Wave

by Mara, Wil

  Back in Brighton Beach, sixty-four-year-old Alma Wattley wanted desperately to jump into her ’98 Ford Crown Victoria and get the hell out of town, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Known affectionately among her neighbors as “The Cat Lady,” she had taken in hundreds of strays over the years, had cared for and loved each and every one of them. At this point in her life she had only twelve, and at this particular moment, just eleven of them had been located.

  Brian was calling both of them now, raising his voice in an angry way Jennifer had never heard before and didn’t even know he was capable of.

  She could hear him loud and clear, knew he was no more than maybe a hundred yards away. But she had made the decision not to answer. If she answered, he would insist they leave. She looked at her watch, knew how much time was left. Brian would make her go, would physically force her if necessary. He was being the responsible adult; she knew that. But she still had to find Mark. She couldn’t just leave him here. Brian didn’t understand that, didn’t care about him the way she did. No one cared about him the way she did—not Brian, her mother, Mark’s mother, or Mark’s pathetic stepfather…. He was all alone in the world, this sweet, wonderful person who wouldn’t harm a fly, who took pictures of animals and wrote poems and bought ice-cream cones for children with money he barely had. And no one cared about him one goddamn bit.

  She sat down, brought her knees up, and cried. She made sure to keep it quiet so Brian wouldn’t hear. He kept calling, and at one point he must’ve come within twenty feet. She was scared then, scared and unsure what she would do if he discovered her. But it never came to that—he turned and went the other way. His voice faded, and then disappeared entirely. She was alone, alone and able to do whatever she wanted.

  She stood up, tears still running down her cheeks, and headed in the opposite direction. Through her phlegm-clogged throat she yelled for him. She ran in whatever direction the sandy path took her, knowing she had no idea where she was going, and only the faintest notion of how to get back.

  Brian returned to the car to get his cell phone out of the glove compartment. He rarely used it, couldn’t even remember the last time. He was at the store 24/7 and had almost no social life, so no one ever called him. The store was his mistress. How sad is that?

  He shook off this familiar question and, standing there with the passenger-side door open and one foot on the jamb like some highway trooper, turned the phone on. It beeped once and lit up, then went dead again. He repeated the action and the same thing happened.

  “Shit.”

  Of course the battery was dead—why wouldn’t it be?

  He leaned into the car and went back into the glove compartment. There was a charger in there somewhere, he recalled. Came with the phone. He’d never used it, but now was as good a time as any to learn. As soon as he found it he realized it had to be plugged into the cigarette lighter. He wasn’t even sure where that was, as he didn’t smoke and never had. It wasn’t anywhere in plain view, for instance under the stereo like it was in Jennifer’s car.

  After some frantic searching he found it inside the ashtray and mumbled something about what a stupid place that was to put it. His annoyance upgraded to near-rage when everything was finally hooked up and the phone still wasn’t charging. Two more precious minutes were blown consulting the owner’s manual, which had a too-general-to-be-useful table of contents and no index. He finally found a reference to the fact that the car needed to be running for the charger to function, and cursed himself because this was something he already knew. From the passenger seat he fumbled the key from his pocket and stuck it in the ignition. The phone beeped the moment he turned it on, this time in a gleeful sign of life.

  He took a deep breath and dialed 911. The thought that damn-near every cell phone in the area might be in use and that he’d have trouble acquiring a signal was set aside for the moment. Miraculously, someone picked up on the first ring.

  “Emergency services, how can I help you?”

  “Please put me through to the Long Beach Township Police Department right away. This is an emergency.”

  He sounded like he’d just finished the Boston Marathon. He put a hand to his chest to calm himself down.

  “What is the nature of the emergency?”

  “I’m at the Forsythe Wildlife Refuge looking for two missing people. Please put me through to the Long Beach police.”

  “Hold please.”

  The line went quiet, and for a terrifying moment he thought he’d lost the connection.

  “God, no….”

  He knew how lucky he’d been to get through in the first place, knew it was the same kind of luck that enabled some people to call Ticketmaster during the first five minutes Bruce Springsteen tickets went on sale and get floor seats at face value. What were the odds he could do it again? A hundred to one? A thousand?

  Then, mercifully, another person—the same woman, as it turned out, who had asked Officer Ramsey to see what was going on at the Erickson house—said, “Long Beach Police Department, how can I help you?”

  “My name is Brian Donahue, and I’m sitting in my car in the Forsythe Wildlife Refuge, at the southernmost end of the island. There are two people missing here, and I need help fast. Can you send an officer? Preferably someone with a bullhorn?”

  “I’ll try to get someone over there, but all of our officers are tied up right now, as you might expect. There’s only about an hour left. If you can’t find these missing folks soon and an officer doesn’t arrive….”

  There was a brief pause, and then Brian said, “I understand.”

  Mark was down to two rolls. He’d shot more than fifteen. There were plenty of great pictures captured in those long brown strips of celluloid. He had a gut feeling the terrapin shots would be the big winners. Those were his “definites”—the type that motivated his editor to give him future assignments. Others were certainly usable, too, maybe not as covers, but as interiors. He felt proud and satisfied. The latter was a rare and precious sensation that only came at the end of a long shoot. The job was done, the objective achieved. It was all downhill from here.

