Head Rush

by Carolyn Crane

  My dad smiles. “If you think it’s an ambulatory bulletproof biosphere, then yes.”

  Otto touches it, asks about the material, and Dad explains how the galvanized titanium plates connect, with titanium mesh at the joints. He points out the retractable tree-climbing spikes for the boot-and-hand parts. He tells how he constructed the armor over a standard hazmat suit, and engineered the self-cooling capabilities, and shows Otto the respirator, which fits over your head. It looks like an astronaut’s helmet, complete with a glass window to peer out of. Level-four protection with an air exchange. No self-respecting paranoid recluse would settle for anything less.

  Otto asks all kinds of questions about battlefield applications of the suit, and its potential use during chemical attack. “This is fantastic,” he says at one point. “I wonder how hard it would be to manufacture these on a mass scale.”

  Seriously?

  I turn a baffled gaze to Otto. To my dad. To Otto.

  We head into the shack, which is an indoor sprouting and hydroponic operation. Dad loves plants; he’d have been an excellent farmer if he didn’t fear dirt so much. Mom planted outdoor gardens every year while we were growing up in the suburbs, and Dad helped with them when he could. Indoor gardens, however, have become his forte.

  Before I can stop him, he opens the latch in the low ceiling. Down comes the panel and the small ladder that takes you up the chimney, which is actually a machine-gun turret. I give Dad a look. The machine-gun turret qualifies as hidden and not quite legal, but Otto is impressed.

  I feel grateful that I’d prepared Otto ahead of time for some degree of firearms infractions. “It’s all defensive,” I’d explained to him over coffee last week. “When you’re worried about pandemic-level outbreaks, your enemies aren’t just germs, but people carrying germs who overrun the countryside looking for shelter, food, and, you know…” I’d shrugged, attempting to keep it all sounding breezy, and not a big deal, “… escape from the crazed hordes. Stuff like that. Plague defense all through history had a military component.”

  After Otto and Dad tear themselves away from the turret, we go down the stairwell, which, like a normal family’s staircase, is lined with family photos. These are mostly of my brother, Jimmy, and me. Otto examines each one, remarking frequently on my adorableness, though in truth, I was an unkempt child, a pimply, teen.

  We stop for the longest time when we get to the picture of my mother. “You look just like her,” Otto says.

  Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s our favorite picture of her, taken in the yard of our old house. She’s dressed for a party. She forced Dad to be social, to push through his germ phobia. Her hypochondria had nothing to do with germs, of course. You don’t get vein-star blowout from germs.

  She died of it a year after the photo was taken.

  Dad shows Otto the TV room, the periscope ports, the pantry that holds six months of dehydrated food, and the cloak room, which is a euphemism for the place where there are more hazmat and bio-agent-resistant suits, plus a selection of firearms, though I’m happy to see that he’s thrown a wool blanket over the grenade-and-sonic-weaponry shelf.

  I want to groan when Otto stops in front of the antibacterial spray booth. I remind everyone of the time. “Don’t you have tea, Dad? Are you packed?”

  “What is this? A shower stall?” Otto asks.

  “As a matter of fact, no,” Dad begins.

  And with that we’re there for another ten minutes, and of course Dad wants to give Otto a demo, and Otto is happy to have his clothes, skin, and hair misted with antibacterial vapors.

  And then it hits me: I’m engaged to marry my father.

  My father goes to crazy extremes to defend against tiny germs and organisms, and Otto goes to crazy extremes to guard against larger threats—antihighcap glasses, criminals, sleepwalking zombies, my own free will. Hell, he’s even fighting the currents of fate as predicted by Fawna, and apparently, he has more battles in mind.

  “None for you?” Dad asks while Otto’s closed up in the booth.

  “No thanks,” I snap, channeling my angry teenager. “I checked the weather and there’s no plague forecasted for today.”

  “Just thought I’d offer, honey.”

  God, what’s wrong with me? “Ignore me,” I say. “I’m just stressed.”

  Dad lowers his voice. “He’s a good man.”

  I look away. We can’t have this conversation.

