Do Not Call

by Julian Folk

  The Great White swims up to him. Relative to its body, the Great White has a small face. Its mouth opens. Noland eschews resistance and offers himself. He was dead when he took the NSA job. But then a look comes over the fish’s face. Noland’s seen the same look in his video feeds. SO MANY TIMES. On the face of Vincent DeSantis. A look of pure disgust.

  The shark peels off to the right. Its back fin nearly whacks Noland. The wake tosses him to-and-fro.

  What the fuck?

  The damn fish seemed offended.

  Another factoid pops up: a Great White’s keenest sense is its sense of smell.

  The plastic explosives… Noland reeks of toxic chemicals. The motor oil. The shark smelled it on his exposed skin, perhaps through the gear.

  Noland swims onward. Surfaces at the cave in the state park. Everything is where he left it. He places a call on a burner to his Chinese contact.

  “This attack was serious,” the man says. “Our hearts go out to America.”

  The Chinese won’t take him.

  Next, his Russian contact.

  “This is a sensitive diplomatic situation,” the woman says.

  The Russians won’t take him.

  Then Venezuela.

  “No chance,” the man says. “CIA would get you anyway. Too close to America.”

  The Venezuelans won’t take him.

  On principle, he refuses to call North Korea.

  That leaves Iran.

  He’ll be a slave hacker to the Supreme Leader.

  “We’d love to have you,” the Iranian contact says. Like all of Noland’s contacts, this one is on-island. “I’ll pick you up. Tell me where.”

  Illness eats at Noland as he waits. He vomits and shakes. Regrets grow like weeds and choke other thoughts:

  He should’ve created a startup… He should’ve designed video games… He wishes the shark had eaten him…

  Chapter 20

  Northeast Kingdom–Seven Weeks Later

  Nikki and Connor spar. She’s schooled in aikido, tai chi and judo, among other things. She taught him some moves and instilled a guiding principle: the softest thing in the world can overcome the hardest. “Four ounces can neutralize a thousand pounds.”

  The opponent supplies the strength and, in Connor’s case, the skill. “Your job is to turn it against him.”

  Ayelet, who writes on a poker table beneath the tree, imbued Book IV of the series with a softness-overcomes-hardness theme. The first draft is done. This secluded spot within the Northeast Kingdom is a writer’s colony nonpareil.

  But Ayelet gives no recognition to the withered red leaves garnishing her notebook and sticking in her hair, and refuses to look up, afraid to glimpse bare branches and blue sky.

  They will soon be vulnerable to drone surveillance.

  Inside the cabin, Jimmy, his ear glued to the radio, hollers warnings of a Nor’easter marching up the coast.

  Melody sews clothes. Weeks ago, she attempted a prison break. Took food and the boys. Nikki told her about Robert and broke down in the process. Since then, no one’s attempted a rebellion, or even instigated an argument. Robert’s girlfriend and wife subsequently grew close. They sleep with Nikki’s arm around Melody’s waist.

  Connor experiments.

  He disregards his training and unleashes a fit of punches and kicks. Nikki blocks them, laughs, wrestles Connor to the dirt and pins him facedown in a hold that taxes his shoulders. “Don’t be Bruce Lee,” she says. “Be Connor Yard.”

  They fight for hours. Beginning one hour after lunch and ending at sunset. With nothing else to do, Connor’s improved so much. His attraction to Nikki is conspicuous. The unrequited nature of it is glaring. But Ayelet loves Connor’s new beard, its gruff style and pretty blond hue.

  His body got hotter, too.

  Mornings, he performs uncountable pushups, pull-ups from a tree branch and goblet squats holding rocks. He runs ninety minutes.

  Connor 2.0 is primal.

  As the light dies, he lands a defensive kick. Maybe Nikki let him. Maybe she didn’t.

  “I don’t see your kicks coming anymore,” Nikki says. “Good for you.”

  She kicks his chest and delivers him to the dirt.

  Connor props himself up on his fists, gorilla-style. He looks like he is about to rise. But then he swings his legs around, to try to sweep Nikki to the ground. He connects, taking her legs out from under her. She falls and says, “You got me, Connor. Finally.”

