by Mara, Wil
Hurriedly taking position again, he said, “Okay, ready? One…”
“No!” BethAnn screamed.
“Two…”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Three!”
“NO!!!”
They rocked the car back and forth a few times, just to build some momentum. It was surprisingly light, but then perhaps that was just the psychology of the moment—under less stressful, less urgent circumstances, it might have felt much heavier.
They got it onto its side first, then leaned it against the guard rail. The crowd of onlookers had grown, and the Allman Brothers guy hastily recruited another bulky male or two to help with the final effort.
BethAnn lost what little control remained and went berserk in a desperate final attempt to free herself. At one point she kicked one of her captors in the side of the face. All that did was double the guy’s determination to hold her down.
A combined groan came from the heaving team, who slowly but surely lifted the Jag up and onto the steel-tubed guardrail. It hung there for one brief but fascinating instant, balanced like a dinner plate atop a pool cue in a circus act. Then it finally gave way to gravity and tipped over, slipping off the rail at a 45-degree angle.
Most people ran back to their vehicles, but a few couldn’t resist standing there to watch the Jag’s descent. It whistled quietly through the warm spring wind, its sooty black underside fully exposed, then slammed mightily into the bay. The gentle current carried it for a few seconds before it slipped below the surface.
BethAnn was released, the people responsible fleeing to their cars.
“YOU ASSHOLES!” she screamed, picking up a little stone that was lying nearby and chucking it at one of them. It missed by a mile.
The line started moving again, and she had little doubt they’d run over her if she didn’t get out of the way. She got up on the sidewalk that followed the guardrail. A quick look over the side confirmed that the Jag—her symbolic entrance into a better world—was lost forever. The spot where it had gone down was bubbling and fizzing like seltzer, but even that wouldn’t last long.
With an open road in front of them, the cars zoomed over the bridge. Turning away from the Jag’s final resting place, BethAnn was suddenly struck with the realization that she now had no way of getting to the mainland besides walking.
Actually, running might be a good idea.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had run anywhere. Probably not since gym class in high school. But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about this. Traffic was racing by, and she figured there was a fat chance of anyone stopping to pick her up. Percolating with a combination of rage, despair, and more helplessness than she’d ever known, she turned and began jogging up the incline. The peak looked like it was a million miles away. She didn’t look back because there was no reason to. She wasn’t just running from the tidal wave, she was running from everything she’d known over the last ten years. That thought didn’t eclipse the physical strain she was already feeling. After only a few minutes she was huffing and puffing. She paused to catch her breath, leaning against the rail for support and hoping her heart didn’t explode. One of the things I would’ve done if I’d been able to keep that Jag is get into shape, she told herself. Slim down, maybe look for a man again. But it was all academic now. The Jag was gone. All she had left was herself, and saving her ass was the priority.
When she felt better, she began jogging again. She’d only gone a few steps when she heard a voice—“Excuse me, miss?”
She turned to find an elderly man leaning out of a maroon minivan. Wispy white hair covered all but the very top of his head and added contrast to a remarkably deep tan. His mouth was small and upturned in a warm, grandfatherly smile.
“Do you need a lift?”
The man kept the vehicle moving, slowly. BethAnn, although she barely realized it, kept moving, too.
“That would be great.”
“Then hop in—but quickly, please. I don’t want to hold everyone else up.”
The side door slid back automatically, revealing a handful of other passengers. They were all very young—no more than teenagers—and they all wore white crewneck T-shirts with red trim. “Highway Holiness Church of Jesus” was printed on the front.
The little group moved back to make room for her. After a moment’s hesitation, she climbed in. The door slid shut again.
As they reached the top of the bridge and began down the other side, the priest glanced into the rearview mirror and said, “I’m Father Brad, leader of the Highway Holiness Church. What’s your name, dear?”
The others waited for her response with what seemed like unusually high anticipation.
Karen was sure the car was going to flip—she’d never gone into a turn so fast. The tires squealed, just like in the movies. At least the two on the driver’s side did—the other two lifted a few inches off the pavement. What amazed her, though, was that the car didn’t flip. She had to be doing at least eighty.
What’s the difference? I’m dead anyway.
As she straightened out on the Ericksons’ street, she checked her watch—less than ten minutes now. This was an exercise in futility; she’d known that for some time. What did she think, she’d pick up her children and then fly away? Did she really believe she’d have time to go all the way back?
Those damn soldiers, if they just hadn’t slowed me down.
Would her death weigh on their minds? Would it keep them up at night? Would they even speak of it? Probably not. The men responsible would keep it locked inside. If the topic ever did come up publicly, they’d cover for each other. That’s what people like that did. Those thirty minutes I wasted. Then a corrective thought—No, those thirty minutes they wasted. They were playing with your time, and it’s so much easier to play with someone else’s time.
“Bastards,” she mumbled, tears rolling again.
