Wave

by Mara, Wil

  “That’s the ‘other’ one,” she said to nobody, pointing to it. “The ‘gear’ one or whatever.”

  I think.…

  She wiggled back into position, shut the door, and released the emergency brake. Then she put her right foot on the gas pedal, and her left on the “gear” one. She wasn’t quite sure which one got pressed first, so it was time for a quick test.

  She engaged the gas first, pushing it down until the engine sounded downright angry. Then, very slowly, she began pressing the other one. She pushed the stick into the “one” position then let up on the pedal. For a second nothing happened. Then the clutch reached the point of engagement, and the car jumped forward. BethAnn’s head snapped back like the top of a Zippo lighter. She grabbed the steering wheel out of pure reflex and jammed the brakes with both feet. The car screeched to a halt, stalling about ten feet from where it had been, and about three inches from the corner of the garage door.

  The sudden halt brought her forward with such force that, as her torso more or less consumed the steering wheel, she felt like she was going to explode out the sides. Her mouth dropped open and her tongue shot out—both involuntary movements —and for a fleeting moment she was sure she was going to coat the dashboard with vomit. She pushed the door open and spilled onto the neat cement floor in one fluid motion, gasping for air.

  She got back up, wiping her hands together, and gave the car a murderous look. It was the look she’d given to other objects in the past just before reducing them to rubble. How badly she wanted to; how very badly.

  “All right, you bastard, you better not try that again.”

  She climbed back in, determined to take a different approach—clutch first, then gas, releasing the former slowly. This time, before starting the car, she moved the shifter into the “R” spot (at least what she thought was the “R” spot—it was so hard to tell). Her nerves frayed as she brought the clutch up—slower…slower…. When nothing happened, she thought she was simply doing it wrong again. Then the car jerked back, and again her feet went to the brake pedal before her brain engaged.

  “GODDAMMIT!” she screamed, sending dots of spittle onto the glass. “COME ON! COME ON!” She launched into a bizarre visual symphony of shifting and pedal-pressing that had no focus, no intent. The idea was to “try everything.”

  Miraculously, it worked—at some point during the fit, the car started forward slowly and easily. BethAnn quickly identified what she had done—clutch down, shift into gear, then clutch up while the gas pedal was pressed gently.

  Clutch comes up as the gas goes down.

  She heard this in her ex-husband’s voice and could actually picture him sitting there with his red-checked flannel jacket, looking at her earnestly, hoping to God she might start paying attention and actually care.

  She let go of everything in order to start fresh, then pressed the clutch all the way to the floor. Studying the baldheaded gear shifter for a moment, she set it into first, gripped the wheel, and began pressing the gas while bringing the clutch up at the same time. In her mind she pictured them passing each other at the halfway point.

  As the transmission engaged, the car lurched—but only slightly. It was working now.

  Clutch comes up as the gas goes down, clutch comes up as the gas goes down.

  She had to stop when she reached the end of the driveway. The Jag leaned down, ready to enter the flow. BethAnn noticed her old car sitting on the shoulder to the right. The junk food was still in there, as were the tapes. She wanted desperately to get them—just jump out and grab them. It would take all of five seconds. But someone would see her—someone who knew damn well what she was up to. The tapes were the symbolic sacrifice she was required to make.

  She rolled the window down, manually, and put on her best wide-eyed “please-let-me-in” face. The first person who saw this stopped to let her in. She smiled and waved, trying her best to appear casual, i.e., in a car that she drove all the time, every day. She prayed to no particular God that she could get it moving again. Clutch comes up as the gas goes down.

  She tried engaging the gears again, and the car jumped like a jackrabbit. She was unable to keep her foot off the brake, and the tires screeched on the exhaust-stained pavement. She gathered her nerves and tried again. This time the results were a bit more satisfactory—the Jag hopped slightly, then ran smooth. As she straightened out to take her place in the line, she realized the steering was also manual, and quite an effort. For an instant she wondered if perhaps it would be best just to sell this thing because of all the work required to drive it. If it came to that, at least she’d get a good piece of change for it. The fact that she didn’t possess the title was a detail that could be ironed out later.