  “Is it the turret?”

  I shake my head. “Drop it.”

  “Wow,” Otto says, coming out. “That’ll hold me for a while, I’d imagine.”

  I tell Dad how Otto made the entire back of the limo into a mobile clean room. Dad is touched, I can tell. Otto adds that the hotel room got the same treatment, and Dad is in love.

  I’ve always imagined bringing a great guy home to Dad, and having him feel proud of me, and the three of us bonding. This is a perversion of that. We’re bonding, but it’s all bad.

  After Otto tests the periscope and views the computer room, we head up to the kitchen and sit around the little table. Dad has used a tablecloth, something he is typically against on the grounds that tablecloths are unwipable.

  “It’s cheery here during the day,” I say, pointing up at the skylight tube. “You get a good amount of natural light through there.”

  We sip mint tea from tall glasses.

  “Wait until you see Otto’s garden.” I tell him about the night flowers, and the domed roof. Suddenly Otto has to make a call. “Mayor stuff,” he explains. Dad walks him back up top, where he’ll get better reception.

  I smile suspiciously when he returns without Otto. The best reception is down below; Dad made sure of that. “Why’d you make him go all the way up there?”

  “You may be fooling your fiancé,” he says, “but you’re not fooling me.”

  “What? They’re jitters. No big deal.”

  “Your old dad isn’t stupid. You’re full of dread and it’s not wedding jitters. It’s him.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “What’s up?”

  I look in the direction of the stairs. “Nothing’s up,” I say. “Nothing you have to think about.”

  “Do you love him?”

  I can't bring myself to say that I do. “It’s nothing to do with that.”

  He nods, as though he expected this answer. “I haven’t been the model father,” Dad says. “I taught you all the wrong lessons, none of the right ones. but you’ve grown into a beautiful, brave young woman in spite of me—”

  “Don’t,” I protest.

  He puts up a stern hand. “You’ve grown to be a beautiful, brave, successful woman and you’re getting married and you’re worried about his reaction to me. I know that’s it. He’s a good man for acting impressed.”

  “Believe me, that wasn’t an act, and my being jittery has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re telling me you haven’t been the least bit worried about being married in front of all Midcity’s elite and having your old pop giving you away while wearing biohaz gear?”

  I smile. “That’s not my worry at this point.”

  “I know that’s why you bought me the gloves, so that I wouldn’t embarrass you.”

  “Dad, I got you the gloves so things would be simpler for you.”

  “I want you to know that I won’t be wearing a hazmat suit and respirator or even a surgical mask when I give you away.”

  I sit up, shocked. It’s unthinkable.

  “Justine, I want to step up for you. It’s time I step up. While I may be covered in antibac and full of Fanarizin when I walk you down the aisle, I want you to know that I will look to the world like any normal father of the bride. I’ve been building up my immunities. I even visited Hobart in street clothes and no mask the other day.”

  A flop in my chest, like a trapped sob. It’s huge what he’s offered, what he’s doing. I want not to be lying to him. And suddenly I want him to meet Packard. “That’s such a
gift.” I put my hand over his, tears in my eyes. “I know what it takes.”

  “It’s time for me to act like a father.”

  “You are amazing. That is amazing.” I feel like such a jerk, putting him through all this for a fake wedding—one that, if it happens, could be violent.

  “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “What? No, no—”

  “Is it incurable? Are you going to level with your pop or do I have to ask Otto?”

  “No! Okay.” I get up and check the stairway, close the door. Take a breath. He deserves to know. And he’s as good a happiness-faker as I am. “You have to pretend everything is normal. Not a word, got it?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not marrying Otto.” I sit beside him, speak in hushed tones. “It’s this whole situation I’m playing along with. It’s a bad situation, and I hate that you’re even involved in it, and I hate lying, that’s why I’m telling you. I need you to play along though, okay? Bring whatever gear you want, stay at the hotel, try to have a decent time. I don’t care what you wear. I’m hoping this wedding doesn’t even happen, but we have to plan for the worst—”

  “The worst?” A flash of anger. “Are you okay? Are you under duress?”