  She let him do that.

  Another kick. From Baby. He kicks Ayelet’s belly two more times. Like knocks on a door. Baby’s asking her to open his door to the world.

  She hears something and looks around. The sound of a knuckle cracking. Denial ensues. And then water spills from her seat.

  Oh no.

  Barely more than ten percent of women have their water break like this. She researched pregnancy and childbirth during post-production on Book III.

  They’re fucked.

  “Connor,” she says.

  Student and teacher loll on the dirt.

  He ignores Ayelet.

  “Connor,” she says. “My water broke.”

  Clever as ever, he asks, “Are you sure?”

  She laughs, feels a contraction and stops laughing.

  “And I had a contraction.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a cramp?” he asks.

  The boys play Kill the Carrier in the dark.

  The adults eat dinner. Jan fries expired hotdogs and serves them on stale, but not moldy, buns. Connor presents his plan.

  “NO,” Nikki says. “Home birth. I’ve mastered the manual.”

  Nikki’s “NO” is harder than diamond.

  “Look, my parents are rich,” Ayelet says. “I’m talking nine-figures.”

  “NO,” Nikki says.

  “Ayelet has issues with her parents,” Connor says, “but they’re rational people, and they possess the resources to protect their daughter as she gives birth to our child.”

  Melody, yet to chime in, surveys the scene.

  “If Ayelet’s parents could provide the same or equal safety Robert and Jasper provided us here,” Nikki says, “we would be with them. This cabin is our last resort. We leave, we die.”

  Melody takes a side: “Nikki memorized the homebirth manual.”

  “I’ve had seven weeks to study up on this,” Nikki says. “And I’ve got a bag full of drugs, just in case.”

  “What if there’re complications?” Connor asks.

  Nikki gets snippy: “Complications are waiting for us out there.”

  “The decision is made,” Connor says. “We’re going to her parents’ house.”

  “Then you’re responsible for all our deaths,” Nikki says.

  “Connor Jr. deserves to be born in a medical facility,” Ayelet says.

  “Let me make a call,” Nikki says, heading outside.

  “In the cabin,” Ayelet says. “On speaker.”

  “Fine.”

  Nikki doesn’t blink. She centers the phone on the table. Dials the number. Jasper answers.

  “Hello Nikki,” he says.

  “Hello sir,” she says. “Thank you for taking my call. You’re on speaker. There’s trouble in Moose Country.”

  “I’d rather be there, with your troubles,” he says. “Hello folks.”

  Jan and Jimmy hold hands. Ayelet and Connor imitate their elders. Nikki reaches for Melody’s hand. She blushes and takes it.

  “I had to tell everyone about Robert,” Nikki says. “There was an attempt to escape. This evening Ayelet’s water broke. She and Connor plan to drive to her parents’ house in Boston and ask them to hire security—”

  “My folks are worth nine figures, easy,” Ayelet says.

  “—to protect them as she has her baby in a hospital,” Nikki says.

  Jasper gargles.

  “Forgive me,” he says. “But I turn in early these days.”

  “Have you recovered from the bombing?” Nikki asks
.

  “The surgeries on my ankle and hamstring went as expected,” he says. “I’m in a wheelchair. It moves like a young person’s legs. Saves time. I’m considering staying in it.”

  “Good to hear,” Nikki says.

  “The Boston idea is not without merit,” Jasper says. “Noland Bridgewater, one of the men we’ve identified as responsible for the attack, has fled to Iran, where he makes wild accusations in state media. He won’t harm you. Though I must warn you, the other suspect, Vincent DeSantis, escaped from Honolulu. He is the rogue contractor who took up the cause of Eric Rice. Given his technical capabilities, Vincent would learn of Miss Martin’s hospital admission and make a move. This could afford us a prime opportunity to capture or kill him. The risk, of course, is that you folks may be murdered in unspeakably gruesome fashion—”

  “I don’t want to die in childbirth,” Ayelet says.

  “Neither would I,” Jasper says. “Let me find a safe house to transfer the rest of you to.”