  She stopped about a full length from the vehicle in front of her in order to provide a safety buffer; she had no doubt she’d need it. Her heart was pounding, her face covered with sweat, her senses sharper than they’d been in years. She felt like every set of eyes was on her, that every driver around her was somehow aware of her thievery. She imagined roadblocks and police with rifles and mirror sunglasses waiting for her, their faces blank. Far from the truth, she was sure, but she couldn’t help feeling that way.

  She let the car in front of her get a little farther up, then moved up as well. More jerking, more halting, more abuse to the ancient transmission.

  She was getting the hang of it.

  Officer Jeff Mitchell knew they were running out of time. In fact, he was all but certain they wouldn’t be able to get back.

  Even if we find these two kids waiting for us at the entrance, we’ll have to turn around, race back, and hope all the cars ahead of us make it over the bridge in time.

  He glanced at the dashboard clock. If the estimates on the tsunami’s arrival were accurate, they had less than a half hour left. About twenty-seven minutes, in fact.

  We won’t make it. There’s just no way.

  He took the microphone and called in to the dispatcher, praying to God Terri was still there.

  “Go ahead,” she said after the longest pause of his life.

  “Terri, it’s Jeff. Look, I’m still with Mrs. King, and we’re almost to the refuge, but we’re going to run out of time. I need some help.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something in the air. A helicopter, preferably. Didn’t they say the National Guard and the Staties were sending a few?”

  “Yes, they’re all here already.”

  “Can you ask them to send one over there?” He disengaged the button, then pressed it again and added, “I don’t think we’re going to make it, Terri.”

  “I understand. I’ll ask them right now.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  He hoped Mrs. King didn’t pick up on the noncommittal nature of her response—“I’ll ask them right now.” That, Mitchell knew, translated to, “I can’t make any promises.” Which, of course, further translated to, “If I can’t get one, you’re dead.”

  He spied his passenger from the corner of his eye again. She was sitting there with her back straight, eyes forward, hands folded neatly in her lap, acting every bit the proper lady. Twenty minutes ago he would’ve translated this impenetrable facade as coldness, detachment, and a bit of superiority. Now he was thinking it was more the case that she had trained herself to be like this for the benefit of her children, to set an example—Always be strong, she’d tell them. Especially when the chips are down. Like any good and decent parent, she was always teaching them, giving them the tools they needed to survive in the world. What he had earlier sensed as lack of emotion was in fact her way of dealing with every emotion in the book.

  “Thank you for making that call,” she said suddenly.

  It pulled Mitchell out of his trance, the one that had formed while analyzing her. “Huh?”

  “For the helicopter. I’m very grateful.”

  He smiled. “I promised you we’d get her, didn’t I?”

  She smiled, too, although she kept her eve
r-hopeful eyes on the road. She also nodded. It was a quick, happy gesture, almost like that of a little girl who’s just been asked if she’d like an ice cream cone. In that instant Mitchell saw the real Carolyn King, or at least the one who had been in control of her personality at some point in the past.

  “You have children of your own, don’t you, Jeff?”

  “Yes, two,” Mitchell replied.

  They kept talking.

  Tom Wilson set the phone back into its cradle after making his last call from this building. He knew that, too; he knew his work here was finished forever.

  Harper was in his office, doors wide open just as they were in the old days. (Wilson couldn’t help but think of his time at Harper’s side as “the old days” even though, technically, they had ended less than a year ago.) Wilson rose and went in, hands in his pockets. Harper was seated at his desk, scribbling something. It looked like ordinary paperwork on an ordinary day.

  Wilson checked his watch, then said, “I think it’s time to head out, Chief.”