  He sat in the sand, hung his arms loosely around his half-raised knees, and watched the surf. He was tired, he realized. Tired right down to his bones. When it came to photography, it wasn’t the duration that drained you, it was the intensity. A sprint, not a marathon. He was so hyperfocused that he found himself shaking at times. The anxiety, the eagerness to get those shots was almost overwhelming. If nothing else it certainly made great demands on your energy. He had learned this long ago, planned for it by taking in a lot of carbs and sugars before every assignment. But even that didn’t help much. It was as if every muscle, every nerve, every thought came together in one ultraconcentrated effort. Perhaps the results were fulfilling, but the expense to the system was brutal. It was a hangover of sorts, he thought as he sat there with the acrid scent of sand and salty sea air drifting through his nostrils.

  His thoughts turned to Jennifer. He could picture her sitting in the back of that ancient warehouse, under the glow of that ancient desk lamp, pecking away on that ancient keyboard, her retinas slowly degenerating from that ancient monitor. She was a trooper, that one. The all-American Good Girl. She complained a little when she found out she had to go in, but not much. He had a feeling he knew why she’d drawn the low card. He knew what BethAnn Mosley was all about two minutes after he’d met her. He’d always been able to see into people. He could detect the bad as well as the good and he knew she was wicked. His gifted insight was what fed his ever-growing love for the girl he hoped to marry someday—he saw the good, knew it was pure and whole, and that she was the real thing. He was lucky to have her. He would do whatever it took to hold onto her. She was the future.

  He got out the cell phone again. He figured he’d give her a call, just to say hi and see how things were going. He held the phone up and stared at it, his thumb on the “ON” button. Then he wondered, Should I really do this?
I don’t want to come across any needier than I already do.

  This worried him constantly. He wanted her to know that he needed her, but he didn’t want her to start thinking he was desperate. He didn’t want her to feel he was a burden, a weight around her neck. Whenever he thought of this, he thought about a kid in high school named Doug Troost whose father had been dying of gradual heart failure. The family was not able to afford nursing care at home, so Doug’s mom watched him during the day and worked evenings, with Doug taking the night shift. Mark never forgot the put-upon expression Doug always wore. It was as if there were an invisible 5,000-pound slab resting on his back every minute of every day. When his father finally passed away during their senior year, Doug cried for weeks, Mark remembered, but there was also a palpable sense of relief, a freshness and a light in his eyes that had not been there before. It couldn’t be suppressed.

  He feared becoming like Doug Troost’s father to Jennifer—not a physical dependent, but an emotional one. He feared the day when he picked her up from work or from her house and sensed—even just a little—that same put-upon air that had given Doug Troost’s spirit such a beating all those years ago. She’d stop thinking of him as her great love and start thinking of him as a chore. They’d still spend time together, but she’d dread rather than relish it. The enthusiasm would be gone, replaced by habit and discipline. And then, ultimately, she’d wake one morning gasping for breath and realize she had to put an end to it.

  This thought literally terrified him. Sometimes he got stuck thinking about it late at night and couldn’t fall asleep. Sometimes he dreamed about it and was jolted awake. And every time he found the reassurance he needed in only one thought—I will not do anything to cause it.

  He put the phone back in the bag, then lay back and laced his hands together behind his head. It was cloud-watching time. He felt particularly good all of a sudden—tired, but content. He was proud of his self-discipline, and the thought crossed his mind: I might just be able to swing this relationship after all. And someday, he decided, he’d tell her about all this; after they were married, in their own home, and had a flock of kids. He’d tell her about all his insecurities, all the demons he kept at bay while they were dating. Maybe it would make him seem heroic, privately suffering to maintain their love. He could deal with that. There were worse things in life than having the girl you love think of you as a hero.

  What made him take the phone back out of the bag and finally turn it on was the unnamed restlessness that had driven him throughout most of his life—that undying desire to do something useful with his time. He enjoyed watching the clouds pass for a few minutes, but couldn’t lie here all day long.

  A quick calculation told him he could, if necessary, get back to the car, take a quick trip over to the Acme, get a few more rolls of film, and get back before Jennifer arrived. What he needed to know before even bothering to go was whether his photo editor wanted any subjects in particular. He’d say he was finished with the potential cover shots, maybe fill him in briefly about the diamondback pictures, then say he had time for more—was there anything else they needed?

  He returned to a sitting position and turned the phone on. Immediately upon acquiring a signal the message appeared on the little screen, “You have voice mail.”

  He smiled, thinking—hoping—Jennifer had left him a little love message. She often did that—“Just calling to see how you’re doing and to let you know I’m thinking about you,” or, “Just called to say I love you. Call me back when you get a chance.”