As soon as she reached the house, she pulled over crookedly and jumped out, leaving the car running. Halfway up the front walk she noticed the Ericksons’ car still parked in the driveway.
Oh Jesus, no. Don’t tell me….
The nightmare scenario came rushing forward—they were all in there, in their little vacuum, blissfully unaware. She would have to die with them, would have to see their faces, explain to them what was about to happen. No chance to say goodbye to their father.
She ran to the door, yanked it open, and bolted inside.
“Nancy? Bud? It’s me!”
She paused for only a moment, and upon receiving no answer began opening other doors. First the bedroom, then the sewing room.
“Patrick? Michael?”
The notion that they were still here was unnerving for all the obvious reasons, but the idea that they weren’t was, to her surprise, equally harrowing. If they weren’t here, where were they?
In the backyard, gardening?
She opened the back door and scanned the fenced-in landscape that sloped down to the bay. As beautiful as ever, green and brown and meticulously maintained.
“Nancy! Bud! Are you out here?”
Her reply came in the form of birds chirping and a light breeze rustling the trees; the soundtrack of a peaceful spring day. But the feeling that she was alone—completely alone—suddenly entered her system and spread itself around, the way a drop of food coloring spreads through a glass of water.
“Patrick! Michael!”
My God, they’re already gone.
She went back inside, and the tears started again. She cried openly, leaning back against the sink, covering her nose and mouth with both hands.
There’s nowhere to go. No way to get back in time.
She thought of trying to call Mike. Maybe it would be easier getting through on an ordinary phone. He always left his cell on, in fact he made a point of doing so when he went on a trip—in spite of the absurd roaming charges—so he’d always be accessible.
What should I say? “Thanks for the memories, darling. By the
way, I couldn’t find the kids, so I’m finished. Have a nice flight back.”
The distance from where she stood to the phone was maybe four steps, but in that journey a million thoughts surged through her mind—about death, about what came after, and about all the things she would miss in the land of the living. Patrick and Michael’s growing up, going to college, getting married. What would their wives be like? What about their own children? How would they fare professionally? Would one of them become a Nobel Prize winner? Find the cure for AIDS? Become a wealthy entrepreneur? She would never know. She’d always believed in God and the concept of an afterlife—some form of afterlife. But what if it was all a farce? What if someone, or perhaps a group of someones, had invented all that to provide peace of mind? What if this really was the end of everything?
She removed the phone from its base without really thinking about it. The plastic “click” and the ensuing electronic beep brought her back to reality. Half-dazed from a hail of uncommonly profound ideas, she entered Mike’s number and waited.
The call went through.
After two rings, she heard his voice—“Hi, this is Mike. I’m not available at the moment, but if you’ll leave—”
“Dammit!”
“—a brief message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.”
“Mike, it’s me. Look, there’s a lot going on over here at the moment. If you turn on the TV you might see something about it. There’s a tsunami coming. I’m at the Ericksons’ house right now. I don’t know where Bud and Nancy are, but I assume they left LBI with the boys. I’ll call you back as soon as I know more.”
The whirl of horror and worry and other emotions in her mind suddenly came to a halt as one bright and shiny thought drifted forward.
“I love you, Mike,” she said, her voice wavering. “No matter what happens, I want you to know that I love you and the boys more than anything in the world. I always have, and I always will.”
Grief overwhelmed her, shattering the courageous facade she’d been working so hard to maintain.
“I’ll call back as soon as I can,” she said, barely able to shape the words.
Dr. Sarah Collins scribbled the last set of numbers on the clipboard, then handed it back to Dave Dolan, who was now so pale he looked as though he’d died and been drained by an embalmer.
“Will it reach us here?” he asked, his throat dry.
Collins seemed at first not to hear the question, but a moment later she replied, “It might.”
“It could pass over the island and then cross the bay?”
Collins was nodding. “I can’t believe how big it’ll be. Holy God….”
Dolan took a quick look around the room—there was nothing that belonged to him other than the knapsack with the textbooks.
“The fourth one should be more than twenty feet high,” Collins added grimly. “Only takes a ten-footer to wipe out a town.” She gestured to the east-facing window. “Take a good look, Dave, while you still can.”
Dolan went over. LBI stood majestically along the horizon, a postcard-picturesque scene on any other day. What must it be like, he wondered, to be over there right now? To know that your life would end soon and that escape was impossible?
He decided he didn’t want to find out.
“I think it’s time to boogie,” he said, turning away and heading toward his knapsack. “Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Collins said hollowly, staring dreamily into space. “Is everything packed?”
“Everything important.”
Sarah Collins took one last look around. Her heart was going like a drum.
“Let’s go.”
{ FOURTEEN }
With so little time left, Donald Harper decided his future.