  “Huh? Oh, is it?” Harper checked his own watch, a gold Rolex. Wilson couldn’t help but wonder if he’d acquired it honestly.

  “The damn thing will be here in less than a half an hour. We really should go.”

  Harper got up, dropped his glasses on the desk, and rubbed his eyes with two fingers.

  “Yeah, staying any longer would be cutting it a bit too close.”

  Wilson noticed he didn’t specify who shouldn’t be staying any longer—him, or them. Words were crucial to a politician, he had learned through the years. Every syllable meant something. And not just the words themselves, but how they were delivered. Subtleties such as body language, inflection, rhythm—elements so minute that ordinary people wouldn’t be able to distinguish variations—became so definitive between politicos that they might just as well be transmitted with a bullhorn.

  “Then let’s go,” Wilson said, forcing the issue. “You’ve done everything possible.”

  Harper said, “I plan to, Tom, don’t worry about that. Not right at this moment, but I will.”

  “I don’t understand….”

  “I’ve got that chopper coming, remember? Gary’s sending it for me. It’s due to land in the lot in about twenty-five minutes.”

  “That’s a bit of a gamble, don’t you think?”

  Harper came around, clapped him on the shoulder. “I trust Gary to save me in time,” he said with a laugh. “He doesn’t owe me any money or anything.”

  The next thing Wilson knew, he was being led back out. Classic handling; he’d seen his old boss do it a million times.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asked. It sounded whiney, but he couldn’t help it; the time for finesse was running out. He cursed himself for not checking up on the helicopter claim earlier. “If I know you, you’ll stay here and let the ocean sweep you away.” He paused, carefully considered whether or not he should actually say what came next in his mind, then decided to risk it. “I mean, what with everything that’s happened recently….”

  To his surprise, Harper laughed again—that casual, boisterous guffaw (largely manufactured, Wilson felt) that sent the message, Oh please, be serious.

  “Tom, that kind of stuff only happens in books and movies. Besides, suicide isn’t my style. Now stop all the nonsense and get going. You’ve got less than thirty minutes to reach that bridge.”

  He began leading again, his arm still firmly around Wilson’s shoulders.

  “Besides, I’ve got to help coordinate the rescue efforts in the aftermath. Believe it or not, it looks like I’ll still be useful around here.” They reached the double doors that led outside.

  “Of course you will. But—”

  “Come on, get moving. No more bullshit. I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Somewh—”

  “No, Don. Where?”

  Harper studied him for a moment, a look of uncertainty glimmering faintly in his aging brown eyes. Wilson knew he didn’t like to be cornered, didn’t like answers forced out of him. A politician to the core.

  Then he smiled again, putting every ounce of charm he had into it.

  “How about Howard Breidt’s office?”

  “Breidt’s?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Wilson appeared to consider it, as if it was a negotiable point. It wasn’t, of course.

  “Okay.”

  “Good, now get the hell out of here.”

  Wilson paused briefly, wanting to say more, but didn’t. Harper returned to his office, slumped into his chair, and sighed heavily, running a hand through his carefully combed and sprayed hair. This made it stand up in spots, which looked ridiculous, but right now he couldn’t have cared less.

  How in the name of God that guy read so deeply into him was always a mystery to Donald Harper. No one else had ever been able to do it—not Jane, not Marie, not anyone. Just Tom Wilson. It was as if he had been born with some kind of internal radio tuned to Harper’s bandwidth. Harper could still block him out at crucial moments, throw him off the airwaves when it was necessary. But he never felt like he could completely fool Wilson. There were times when the guy just knew.

  This was one of them—he had sensed Harper’s inner conflict, picked it up like a dog picks up the scent of a soup bone or a shark smells blood from half a mile away. Wilson knew he couldn’t decide what was right—stay and hope for the best, or leave and hope for the best.