  “Good,” Connor says. “It’s settled.”

  Connor moves to tap the red button.

  But only Jasper decides when a call ends:

  “There is a photo you folks should see.”

  Chapter 21

  Northeast Kingdom/Boston

  The photo renders the ride silent.

  Connor drives. Prepared for almost anything. This time he drives like a soldier. Commands the road.

  The trip to Boston cuts diagonally through New Hampshire. Cravings beset Ayelet near the White Mountain National Forest region. A Cracker Barrel billboard screams to her from the trees. “Cracker Barrel makes those double blueberry pancakes,” she says. “They call it Momma’s Pancake Breakfast.”

  They ate at Cracker Barrel on trips to Robert’s house.

  “Babe…” Connor says.

  “Cracker Barrel,” she says. “Now.”

  “You’re stalling, Babe,” Connor says.

  “I’m hungry,” she says.

  “Shouldn’t we call your parents to warn them about the grandchild you’re about to have in their city?”

  “Not a good idea,” she says. “It’ll give them time to think of reasons to behave stupidly.”

  Connor parks in the secluded rear of the lot.

  Ayelet asks for a moment. He gives her ten, opens the passenger door and offers a hand. She pulls him in and kisses him. Of course they have more important things to do, but… Her mouth is so warm and so wet and her body is so full of energy he can’t resist and doesn’t want to.

  His hand searches under her Olympic dome of a belly. She bats it away. “Increased risk of infection,” she says. “After your water breaks.”

  She undoes his belt and kisses him again and gives him the best handjob of his life.

  Just when he thinks they’re out of luck, Connor finds moist towelettes tucked on the side of the Camry’s door. Robert thought of everything. Realizing the door was open this whole time, Connor holsters his still-rigid cock. Ayelet vaults herself out of the seat but then shakes her head and points to the dumpster.

  A man in a soiled apron. He aims his phone their way. Fucker recorded the encounter.

  Connor sure hopes the guy doesn’t post it online.

  “Fuck food,” Ayelet says. “Let’s drive.”

  Connor should’ve run down the guy with the phone and smashed it.

  He can do stuff like that now.

  “Fucking bugs,” Ayelet says.

  Winged insects die on the windshield. Fewer than on the trips to North Berkshire in the summer. The worst was when Connor interviewed in spring. He drove Ayelet’s Lexus. Each way the windshield was caked in bug goo. Using the wipers proved foolish. He had to pull off the road, clean the glass with bottled water and Dunkin Donuts napkins and then stop at a car wash.

  “At least the roads are clear,” she says.

  The anxiety in his wife’s voice unsettles him. Her parents scare her more than the car-hacking, swatting and attack on Robert did. “What happened between you and your folks?” Connor asks.

  “Nothing in particular,” she says. “There wasn’t an inciting incident.”

  He believes it. Doesn’t understand it. Respects her aversion to talk about it.

  “Contractions?” he asks.

  “One or two.”

  No traffic. They’re alone. Ominous. The naked trees lining the parkway remind him why leaving was necessary. The cabin lost its tree cover by the day. More than half the leaves were gone. Soon it’d be vulnerable to aerial drones. Many times he swore he heard something up in the air.

  “The big man’s kicking?” Connor asks.

  “He’s patient,” Ayelet says.

  “Wanna turn around?” he asks.

  “Yes and no,” she says.

  “Wanna stop?” he asks.

  “Marcello creeped me out when he came to North Berkshire.”

  “Your weirdly indescribable family conflict concerns me more.”

  “You wouldn’t understand, Connor. Your family’s different. They’re psychologically healthy. My parents’ contempt for me has to be experienced to be understood.”

  Still doesn’t add up.

  Ayelet acts as the GPS voice. Connor obeys, to the best of his ability. He turns short, runs red lights, misses stop signs. Nobody cares. The city of Boston cooperates.

  Young college students crossing the clean streets. What fun they must be having. He wishes he could go back in time. The period bookended by Eric Rice’s death and the start of this fall’s Siege was golden.

  Everyone on earth should enjoy the peace love friendship and fun Connor took for granted in those years.