  “No. And he has no idea I’m not one hundred percent with him, so let’s keep it that way.”

  “Why not just break up with him?”

  “It’s not so simple—this isn’t just a quarrel or something, Dad. Otto isn’t what he seems. He’s a killer, and lots of people are in danger, and we’re trying to help them. The best way to do that is from the inside. This thing has to be handled secretly and delicately. It’s complicated, but he’s holding people against their will…”

  “My God, what are you doing in the middle of something like this?”

  “Stopping him. Don’t worry, we have a way to stop him, but it’s not ready yet; so right now, we have to act like everything’s normal.”

  “So we pretend it’s going forward until this way to stop him is ready.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dad scowls in the direction of the stairway. “He’s a man people trust. He’s the mayor.”

  “A mayor who has done terrible things.”

  “I don’t like you in this.”

  I give him a steely look. “I know I can count on you to act like everything’s normal. And tomorrow night, if things haven’t worked out, I’ll figure out some excuse so you don’t have to go to the church. Because, we have intelligence something big might happen there.”

  “If my girl is going to the church to play a thing out, the least I can do is go too. What will people think if the father of the bride isn’t there?”

  “Seriously—it could be a very dangerous place. And not from rogue strains of bacteria.” I hear a sound and hold up a finger, opening the door to check the stairwell. Empty. I close it. “The ground may well run red, if you know what I mean. He has to be stopped, and it won’t be easy, for reasons I can’t go into.”

  “And I’ll be there. I’ll help.”

  “I can’t drag you into this.”

  “I’m your father. Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.”

  “What about horses with head colds?”

  He smiles. Crinkly brown eyes. “Even those.”

  “Seriously, Otto has a small militia, and they’ll be present and probably armed. Possibly the only people who get weapons in.” This last thought hadn’t come to me before, and I don’t like it. What if we never find the glasses? What if we can’t stop him? What will happen to my imprisoned friends if I dump Otto at the altar? Where does it end?

  “You think he’s planning a mass hostage situation? You think he’s capable of something like that?”

  “I don’t see what a mass hostage scenario gains him, but you’d be surprised at what he’s capable of. I’m surprised.”

  “Well, honey, you’d be surprised at how much automatic weaponry a man can conceal inside a biohazard exoskeleton.”

  I smile. Is he joking?

  He raises an eyebrow. “I do believe it’s what all the best-dressed fathers of the bride are wearing.”

  Shivers run down my spine. “You’re not joking.”

  “Hell no.”

  I smile wide, pleased with these new possibilities. “You’re the best father of the bride ever.”

  “Can’t say it’s the wedding I imagined for my McBean. But if it comes to a showdown, I’ll have your back.”

  I feel so relieved suddenly. Not just that my dad, a man who’s been preparing all his life to fight armed hordes, will be wearing a gun-concealing, bulletproof suit to my wedding, but just that he’s my ally in this. I suppose I have this idea that Dad is especially powerful in ways that others can’t understand. Maybe all daughters secretly think that on some level.

  Footsteps down the staircase.

  He places his gloved hand over mine.

  When Otto arrives, Dad announces he’s going to finish packing. Ten minutes later, Otto and Smitty are heaving large, heavy cases into the limo’s storage trunk. Otto pauses before he shuts it, staring down at Dad’s silver case.

  Why? Does he think it’s odd that Dad brought so much? How much weaponry did Dad bring? The stare lasts too long. Is he thinking of opening the case? I feel a wave of alarm. No, he wouldn’t.

  He watches Dad get into the limo, assessing look on his face. I know that look. Things aren’t adding up.

  “God, I hope he didn’t bring all kinds of backup oxygen,” I say, hoping that might explain the weight. “The bellboys are going to be bummed.”

  “We’re transporting oxygen?” Otto peers into the trunk. “That’s not entirely safe.”

  I swallow. I just gave him an excuse to open it. “Hold on, I’ll ask.”

  I stick my head in the door. “Are your cases heavy for a reason? It’s not oxygen in there, right?”

  Otto comes up beside me.

