded streets to play and splash. On Fifth Avenue the water rose so high that pedestrians had to take off their shoes and dodge rooster tails of water from passing taxis. But the real nightmare—a tornado—hadn’t formed. They were rare in New York, but by no means unheard of.

  When Jenna collapsed next to Dafoe on the couch in her office at a little after 9:00 A.M., she felt drained.

  “You earn your money,” he said.

  “Some of it.” Sometimes it was hard to believe she earned far more in a month than nurses, cops, and teachers earned in a year. Not to mention dairy farmers or her deceased parents on their hardscrabble family farm.

  “Come on.” Jenna stood and grabbed Dafoe’s hand. “I want to see firsthand what I’ve been talking about.”

  She didn’t let go of him as they hurried to the elevator, despite the openly curious glances of her coworkers. She didn’t much care. His warm touch felt positively delicious.

  They hurried out of the building’s grand entrance—all brass and marble and crystal sconces—to find every seam in the sky still wide open; but the rain was warm, the air warmer still.

  The two of them sprinted under a jewelry store awning—bearing one of New York’s most notable names—and watched the world trudge by under umbrellas or with the collars of their slickers cinched to their chins. No one noticed the handsome couple huddling together; the weather, ironically enough, was granting her precious minutes of anonymity.

  “See all that water.” She pointed to the overflow now inching onto the sidewalk. “That’s exciting. Not good,” she added quickly, “but exciting: Nature’s reclaiming the city for a few hours.”

  Buoyant over Dafoe, the rain on her skin, and the percolating thrill of these ebullient seconds, Jenna scooted to the curb and dipped the toe of one red shoe into the rippled rainwater rushing by. “I hate these shoes,” she said, face beading with droplets. “They’re so tight they make my toes ache. I told the Barbie Master that I’d never wear them again.”

  With that, she took them off and splashed into the water. She had a wild impulse to scoop up handfuls and drench Dafoe, but a crazier urge overtook her instead, and this one proved irresistible: She pinched his open collar, lured him even closer with a look, and kissed him lusciously, right there in the pouring rain.

  Almost instantly she pulled away in alarm, realizing that one unflattering cell phone photo could land her on Page Six, the New York Post’s notorious gossip column. But in a city under siege, no one offered more than a glance at the romantic couple.

  Jenna kissed him again and took his hand. “My apartment’s a ten-minute walk from here.”

  “What about work? Your—”

  “It’s done for now. What about your cows?”

  “A friend’s getting them milked.”

  They ran through the rain, wetter with every step. By the time they reached her building, Jenna’s dress clung to every curve, and she didn’t mind a bit when Dafoe undressed her with his eyes.

  * * *

  You’re getting closer, he thinks. He looks ahead through the Hansel and Gretel forest, bare branches drooling rain.

  She’s right in front of him. Striking distance. But his eyes race past her to the cabin. His first glimpse this morning. Same brown color as the woods but the roof line gives it away.

  You’re getting closer.

  * * *

  Asthma. She hasn’t had an attack since she was a kid and would get frightened and anxious. She’s having one now. Gulping for air, but getting nothing. It’s been so long since this happened, yet it feels so familiar, like the body’s memory is better than the brain’s.

  I can’t … breathe.

  Five more steps to the door.

  Dear God, get me there.

  She doesn’t consider the strangeness of her plea, the wildly tangled prayer of panic to the patriarchal “God-the-Father” of her broken childhood. She beats on the door with her fist while her other hand tries the handle. The door opens. She barges in, looks back. The first time in minutes.

  He’s twenty feet away.

  “Fuck,” she gasps. Breathless, she slams the door. Flimsy lock in the handle.

  Her gaze finds the window. Glass. So fragile.

  Like you.

  She looks around the room. For anything. It’s small and empty.

  BAM.