It would play out like this: The helicopter would arrive only moments before the tsunami, and he’d get on it. (He was actually intrigued by the possibility of watching the giant waves strike as he flew overhead, but he didn’t have the stomach to witness that kind of destruction knowing there were people dying down there.) He’d take the short trip to the mainland, manage the rescue effort, and then, once the island’s infrastructure was up and running again, he’d step down. He didn’t want to be remembered as the guy who got to keep his job because he was “lucky” enough to be in office when disaster struck. He also knew his detractors wouldn’t stand for it—they’d be back on him as soon as they were able. All would be forgiven for awhile, but not forever.
And, of course, eventually they’d find out everything.
His day of judgment would surely come if he clung to power. The longer he stayed, the harder he would fall, and the greater the humiliation. If he stepped down gracefully, admitting he had made mistakes and sparing the residents the details, and the despair, he might—might—be able to salvage the family name. Yes, he would be regarded as the black sheep, the one who screwed up. But at least he would be regarded as the exception, the dark chapter in an otherwise shining history. He would have to disappear, find some other way to make a living.
Maybe, just maybe, he could survive.
As he sat there behind his desk, elbows on the blotter, folded hands resting against his lips, the urge to cry was overwhelming. Just a year ago he and Tom had begun to plot—seriously plot—his road to Washington. Everything seemed perfect, could not have been going better. It was all within reach. He found himself wondering what it was like to be a United States senator. Real power and influence, making decisions that determined the course of a nation. Your effort affecting millions of people—millions. He saw it, like a bright light along the horizon. It was still a good distance away, but it was there. All he had to do was stay the course.
And then the light had gone out. Nothing but darkness and uncertainty lay ahead. The fragility of it was so…so pathetic.
You make a few mistakes in your private life, you ask God for forgiveness and move on. You make a few in public life, you’re finished.
The career of a politician, no matter how charismatic or successful, was as delicate as the wings of a butterfly. He hadn’t realized that. Or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. Whatever the case, he would’ve given anything for the chance to go back to that day one year ago and do it all over. But human beings weren’t permitted the luxury of going back in time and fixing things. You could only go forward. And that option didn’t seem to offer much for him at the moment.
He stood, took his jacket off the back of his chair, and slipped into it. I’ll never sit here again, he thought stupidly, hardly able to believe this moment had really arrived. Next time it’ll be someone else.
Maybe a different chair, maybe even a different building depending on the extent of the destruction. But the same chair in the figurative sense. It wouldn’t be him in it.
Who’ll be the lucky S.O.B.? he wondered. It wasn’t the first time he’d mulled this over. Davis? Surely not—he was never in the running. He doesn’t have what it takes. No way. Maybe Naughton, or Phillips. Maybe even Valerie Pruitt. She’s about as bright as they come.
One thing he knew for sure was that he would not have an official say in who his successor would be. No one would want that. Maybe the election committee would make some kind of grandiose gesture in public, just to seem forgiving and decent. A feel-good move designed to show a little mercy. But offstage his input would be about as welcome as a vial of anthrax.
He stepped to one side and slid the chair under the desk. A futile gesture, he realized, as everything in this room would be swirling in a billion gallons of water very shortly. It was more a symbolic gesture, and for some reason it made him feel proud of himself. He was at least still trying to carry himself with class and dignity.
He turned off the green banker’s lamp, leaving only the sunlight through the windows. He went to the doorway, turned for one final look, and mumbled, “Thanks for the memories.” Then, out of nowhere, he thought, Maybe I can lose some weight, grow a beard, dye my hair, and run again. An utterly absurd notion, but
it gave him a chuckle.
There was a kitchenette on the other side of the main room, directly across from Marie’s desk. On the shelf above the sink was a coffeepot and a police scanner. The former was already off. He didn’t drink coffee, and Marie had only a cup in the morning. The scanner, however, was on and very active. Harper liked having it on when he was here; it made him feel more in touch. The downside was that you got so used to hearing it after awhile that it gelled with all the other background sounds and became meaningless. Acoustic wallpaper.
He went over to turn it off, but just before he got there he heard a voice, troubled with static but clear enough—“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.”
He knew that voice—it belonged to Jeff Mitchell, one of LBI’s best cops. What the hell is he still doing here?
The dispatcher’s voice immediately followed—“Like what?”
Mitchell: “Something in the air. A helicopter, preferably. Didn’t they say the National Guard and the Staties were sending a few?”
Dispatcher: “Yes, they’re all here already.”
Mitchell: “Can you ask them to send one over there?” A pause, and then he added, “I don’t think we’re going to make it, Terri.”
“Oh, shit,” Harper murmured.
He went back to Marie’s desk and picked up the phone. He knew the direct number to the dispatcher’s office by heart (along with all the other municipal numbers, including those he rarely used—his memory for phone numbers was legendary). It rang five times before it was picked up.
“Long Beach Police Department, Dispat—”
“Terri, it’s Don Harper. I just heard Jeff on the radio. What’s going on? Why is he still on the island?”