  From a political standpoint, both options had their risks and their rewards. If you went down with the ship and survived, your heroism would be beyond question. Certainly all would be forgiven if that happened. Maybe he’d have trouble getting re-elected because the scandal would still be there, but at least the family name would be cleansed. The trick, of course, was getting through a tsunami in one piece. Harper knew the odds were against it, but there just might be a way.

  The second option—wait until the last possible moment and get the hell out of town—was obviously the safer bet. Unless his friend’s helicopter crashed on the way down, his survival was all but assured. Would this cast him in a cowardly light? Probably, in some people’s eyes. But many would appreciate the fact that he’d stayed until there was virtually no time left. In Wilson’s words, they would know he had done everything possible.

  On the other hand, considering that he was already embroiled in a scandal, if he survived while other residents perished it would be impossible to overcome that politically. The mere fact that he’d be flying away to safety on some sort of “private ride”—furnished through a personal favor, no less—as other residents drowned below, would be regarded in many quarters as nothing short of a sin. Harper would valiantly coordinate all emergency efforts, but once things began getting back to normal, his career would wash out with the tide along with the rest of the corpses.

  Making decisions, he knew, was what leadership was all about. And up until now he’d never had any trouble. But this one was the toughest of his life. Not just his career—his life. Because that was exactly what would be on the line.

  He stared blankly into space, hoping the answer would appear out of nowhere…and soon.

  Bud hurried down the slope of the backyard as quickly as his arthritic legs would carry him. This section of his property was enclosed by a stockade fence that had been installed the previous year. The unpainted and unstained pickets still had a new look to them. In one corner, the lawn gave way to a serpentine line of bricks that acted as a border between the grass and a tasteful ground scape of small, glassy stones and larger, rough-hewn patio stones. The latter were arranged in a quaint footstep pattern leading down to a gate, which Bud pulled back. The step-stones continued a short way to the very edge of the property, where it met the waters of Little Egg Harbor Bay. There, tied to a piling, bobbing quietly in its homemade skirt on this otherwise postcard-perfect day, was Bud’s 120 Impact Boston Whaler.

  He’d had it for two years, used it only
for fishing, and kept it in immaculate condition because he planned to resell it and upgrade. It was just over eleven feet long and five feet wide, with a Mercury outboard motor, a white canvas sun top, a cushioned aft bench with underneath storage, and a self-bailing cockpit sole. Bridge clearance was two feet ten inches, fuel capacity fourteen gallons, and it was rated to carry four adults.

  As he jumped into it, the shock in his knees was like a heat explosion and he almost screamed on impact. As the pain subsided he got behind the console and fished the key from his pocket; it was attached to an orange floating-buoy key chain with a tiny waterproof compartment that held one dose of his pain medication. He jiggled it into the ignition, and the Merc roared to life without hesitation.

  Whether the boat would start or not wasn’t what concerned him—he was more interested in the fuel gauge. The needle wavered for a moment, then settled a hair above “E.” That was what he thought—he wasn’t planning on taking the boys out until tomorrow, when he could get down to Jingles’ Bait and Tackle and get some fresh night crawlers. He also needed to mix a fresh batch of gasoline and two-cycle oil.

  He would have to do it now.

  He turned the motor off and climbed back out. He could hear the joints popping and feel the ligaments pulling and stretching in his knees. He ran up and across the yard again, trying to ignore the fact that the beautiful landscaping he and Nancy had worked on for so many years would be gone shortly. It all seemed so surreal.

  He went into the garage and flicked on the light. The worktable was to his immediate right, against the back wall, and the red plastic gas container was on the shelf underneath. Thank God I keep things organized, he thought, and remembered a guy he knew in high school named Artie. Most disorganized sonofabitch Bud had ever known. He once blew an afternoon helping the guy search for his wallet. What would he be doing if he was stuck in this situation? “Sorry, kids, we won’t be able to get off the island in time. I have no idea where I left the gas container, so I can’t fill the boat….”