  Thoughts of Eric percolate.

  “Eric was the smartest person I’ve known,” Connor says. “But he couldn’t experience fun. It was like he was snakebitten at birth, and the venom was contempt—Eric and your parents would’ve made a good team. He couldn’t let go of his contempt until he totally transformed or destroyed the object of it. He felt contempt for an aspect of himself. So he attacked it. He felt contempt for another aspect of himself. Same thing. He felt contempt for me and attacked me. If I let him eradicate whatever he thought was wrong with me, he would’ve developed contempt for another guy, obsessed over him and attacked him. It was like a biological imperative. Eric was compelled to destroy everything that bothered him. But you can’t do that. Most of the time you have to live with the shit you don’t like. Eric was the kind of guy who couldn’t taste his morning coffee because he was ruminating on something he hated.”

  They pull up to her parents’ luxury tower on the harbor. The guard is short, thick, bald and effusively friendly.

  Connor lowers his window at the security booth. He sees his breath in the air. This oncoming nor’easter’s real.

  Ayelet leans across her husband: “Hi, I’m Ayelet Martin. My parents live in the Penthouse. I’m visiting unannounced with my husband—”

  “Oh, what a wonderful day it is, Ayelet,” he says. “I’m so pleased to meet you. My name is Mark. I love your novels to death. Pull in here. I hope your visit is wonderful. Your parents will be so happy to see you. They just came back from an excellent dinner with young friends. I hope you have a great time tonight.”

  Mark looks past Connor, doesn’t acknowledge the husband’s presence, but his good mood infects Connor anyway.

  Another enthusiastic staff member shows them to the elevator and presses the P button.

  Ayelet whispers, “What if my parents became reasonable in the six years I haven’t spoken to them?”

  “You never know.”

  Connor has a good feeling about this. He’ll charm them, soothe over this family spat. They’ll pay ex-Navy SEALs to protect Ayelet. She’ll have their baby in the best hospital. Everyone will be safe, for the time being. Jasper’s agents will shoot Vincent DeSantis dead.

  The elevator opens. Ayelet leads the way. Her parents await. Val, an older version of Ayelet, radiates joy and pride at the sight of her pregnant da
ughter. What a sexy mother-in-law Connor has; good genes AND good docs. Jeff, Ayelet’s dad, is tall, wiry, a type A, combusting with love for his daughter.

  They sandwich Ayelet in a hug and tell her how much they missed her. “I missed you guys too.” Neither parent looks at Connor. He practices patience.

  He can’t wait to be introduced.

  After the hugs and kisses, Ayelet says, “Mom, Dad, meet my beloved husband and the father of our son, Connor Yard.”

  Their jubilation dissipates. Instantly. Devastatingly. Like it was never there.

  “Your guy’s name is Vincent, not Connor,” Val says.

  “What?” Ayelet asks.

  Hearing the name Vincent disembowels Connor.

  The contractor named Vincent DeSantis tormented them…

  “Dear, you’re not of sound mind,” Jeff says. “It’s a syndrome. Don’t worry. The doctors will cure you.”

  “So, Jasper’s plan flushed them out,” Jeff says and kisses Val’s cheek.

  “Jasper knows what he’s doing,” Val says.

  “How do you guys know Jasper?” Ayelet asks.

  “The baby’s going to be called Vincent Jr., Ayelet,” Val says.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” she asks. “Who the fuck is Vincent?”

  Connor approaches and offers his hand:

  “I’m Connor, ma’am. Not Vincent. I’m Ayelet’s husband. It’s nice to meet you. We’ve decided to name our baby Connor Jr. Vincent DeSantis is an enemy of the state.”

  Connor’s hand’s left hanging.

  “Don’t dare call Vincent an enemy of the state in this household,” Jeff says.

  “I won’t shake his abusive hand,” Val says.

  “Don’t call my husband abusive, bitch,” Ayelet asks.

  “Come in, dear,” Val says. “Invite your abuser. We protect women in our home.”

  “Nothing sickens me more than a man who assaults a woman in a Cracker Barrel parking lot,” Jeff says, trailing away.