  She jumps at the wicked sound of his fist on the door. She takes precious seconds to concentrate on breathing while he beats a bizarre rhythm on the wood. It is a rhythm. Like a rite. And strangely, this scares her more than anything that’s happened so far. She catches a half breath. Enough to make her want more. Enough to make her think she might survive. Enough to let her look up.

  He’s staring at her through the glass.

  So fragile.

  Like you.

  * * *

  Jenna’s doorman stepped aside with a smile that undercut his dignified façade. She possessed little more restraint, stepping into the lobby still holding her red shoes. They ran to the elevator, leaving behind wet footprints.

  Alone, sweeping up through the building floor by floor, they kissed feverishly before she jerked away from him once more. With a quick glance, she indicated a security camera in the corner of the elevator. “It’s not supposed to be on unless there’s an emergency, but you never know.” She wanted her appearances on YouTube to be on her terms.

  But waiting for the privacy of her apartment was agonizing. With a lurch, the doors opened, and they raced down the hall. She stabbed a code into a keypad before pressing her thumb against a Plexiglas plate. The bolt slid open.

  As soon as the door shut, they held each other like they were the first and last people on Earth. Her dress dropped to the floor, sopping wet, and she felt the warm caress of his eyes as keenly as his hand moving gently against her legs.

  Jenna unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his chest, then luxuriated in the feel of his fingers slipping into her panties, touching her.

  He kneeled, and she watched him peel off her panty hose. He nuzzled her hungrily, and her breath began to come in bursts. She felt a teasing release of lace on her hips and bottom as her panties came down, like he was peeling her open. His kisses never stopped. He removed her bra so smoothly he might have been a magician.

  Shaking too much to stand, she lowered herself to the plush Persian carpet and moved her legs apart, accommodating his intentions without a word, trembling. He brought his lips to hers, though his hand remained faithful to her most intense pleasure. She wished he had five hands, and pressed herself so hard against his chest that she felt enveloped. In a frantic flurry, she yanked his pants all the way down, rolled him over, and pressed his back to the floor. His hands cupped
her bottom and drew her forward to his tongue. In furiously fast moments he made her cry aloud.

  * * *

  Tiny cabin. Staring at her is like looking at someone in jail. She’s not going nowhere.

  She’s chesty again, like she’s still running hard. Those big breaths that make her big breasts come alive. He sees their outline clearly, like watching a wet T-shirt contest. He smiles ’cause he knows that kind of breathing doesn’t come from running. It comes from being scared shitless. Nothing else does it like that. He’s seen it before. Lots. They run and run and where do they end up? Cooped up just like this. Rats in a corner.

  He taps the window. Gently. Catches her eyes. Still big as pinecones. This is working out fine.

  He picks up a rock. Size of a cabbage. Heavy. Real heavy. He looks at her. Shrugs. Smashes the glass.

  He pulls out his knife. A big bowie. Blade’s ten inches long. Overkill. He smiles at the thought. Blade’s silver. Shiny. Like you could blind a man—or a witch—with its reflection.

  He uses the butt of the hilt to clear away pieces of glass still embedded in the frame. They pop out cleanly. Putty’s so old it crumbles like stale cake. He reaches through with his knife, pointing it while he talks, as if he’s giving voice to the gleaming weapon.

  “Open the door.”

  She grabs a wooden candelabra. The only thing she can find. He laughs.

  “Open the door. If I have to climb in there, you’re going to pay.”

  * * *

  I’m going to pay anyway. She slaps her sides, searching again for her phone, even though she knows better. Still, she pleads with it to appear. She had it earlier, before she started running. It’s in your bag, where you always keep it. But it doesn’t matter: She’s miles from nowhere, and he’s taking apart the window pane by pane. Smashing it to pieces. Glass and wood chunks hit her. She can’t get away. Can’t breathe. Can’t even move enough to smash his hand with the candelabra. The world’s exploding, and she knows with shocking certitude that she’s about to be murdered in their house of meditation.