  He dialed into his mail and waited. It took longer than usual for the call to go through, which he found peculiar—he was in the middle of nowhere and couldn’t imagine how much interference there’d be. He checked the screen to see if the signal was flat. It wasn’t. In fact it was reading full strength. He shrugged and brought the phone back to his head.

  “Your voice mail is full, please check your messages.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said aloud, annoyed. Hardly a week seemed to pass without some technical problem affecting his life.

  He hit “1” and “enter,” then heard, “You have twenty unplayed messages. Press the star key to hear new messages.”

  He gave a quick snort and shook his head. “Pathetic.”

  Then he hit the star key and listened.

  Sarah Collins called her former professor again. Dr. Kennard answered on the first ring.

  “Sarah?”

  “Daniel, I’m going to read some numbers to you.” She had a pile of papers in her hand, all fresh printouts. In the background, Dolan was starting to load things into boxes.

  When she was finished, Kennard said, “Are you certain those readings are correct? Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes. I did them all twice, and I ran a systems diag, too. Everything’s working fine.”

  There was a pause, and then, “Listen, Sarah, as soon as you’ve sent out the necessary alerts, get the hell out of there. If those readings are right, you’re in the path of one of the biggest tsunamis in recorded history.”

  Officer Jeff Mitchell, in his Harvey Cedars squad car with the lights swirling but without the siren on, worked his way down to the Causeway, riding mostly along the northbound shoulder, which, by order of Mayor Harper, had been left clear for emergency vehicles. All other lanes, including the shoulder on the southbound side, were open for general use and now flowed toward the bridge. Harper had also ordered that all cars parked on either shoulder be removed. Regardless, Mitchell encountered two, which he circumvented simply by deviating onto the sidewalk. As the vehicle bounced and scraped along the cement, Carolyn King remained silent and stone-faced in the passenger seat.

  He was forced to use the siren when he reached the bridge, where traffic wasn’t moving as fast as it should’ve been. He felt a twinge of guilt as he broke the flow to get through. It’s only a few seconds, but will they count later on? Did I just sign the death warrant of someone at the end of the line?

  He peered over at his passenger, the reason he had to stall the traffic in the first place. She was staring straight ahead through the window, expressionless and apparently not the least bit concerned. Why was that so surprising?

  He tried to be empathetic, tried to put himself behind her eyes. As a father of two, it really wasn’t all that tough. There was a part of him that admired her ruthlessness, her extreme focus. He’d had good parents and a good, solid childhood. Had they made similar decisions for him, decisions they never told him about, that he’d never know about? And would he do the same in a similar situation?

  Of course you would. How could you not?

  He guessed, accurately, that Mrs. King was under severe emotional strain. In fact, it was agonizing for her, pure torture. He felt this instinctively, as only a good cop can, and his attitude toward her softened. He wished he could do more, do something to soothe her soul. But he’d seen people like her all his life, knew the personality well. She was practical and pragmatic to a fault. Words were no substitute for action—she wanted results. The only way she’d feel better about her missing daughter was by rescuing her. Period.

  He took the cell phone from his belt and flipped it open.

  “I’m going to try calling Mark’s home. Maybe he’s there.”

  “Didn’t the newspaper say he hardly ever was?”

  “Yes, but it won’t hurt to try.”

  He had to redial the number sixteen times before it worked. As soon as the call went through, he switched to the speaker.

  “Hello?”

  It was a male voice, low and gruff, and with the slightest hint of an accent—Southern or Midwestern, Mitchell thought.

  “Is this the home of Mark White?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  Mitchell’s spine tingled—not from joy, but from wariness. He’d heard voices like this before and it was that of a suspicious, unsympathetic man. He didn’t like to profile, but wasn’t it part of a cop’s job, at least sometimes, to do just t
hat? Wasn’t it a resource like any other that, when used responsibly, held genuine value?

  “Officer Jeff Mitchell, Harvey Cedars Police.”

  “Police, huh?” There was a pause. “Do you know where Mark is?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I was hoping maybe you did.” Mitchell remembered the girl at the SandPaper saying something about Mark having a mother and stepfather. “Is his mom there?”

  “Yeah, but she’s pretty upset right now. She doesn’t know where he is, either, and we’re trying to get packed up and out of here.”

  “May I speak with her, please? It’s important.”

  There were some indefinable noises, then Mitchell heard the stepfather say, “Angie?” faintly. He glanced at King from the corner of his eye. She looked thoroughly disgusted. He could almost read her thoughts—She’s never going to see that boy again. I’m not getting mixed up with a family like that. I wouldn’t dirty my hands with—

  “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, light and airy. She didn’t sound particularly upset, Mitchell noted, but she did sound thoroughly confused.

  “Mrs. White?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Officer Jeff Mitchell, Harvey Cedars Police Department.”

  “Who?”

  King rolled her eyes.

  “Jeff Mitchell. Harvey Cedars Police.”

  “He’s a cop,” the stepfather said impatiently in the background.

  “Yes, officer? What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m in a squad car heading toward the Forsythe Wildlife Refuge.”

  “The Forsythe…Wildlife…Refuge?” She said it with the halting uncertainty of a child just learning the words.