  Dad grins. “Maybe it’s the inversion boots with the inversion stand. And the water purifier. It might still have several gallons in there.”

  I smile scoldingly. “Dad!”

  Otto goes around and bangs the trunk shut, and we join Dad in the back seat.

  “Inversion boots?”

  Dad has a big, long explanation about inversion boots, like he’s trying to get Otto to buy a pair. He’s fabulous. Cool as a cucumber. He goes on to question Otto on everything from police procedure to Midcity history, as a way to give me space to rest my mind. This also allows me to text Shelby: “Did you find the special bouquet?”

  “No.”

  We stop to drop Dad’s luggage with the bellboy at the Midcity Arms, and then we continue to the condo to dine. Dad dons a surgical mask and accompanies us past the knot of photographers out front and on through the lobby. I suspect, with his practice in Hobart, that he could have gone through without the mask, but it’s probably a smart move, considering he’ll be wearing the full freak-suit if the wedding happens tomorrow.

  Kenzo comes out before dinner with a little speech about the origin, freshness and technique of cooking the steak, as well as the sanitizing of the vegetables, not to mention the entire penthouse. Dad even gets his silverware wrapped in plastic. I encourage Otto to tell some of his police stories; they’re entertaining, and an excellent way to let Dad see that Otto is not somebody to be taken lightly. Otto is brave and powerful, even when he’s being evil.

  I keep my phone on vibrate in my dress pocket, longing for news. It’s nearly nine. The curfew starts at ten. One more hour to chase down leads.

  After dessert, Otto urges Dad to come out to the night garden.

  “You’ll never see flowers like this, Dad,” I chime in.

  Otto’s phone rings. He pulls it out and scowls at it. What does that mean?

  He waves us on ahead.

  I hesitate: there’s something about the way he scowled at that number I don’t like. My stomach feels twisted up. How much more of this can I take?

  Dad’s
watching me. “Shall we?”

  “Yes,” I say, leading the way out the door. The enclosed deck is cool and vast and dark. I suck in a deep breath.

  Dad asks, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Was there a problem with the cases I brought?”

  “I think I’m overreading everything Otto does. Or maybe being paranoid. And you can tell? Crap.”

  “I can tell, but he doesn’t seem to,” he says. “He adores you.”

  “He reads micro-expressions that I don’t even know I make.”

  “You’re okay.”

  “Micro-expressions,” I say. We stroll deeper into the garden. I show him the hot tub and the outdoor dining room, and tell him how the top is removed in the summer.

  “Regular palace,” Dad observes quietly.

  “Are you planting outdoors this summer?” I ask him.

  “I may,” he says. “The upcoming growing season’s supposed to be the best in half a century.

  “Oh yeah? Did you read that in the Farmer’s Almanac or something?”

  “Just something we’ve heard. John Rickert’s bought double the soybean seeds. The Hensons are getting into tomatoes.”

  Neighbors. Names from the past. “And you’ve all gotten this special advanced forecast?”

  “No…” He shrugs and looks away. “Sort of.”

  I smile, amused to see Dad’s embarrassment. “This is something you heard?”

  “Never mind,” he says.

  “What? Now I really want to know.”

  He waves his hand, as though it’s silly. “I usually don’t go in for this kind of thing, but there’s a fortune teller walking the Old Arrowhead trail. Girl’s been causing a stir up through the farms along the way with her predictions.”

  The air goes out of me. “A girl walking? A walking fortune teller?”

  “Guess you could say that. Strange-looking duck. She predicted a tornado would demolish a dairy barn out in Wentworth, Iowa. Told the farmer the exact time of the collapse a good three days before it happened—in her own woo-woo way. The chime of eight and all that. But three days later, sure enough, a thunderstorm starts rolling in, with a tornado watch—not even a warning, mind you, but just a watch. Well, the fellow thought to move those animals, and sure enough, the barn went down. I was awfully surprised the fellow took heed, but it saved ’em a fortune. Rickert heard it at the feed store from a guy who heard it from his hauler…” Dad goes on to tell about the chain of information.